Love Thy Neighbor

You may have heard about Rosenberg in the news lately. In fact, you may have heard about the very street I live on. If you have, its probably because a man that lives down the street from me is under suspicion for killing his wife and mother-in-law in her home, just a few streets away from my home.

Is it safe for me to write about this on a blog? Or even legal? I mean, its not like I know any information. Anyways, the point is that the police have been on my street, searching a man's house for evidence of murder. The man hasn't been around, and as far as I know, he hasn't been found. I know I should probably be afraid, but I'm not. What does that mean?

Its so terrible. They have children. I'm not sure how old the kids are, but I am sure that it doesn't matter. I don't know what else to say about the situation.

Well, there is this: I've been contemplating the old adage "love thy neighbor" quite a bit. I think, "Its difficult to conceive of loving someone despite an act like this." So then I start thinking about the times that I've visited prisons with Seekers, and I remember how deeply I felt for the inmates. Their guilt was visible, from their IDs to their jump suits, as was their shame. And as we all stood under the same roof to praise God, I thought, "What really makes me any different from these men? Aren't we all made the same way?" When we lined up at the door to shake their hands, many of them hesitated to make eye contact, and they let their handshakes go limp. There was no confidence there, no pride. They were stripped. It made me hurt for them. I know that criminals must be served justice, and that they have stripped innocent people of their pride, confidence, and in many cases, much more. But I struggle with revenge v. justice. Where do you make the distinction? I just don't know... but that's for a different entry. Still, I wanted them to know that I saw a different future for them, one where they are not convicts forever labeled as guilty. They are my neighbors, and I want to love them the way Jesus loves them.

But I am not Jesus (surprise, surprise). And I am finding that it is more difficult to conceive of loving my neighbor when he is truly my neighbor. I just can't stop thinking about those children.

I would title this "Diverse City..."

... if only Toby Mac had not taken that title back in the day. Yes, I know who Toby Mac is. I'm cool like that. And if you know who he is, well... you're cool, too!

After moving in with my dad and stepmom in lovely (maybe?) Rosenberg, Texas, I've found myself as scattered as ever. All of my stuff is finally in one place again, but I feel more unsettled than ever. After four and one-half years in college, I definitely did not imagine myself "striking out on my own..." back in with my parents?! Hold it. That is not the dream. No, no, no. The dream is graduate, score the dream job, secure the trendy loft apartment at a criminal-low price, buy the new car, and start the first day at said job to an overwhelming welcome of applause from the general public (who lined up to greet me at the doorway, obviously).

Hmm... not so much. Although I have been blessed to fulfill one part of the dream. My dad helped me to buy a new car. Thank you, Dad.

Other than that, I'm pretty much doing the same thing I did in Abilene. I'm working at American Eagle and looking for a teaching job (still, to no avail). And looking for sources of inspiration to keep my mind from degenerating into a pile of goo now that I don't have classes to stimulate my thinking. Oh, how I miss my English classes! It turns out that I really am a nerd.

Today I had an experience in diversity that really got me thinking. I worked the register for six straight hours today. That is a lot of talking. "Hi How are you Do you have an AE All Access Pass Would you like to sign up for one No Okay that's fine Will this be all Do you need a gift receipt Thank you Have a good Christmas!" As "diverse" as some people tried to make Abilene out to be, it has nothing on Houston, a fact that I've been smacked by over the last few days at AE. I enjoy diversity. In fact, I sometimes crave it. I get so bored when everyone listens to the same music as I do or uses the same colloquialisms as me. Still, I am human, and like most humans, I settle quite comfortably into homogeney. But today, diversity was hard. A woman came to the register and asked me to search for her in our customer database. She had a very thick Indian accent. That, coupled with the high volume of the rockin tunes (heh) and my manager's voice yammering in my headset ("Everyone be sure to greet all the customers!! Tell them about the promos! We need to get our conversion up! Other managerial phrases!!"), made it difficult to understand her. She gave me her last name (twice before we resorted to spelling it out: "I'm sorry, was that a "P?"), then her first name (three times), her address (I lost count), and her zip code (numbers are easier, thank God). We were both frustrated to say the least. I cannot speak for her, but I feel confident in saying that we both wanted to give up. "Who cares? So you (I) don't get the points for your (my) purchase? At least we'll stop screaming letters at each other."

I've realized something--it is at this point that me must committ to plow through. Diversity is worth it, even if it is hard.

An explanation of "ubuntu"

In my previous blog, I referred to this philosophy called "ubuntu" without properly explaining it. Please allow me to do so briefly. Lately, I've become deeply interested in South Africa--and no, not just because "Invictus" just came out (although I did really enjoy that movie!). It is an African concept that basically says, "I can't be human without you." Desmond Tutu explains, "We think of ourselves far too frequently as just individuals, separated from one another, whereas you are connected and what you do affects the whole world. When you do well, it spreads out; it is for the whole of humanity." This speaks so much about the complexities of human relationships and so much about how God asks us to treat one another. That is what I want to explore in my writing. You, me, they, we, us--interconnectedness.

Shout out to Ben Berry--thanks for cluing (I can't believe that is the correct way to spell that word!) me in.

Meditations in a Crisis (well, not quite)

I was driving home from dinner with my dear friend Arielle last week when I was rudely reminded of something I had forgotten. At the corner of Judge Ely and Ambler, I got into a minor accident when I rear-ended the car in front me. Bummer. I followed the car until it pulled over on the side of the road, parked behind it, and switched on my hazard lights. A girl stepped out of the car. At that moment, "the car" ceased to represent an obstacle in my drive home and came to represent a life. I had forgotten about the lives in the other cars.

Before you freak out and call the DPS, demanding that my license be revoked, let me explain myself. I don't mean that I had forgotten that other people are in those other cars that fill the road beside me. I haven't been swerving and sliding down the roads, like an unstoppable moron with complete disregard for the physical lives of other drivers. I am well-aware that these other cars are not operated by robots. What I do mean is that I had forgotten about the life my fellow driver lives. While we were on the road, totally disconnected from each other by barriers of white stripes, stop signs, break lights, and steel frames, we were not aware of each others lives. I forgot she had plans for that night, just like me, and that they were disrupted by the night's unfortunate events. I forgot that she was listening to music that probably was not the same as the music I was listening to, and that she was phoning friends who I had probably never met while she sat in her car, waiting for the cop to arrive, just like me.

In short, I knew she had a life, but I didn't think about it being lived. I've been so wrapped up in myself, worried about, "Am I going to find a job? Where am I going to live?" and on it goes . . . I have forgotten the very thing that drives me as an educator, a friend, a daughter, and a Christian--my life is not about me. Just like George Eliot wrote, there is a roar on the other side of silence that is someone else's life, and I've gone deaf to it.

When the cop came along, I was written a ticket, obviously. But so was she. Her tags were expired. In that instant, I was reminded of "ubuntu." My actions had affected her life, and not in a positive way. I know I am not guilty for her tags being expired, but the fact still remains.

How deeply--and sometimes, shallowly--are we all connected. And how easily do we forget it.

On the Poets Walk in Central Park

Resting on a park bench, I think on the lives of poets
who gave this stretch of gravel its name,

marvel at the power of biology and imagination,
both flowing through space and time, down sinewy limbs

and bursting to life at the ends of pens cradled in hands.
Their words fell like seeds from the beaks

of greedy birds and took root in the dirt. Years passed
and their names grew tangled in the roots beneath the feet

of passersby like me. Though still today grand trunks
line the path and leaves form a ceiling for women and men

to rest shaded, baseball capped on park benches,
and wonder about things like old lovers, and the age of trees.

Update

I graduated this weekend! I am now the official holder of a Bachelor of Arts in English. Yay! My plans for the near future have been changing about as quickly as my outfit over the last couple of weeks, so here is the current, affirmed plan: I am staying in Abilene to get my teacher's certification. McMurry University has a Post-Baccalaureate Fast Track certification program which requires me to take 5 summer courses, and to student teach in the fall, and then--I'm done! After that, I may move up to Chicago if I am able to find a job up there mid-school year, or move back home and substitute teach until August 2010, by which point I should be able to secure a teaching job in Chicago.

I'll be getting certified to teach Secondary English/Language Arts, which I am SUPER excited about! A lot of people have been asking me if this is a default plan. To be honest, it is. If I had been able to secure a job in Chicago right out of school, you can bet I would have taken it. However, after applying for 20 or so jobs, ranging from basic retail to entry-level youth counseling/mentoring, I did not hear back from anyone--and it was two weeks before graduation! So I started to re-evaluate. I firmly believe in doing work that one finds meaningful, so I started to think about what I needed to do in order to put myself in a position to be offered jobs that I truly wanted--felt called to, even--work in. Since I was in high school, teaching has been a possibility that I've thrown around, but never committed to. I can't explain it without making it sound trite, so I'm just going to simply say it: I believe the Lord has placed a love in my heart for the written word, and a desire to positively shape the lives of young people, and teaching seems like the most natural culmination of these gifts. So I decided to do it. And its great, because I can teach anywhere. It can take me down the street, or around the world. It puts me in a position to serve and love young people who may not get what they deserve from other people in their lives. So is this really a default plan? No way!! I think its what the Lord wanted me to do all along; I was just too thick to see it.

Still, this in no way means that I will stop writing, or stop pursuing creative writing. I'm going to keep writing for myself, or for those who are willing to read and offer suggestions for me. And hopefully, someday sooner, rather than later, I will be in the financial position to go back to school for my MFA in creative writing. But until then, I'm excited about continuing to nurture that budding talent on my own.

So, if you are in Abilene anytime during the summer and fall of 2009, we should hang out! Cause I'm still going to be here, and I'm actually really excited about it!

Maya

So this is a "lyrical essay." Don't ask me what a lyrical essay is; I'm still trying to figure it out myself! (All of the italicized text is taken from Sanjay Patel's The Little Book of Hindu Deities)

Maya

"In Hinduism, God is thought to be made up of three gods. This holy trinity is known as the Trimurti. The three forms of this trinity are the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Hindus believe that the gods within the trinity represent ... creation, preservation, and destruction."

Welcoming Committees

"In the beginning, while Vishnu slept in the infinite coils of the great serpent Sesha, it is thought that he dreamt up the creator god, Brahma, who emerged from Vishnu's navel already seated upon a perfect lotus flower. Brahma then began the work of creation, starting with the four yugas ... Each of these ages repeats 1,000 times in each cycle of creation, known as a Kalpa, which is then followed by the disillusion of the universe, known as Pralaya. It is believed that this all takes place within Vishnu's dream, which is our reality.

Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."

Upon deboarding my Hong Kong-Mumbai flight, I promptly made my way to the restroom, where I struggled to understand how to flush an Indian toilet. I gave up after several minutes and used my elbow to push my way out of the swinging door, ignoring the pleas for a tip from the frail, sari-wrapped restroom attendant, a gift-wrapped welcome present, my first official Indian acquaintance.

My traveling companions and I stumbled from a flurry of government forms and coolies chattering in Hindi into Mumbai’s slippery night air. Mangy dogs roamed the parking area, their tails curled like question marks, just like I imagined them. We clambered into a cab, and my first taste of India was the intense scent of marigolds and body odor. I kept the window rolled down for the duration of our ride to the hotel. My glasses fogged and Mumbai was veiled in a dense mist. It smelled of fish, fresh earlier that morning, left to spoil in the abandoned street markets, turmeric, chilies, and curry, wafting out through open windows, and cow dung heaped in holy piles on the side of the road. I was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.

That night, I went to bed in the Hotel Grant, trying to stifle sobs on a worn-out mattress covered in itchy linens, of which I questioned the cleanliness. The street outside was lined with rubbish and beggars, whose moans I now imagine must have risen in through my barred window, but I did not care to hear them that night.

Yet, after several days, Hindi started to sound like musical notes tinkering off the tongues of train passengers, especially late at night when the words danced through the cars, left in the care of bony men beating out ancient rhythms on drums they held between their knees.

Rains

“It is said that good and evil forces are always battling for control of the world--the gods work to preserve the good, and the demons work to spread evil. Vishnu’s role in the great trinity is that of the invincible protector. Generally, when all is going well, good and evil are in balance. When things fall into chaos, however, Vishnu takes a trip down to earth to preserve justice. Sometimes he comes as himself, a blue four-armed
god ...”

I spent the fifth evening in the Hotel Grant hobbling between the restroom and my bed, my stomach retching with little success. A fever sent chilly tremors through my body while sweat soaked through my nightclothes.

I felt well enough the next day to venture out with my companions to the other side of the city, where we were to spend the evening with a family whom we had become acquainted with throughout the week. In the midst of our visit, the fever returned. I felt my body temperature climbing out of the confines of my punjabi suit. Despite the ever-present heat radiating through the thin walls, the chills set in, and I noticed Shakuntrala watching me from across the room.

The old family matriarch was perched on the bed with the end of her blue sari draped over her head. She smiled and patted the space next to her, the universal motion for inviting someone to sit beside you. I went. The tiny woman took my hand and drew it to her lap, placing her other hand on top of mine. Shakuntrala gently rubbed my hand, starkly white next to her leathery skin. She murmured to me in the language that I did not understand. I stared out the window and watched the monsoon, there to preserve the fertility of India's earth, drip down the leaves of the Banyan tree. The sunlight filtered through and diffracted into miniature rainbows, and India opened herself up to me. Or, maybe I opened myself up to her.

Elephants

"Shiva is one of the oldest gods of India and plays many important roles. He is a devout meditator and yogi, a cosmic dancer setting the rhythms of the universe, a benevolent protector and husband ... Some think that when Shiva finishes dancing, the world will come to an end ..."

We were traveling by rickshaw through Dadar, an area of the Mumbai that was popular with the city's upper-middle class. The air was so thick with moisture that my legs kept sliding off of the vinyl seats. As usual, our auto was stopped in a traffic jam, and I occupied myself by watching the foot traffic. There were men trickling in and out of a Hindu temple, from which a symphony of finger cymbals and chanting was pouring out onto the sidewalk. I strained my neck to see inside. It was about that time that one of my traveling companions shook my arm.

"Wasn't that elephant awesome?" he exclaimed.

"What elephant?" I said, searching the street for a sign of it.

"It was just right there," he motioned to the intersection before us. "Yeah, some guy was riding it through the street, for money I guess. It was painted."

I tried not to let my disappointment show. The temple elephant had been one of India's iconic images for me. I imagined what he must have looked like. He would have been gilded with golden paint, which would have woven an intricate design, like henna on a bride's foot, up from his hoof to the fuchsia, crushed velvet saddle on his back. There would have been giant, elephant-sized anklets jingling around his feet. His name would be Ganesha, for he would have been the son of Shiva, bringing luck to his devotees. He would have been a fairy-tale brought to life, but I had missed him.

Several days later, we were visiting an old palace of one of India's fabled maharajas. It was a well-known tourist spot, complete with a pair of camels and an elephant, available for rides around the palace grounds. I eagerly purchased my ticket and climbed the shaky ladder up to the elephant's back. The saddle was more like a cage, and it was not made of crushed velvet, fuchsia or any other color. His tusks had been roughly trimmed back, and they did not glisten like glossy ivory, but rather like yellowed teeth. There were cracks in his hide, and he trudged around the circular trail without barely lifting his magnificent head. I was suddenly very aware of the heavy camera around my neck and the traveler's checks stuffed in my pockets, my burdensome tourism that he bore around the countryside. When the ride finally ended, I climbed down with my own head, far less magnificent, hung low. I silently asked Ganesha for forgiveness.

That night, the trains were not alive with dancing.

"Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."

First Night

This isn't a new poem. I haven't been writing poetry lately. But I have been thinking about India a lot lately, after seeing Slumdog Millionaire, and now that I'm reading a book about India. So I thought I'd share this. I wrote this last semester. During my trip to India, and even soon after, I tried to write poetry about it, but all of it was terrible. It was too cliche and trite. I think I had to be removed from the experience for a while before I could write about it.

First Night
“See Mumbai the beautiful with this map being helpful!”
- from a tourist map

The Hotel Grant is crumbling
on your first night in Mumbai.
The taxi wallah kept your change,
but you don’t know that yet.
It will be weeks before you understand
the exchange rate, the way things work
here, where the chai does not come iced
or sweet, and the rickshaws crowd
even your sleep.

On your first night in Mumbai,
you weep in the shower, beat
your fists against the geyser, and repeat:
“It’s not bad, just different.
Not bad, just different.”
Not bad like the curry that scorches your tongue,
or the deadly stench of fish
and leprous beggars, or the Delhi Belly
that ravages your body nightly.
Not bad like the mattresses,
as flat as the nasal voices of Bollywood
actresses, or the assaulting scent
of Ganapati flowers, and the popping
of skulls on funeral pyres
on your first night in Mumbai.

You don’t know this yet,
but on your last night in Mumbai,
you will cry because you know
how you will miss
fairytale elephants in the street,
naan dripping with ghee,
the barefoot children who greeted
you with happy Namastes,
brilliant saris and sparkling bhindis,
tablas and finger cymbals, all of it
dancing with you on the trains
on your first night in Mumbai.

Just a little freak out...

This post isn't any sort of creative writing. Its just me writing about my life. I'm feeling pretty frustrated right now, kind of like I'm flailing in the pool with just enough swim-knowledge to keep myself afloat, but not enough to get to the other side. The semesters until graduation have finally become months, and the months are now starting to become weeks. In case you don't already know, I decided a few months ago that I will move to Chicago. I'm super excited about this, albeit, pretty intimidated by the prospect of blizzards, frozen sidewalks, and traveling on foot through said conditions. But that's okay. I'll adapt. Everyone does, eventually. Right?

No, no. What's really got me imagining how pleasant an extra semester in Abilene could, in fact be, is this task of finding a job. There should be a class for this sort of thing that all graduating seniors are required to take. During your first semester at ACU, you are required to take a one-hour credit course referred to as the University Seminar, or U100. Its primary reason is to orient you with life as a college student. Most of us hated this class. I hated this class. But now, I'm wishing I could take a Real Life Seminar, or U400. During class meetings, we would discuss job-finding strategies, help each other write resumes, role-play in preparation for interviews, and so on. Sometimes, its pretty hard to find time in your schedule to do these time consuming things when facing the other demands of life as a graduating senior. And I'm not even one of those who are planning a wedding! You can tell that I've thought about this quite a bit. I could probably teach the class. That is, I could if I knew how to do all of that.

Anyhow, not only is finding a job a seemingly insurmountable task (I know that, in reality, it isn't. I know that after my first two jobs or so, finding a job will be just like any other thing I used to think I'd never figure out. Like cursive), deciding what kind of job I want to look for is a frightening challenge in itself. I've thought about several different sorts of things. Teaching, editing, publishing, media writing, dancing on bar counters (okay, that last one is a joke. Sort of). Some of these sound more appealing than others to me. But, as it turns out, I'm not particularly qualified for any of them. Nobody wants an English major graduating with only a bachelor's and no work experience in their field. Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed being an English major, but unless you're going to graduate school or combining the major with another more marketable major, its worthless. But hey! If you've got a book you need read, send it my way! Why didn't someone stop me?!?! Oh, I'm sure I wouldn't have listened to you anyways.

All of that being said, there are a few rays of sunshine in the future of my employment. I hear back from Teach for America next week. Honestly, I'm still not positive that I want to work for TFA, but I am more positive about it than doubtful, so that's a good thing. I've also re-discovered non-profits, such as the Inspiration Cafe in Chicago, who I would love to work with. The only problem with non-profits is that they're usually small and don't hire very often. But if you know of any who are hiring, let me know!

Also, after a recent trip with Seekers to the juvenile detention center in Brownwood, I'm excited about the possibility of working for a detention center. Detention centers are in need of teachers, counselors, and other jobs of this type. After the poet Liza Jessie Peterson visited our campus and told us about working as a teacher of sorts in a detention center, I felt really inspired to find a similar career path. So, I've started talking with the chaplain at the center in Brownwood, and will hopefully start volunteering out there pretty soon. She said I can attend any of the activities they already have scheduled, or can meet one-on-one as a mentor, or even work with her to start my own program. Imagine how cool it would be if I were able to teach a writing workshop?! That is what I would really hope to do if I were employed by a juvenile detention center - to teach students about writing prose and poetry for therapeutic purposes. I'm trying not to get my hopes us too high about that, though. It is already March, and I graduate in May. I'm sure it would take a while to get something like that going. Still, the thought is really exciting!

I know most of you who may be reading this have probably already heard me rant about this countless times, and if you've actually read this the whole way through, I'm touched! I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need direction, and I'm open to suggestions. So if you have any, I would be thankful to hear them!

So here is the finished essay

I finished the essay! I passed out copies to my workshop for them to read and critique yesterday. And here is a copy for you to do the same. It turned out a bit differently than I had anticipated. Its funny how writing does that, just kind of... writes itself. Anyhow, its kind of long, but I'm not apologizing for it. Hope you enjoy it!

My Mother Told Me Not to Swear

I suppose every young person goes through a time of silence, a time in his or her life when communication between child and parent is virtually impossible, and never pleasant. For most of my adolescence, my silence was directed towards my dad. I have tried to figure out how it happened, to sift through my shoebox of memories and pick out the one with the caption, "And here, the silence began." I have imagined that the still-frame would depict a dramatic scene of dissension between my dad and I, but the best I can do is trace it back to the first night I said, "Shit."

* * *

In true loyalty to the immature child who still lives in some corner of my body (probably behind my spleen), I have tried to figure out who taught me the word, and thus, blame all of the subsequent difficulties on the perpetrator. I have taken myself back to the second grade, placed myself at the desk I shared with Aaron Kiehler during math, and strained to hear him utter it. To my frustration, it appears that Aaron's second-grade mouth was not as bold as his high-school mouth. So I sit patiently in front of the television at age five and sneak peeks at such violent, and therefore banned, programs as The Power Rangers. Still, no luck - shocker! The psychological community (the “community” being my roommate, Erica, who happens to be a fourth-year psych student) says that our minds can invent memories so vivid and realistic that we are convinced of their veracity; I find even this phenomenon failing me. I cannot remember the first time I heard someone utter the word.

* * *

I can recall the first time I uttered it. To be truthful, “uttered” is too light a word to describe the way I entered the forbidden new world of swearing. I was born into this world with celebratory displays of fireworks on a humid Fourth of July.

I was about eight years old, obviously naive and very cute, with my red curls bouncing around my face and my big brown eyes, innocent as a cow's. Certainly not the kind of girl who swore. We were gathered at my Granny's house in Alleyton, Texas to celebrate the Fourth with my dad's side of the family. The event was, as were most with my family, marked by barbecue, Budweiser, and my cousin Brandon experimenting with firearms and birds in the backyard. While my girl cousins and I waited inside for dusk to fall, arguing over watching MTV (their choice - they were all older than me) or Bug Juice (my choice - I told you, I was tragically innocent), a loud "crack" would ring out, followed by "And there goes the beak!"

When night finally came, and the sky started erupting into sparks, I stood at the gate watching my cousins shoot Roman candles at each other. It was around this time that some neighbor decided it would be a super idea to show his appreciation for American independence by shooting a gun. Well, at least my memory remembers that it was a gun. I'm pretty positive we found shotgun shells littering the street the following morning (at least now the previously mentioned phenomenon is proving itself useful). Anyhow, when the shot rang out and lodged itself in the corner stop sign just behind the house, I screeched, "SHHIIIIIITT!"

My cousins, assorted aunts and uncles, and mom stared at me in astonishment. At the time, I did not understand the weight of the word. I did not know that years of the use of French in England had banished "common" words into the land of immoral language. All I knew was that people said it when they were surprised. My family told me I was lucky that my dad was inside and had not heard me swear so passionately. But suddenly, my mom was yanking me into the bathroom by my elbow, and my mouth was being stuffed with a bar of Dial.

I cried as she told me never to say that word again, and especially not to let my dad hear me say it.

* * *

Over time, I learned not to let my dad hear me say a lot of things; my silence was not limited to the use of dirty words, which, I can assure you, I continued to use like my new favorite toy. As a third grader, I delighted in swearing in front of my best friends, mixing these shiny, new words in with the sand I threw around on the playground. I felt daring, and somehow, disillusioned with the secrets adults kept from us.

Yet, as I grew out of that phase, the list of things I could not say to my dad grew longer. Through most of elementary school, the list mostly consisted of the names of boys I liked (Nick, Adam, Aaron Kiehler), the mean things I may have done to my classmates (or had done to me), and, in the case that we were in the car, the fact that I had to pee (he always tried to hit potholes if I divulged this information).

* * *

By the time I reached high school, the list included more serious topics. As freshmen, my girlfriends and I were pleased to find ourselves in the company of an older, more mature group of junior guys. In the recounting of this story, I am tempted to classify them as boys, for that is what they were. Yet, my friends and I felt the time had come for us to stop hanging around with "boys." Being that "men" were our dads, we decided to call them "guys." They were in Pre-Calculus, they could drive, and they could grow goatees. Well, some of them could. Almost.

It became our Friday night ritual to plan a big group outing. We would spend hours on the phone, deciding which movie we would see, which restaurant we would eat at, which guys would drive, which girls would ride with whom. "Whitney had to ride with Todd, because they were like, talking. The other Danielle wanted to ride with Josh because she was totally into him, and I couldn't ride with Brent because he liked me, but I didn't like him." And so it went.

When we were returning from one of these such events, I ended up alone in the truck with the guy I had a crush on at the time after he had dropped off all our other friends. Oh, how lady luck was toying with me. I was excited to be alone with him, but as we drew nearer to my house, I started to freak out. We did not live in a particularly affluent part of town, which was not the problem, because neither did he. Our house, however, was in poor physical condition. The faded paint was peeling in most places, and, thanks to the outrageous Gulf Coast humidity, one side had grown to be covered with obnoxiously green mildew.

For years, my dad had been promising my mom that re-painting it was next on the list of things to do, but a demanding job that never seemed to pay quite enough and a nearly debilitating thyroid problem kept this promise unfulfilled. I could tell that she held it against him, which I pretended to find unfair, but in truth, I did as well. I felt that my friends looked at my house, and therefore me, with an unpleasant taste in their mouths. It was the same taste we all got when, if we were honest with ourselves, we drove through the "bad" part of town, one mixed with pity, disdain, and disrespect.

As the truck got closer to my house, my mind was racing to find a solution to the insurmountable problem. I considered the old "just drop me off here" trick, the one where you get the guy to drop you off a few houses before, wait till he drives off, then walk. If one approached it from the north side of town, like he was, my house was situated at the first corner of the first block. I would have him bypass it. However, I must have forgotten that he had been by my house before, probably with a more trusted, less-cute friend of ours, and vaguely knew where I lived.

"This is it, right?" He had stopped right in front of it, too soon. I panicked.

"Oh, umm... yeah." I groped helplessly for the door handle and yanked it open. "Okay, bye," I mumbled as I hung my head in shame and ran inside.

He knew where I lived. He knew this ramshackle house was mine. And I knew he would never ask me out. The next day, I could not look my dad in the eye. All I felt towards him was bitterness and shame, and the silence grew.

* * *

The silence continued through the rest of high school, all the way up to my freshman year at college. As the move to college approached, I could tell that something was wrong between my parents. In fact, I had sensed it for a few years. I forgot to mention it before, but not only was I a cute child (I feel that most of my high school portraits will prove that I had grown out of that phase as well by this time), I was also intuitive. But, as was the custom in our family, we never talked about it. My mom and dad had been taking turns snoring on the living room couch for some time, and we never did anything as a family any more. At one point, I even tried to take this into my own hands. I foolishly attempted to institute one of those "family game nights" you sometimes see annoyingly happy Milton-Bradley families participate in during commercial breaks from CSI. Never mind that I was well past the age when playing games with your parents on a Friday night is acceptable. It did not go over well.

Anyhow, when it came time for me to move into my first dorm room, they united to make this transition smooth. After a last breakfast together the Sunday before student orientation was to begin, they dropped me off at my dorm, placed a wad of money in my hand, and hugged me goodbye. I watched them get into the same car, and thought that maybe now, with me out of the house, their marriage might improve. With their only child gone and an empty nest, they may have to find solace in each other, fall back in love with each other, and all those other things that happen in romantic comedies about middle-aged men and women.

Every time I called home, though, it seemed that my parents never talked. I would recount a funny anecdote about my exciting college life to my mom one day, only to find that, when I spoke to my dad the next day, he had no idea what was going on with me. My parents still were not communicating. This realization really hit me when, as hurricane Katrina was approaching the Gulf Coast, I asked my dad what their plan was. He explained to me that he was going to stay at home, maybe board up a few windows if it started to look serious.

"Well, what about mom? Isn't she worried?"

"Oh, I think you're mother is going to Houston to stay with her mom."

I was shocked to discover that my parents would not be staying together for this predicted disaster. What if my mom and grandmother were in danger in Houston? Why would my dad stay at home and allow that possibility?

As worried as I was, I still could not bring myself to break the silence. The hurricane, as we now know, was a disaster, but it did not hit my home or Houston with any serious damage, and I dismissed the situation from mind. A few weeks later, though, I went home for my first visit, and on the Sunday morning that I was to return to school, my mom climbed into my bed with me and told me that she and my dad were separating. I laid there, unmoving, as she stuttered through her sobbing, and played with the frayed edges of my bed sheets. After the news had been delivered, my dad came home and realized what had transpired. He was upset; he thought they had agreed to tell me about this at a later date. I pretended like I was okay. Actually, I probably was, but not because the news had failed to upset me. I was already entering a state of denial. I packed my bag, ate a quick meal of chicken my dad had grilled. It was his special recipe, a robust marinade of butter and spices, and it was my favorite. That much I remember. I cannot remember what kind of side dishes there were. Probably mashed potatoes. I was always a meat-and-potatoes kind of girl.

My parents sat at the dinner table watching me closely in case (I suppose) I flew into a violent rage. I was calm, though, as I told them that I did not want to talk about the details of the situation. All I said to them was that I wanted them to work it out peacefully, without putting me in the middle. Then I robotically hugged them goodbye, climbed into my car, and drove up to Houston to pick up one my friends from school, who had also gone home to visit that weekend.

I do not remember much of that drive, either. I am sure I listened to upbeat music, probably some terribly peppy crap about the goodness of God, in efforts to cheer myself up and ignore the drastic turn my life had just taken. I guess I forgot to say so earlier, but I had been raised in the church for most of my life, raised to believe in things like the goodness and holiness of God, which I really did believe at the time. In fact, I still do. It just looks different now. But, all of that is for another story.

Anyhow, I do remember one thing about the drive very clearly. I was entering the north side of Houston, a part of the city tangled in tollways with which I was unfamiliar, and in my ignorance, pulled into the "exact change only" lane. In fairness to myself, I did have exact change, just... not in change. When my turn came to toss my coins into the basket, I searched in vain for a slot to feed my dollar bill into, and realized that the coin basket was the only available option. I promptly broke my (almost always) ban on swearing.

"SHIT! Shit, shit, fucking shit!"

I was mad at the Houston toll system, I was mad at my parents, I was mad at God, but I was especially mad at the growing line of cars behind me who kept honking incessantly, as if that was going to help me figure out how to get out of this predicament. I sat in the car for what felt like ten minutes (but was probably more like thirty seconds) stared at the open road in front of me, and the gate blocking my way. I considered crashing through it, nearly convinced myself that my car could handle the impact and that my dad would not mind paying for the damages, especially considering the events that had taken place earlier that morning. After a few moments, I came to my senses and realized that that was a bad plan. Cops would probably chase me. But I could out run them, right? No. I still knew it was a bad idea, so I climbed across the console, frantically fumbled with the passenger door (there was not enough room between the driver door and the toll booth to climb out... I had already tried), and ran to the car immediately behind me. I knocked on the back window (why the back window, I will never know) where the young couple who sat in the front seat had safely tucked away their young son. He shook his head in confusion, and his mom rolled down her window. I offered a my handful of dollar bills, which that bitch toll booth refused to accept, and tried to explain my situation. I think I even told her about the bombshell my parents had just dropped in efforts to make her understand just how truly dire my need was. She shoved the change into my hands and rolled her window up. I must have looked like a madwoman. I ran back to my car, threw the change into the basket, and the blessed gate rose and allowed me to pass. I laid rubber peeling out of there.

* * *

When I got back to school, I called my parents to let them know I had made it back safely. I did not talk to them about the separation, or the coming divorce, and I wouldn't for a long time. When I finally did, it was with my father on the way home from a visit to my Granny's. He sat in the passenger seat next to me as I drove us home. The silence had been heavy, and when he opened his mouth, and he made that sticky sound lips make after they've been locked for too long, I knew it was coming. I breathed in deeply, and the scent of the earth my dad worked in rose off of his work clothes and into my nose. I had never noticed it so intensely before. It was so strong I could taste it on my tongue, like mudpies in my grandma's backyard, or carrots so fresh you can still taste the dirt they grew in.

He told me that he had tried to save their marriage. He had done everything he knew how to do. He had not wanted a divorce. And he told me he was sorry. I had already known that.

* * *

I did not say much, but not because I was angry. I just did not know what to say. I still don't. But I do know I can tell him more than I ever could when I was growing up. When the last election was coming up, I could tell him that I was planning to vote for Barack Obama, a decision that was in stark contrast to my conservative, Republican up-bringing. I can tell him that I believe homosexual men and women have the right to be married, and he will listen with thoughtful respect. I can tell him that I sometimes have doubts about the existence of God. And these days, when I drop something fragile, or stub my toe, I can say, "Shit!" without eating a bar of soap.

A new beginning, and a couple more paragraphs

(New beginning)

I suppose every young person goes through a time of silence, a time in his or her life when communication between child and parent is virtually impossible, and never pleasant. For most of my adolescence, my silence was directed towards my dad. I have tried to figure out how it happened, to sift through my shoebox of memories and pick out the one with the caption, "And here, the silence began." I have imagined that the still-frame would depict a dramatic scene of dissension between my dad and I, but the best I can do is trace it back to the first night I said, "Shit."

* * *

In true loyalty to the immature child who still lives in some corner of my body (probably behind my spleen), I have tried to figure out who taught me the word, and thus, blame all of the subsequent difficulties on the perpetrator. I have taken myself back to the second grade, placed myself at the desk I shared with Aaron Kiehler during math, and strained to hear him utter it. To my frustration, it appears that Aaron's second-grade mouth was not as bold as his high-school mouth. So I sit patiently in front of the television at age five and sneak peeks at such violent, and therefore banned, programs as The Power Rangers. Still, no luck. The psychological community (the “community” being my roommate, Erica, who happens to be a fourth-year psych student) says that our minds can invent memories so vivid and realistic that we are convinced of their veracity; I find even this phenomenon failing me. I cannot remember the first time I heard someone utter the word.

* * *

(new paragraphs to add to the end of the last entry)

Over time, I learned not to let my dad hear me say a lot of things; my silence was not limited to the use of dirty words, which, I can assure you, I continued to use like my new favorite toy. As a third grader, I delighted in swearing in front of my best friends, mixing these shiny, new words in with the sand I threw around on the playground. I felt daring, and somehow, disillusioned with the secrets adults kept from us.

Yet, as I grew out of that phase, the list of things I could not say to my dad grew longer. Through most of elementary school, the list mostly consisted of the names of boys I liked (Nick, Adam, Aaron Kiehler), the mean things I may have done to my classmates (or had done to me), and, in the case that we were in the car, the fact that I had to pee (he always tried to hit potholes if I divulged this information). By the time I reached junior high, the list included my true feelings about religious faith.

Starting the Personal Essay

Well, I haven't posted in quite some time. It appears that my "accountability" plan isn't working out so well. Or is it?! Because Daniel called me out the other day, asking me why I hadn't posted in a while! Thank you, Daniel. So, I've started writing a personal essay for my creative nonfiction class, and I'm going to post sections of it as I write them. Thus, the very beginning of an essay in the works for your reading pleasure. It will appear to you that this essay is all about swearing, and indeed, that is all it is about at this point. If you find that offensive, I apologize, but I must contest that it is a part of the world and a part of almost every young person's development, and therefore, cannot be ignored simply because it is offensive. Also, I want you to know that this essay is not actually all about swearing. You will find out what its about if you continue to read in the posts to come! So, here it is:

I have tried tirelessly to dredge up the memory that contains my first exposure to that word. I have taken myself back to the second grade, placed myself in the seat next to Aaron Kiehler in Mrs. Dorris’s Language Arts class, and strained to hear him utter it. To my frustration, it appears that Aaron Kiehler’s second grade mouth was not as bold as his high school mouth. So I sit patiently in front of the television at age five and sneak peeks at such violent, and therefore banned, programs as The Power Rangers. The psychological community (the “community” being my roommate, Erica, who happens to be a fourth-year psych student) says that our minds can invent memories so vivid and realistic that we are convinced of their veracity; I find even this phenomenon failing me. I cannot remember the first time I heard someone utter, “Shit.”
* * *
I can recall the first time I uttered it. To be truthful, “uttered” is too light a word to describe the way I entered the shiny and forbidden new world of swearing. My birth into this world was welcomed with celebratory displays of fireworks on a humid Fourth of July.

At this point in my childhood, we gathered at my Granny's house in southeast Texas to celebrate the Fourth with my dad's family. The event was marked by barbecue, Budweiser, and my cousin Brandon experimenting with firecrackers in the beaks of dead birds. By the time dusk fell, the sky over my Granny's Alleyton neighborhood was erupting in sparks. On this particular night, some neighbor decided it would be a super idea to show his appreciation for American independence with a gun shot. When the shot rang out, myself and the family members surrounding me were, understandably, startled, and I shouted out, "SHHIIITTT!!!"

According to my family, it was lucky for me that my father was inside and had not heard me swear so passionately. At the time, I did not understand the weight of the word. All I knew was that it was a word people said when something surprised them. But suddenly, my mom was yanking me into the bathroom by my elbow, and my mouth was being stuffed with a bar of Dial. I cried as she told me never to say that word again, and especially not to let my dad hear me say it.

(that's it for now. more to come!)

Why I Write

As this piece of work (essay, prose poem, journal entry-- how is one to refer to this?) is a mere assignment, I will make an effort to avoid becoming too wrapped up in the grandeur of the manifesto that the title of the assignment implies. That being said, this may be the first time I have ever seriously considered the question "Why do you write?" and I do intend to try and answer that with honesty, which may result in some rather lofty prose. We will see how it turns out.

I write because its fun. I write because its one of the few things I have every felt truly good at. I write because of word jumbles and puzzles and equations in my head that I have to solve before I can sleep. I write because there are some things that I cannot speak. I write in order to relieve my mind of the thoughts that pester me. I write so that I can remember who I was yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I write so that there will be a record of my short and relatively inconsequential life - my thoughts, my friends, the people who have influenced the person I am becoming - for those who care to read it, just in case I disappear into some obscure rabbit hole someday. I write to document the mundane and the massive. I write to imagine the lives of the old couple down my street, what they say to each other while they plant flowers, how they hold each other while they sleep. I write to try and get outside myself, and, if only for a moment, to expel the demon of self-centeredness that can control me. I write because, sometimes, I have to, and not in the puffed-up, driving, unavoidable, "I was born to write and can do nothing else" sense that that phrase implies; I literally have to in order to make the grade. I write to learn. I write because I read. I write so that I have to research and expose myself to other ways of thinking, believing, loving, and living. I write the way I dream, working out problems in my subconscious that my conscious self does not want to deal with. I write to relate to others. I write to inspire others. I write to inspire myself. Some days, I write to get myself out of bed when nothing else can convince me that the day is worth living. I write so my mom will know I love her. I write so my dad will know I still need him. I write so my family will know I am thankful for them. I write to dig up my roots. I write so I can hear the sound of words penned simply because they are beautiful. I write because of the path laid out for me by poets, novelists, journalists, essayists, critics, and the daily diary authors of the past. I write to affirm the fleeting gift of life, so that perhaps one day, somebody, even if that body is me, will pick up something I have written and think, "I want to live today."

The Dearly Departed

There is a dead cat in a box of trash on the sidewalk
following Freeman Street. The tail is unfurled in deep rigor
mortis and its paws are flexed, revealing claws that used

to scratch couch corners. The tabby rests beside a baby
doll, her plastic flesh colored black, her brown cow eyes gazing
straight ahead. As if she is bored with death. Which is unjust,

I think every morning as I pass the box. Trying to avoid the dead
stares, I picture freshly planted roses, or sugar cookies,
warm and gooey, as I leave them there and shuffle
past, with my tail between my legs.

Poetry as I see it

I enjoy writing of almost all sorts, and I want to learn to write better material. The only way to do that is to write! Go figure. The problem is that there are some days when I do not feel like trying. So, in an attempt to keep myself accountable, I've decided to turn this blog into a sounding board for my writing.

I never truly enjoyed poetry until last year. By way of scheduling circumstances, I wound up in a course on 20th century Irish poetry, and I was not excited about it. When we started off the semester with W.B. Yeats, I came to dread class even more. (Since then, I have come to appreciate Yeats, but I still cannot say I particularly enjoy his poetry.) As the class wore on though, we started reading such poets as Eavan Boland and Seamus Heaney, and thus began my love affair with poetry.

During the same semester, a few poets who are most often classified as "Spoken Word" poets, and have appeared on Def Poetry Jam, visited our campus. I had heard of their form of poetry, but had never really experienced it. After hearing Liza Jessie Peterson and Steven Connell perform and talk about their philosophies of poetry and art, I knew poetry had taken me. In class, I was reading poetry by "academics," and then I had been exposed to this more relaxed, yet highly skilled, form of poetry, and I found a connection between the two of them: poets like Eavan Boland and the Spoken Word poets were affirming life. Neither of their art forms were about using their academic prowess to confuse ordinary people, and neither of their forms were about diminishing the value of the ordinary person's life. Their poetry was not filled with the things that make "traditional poetry" beautiful, things like unfamiliar words or complicated meter. It was filled with simple observations and descriptions about life. I could dig this!

Since then, I have been trying to read and write more poetry, both Spoken Word and, for lack of a better classification, "traditional" poetry. Most of what I post here will probably be poetry, and I tend to write more "confessional poetry," so some of it may be pretty intimate. Don't let that scare you, though! If I am not afraid to share it with you, you should not feel uncomfortable reading it. And feel free to ask me about it if you want to! But please, be respectful about what you read here. I also have a strong interest in writing fiction, so hopefully, I will manage to post some of that as well. I want to hear what you think about it! Please be honest. (That is not a license to be unnecessarily mean though!) Enjoy!