The one who fears is not made perfect in love.
-1 John 4:18b
When I first came across this verse in my search for Bible verses that were applicable to fear, it slapped me in the face like a cold washcloth. There seems to be no shortage of events or terrors that could befall us at any moment. Death, even, could be only a pulmonary embolism or sudden brain aneurysm away! We could get extremely concerned for our well-being as "breakable boys and girls" as Ingrid Michaelson puts it if we allow ourselves and believe me, I have allowed myself. It would be shameful to recount the many minutes, hours, even days that I've spent worrying over circumstances that were far beyond my control. As I continually look to what the definition of love might encompass, I realize that one of the incredible facets of love is found in its openness. When I think of what to be "made perfect in love" means, I believe it centers around the role of being an open source of Jesus' love and light to a hurting world.
There have been no shortage of Albuquerque natives giving us the 'lowdown' on safety here in the city. "Unfortunately, you can't trust anyone," an ER nurse told us with a resigned sigh. "Sad but true." The story of why we were interacting with an ER nurse is another story for another day (let's just say that car accidents leave a trail of injuries that do not necessarily present themselves on the scene!) but her statement sunk deep in my heart. It was confirmation of the behavior that I had already been displaying upon our arrival--furtive glances left and right, constant checking that the car doors are locked, jumping up at the first sound of life outside of our apartment door--and made me think about how Jesus would behave if He were in Albuquerque. I envision him walking boldly down the streets without fear, engaging others in an open, loving manner and giving trust to his fellow man and above all, to God. It's embarrassing to recognize how different I have been acting. While there is always value in safety and being aware of your surroundings, there is no value in fear, paranoia and general worry. If our model of living is Christ--the representation of perfection on Earth--then this verse in 1 John seems to give us the way to try and achieve His perfection. Being made perfect IN LOVE. It is not being made perfect in intellect, in success, even in securing ourselves a safe existence. So instead of sitting here, holding onto the fear that I've generated inside, I can rely on the promise that not only as I grow to be made perfect in love, fear will subside but also the earlier part of 1 John 4:18 that promises, "perfect love casts out fear." And there it is! Another way that God provides for us fallible humans. Not only are we taught HOW to cast aside fear within ourselves, He also gives us His perfect love to do it for us (i.e. Jesus Christ). There is definite power found when a piece of Scripture resonates so soundly in our current situations. This was mine tonight!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Chain of Thought
I've always had a knack for untangling jewelry. There was a secret thrill at the sight of the mishmash of chains when I threw open my jewelry box. Untangling seemed to frustrate others, and I often would find myself assisting in getting out the tightened knot that had formed on a gold necklace, or untwisting a web of beaded bracelets. The truth was it wasn't that difficult; you simply had to wait for the pattern to present itself. Inevitably in a knot or a tangle of chains, there will emerge a clear pattern as to which chain you should pull first. I'd often lay the jewelery piece down flat, to see what kind of space there lie between the knots. In some of the pieces, the process of untangling seemed hopeless. The knot was tight, each piece of metal aligned tightly against another. There was seemingly no path to follow. It was often in those situations that I would wind up making it worse, pulling too tightly out of desperation and instead, squeezing the small knot further into itself. It oftentimes took fine picking away at it with an eyebrow tweezer before any discernible order of things would emerge.
As I sat unraveling a corded knot of headphones this afternoon, I thought about how similar untying a knot is to our approach to our life's pattern. It seems as if we are beings that constantly struggle with internal questioning-What should I be? Where should I go? What should I do with my life?--and the more we try to pull on what we think we want for ourselves, the messier a web of doubt we find ourselves tangled in. I had to let the tangled headphones dangle in the air for a moment, until I saw the lifeline. A bobbing earspeaker, its black head waving back at me. I trailed its wire until the center and there found my next move.
I say the easiest way to figure out our next move in life is to let our situation hang there awhile. Take in what's around you, I don't believe any of it is there by accident. The less you tug, the clearer your path will be. And if the situation seems hopeless, don't forget about the lifeline.
As I sat unraveling a corded knot of headphones this afternoon, I thought about how similar untying a knot is to our approach to our life's pattern. It seems as if we are beings that constantly struggle with internal questioning-What should I be? Where should I go? What should I do with my life?--and the more we try to pull on what we think we want for ourselves, the messier a web of doubt we find ourselves tangled in. I had to let the tangled headphones dangle in the air for a moment, until I saw the lifeline. A bobbing earspeaker, its black head waving back at me. I trailed its wire until the center and there found my next move.
I say the easiest way to figure out our next move in life is to let our situation hang there awhile. Take in what's around you, I don't believe any of it is there by accident. The less you tug, the clearer your path will be. And if the situation seems hopeless, don't forget about the lifeline.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Where Do They All Belong?
The outside of the building shows no sign that it houses a specific kind of resident, except for the handicapped button that propels open the huge glass door. The lawns are manicured perfectly, the tops of the hedges in a straight, furrowed row. The glass door bounces the sunlight back at me as I approach, familiar with my arrival at 12:30 on a Wednesday afternoon. As soon as I press the cold metal button, the doors slide open and a blast of air sucks me inside the stagnant foyer.
The first time I entered this room, I was taken back by the smell. The scent of must and secretions from body places that I rather not imagine slowly curled inside my nostrils. My first instinct was to stop breathing, to ward off the offensive scent of decomposing bodies with their decomposing functions. It didn’t help; I could taste the acidic fruit cup they ate for lunch, the mush of mashed potatoes that congealed in the corners of their cracked lips.
Now, this scent does not offend me. It welcomes me into their damp armpits, into the bosom of their cheap polyester shirts. I approach the front desk and try desperately to have the receptionist smile back at me. The harder I grin, the more she frowns. Defeated, I scribble the requested information into the sign in book.
Kristin Sparnroft to see Rodney Wilson Room 201A. 12:30pm.
A slow shuffle takes me toward the elevator. I do not rush in this place, and I smile to the spectators that line the walls in their wheelchairs. They watch me go, envious of my mobility and lustful for my attention. I smile into their eyes; the browns and blues that have all faded into a milky whiteness—their once vibrant colors now muted pastels with the passage of time.
The elevator dings and I am inside, trapped among aides who click their nails on the handles of the wheelchairs that they push.
“So what are ya’ll doin’ for your anniversary?” one yawns, oblivious to the woman that lies slumped over in her care.
“I don’t know but girl, I’m tellin’ you. It better be something special!”
The residents are listening to their conversation, and I think of how they must be dreaming of their own anniversaries with mates who are no longer here, or there, or anywhere in this world. The elevator air is even more compressed than in the rest of the building and I can feel the weight of the atoms as I glide to the second floor. They are heavy with old memories and words that have remained unspoken until now.
I can hear some of them before the elevator doors open to reveal the audience. They sit there and call out to me, hoping for recognition or at least, for me to take them home with me when I go. They know I will be leaving, and so their eyes follow me as I silently slip past them. Take me with you.
I can’t smile into these eyes as I did downstairs. Downstairs, those eyes wait to see relatives. They may go down in the morning and wait all day, but they do not wait in vain. A daughter will come with her pre-teen son who will squirm away from the wet, smelly kisses that splatter his cheeks. A wife will shuffle in, her hips creaking in light pink sweatpants as she approaches the husband who has been sitting there so patiently.
Up here, the eyes that surround me will see none of this. They just wait. I know this and silently talk myself out of smiling and saying hello to them. To do this would be to break my own heart, and I know that if I do this before I enter room 201A, I would be useless to the man I came to see.
I anxiously approach the doorframe and hesitantly take a peek at the bed closest to the door. It is occupied.
With a sigh of relief, I push a smile onto my face and call out cheerily, “knock, knock!”
“Who’s that? Krissy?!” The man’s head swivels to the door and a smile cracks, revealing the missing teeth and rotted gums.
“Yes, Rodney. It’s me! How are you today?”
As I say this, I pull up the oak chair that sits in the corner of the room. There is a thin layer of dust that has accumulated on the arms of it since last Wednesday.
Rodney begins to squirm in his bed, the excitement of a visitor shaking his old joints and cobwebs loose.
“Oh, goodie! I was hoping you would come today!”
We begin our back and forth as I unabashedly look around the room. His roommate is in the common room playing Bingo and so there is no one in the room who can see where I am looking. Rodney’s eyes, cloudier than any of the other residents, are fixed on a point somewhere past me, past the wall, past the building. I hold his hand as I take in the cards and pictures that line Rodney’s roommate’s side of the room. My gaze reverts back to his side and it is met by the empty wall.
"So Rodney, what do you want to talk about today?” I say this with a lilt in my voice, anticipating the same response that I have received every week for a year.
“Ohhhh, I don’t know Krissy. What do you feel like talking about?”
He says this through his grin and I know he is just waiting for my answer.
“No, no no. I came here to talk to YOU. Now, tell me, what are we talking about today?”
He sighs and smiles and shrugs his shoulders down into the white sheets that surround his body.
“Well, let’s see. Have I ever told you about the wolf pack?”
Yes, Rodney had told me about the wolf pack. Every week, I have heard about the wolf pack. This week would be no different.
“You have Rodney, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”
That’s all he needs to plunge ahead.
Rodney clears his throat, wiggles down in his sheets and begins to speak.
“Well Krissy, the wolf pack, well that is what I called them because they were like animals hunting for blood…well, the wolf pack was a group of my wife’s friends. They would whisper in her ear, Krissy! They would say things to her like, ‘do you know that your husband has another woman?!’ Can you believe that, Krissy? They would tell my wife that I was runnin’ around on her!”
I look down at the hula girl tattoo on his arm, her long black hair now faded to a mocha that matched the color of his skin. Rodney had told me that he got this tattoo while he was in the Navy, when they would stop at the ports and “do crazy things.”
I am tempted to ask him if the wolf pack was telling the truth, if he really did cheat on the wife he married at eighteen and would only see a few years later after his return from the service. I decide not to, because I am here for Rodney and in this small room in this small town in Pennsylvania, what does it matter anyway? He’s an old blind man in a room where he rots alone a little more each day. I’m the only audience he’s got and the best kind of audience in a nursing home is an agreeable one. He knows what he’s done wrong and he knows what he’s done right. Now, he just needs someone to listen.
“Oh no, Rodney! Why would they say such things?” I raise my voice to show my incredulity at the audacity of these women.
“You know why, Krissy? I can tell you why…they were jealous. That’s right Krissy, they were jealous of my wife and so they had to ruin her happiness. And do you know what else they did, Krissy?”
Yes, I know what Rodney is about to tell me, and I brace myself to hear it again.
“They killed her, Krissy! Snuck in one night and just choked her to death on the sofa. I came down and saw her there and tried to wake her up, but she just lay there with her hands up near her neck like this.”
Rodney slowly pulls his decaying hands up to his throat to mimic a choke hold and I don’t ask the questions that flood my mind.
How would they get into your house?
Why would they kill her?
Why didn’t you hear anything?
Why was she sleeping on the couch?
I keep these questions inside, the same way that I will keep his stories when I leave the nursing home each week. Fiction or reality, Rodney trusts me with these secrets and so I honor that trust with my silence.
I smell the food before it arrives in room 201A, and I gently squeeze the hand that I’ve been holding to signify that I want to say something.
“Rodney, I think it’s lunch time. Would you like me to help you?”
He begins to squirm again at the thought of food and vehemently nods his head.
“Oh yes, Krissy! That’d be wonderful!”
Once the tray is set in front of him, I tuck the napkin under his chin. I take off the top of the tray and reveal with great flourish, the lunch he will be having today.
“It’s meatloaf! And peas! And mashed potatoes!” I proclaim.
Each new food item is marked by a growing enthusiasm and Rodney is a good team player.
“Oh boy!” He aims his smile at the general direction of my voice and I busy myself with cutting up the meatloaf.
I know that he likes his food all mixed together, so I spear a piece of the mushy meat, shovel a bit of mashed potatoes on top and stab into a couple of peas for good measure.
“Okay, we’ve got meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas all right here.”
He opens his mouth in anticipation and I gently touch the fork to his lips to let him know that the food is hovering there. I feel nervous about hurting him while I’m feeding him; I don’t want to scrape the fork against the inside of his mouth or put too much food in. His lips close around the fork and I slide the now empty utensil out of his mouth. I watch as he chews and makes the noises that let me know he appreciates what I’m doing.
“Mmmmm,” he murmurs as he smacks his lips together.
I know that he is now ready for more, and I repeat the process. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas. In, out. In, out. The procedure is oddly soothing. We have built a rhythm, him and I, and it feels good to give this man nourishment when I feel so often empty handed when I come to see him.
He is finishing up smacking his lips together and I am organizing the leftover food into neat piles when I realize that I have not yet offered him the glass of water on his tray. I feel a stab of guilt at having denied him this necessity and quickly ask if he would like something to drink.
“Oh yes, Krissy. That would be nice. I’m parched,” he chuckles and coughs.
I smell the meatloaf as he parts his lips. I guide the straw in between them and silently watch as his cheek muscles work to pull the liquid up. The skin around his mouth sinks in with each suck, and I can see the bone structure underneath his rippled skin, the brown edges almost purple where they pool together near his eyes.
He finishes half the cup and I pull the straw from his mouth. Once the tray is cleared, I lift his hand from the bed and hold it in mine once more. The color contrast is striking--his brown to my white--but it is the difference texture that surprises me. His skin is so malleable under mine, and I gently press my thumb into the top of his hand. The skin gives way under the slight pressure and I feel the thin bones. They are birdlike, so small and fragile.
“Okay Rodney, looks like we’re done here.”
“Okay Krissy! Now where were we?”
I remind him that he was speaking of his wife, and he slowly nods his head.
“Ah yes! So my wife was killed, and I was left with the kids. Two kids. And do you know what my daughter and her boyfriend did to me?”
“Tell me, Rodney.”
“Have you ever met a person that drank wine and gasoline?!” He instead diverges.
He asks me this question every time we discuss the abuse he suffered at the hands of his daughter and her boyfriend, but the ridiculous phrasing throws me every time.
Without waiting for an answer, he rolls on.
“Well that’s what my daughter’s boyfriend did, Krissy. Drank wine and gasoline. He was crazy, and he made my daughter crazy too. Do you know what they did, Krissy? They tried to kill me! They were taking my money for drugs and when I confronted them about it, they wouldn’t give me food for days.”
I look at Rodney and picture him locked in a room, his sight failing and his stomach empty. I squeeze his hand a little harder and murmur, “I’m so sorry, Rodney.”
“I knew they were going to kill me, Krissy. I knew it. That crazy boyfriend of hers…he wanted all the money to himself.”
I glance at my watch as he rolls on about his crazy daughter, her crazy boyfriend, this crazy life, and I realize that I have to leave in ten minutes. There is a class, homework, a job to attend to. A whole world outside of room 201A that Rodney knows practically nothing about. And that’s okay. What’s important here is his story, his time.
I let him go on as I slowly release his hand from mine.
He pauses at this change and this is my cue.
“I’m sorry, Rodney. I have to go now. But I’ll see you next week!”
His face crumples a bit, and I watch as he attempts to pick it back up.
“Oh, okay Krissy. Thank you for coming!”
I feel guilty as I slide on my coat, and hook my arm through my purse.
“Listen, I’ll be back next week. Same time. Okay?”
He smiles and settles farther back down into his bed.
“Okayyyy, Krissy. Bye, Krissy, Bye.”
“Bye Rodney.” This part is always the hardest—untangling myself in one piece.
I try to make it quick and easy, but it never is.
His cries of “Bye, Krissy, Bye” follow me down the hall and I wonder how many seconds will pass until he realizes that I have really gone and that he is once again alone.
Back at the elevator, the same eyes that followed me as I entered now follow me out. I sneak a look at them out of the corner of my eye and I wish that I hadn’t. There is the old woman in blue who has dragged herself along the hallway using the wooden railing to push herself forward. She sits there now, across from the doors that always open and close, but never reveal anyone there for her. I smile and she grabs a hold of the gesture and I see her mouth begin to part.
I am in the elevator just in time to avoid hearing the cry, and my body releases as the elevator whooshes down. If I had heard her, it might have been too much. I can only extract myself from one person without an immense amount of guilt and so I quickly head to my car, as if I can flee from the loneliness and sorrow that I leave behind.
The first time I entered this room, I was taken back by the smell. The scent of must and secretions from body places that I rather not imagine slowly curled inside my nostrils. My first instinct was to stop breathing, to ward off the offensive scent of decomposing bodies with their decomposing functions. It didn’t help; I could taste the acidic fruit cup they ate for lunch, the mush of mashed potatoes that congealed in the corners of their cracked lips.
Now, this scent does not offend me. It welcomes me into their damp armpits, into the bosom of their cheap polyester shirts. I approach the front desk and try desperately to have the receptionist smile back at me. The harder I grin, the more she frowns. Defeated, I scribble the requested information into the sign in book.
Kristin Sparnroft to see Rodney Wilson Room 201A. 12:30pm.
A slow shuffle takes me toward the elevator. I do not rush in this place, and I smile to the spectators that line the walls in their wheelchairs. They watch me go, envious of my mobility and lustful for my attention. I smile into their eyes; the browns and blues that have all faded into a milky whiteness—their once vibrant colors now muted pastels with the passage of time.
The elevator dings and I am inside, trapped among aides who click their nails on the handles of the wheelchairs that they push.
“So what are ya’ll doin’ for your anniversary?” one yawns, oblivious to the woman that lies slumped over in her care.
“I don’t know but girl, I’m tellin’ you. It better be something special!”
The residents are listening to their conversation, and I think of how they must be dreaming of their own anniversaries with mates who are no longer here, or there, or anywhere in this world. The elevator air is even more compressed than in the rest of the building and I can feel the weight of the atoms as I glide to the second floor. They are heavy with old memories and words that have remained unspoken until now.
I can hear some of them before the elevator doors open to reveal the audience. They sit there and call out to me, hoping for recognition or at least, for me to take them home with me when I go. They know I will be leaving, and so their eyes follow me as I silently slip past them. Take me with you.
I can’t smile into these eyes as I did downstairs. Downstairs, those eyes wait to see relatives. They may go down in the morning and wait all day, but they do not wait in vain. A daughter will come with her pre-teen son who will squirm away from the wet, smelly kisses that splatter his cheeks. A wife will shuffle in, her hips creaking in light pink sweatpants as she approaches the husband who has been sitting there so patiently.
Up here, the eyes that surround me will see none of this. They just wait. I know this and silently talk myself out of smiling and saying hello to them. To do this would be to break my own heart, and I know that if I do this before I enter room 201A, I would be useless to the man I came to see.
I anxiously approach the doorframe and hesitantly take a peek at the bed closest to the door. It is occupied.
With a sigh of relief, I push a smile onto my face and call out cheerily, “knock, knock!”
“Who’s that? Krissy?!” The man’s head swivels to the door and a smile cracks, revealing the missing teeth and rotted gums.
“Yes, Rodney. It’s me! How are you today?”
As I say this, I pull up the oak chair that sits in the corner of the room. There is a thin layer of dust that has accumulated on the arms of it since last Wednesday.
Rodney begins to squirm in his bed, the excitement of a visitor shaking his old joints and cobwebs loose.
“Oh, goodie! I was hoping you would come today!”
We begin our back and forth as I unabashedly look around the room. His roommate is in the common room playing Bingo and so there is no one in the room who can see where I am looking. Rodney’s eyes, cloudier than any of the other residents, are fixed on a point somewhere past me, past the wall, past the building. I hold his hand as I take in the cards and pictures that line Rodney’s roommate’s side of the room. My gaze reverts back to his side and it is met by the empty wall.
"So Rodney, what do you want to talk about today?” I say this with a lilt in my voice, anticipating the same response that I have received every week for a year.
“Ohhhh, I don’t know Krissy. What do you feel like talking about?”
He says this through his grin and I know he is just waiting for my answer.
“No, no no. I came here to talk to YOU. Now, tell me, what are we talking about today?”
He sighs and smiles and shrugs his shoulders down into the white sheets that surround his body.
“Well, let’s see. Have I ever told you about the wolf pack?”
Yes, Rodney had told me about the wolf pack. Every week, I have heard about the wolf pack. This week would be no different.
“You have Rodney, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”
That’s all he needs to plunge ahead.
Rodney clears his throat, wiggles down in his sheets and begins to speak.
“Well Krissy, the wolf pack, well that is what I called them because they were like animals hunting for blood…well, the wolf pack was a group of my wife’s friends. They would whisper in her ear, Krissy! They would say things to her like, ‘do you know that your husband has another woman?!’ Can you believe that, Krissy? They would tell my wife that I was runnin’ around on her!”
I look down at the hula girl tattoo on his arm, her long black hair now faded to a mocha that matched the color of his skin. Rodney had told me that he got this tattoo while he was in the Navy, when they would stop at the ports and “do crazy things.”
I am tempted to ask him if the wolf pack was telling the truth, if he really did cheat on the wife he married at eighteen and would only see a few years later after his return from the service. I decide not to, because I am here for Rodney and in this small room in this small town in Pennsylvania, what does it matter anyway? He’s an old blind man in a room where he rots alone a little more each day. I’m the only audience he’s got and the best kind of audience in a nursing home is an agreeable one. He knows what he’s done wrong and he knows what he’s done right. Now, he just needs someone to listen.
“Oh no, Rodney! Why would they say such things?” I raise my voice to show my incredulity at the audacity of these women.
“You know why, Krissy? I can tell you why…they were jealous. That’s right Krissy, they were jealous of my wife and so they had to ruin her happiness. And do you know what else they did, Krissy?”
Yes, I know what Rodney is about to tell me, and I brace myself to hear it again.
“They killed her, Krissy! Snuck in one night and just choked her to death on the sofa. I came down and saw her there and tried to wake her up, but she just lay there with her hands up near her neck like this.”
Rodney slowly pulls his decaying hands up to his throat to mimic a choke hold and I don’t ask the questions that flood my mind.
How would they get into your house?
Why would they kill her?
Why didn’t you hear anything?
Why was she sleeping on the couch?
I keep these questions inside, the same way that I will keep his stories when I leave the nursing home each week. Fiction or reality, Rodney trusts me with these secrets and so I honor that trust with my silence.
I smell the food before it arrives in room 201A, and I gently squeeze the hand that I’ve been holding to signify that I want to say something.
“Rodney, I think it’s lunch time. Would you like me to help you?”
He begins to squirm again at the thought of food and vehemently nods his head.
“Oh yes, Krissy! That’d be wonderful!”
Once the tray is set in front of him, I tuck the napkin under his chin. I take off the top of the tray and reveal with great flourish, the lunch he will be having today.
“It’s meatloaf! And peas! And mashed potatoes!” I proclaim.
Each new food item is marked by a growing enthusiasm and Rodney is a good team player.
“Oh boy!” He aims his smile at the general direction of my voice and I busy myself with cutting up the meatloaf.
I know that he likes his food all mixed together, so I spear a piece of the mushy meat, shovel a bit of mashed potatoes on top and stab into a couple of peas for good measure.
“Okay, we’ve got meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas all right here.”
He opens his mouth in anticipation and I gently touch the fork to his lips to let him know that the food is hovering there. I feel nervous about hurting him while I’m feeding him; I don’t want to scrape the fork against the inside of his mouth or put too much food in. His lips close around the fork and I slide the now empty utensil out of his mouth. I watch as he chews and makes the noises that let me know he appreciates what I’m doing.
“Mmmmm,” he murmurs as he smacks his lips together.
I know that he is now ready for more, and I repeat the process. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas. In, out. In, out. The procedure is oddly soothing. We have built a rhythm, him and I, and it feels good to give this man nourishment when I feel so often empty handed when I come to see him.
He is finishing up smacking his lips together and I am organizing the leftover food into neat piles when I realize that I have not yet offered him the glass of water on his tray. I feel a stab of guilt at having denied him this necessity and quickly ask if he would like something to drink.
“Oh yes, Krissy. That would be nice. I’m parched,” he chuckles and coughs.
I smell the meatloaf as he parts his lips. I guide the straw in between them and silently watch as his cheek muscles work to pull the liquid up. The skin around his mouth sinks in with each suck, and I can see the bone structure underneath his rippled skin, the brown edges almost purple where they pool together near his eyes.
He finishes half the cup and I pull the straw from his mouth. Once the tray is cleared, I lift his hand from the bed and hold it in mine once more. The color contrast is striking--his brown to my white--but it is the difference texture that surprises me. His skin is so malleable under mine, and I gently press my thumb into the top of his hand. The skin gives way under the slight pressure and I feel the thin bones. They are birdlike, so small and fragile.
“Okay Rodney, looks like we’re done here.”
“Okay Krissy! Now where were we?”
I remind him that he was speaking of his wife, and he slowly nods his head.
“Ah yes! So my wife was killed, and I was left with the kids. Two kids. And do you know what my daughter and her boyfriend did to me?”
“Tell me, Rodney.”
“Have you ever met a person that drank wine and gasoline?!” He instead diverges.
He asks me this question every time we discuss the abuse he suffered at the hands of his daughter and her boyfriend, but the ridiculous phrasing throws me every time.
Without waiting for an answer, he rolls on.
“Well that’s what my daughter’s boyfriend did, Krissy. Drank wine and gasoline. He was crazy, and he made my daughter crazy too. Do you know what they did, Krissy? They tried to kill me! They were taking my money for drugs and when I confronted them about it, they wouldn’t give me food for days.”
I look at Rodney and picture him locked in a room, his sight failing and his stomach empty. I squeeze his hand a little harder and murmur, “I’m so sorry, Rodney.”
“I knew they were going to kill me, Krissy. I knew it. That crazy boyfriend of hers…he wanted all the money to himself.”
I glance at my watch as he rolls on about his crazy daughter, her crazy boyfriend, this crazy life, and I realize that I have to leave in ten minutes. There is a class, homework, a job to attend to. A whole world outside of room 201A that Rodney knows practically nothing about. And that’s okay. What’s important here is his story, his time.
I let him go on as I slowly release his hand from mine.
He pauses at this change and this is my cue.
“I’m sorry, Rodney. I have to go now. But I’ll see you next week!”
His face crumples a bit, and I watch as he attempts to pick it back up.
“Oh, okay Krissy. Thank you for coming!”
I feel guilty as I slide on my coat, and hook my arm through my purse.
“Listen, I’ll be back next week. Same time. Okay?”
He smiles and settles farther back down into his bed.
“Okayyyy, Krissy. Bye, Krissy, Bye.”
“Bye Rodney.” This part is always the hardest—untangling myself in one piece.
I try to make it quick and easy, but it never is.
His cries of “Bye, Krissy, Bye” follow me down the hall and I wonder how many seconds will pass until he realizes that I have really gone and that he is once again alone.
Back at the elevator, the same eyes that followed me as I entered now follow me out. I sneak a look at them out of the corner of my eye and I wish that I hadn’t. There is the old woman in blue who has dragged herself along the hallway using the wooden railing to push herself forward. She sits there now, across from the doors that always open and close, but never reveal anyone there for her. I smile and she grabs a hold of the gesture and I see her mouth begin to part.
I am in the elevator just in time to avoid hearing the cry, and my body releases as the elevator whooshes down. If I had heard her, it might have been too much. I can only extract myself from one person without an immense amount of guilt and so I quickly head to my car, as if I can flee from the loneliness and sorrow that I leave behind.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Home goes too.
We sailed out of the northeast with hopes set high, smiles that reached from ear to ear as we pounded down highway, mile after mile.
We reached Lubbock still rolling, or at least my wheels were. New Mexico seemed so close!
And then it began to seem so far away.
By the time the news came back that our tax return had been filed with my last named misspelled as STARnroft and was now tied up somewhere in the hovering cloud of tax return checks, my wheels had already slowed down considerably. The friend that we were visiting was leaving town for two weeks, his sweet dog Aslan needed a sitter, and we needed somewhere to stay until the beginning of August when we would need to head back for previously scheduled family vacations. It's a matter of perspective, but I'd like to think that while He may laugh at our plans, He always provides.
New Mexico is waiting patiently for us until September, or rather us for it, when traveling and cruises and camping is over. We had to leave a lot behind in this moving process, but I realized there are some things you always take with you. Music and love and talks and even smells. Home goes too, you just have to make space for it where you can. I've been finding it in the cradle of one man's arms.
We reached Lubbock still rolling, or at least my wheels were. New Mexico seemed so close!
And then it began to seem so far away.
By the time the news came back that our tax return had been filed with my last named misspelled as STARnroft and was now tied up somewhere in the hovering cloud of tax return checks, my wheels had already slowed down considerably. The friend that we were visiting was leaving town for two weeks, his sweet dog Aslan needed a sitter, and we needed somewhere to stay until the beginning of August when we would need to head back for previously scheduled family vacations. It's a matter of perspective, but I'd like to think that while He may laugh at our plans, He always provides.
New Mexico is waiting patiently for us until September, or rather us for it, when traveling and cruises and camping is over. We had to leave a lot behind in this moving process, but I realized there are some things you always take with you. Music and love and talks and even smells. Home goes too, you just have to make space for it where you can. I've been finding it in the cradle of one man's arms.
72
We’ve been on the road now for three days—hours filled with blaring sun and dry, scorching heat. A thunderstorm loomed overhead in Memphis, but save for a few errant drops that fell on our walk to Beale St., the dark clouds remained a hazy backdrop for the city of blues. We sat at one of the bars, our table extending out onto the brick pavement where hoards of revelers stood in awe of street performers. Front flips, black flips, handsprings and solid dance moves performed by three African American boys held most of the glory, all perfectly timed to the blues music that poured out of the nearest bar. Half-drunk, I took it all in, glorious in the knowledge that at that moment, I could simply be. As a stranger in a strange land, I floated above the concerns of daily interaction.
Just dance, River encouraged when I shied away from joining a group of girls on the dance floor later in the night. It was a 21st birthday party and the girlfriends were having a blast. From our table,my body ached to move like theirs. You’ll never see these people again.
One of the girls noticed me grooving in my seat and threw a welcoming smile in my direction. Without a second's beat, I slid forward in time to the music. He was right. I was whoever I wanted to be, I could do whatever I wanted to. Living had never felt so good.
Just dance, River encouraged when I shied away from joining a group of girls on the dance floor later in the night. It was a 21st birthday party and the girlfriends were having a blast. From our table,my body ached to move like theirs. You’ll never see these people again.
One of the girls noticed me grooving in my seat and threw a welcoming smile in my direction. Without a second's beat, I slid forward in time to the music. He was right. I was whoever I wanted to be, I could do whatever I wanted to. Living had never felt so good.
East Meets West
It’s rogue. It is undeniably wild, a tumbleweed blowing across a hot grainy sky. The wilderness has been calling, the great American spirit.
I wrote these lines a few months ago, in the cold silence of a northeast snowstorm. As the snow whipped hollowly around my words, I was then completely unaware of the fact that I would soon be hearing that call, and echoing it back. As it stands as of today June 19, 2010, my husband River and I are headed west—to Albuquerque, New Mexico—in exactly two weeks. Most of our furniture has been sold, our roommate (River’s once college professor turned friend turned roommate) has moved out, and we have begun the mental moving in of a lifestyle far different from the one we’ve known. Gone are most of the luxuries of life, having to cram our entire existence, and one small gray cat named Ting, into the back of our Honda Civic. Most of the clothes that I held so dear have been sold to consignment shops, each dollar squirreled away for when we hit the road. My excitement lies somewhere in the hazy fog of deep anticipation and the expansive unknown.
I wrote these lines a few months ago, in the cold silence of a northeast snowstorm. As the snow whipped hollowly around my words, I was then completely unaware of the fact that I would soon be hearing that call, and echoing it back. As it stands as of today June 19, 2010, my husband River and I are headed west—to Albuquerque, New Mexico—in exactly two weeks. Most of our furniture has been sold, our roommate (River’s once college professor turned friend turned roommate) has moved out, and we have begun the mental moving in of a lifestyle far different from the one we’ve known. Gone are most of the luxuries of life, having to cram our entire existence, and one small gray cat named Ting, into the back of our Honda Civic. Most of the clothes that I held so dear have been sold to consignment shops, each dollar squirreled away for when we hit the road. My excitement lies somewhere in the hazy fog of deep anticipation and the expansive unknown.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Wildwood Childhood
The days start out early, the caw of the morning gulls that soar over head pulling me from my sleep. I wince as I stretch my burnt body across the rough hotel sheets. I can feel the heat pulsing from my raw skin, and so I rise and walk towards the balcony, hoping that the morning air will cool what burns. I can see the beach from my view, and it is mostly waves of sand, interrupted by small, scattered clusters of people. The ocean water sparkles blue behind them, giving them—and me--a jeweled backdrop of a perfect day.
It’s hours later and I am on that wave of sand, burning my eager toes as I run from sidewalk to blanket. My feet blister when pressed into the boiling particles of sand. Its energy propels me further, faster and suddenly I am upon the blanket, and kicking sand on my brother.
“Hey!” he shouts, head swiveled back, eyes squinted against the sun.
I giggle and drop down beside him. A coke can rests in the sand and I pick it up and swig. The sand is wet from the can’s condensation, and it becomes loose in my fingers. Grains end up in my mouth and I crunch down on them with my back molars.
The sun quickly warms my already burnt skin and it itches in the light. My mother’s old portable Walkman belts out 70’s dance classics as she waves her hand at me and smiles
“Hi babay!” she mouths.
“Let’s go in,” I suddenly say, eager for the cooling splash of sea foam.
My brother is already up and grabbing his boogie board as I finish my statement.
We wave our goodbyes to our parents and younger brother and head down the slope of sand. Small, black mussels lay in a thin line where the surf meets land, a visible barricade between the aquatic world and ours.
“Okay, on the count of three,” I say, commencing the start of our race.
“One, two, three!” and were off, feet slapping wet muddy sand as waves break against our knees, then our chests. The icy slap shocks me and I dive under, allowing the salt of the earth to permeate my every orifice, every pore. The water cools my shoulders and I pop my head up for breath.
“Here comes a good one!” my brother shouts, pointing eagerly at a swelling wave behind us.
I quickly move to position my board and again take off, this time riding on the crest of a wave, feeling the surge and pull barely tug at my feet. I ride it the whole way in.
It’s hours later and I am on that wave of sand, burning my eager toes as I run from sidewalk to blanket. My feet blister when pressed into the boiling particles of sand. Its energy propels me further, faster and suddenly I am upon the blanket, and kicking sand on my brother.
“Hey!” he shouts, head swiveled back, eyes squinted against the sun.
I giggle and drop down beside him. A coke can rests in the sand and I pick it up and swig. The sand is wet from the can’s condensation, and it becomes loose in my fingers. Grains end up in my mouth and I crunch down on them with my back molars.
The sun quickly warms my already burnt skin and it itches in the light. My mother’s old portable Walkman belts out 70’s dance classics as she waves her hand at me and smiles
“Hi babay!” she mouths.
“Let’s go in,” I suddenly say, eager for the cooling splash of sea foam.
My brother is already up and grabbing his boogie board as I finish my statement.
We wave our goodbyes to our parents and younger brother and head down the slope of sand. Small, black mussels lay in a thin line where the surf meets land, a visible barricade between the aquatic world and ours.
“Okay, on the count of three,” I say, commencing the start of our race.
“One, two, three!” and were off, feet slapping wet muddy sand as waves break against our knees, then our chests. The icy slap shocks me and I dive under, allowing the salt of the earth to permeate my every orifice, every pore. The water cools my shoulders and I pop my head up for breath.
“Here comes a good one!” my brother shouts, pointing eagerly at a swelling wave behind us.
I quickly move to position my board and again take off, this time riding on the crest of a wave, feeling the surge and pull barely tug at my feet. I ride it the whole way in.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
My 20 minute daily prolific writing(aka rambling) on why I agree with bell hooks
“If, as Thomas Merton suggests in his essay on pedagogy “Learning to Live,” the purpose of education is to show students how to define themselves in “authentically and spontaneously in relation” to the world, then professors can best teach if we are self-actualized”(20).
Whoa. While I am all for bell hooks theory and her expressivist values, I am suddenly realizing the reason why there may be so many critics of expressivism in the modern day education world. It takes WORK. Any system that requires a group or body of people to reflect inward is usually held at an arms’ distance. Take religion for example. It is always unpopular to self-actualize because it is a dangerous activity—one that removes the individual from the collective. There is a sense of polarity when discussing self-actualization, as if something within the inner personhood has swelled up to shout “no! something is not right here!” For if we did not do so, what would we be more than one of a million nameless beings that followed the major hearkenings of the newspapers and the Ipads and so on and so forth. I do not believe that self-actualization has occurred on many levels in our world today. If it had, we would not be seeing the fifteen minutes of fame stories that fill our mainstream media, or treating celebrity as a sort of pulpit for political change. We would instead be understanding of our spiritual state, our ethical needs and the opportunities for reason and change and work towards those ends. This leads me on to thoughts of why the movie “Avatar” was such a hit at the movies. It was a storyline that spoke to the inner man. There was something timeless in its quality, something that linked our world’s past with our current projecture and I believe that its message is something that could potentially spur on self-actualization in many the minds of mankind. There is a propensity towards clouded vision, towards linking yourself towards the onward pulling chain and assimilating to its structure and design. That is the nature of our college system! When I reflect back on my own experience in obtaining my undergraduate degree, I mostly see how relevant the instructors were to my speed and depth of learning. There were classes that inspired--classes that led me to new levels. And then there were the ones that comprised the majority of my academic experience. Droll, lacking of depth and meaning. So much knowledge, so little time. While this cram method may have to work for scenarios like history and mathematics, I believe that there is a freedom within the boundaries of English and writing. Instead of focusing on the mathematics of grammar within the composition classroom, I agree with bell hooks and believe that time would be better spent(in the interest of the individual and therefore the collective for everything in the interest of the individual is always in the interest of the collective)—that time would be better spent cultivating the internal, allowing for some inner spark to ignite and develop in your budding students over the course of the three or four months they have you. We know that life is a journey—we experience its waves each and every day—so as thinkers and composition teachers, allow your students the meaningful education that they desire and require.
Whoa. While I am all for bell hooks theory and her expressivist values, I am suddenly realizing the reason why there may be so many critics of expressivism in the modern day education world. It takes WORK. Any system that requires a group or body of people to reflect inward is usually held at an arms’ distance. Take religion for example. It is always unpopular to self-actualize because it is a dangerous activity—one that removes the individual from the collective. There is a sense of polarity when discussing self-actualization, as if something within the inner personhood has swelled up to shout “no! something is not right here!” For if we did not do so, what would we be more than one of a million nameless beings that followed the major hearkenings of the newspapers and the Ipads and so on and so forth. I do not believe that self-actualization has occurred on many levels in our world today. If it had, we would not be seeing the fifteen minutes of fame stories that fill our mainstream media, or treating celebrity as a sort of pulpit for political change. We would instead be understanding of our spiritual state, our ethical needs and the opportunities for reason and change and work towards those ends. This leads me on to thoughts of why the movie “Avatar” was such a hit at the movies. It was a storyline that spoke to the inner man. There was something timeless in its quality, something that linked our world’s past with our current projecture and I believe that its message is something that could potentially spur on self-actualization in many the minds of mankind. There is a propensity towards clouded vision, towards linking yourself towards the onward pulling chain and assimilating to its structure and design. That is the nature of our college system! When I reflect back on my own experience in obtaining my undergraduate degree, I mostly see how relevant the instructors were to my speed and depth of learning. There were classes that inspired--classes that led me to new levels. And then there were the ones that comprised the majority of my academic experience. Droll, lacking of depth and meaning. So much knowledge, so little time. While this cram method may have to work for scenarios like history and mathematics, I believe that there is a freedom within the boundaries of English and writing. Instead of focusing on the mathematics of grammar within the composition classroom, I agree with bell hooks and believe that time would be better spent(in the interest of the individual and therefore the collective for everything in the interest of the individual is always in the interest of the collective)—that time would be better spent cultivating the internal, allowing for some inner spark to ignite and develop in your budding students over the course of the three or four months they have you. We know that life is a journey—we experience its waves each and every day—so as thinkers and composition teachers, allow your students the meaningful education that they desire and require.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Orange
I didn’t mean to steal it, I told my friends.
It just found its way into my suitcase, the splash of orange barely visible when surrounded by my muddied shirts and socks.
I would never take her shirt! I proclaimed, righteous indignation swelling up within my thirteen-year old body.
Stephanie’s orange tank top, the one that looked so cute on her toned, tanned body now resided on my shoulders. I didn’t think I much resembled Stephanie in it, with the blare of the orange sorely mismatched with my pale skin and large blue glasses. It was a few weeks after camp, and we had all gathered together again to celebrate Becky’s fourteenth birthday. I had chosen to wear the orange tank top because as far as I was concerned, it was new. Four weeks earlier, I had not known that tank top existed in the world. It had thick fabric, with a cling. You knew that it would never lose its shape, no matter how many washings it cycled through. The neckline was my favorite part. A slight dip at the collar bone made me feel bold and daring; aware that there was something to revealing this part of me, but not yet knowing just what it was.
I had known that the tank top would match perfectly with my navy blue shorts from the first time I had seen it on Stephanie. She had breezed into our cabin, the flowery scent of her perfume slightly masking the odor of mud and sunscreen. She had waggled her fingers at us and smiled hugely, her short blonde bob mimicking the curve of her grin.
I hated her then.
She had arrived with a gaggle of girlfriends, each one equally blonde and smiley. It was clear though, that Stephanie was the leader. I and my other three friends looked on, suddenly shamed in our Limited Too sweatshirts and spandex shorts. I raised a hand to my head and felt the frizzy, dishwater blonde hair practically leap into my fingers. She caught my eye and smiled, a certain sympathy seeming to be reflected towards me. Of course I smiled back.
Stephanie and friends had arrived a day later than my friends and I, and there had already been a few potential love interests spotted amongst the camp crowd. Becky and I had scanned the perimeters, our eyes assessing each and every male within a mile. It didn’t matter that none were really looking our way; I could hardly blame them. We were a motley crew of glasses and scraped up legs, with all sorts of colors reflecting off of our braces. It was surprising enough that we had found one another; trying to find a boyfriend was sheer wishful thinking.
That’s why when Zach from Indiana walked up and said hi, I could barely stop myself from falling into uncontrollable giggles. When Zach followed me to lunch and sat at my table, I could barely touch any of the sloppy joe on my plate.
“What if he asks me to the dance on Friday?” I excitedly whispered to Becky as we refilled our sodas.
We silently squealed and half-bounced back to our seats, my own mind running wild with the possibility of Zach giving me my very first kiss.
That was before Stephanie had arrived.
She had been in our cabin for barely an hour before she had sidled up and proceeded to win us over with her Midwestern charm.
“You guys are just the cutest! I love that sweatshirt you’ve got on, I’m sorry…is it Noelle? It’s so cute on you!”
We ate up her shit until it was pouring out of our throats and steaming out of our ears. Before the end of the afternoon, Stephanie and her crew had managed to teach us the lyrics to Nelly and had each one of us confessing who we liked at camp.
“His name is Zach and he’s from Indiana. He has sort of spiky hair, he was hanging out with this tall kid…I don’t remember his name. But we ate lunch together and he said ‘see you at the rally tonight’!”
The harder she smiled and nodded, the faster I spilled out the details. I was possessed by an insatiable desire to please Stephanie-- to make her think that I was the kind of girl that boys would decide to like at summer camp, the kind of girl who would enter a room smelling of flowers and sticky, sweet lipgloss.
I thought that I had done the right thing, or at least had begun the process of having this girl think that I was:
a. Cool
b. Pretty
c. Popular
d. Vapid
e. All of the above.
I was satisfied with myself the next day-- had even gooped gel into my thick bob that morning. But a good fat nothing it got me when I saw Stephanie and Zach waltzing into the cafeteria, his spiky blonde hair perfectly erect next to her bouncing yellow mane.
My initial thought was something along the lines “fuck you” surrounded by a cloud of utter disbelief.
Really?
I had seen some of the teen movies where the pretty girls had manipulated and calculated their way into the heartthrob’s life. I had heard of how mean girls could be, but until I saw Stephanie with Zach, I hadn’t believed it.
I was going to let this bitch do a makeover on me! I outraged inwardly.
It was brushed aside back in the cabin, even though a certain coolness had settled amongst the bunk beds.
“Oh, that’s Zach?!” she had asked flippantly. “I thought there must have been at least ten different Zachs here!”
While I sat sulking between Becky and Noelle at the ice cream social, Stephanie and Zach swallowed spoonfuls of whipped cream and threw rainbow sprinkles at one another. I watched them stand in line together for the slip and slide and I pretended not to hear when they quietly giggled as I limped past them afterwards, broken bits of twigs and rocks sticking out of my bloodied calf. I watched them sit at the dance together and swore, even as I accidentally spilled soda all over my dress, that I would never trust a girl, a Stephanie, a bitch, like that again.
Extracting revenge hadn’t been hard at the end. The opportunity had come so quickly, so easily that I almost couldn’t believe my good luck. It was our last morning and I was hurriedly packing, blatantly mixing dirty clothes with clean just in order to get outside for a few minutes before our bus pulled up to leave. The pile of clothes next to me wasn’t mine, and I had barely glanced at it until I saw a gleam of orange somewhere near the bottom. With a quick look around, I plunged my hand into the pile and like a toy chest claw, retracted what I desired and deposited it into my suitcase, not daring to look to see if I had snatched the right article of clothing. I didn’t dare try again.
After a restless six hour bus ride home and in the safety of my bedroom later that night, I gingerly lifted Stephanie’s orange tank top from the bed of my soiled clothes. I had stolen her beloved orange shirt, the one that had matched her navy shorts so perfectly, and held it up to myself in the mirror. Through my finger-smudged glasses, I could see it already clinging to my body. I couldn’t help but smile as I lifted it to my face and inhaled the flowery scent.
It just found its way into my suitcase, the splash of orange barely visible when surrounded by my muddied shirts and socks.
I would never take her shirt! I proclaimed, righteous indignation swelling up within my thirteen-year old body.
Stephanie’s orange tank top, the one that looked so cute on her toned, tanned body now resided on my shoulders. I didn’t think I much resembled Stephanie in it, with the blare of the orange sorely mismatched with my pale skin and large blue glasses. It was a few weeks after camp, and we had all gathered together again to celebrate Becky’s fourteenth birthday. I had chosen to wear the orange tank top because as far as I was concerned, it was new. Four weeks earlier, I had not known that tank top existed in the world. It had thick fabric, with a cling. You knew that it would never lose its shape, no matter how many washings it cycled through. The neckline was my favorite part. A slight dip at the collar bone made me feel bold and daring; aware that there was something to revealing this part of me, but not yet knowing just what it was.
I had known that the tank top would match perfectly with my navy blue shorts from the first time I had seen it on Stephanie. She had breezed into our cabin, the flowery scent of her perfume slightly masking the odor of mud and sunscreen. She had waggled her fingers at us and smiled hugely, her short blonde bob mimicking the curve of her grin.
I hated her then.
She had arrived with a gaggle of girlfriends, each one equally blonde and smiley. It was clear though, that Stephanie was the leader. I and my other three friends looked on, suddenly shamed in our Limited Too sweatshirts and spandex shorts. I raised a hand to my head and felt the frizzy, dishwater blonde hair practically leap into my fingers. She caught my eye and smiled, a certain sympathy seeming to be reflected towards me. Of course I smiled back.
Stephanie and friends had arrived a day later than my friends and I, and there had already been a few potential love interests spotted amongst the camp crowd. Becky and I had scanned the perimeters, our eyes assessing each and every male within a mile. It didn’t matter that none were really looking our way; I could hardly blame them. We were a motley crew of glasses and scraped up legs, with all sorts of colors reflecting off of our braces. It was surprising enough that we had found one another; trying to find a boyfriend was sheer wishful thinking.
That’s why when Zach from Indiana walked up and said hi, I could barely stop myself from falling into uncontrollable giggles. When Zach followed me to lunch and sat at my table, I could barely touch any of the sloppy joe on my plate.
“What if he asks me to the dance on Friday?” I excitedly whispered to Becky as we refilled our sodas.
We silently squealed and half-bounced back to our seats, my own mind running wild with the possibility of Zach giving me my very first kiss.
That was before Stephanie had arrived.
She had been in our cabin for barely an hour before she had sidled up and proceeded to win us over with her Midwestern charm.
“You guys are just the cutest! I love that sweatshirt you’ve got on, I’m sorry…is it Noelle? It’s so cute on you!”
We ate up her shit until it was pouring out of our throats and steaming out of our ears. Before the end of the afternoon, Stephanie and her crew had managed to teach us the lyrics to Nelly and had each one of us confessing who we liked at camp.
“His name is Zach and he’s from Indiana. He has sort of spiky hair, he was hanging out with this tall kid…I don’t remember his name. But we ate lunch together and he said ‘see you at the rally tonight’!”
The harder she smiled and nodded, the faster I spilled out the details. I was possessed by an insatiable desire to please Stephanie-- to make her think that I was the kind of girl that boys would decide to like at summer camp, the kind of girl who would enter a room smelling of flowers and sticky, sweet lipgloss.
I thought that I had done the right thing, or at least had begun the process of having this girl think that I was:
a. Cool
b. Pretty
c. Popular
d. Vapid
e. All of the above.
I was satisfied with myself the next day-- had even gooped gel into my thick bob that morning. But a good fat nothing it got me when I saw Stephanie and Zach waltzing into the cafeteria, his spiky blonde hair perfectly erect next to her bouncing yellow mane.
My initial thought was something along the lines “fuck you” surrounded by a cloud of utter disbelief.
Really?
I had seen some of the teen movies where the pretty girls had manipulated and calculated their way into the heartthrob’s life. I had heard of how mean girls could be, but until I saw Stephanie with Zach, I hadn’t believed it.
I was going to let this bitch do a makeover on me! I outraged inwardly.
It was brushed aside back in the cabin, even though a certain coolness had settled amongst the bunk beds.
“Oh, that’s Zach?!” she had asked flippantly. “I thought there must have been at least ten different Zachs here!”
While I sat sulking between Becky and Noelle at the ice cream social, Stephanie and Zach swallowed spoonfuls of whipped cream and threw rainbow sprinkles at one another. I watched them stand in line together for the slip and slide and I pretended not to hear when they quietly giggled as I limped past them afterwards, broken bits of twigs and rocks sticking out of my bloodied calf. I watched them sit at the dance together and swore, even as I accidentally spilled soda all over my dress, that I would never trust a girl, a Stephanie, a bitch, like that again.
Extracting revenge hadn’t been hard at the end. The opportunity had come so quickly, so easily that I almost couldn’t believe my good luck. It was our last morning and I was hurriedly packing, blatantly mixing dirty clothes with clean just in order to get outside for a few minutes before our bus pulled up to leave. The pile of clothes next to me wasn’t mine, and I had barely glanced at it until I saw a gleam of orange somewhere near the bottom. With a quick look around, I plunged my hand into the pile and like a toy chest claw, retracted what I desired and deposited it into my suitcase, not daring to look to see if I had snatched the right article of clothing. I didn’t dare try again.
After a restless six hour bus ride home and in the safety of my bedroom later that night, I gingerly lifted Stephanie’s orange tank top from the bed of my soiled clothes. I had stolen her beloved orange shirt, the one that had matched her navy shorts so perfectly, and held it up to myself in the mirror. Through my finger-smudged glasses, I could see it already clinging to my body. I couldn’t help but smile as I lifted it to my face and inhaled the flowery scent.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)