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.
Friday, July 23, 2010
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.
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