Here are the 6, 12 and 25 word memoirs for the semester!
I was small. In a way, I feel like I still am.
After all is said and done, I wonder if I am too.
Have I gotten closure? I would say things are still pretty open-ended.
No, we aren't really a serious couple. We joke all the time.
I was once called a "beautiful young woman" by an LDS apostle.
If words are legs I'm centipede.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
"Infidel" Response
For my second memoir, I read Infidel, Ayaan Hirshi Ali's condemnation of faith and lifestyle.
Most memoirs gain their strength through their colorful descriptions of commonalities and common interests with the audience. They create such a strong rapport with their audience that everything becomes acceptable and believable.
What struck me most about Hirshi Ali's work was not her color, nor her rapport. Instead, she captivated me with her unerring, unswerving honesty. This work didn't exist to give color or flair, it wasn't an act of art or artistic license. Instead, this was a confession, a witness' testimony. It was descriptive, it was insightful, and it was honest, but more than anything else, it exists to condemn Islam.
In other works I've seen, an author will be somewhat forgiving of his/her background, will look kindly upon some aspect of it. In Infidel, Hirshi Ali has no such affection:
"Religion gave me a sense of peace only from its assurance of a life after death. It was fairly easy to follow most of the rules: good behavior, politeness, avoiding gossip and pork and usury and alcohol. But I had found that I couldn't follow the deeper rules of Islam that control sexuality and the mind. I didn't want to follow them. I wanted to be someone, to stand on my own.
Most memoirs gain their strength through their colorful descriptions of commonalities and common interests with the audience. They create such a strong rapport with their audience that everything becomes acceptable and believable.
What struck me most about Hirshi Ali's work was not her color, nor her rapport. Instead, she captivated me with her unerring, unswerving honesty. This work didn't exist to give color or flair, it wasn't an act of art or artistic license. Instead, this was a confession, a witness' testimony. It was descriptive, it was insightful, and it was honest, but more than anything else, it exists to condemn Islam.
In other works I've seen, an author will be somewhat forgiving of his/her background, will look kindly upon some aspect of it. In Infidel, Hirshi Ali has no such affection:
"Religion gave me a sense of peace only from its assurance of a life after death. It was fairly easy to follow most of the rules: good behavior, politeness, avoiding gossip and pork and usury and alcohol. But I had found that I couldn't follow the deeper rules of Islam that control sexuality and the mind. I didn't want to follow them. I wanted to be someone, to stand on my own.
Islam is submission. You submit on earth in order to earn your place in Heaven (132)."
Ultimately, the primary emotion I felt at Infidel's conclusion was curiosity. I couldn't (and still can't) quite put my finger on exactly why the book was written in the first place. At some points, it seems a rallying point for other ex-Muslims. At others, it seems to be polarizing non-Muslims against the faith. And at still others, it seems to exist to give form to her long-formulating anger. I suppose I understand (on some level) the emotions she's feeling, but I can't quite figure out why she is sharing those emotions so publicly.
This, to me, raises fascinating questions about the overall purpose of memoir. It is difficult to paint memoirists with a broad brush, assuming that they fall into categories of why they wrote, but there must be some common threads between them. Joan Didion wanted to embody her grief, Barack Obama wanted to trace and identify the ghost of his father's heritage, and Hirshi Ali's purpose was...what? To recant her earlier life? To express regret at the state of Islam? To rage against her spiritual, societal and physical captors? The title itself, Infidel, suggests that she is abundantly aware of her own pariah status. But this seems more a badge of pride than a mark of shame.
I don't know the emotion Hirshi Ali would want to convey. I don't know what category such spiritual abandonment falls under. What I do know is that the main emotion I took away from Infidel was a sense of proud infidelity to ones former beliefs. And I suppose, in the long and the short of it, that could have been the point all along.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Love
"I think I'm in love with you."
I blinked.
Love? A few double dates, a basketball game, a box of Goldfish crackers, those were all well and good. But love? I wasn't sure.
We'd held hands, snuggled like so many good Mormons girls want to. We'd even kissed. Not the reckless, feckless high school kisses, but timid, polite kisses. The kinds of kisses that belied uncomfortable romantic history.
But I knew hers and she knew mine. She'd been dating feverishly since she'd been back from her mission, and I'd merely been testing the water since mine.
A week ago, she told me she wanted to "take things slow." But tonight she loved me?
I don't swear. But gosh I really wanted to.
I knew that there was a window in which I needed to respond. Too long in silence and that would be my answer. I wish there had been some kind of violent distraction, but it was just the two of us sitting in my car, quietly idling in her apartment parking lot.
It was cruel, it was cold, but I didn't want our casual relationship to be over. I was having fun. Not love, per se, but I felt like we were in a good place. We laughed a lot, went out to our favorite ice cream parlor, played frisbee with mutual friends, talked about a couples road trip with some old mission companions.
My window had shut. She was looking at me with a slightly concerned affection.
I opened my mouth, still unsure as to what I was going to say. I took her hand. I was trying to buy myself more seconds with body language cues.
"I...think I love you too."
Damn.
I blinked.
Love? A few double dates, a basketball game, a box of Goldfish crackers, those were all well and good. But love? I wasn't sure.
We'd held hands, snuggled like so many good Mormons girls want to. We'd even kissed. Not the reckless, feckless high school kisses, but timid, polite kisses. The kinds of kisses that belied uncomfortable romantic history.
But I knew hers and she knew mine. She'd been dating feverishly since she'd been back from her mission, and I'd merely been testing the water since mine.
A week ago, she told me she wanted to "take things slow." But tonight she loved me?
I don't swear. But gosh I really wanted to.
I knew that there was a window in which I needed to respond. Too long in silence and that would be my answer. I wish there had been some kind of violent distraction, but it was just the two of us sitting in my car, quietly idling in her apartment parking lot.
It was cruel, it was cold, but I didn't want our casual relationship to be over. I was having fun. Not love, per se, but I felt like we were in a good place. We laughed a lot, went out to our favorite ice cream parlor, played frisbee with mutual friends, talked about a couples road trip with some old mission companions.
My window had shut. She was looking at me with a slightly concerned affection.
I opened my mouth, still unsure as to what I was going to say. I took her hand. I was trying to buy myself more seconds with body language cues.
"I...think I love you too."
Damn.
Monday, March 3, 2014
"Dreams From My Father" Response
This was a complicated read.
I come from a Democrat family, a house full of liberals. My brother campaigned in Colorado for Obama before the 2012 election. Even my sweet, conservative-ish mother voted for Obama. I'm extremely aware of his speeches, his policies, his campaigning, his staff, the whole business.
As hard as I tried, I couldn't quite separate the voice of the child dealing with racism, acceptance, broken homes, poverty, loneliness and growing up from that voice that speaks about the NSA, foreign policy, and delivers the State of the Union address.
At least at first.
One thing I will say about Dreams From My Father is that it seems consistent. As I read at the beginning, it was a baffling discrepancy to hear that this man, who has become so vocal and defined on so many issues, was so confused by the world growing up. Dreams is certainly a memoir I have a close proximity to, and at first, it really affected my perception of the work. How can a man in charge of United States foreign policy morbidly ask a veteran if killing someone was bloody? How can the first African-American president not understand why black TV characters were never main characters?
As things evolve, however, a better picture of this man starts to appear. As an author, Mr. Obama is guilty of asking outright questions, of none-too-subtly exposing themes and topics. Yet in light of his future and eventual career, it seems almost excusable to spend so much time pondering about whether or not his classroom would accept his Kenyan father.
It almost seems too simplistic, for this "Barry Obama" to wonder and ponder about racism and politics and seizing the day. I was skeptical, too, of the fact that despite the people around him talking like teenagers, but Barry himself remaining somewhat aloof. Maybe he was just that good of a guy, but I feel as though the concessions he does make (such as his descriptions of drugs and alcohol) are calculated to humanize just enough.
That, then, would be my last complaint--that this is a limited-truth memoir. It isn't embarrassing; or if it is, it's just embarrassing enough to be believable. Barry (eventually Barack) is the appropriately fallible youth-turned-adolescent-turned-young man-turned-adult who eventually comes (more or less) to terms with his upbringing. It's not that he disregards his foibles, but instead he downplays them to the point of acceptable growing pains.
His writing style is strong, his memories specific, the characters authentic, and his own observations quiet at first, until culminating into a narrative that reflects his vision of the world and himself. This is not unusual for memoir, but in light of who Barry, then Obamba, then Barack, then Mr. Obama, then Irishman O'Bama, then Professor Obama will become, it seems to have a certain sheen.
It's believable. It's understandable. It's even acceptable. Perhaps my favorite structural device of Dreams was the way that at the climax of the work, in the final quarter, when Mr. Obama could be at his political preachy best, is where the unpolitical themes of the work come home to roost. As he returns to Kenya, the book is ultimately redeemed as Hawaiian schools and Chicagoan political activism are replaced with African dust and long-lost family members.
To conclude, then, Dreams was imperfect, unrealistically idealistic, with several key details left out, yet charismatic, winning and (as I saw it) inspirational. Exactly as I see its author.
I come from a Democrat family, a house full of liberals. My brother campaigned in Colorado for Obama before the 2012 election. Even my sweet, conservative-ish mother voted for Obama. I'm extremely aware of his speeches, his policies, his campaigning, his staff, the whole business.
As hard as I tried, I couldn't quite separate the voice of the child dealing with racism, acceptance, broken homes, poverty, loneliness and growing up from that voice that speaks about the NSA, foreign policy, and delivers the State of the Union address.
At least at first.
One thing I will say about Dreams From My Father is that it seems consistent. As I read at the beginning, it was a baffling discrepancy to hear that this man, who has become so vocal and defined on so many issues, was so confused by the world growing up. Dreams is certainly a memoir I have a close proximity to, and at first, it really affected my perception of the work. How can a man in charge of United States foreign policy morbidly ask a veteran if killing someone was bloody? How can the first African-American president not understand why black TV characters were never main characters?
As things evolve, however, a better picture of this man starts to appear. As an author, Mr. Obama is guilty of asking outright questions, of none-too-subtly exposing themes and topics. Yet in light of his future and eventual career, it seems almost excusable to spend so much time pondering about whether or not his classroom would accept his Kenyan father.
It almost seems too simplistic, for this "Barry Obama" to wonder and ponder about racism and politics and seizing the day. I was skeptical, too, of the fact that despite the people around him talking like teenagers, but Barry himself remaining somewhat aloof. Maybe he was just that good of a guy, but I feel as though the concessions he does make (such as his descriptions of drugs and alcohol) are calculated to humanize just enough.
That, then, would be my last complaint--that this is a limited-truth memoir. It isn't embarrassing; or if it is, it's just embarrassing enough to be believable. Barry (eventually Barack) is the appropriately fallible youth-turned-adolescent-turned-young man-turned-adult who eventually comes (more or less) to terms with his upbringing. It's not that he disregards his foibles, but instead he downplays them to the point of acceptable growing pains.
His writing style is strong, his memories specific, the characters authentic, and his own observations quiet at first, until culminating into a narrative that reflects his vision of the world and himself. This is not unusual for memoir, but in light of who Barry, then Obamba, then Barack, then Mr. Obama, then Irishman O'Bama, then Professor Obama will become, it seems to have a certain sheen.
It's believable. It's understandable. It's even acceptable. Perhaps my favorite structural device of Dreams was the way that at the climax of the work, in the final quarter, when Mr. Obama could be at his political preachy best, is where the unpolitical themes of the work come home to roost. As he returns to Kenya, the book is ultimately redeemed as Hawaiian schools and Chicagoan political activism are replaced with African dust and long-lost family members.
To conclude, then, Dreams was imperfect, unrealistically idealistic, with several key details left out, yet charismatic, winning and (as I saw it) inspirational. Exactly as I see its author.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Indiana
Textures.
Salt and warmth of homemade play-dough.
Don't eat it, don't eat it. Heavy green mugs. The cold basement
floor, the scuffed, damaged plastic on a tricycle wheel.
The narrow wooden stairs. The giant
spinning chair. The way everything creaked.
New brother. Me. Sister's Oscar the
Grouch piggie bank.
The good.
The collie. Cherry 7up. Easter eggs.
Fireflies. Catch them, find them. Fruit Loops for the first time. Mom
waits for spring tulips. Pine needles on the Christmas floor. Train
sounds. VCR tapes. The zoo. New shoes, Velcro straps.
And the bad.
The plate on my foot, the bee in my
ear. Crying, crying. Those wooden figurines on my father's office
shelf. Forbidden, forbidden.
Cherry 7up again. The snake. New shoes,
soiled. The narrow stairs. Falling, falling. Peter and the Wolf.
Tornado sirens. Run and hide, run and hide.
Opa died. Back in a week, Dad said.
Back in a week.
The decisions.
Tear the pages of every book. Kiss your
brother, show you care. Jump on mom's bed, blow out brother's
candles. Shout in the basement, know you're real.
Such joy to decide, to say and to see.
The novelty of sensation, the power to do. I didn't know why or how,
but I knew I had to because I could.
The words, the finding. Desperate to
know, desperate to understand. Spelling out words in church. Whisper,
whisper.
Connections. Pass the library to get to
sister's school. Shampoo bottle looks like a baby. Chocolate grahams
fit in the VCR player.
And me. Always wants, never needs.
Everything was.
But there was so much wrong. Josh was
too big. No more brothers and sisters. Mom was sad, but didn't say
so. Dad was gone a lot.
I should have seen it. Or maybe I did,
but didn't know what to do about it.
In any case, nothing changed. Nothing,
nothing.
Friday, February 21, 2014
Normal
I've always flirted between thinking that I was uncommonly special or especially common.
I'm probably one of them. I don't know what else I could be.
There was a time when I thought I may have been some kind of superhero, beginning to discover that I had mutant powers. Nope. Puberty.
I also assumed that everyone was in constant pain. But then I learned that chronic migraines aren't the norm either.
My parents helped with the mixed signals. I was told I was great and smart, but only after I had a day in which I felt completely normal, if not substandard.
Some people have insecurities and some people have superiority complexes. I suppose my problem is that I'm insecure about whether I should have a superiority complex.
There always felt like there might be some safety in being normal. I used to pray that God would let me be dumb like other kids. I asked my parents if I could watch more TV so I could be like the other kids.
But along with wanting to be like them, I also hated them for what they were because they didn't have my interests. They didn't seem to have interests at all.
I grew out of it, grew out of worrying whether I was something or not. My childhood was something of a dud, spent watching National Geographic Explorer instead of cartoons, too polite to burp the ABCs.
Today, I try not to care. Because if I care too much, I wonder whether it's normal or extraordinary to spend so much time worrying about it. And around I go again.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Waiting for Snow in Havana
For my first memoir, I read Carlos Eire's excellent Waiting for Snow in Havana. Were I to rename the memoir, I would call it Carlos' Gods. The overall, commanding theme of the book seems to be identifying the "gods" of Eire's Cuban upbringing.
It's a good theme, but it could easily feel like something of a cop-out: to explore one's primary influences is hardly a new or bold concept. Where Eire succeeds, however, is developing and enunciating the love-hate (but primarily hate) relationship with his "gods.".
First and most obvious is the constant refrain and exploration of young Carlos' present-tense connection to God. He dwells seriously on sin and repentance, but generally in the context of his childhood fears and schooling. Whether it is his experience getting his head stuck in a pew during mass (94-97) or his reflections on hell and repentance (172), this is a vulnerable Carlos, one who is unsure of the god he is asked to worship. It's also a god subject to the changes and whims of his adolescence: his suggestion that Jesus should have X-Ray vision to see through women's clothes (170) is different from the man who finds his seventh proof of god (358). He curses this god and calls on god and thinks about god and ponders god. For all his ponderings and searches for proofs, he still, near the book's conclusion, doubts whether the events towards the end of his time in Cuba were orchestrated by god. For all his insistence of faith, we are left to wonder whether his belief and faith are more than his attempts to cling to his Cuban upbringing.
Interestingly, this god seems more similar to what I would call Carlos' second god: pop culture. Whether it's his buying American trading cards or watching Batman, James Bond and Marilyn Monroe films and TV shows, pop culture becomes a central aspect of Eire's life. Instead of thinking, "What would Jesus do," Eire finds himself considering what James T. Kirk would do in situations. Yet this kind of American envy has its problems and shortcomings. It clashes with his upbringing and eventually is renounced by his wife.
Yet unsurprisingly, the most important and everpresent of Carlos' gods is Cuba. Whether it is the poignant depiction of Castro's rise to fame or his memories of childhood on Havana streets, Cuba is as memorable, ingrained, wanted and unwanted as god himself to Carlos. The rationale and explanation of Fidel is as real in Eire's eyes as his quest to understand hell and repentance.
This was an impassioned eulogy of a Cuba lost, of a childhood spent in regret and confusion, and an explanation of who he is now. I felt as though it was an honest, unashamed portrayal of childhood and Cuba, but beyond that, I enjoyed that it was also payed due homage to the gods that created him and made him who he is today.
Friday, February 14, 2014
Emetophobia
I don't think it's irrational. Seems like a rational fear to me.
There's even a word for it: "emetophobia:" the fear of vomit and throwing up. I've had it as long as I can remember. My brother throws up and I spend the night on the couch. My sister throws up and I leave home until she stops. One of my parents throws up, and I'm moving out.
Worse, however, is when the tingling starts. When my own stomach starts doing roiling. When my mouth starts watering and the world starts spinning. I feel it coming and I can't escape from my own body.
I try a variety of tactics. I focus on little swallows, shallow breaths, wiggling my toes. I start negotiating deals with God, praying for it to pass. I lie as still as I can, pretending that I'm not nauseous, pretending that I just need to wait a bit and it will pass.
In fairness, sometimes it works. And sometimes it's Christmas 2003. My brother had the flu all week, but was better in time for Christmas Eve. Nobody else had been sick. We had dodged a bullet.
After our seasonal feast of German steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and butter rolls, we settled in for some board games.
But something wasn't right. The old symptoms were back. My face felt flushed. My throat felt full. The contents of my stomach seemed to be swaying, ponderously, planning their next move.
My family asked if I was feeling okay. I'm fine, I lied. Just need to take a nap.
I held as still as I could on our new leather couches. It would pass. It had to pass. I couldn't be sick on Christmas.
I wasn't sick. I wasn't going to be sick. Everything was fine.
God, please don't let me. Bless me. Work a miracle. Whatever you have to do.
My stomach churned threateningly. My body tensed. Sniff, exhale. Sniff, exhale. Focus on your toes.
It passed. I relaxed.
And then promptly puked what seemed to be everything I'd ever eaten all over myself, the new leather couch, and the heirloom blanket on the couch.
Nothing was fine. Christmas was ruined. My family went into damage control, my dad crying "not the couches," my mom crying "not the blanket," and my siblings sitting in mortified, horrified shock on the floor, still dazedly holding their "Lord of the Rings Trivial Pursuit" tokens.
It was a Christmas never to be forgotten, for all the wrong reasons. I slept in the bathtub that night. The next morning I was too sick and weak to open presents.
That's it. That's why I'm an emetophobe.
Anything capable of ruining Christmas seems like a rational fear to me.
There's even a word for it: "emetophobia:" the fear of vomit and throwing up. I've had it as long as I can remember. My brother throws up and I spend the night on the couch. My sister throws up and I leave home until she stops. One of my parents throws up, and I'm moving out.
Worse, however, is when the tingling starts. When my own stomach starts doing roiling. When my mouth starts watering and the world starts spinning. I feel it coming and I can't escape from my own body.
I try a variety of tactics. I focus on little swallows, shallow breaths, wiggling my toes. I start negotiating deals with God, praying for it to pass. I lie as still as I can, pretending that I'm not nauseous, pretending that I just need to wait a bit and it will pass.
In fairness, sometimes it works. And sometimes it's Christmas 2003. My brother had the flu all week, but was better in time for Christmas Eve. Nobody else had been sick. We had dodged a bullet.
After our seasonal feast of German steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and butter rolls, we settled in for some board games.
But something wasn't right. The old symptoms were back. My face felt flushed. My throat felt full. The contents of my stomach seemed to be swaying, ponderously, planning their next move.
My family asked if I was feeling okay. I'm fine, I lied. Just need to take a nap.
I held as still as I could on our new leather couches. It would pass. It had to pass. I couldn't be sick on Christmas.
I wasn't sick. I wasn't going to be sick. Everything was fine.
God, please don't let me. Bless me. Work a miracle. Whatever you have to do.
My stomach churned threateningly. My body tensed. Sniff, exhale. Sniff, exhale. Focus on your toes.
It passed. I relaxed.
And then promptly puked what seemed to be everything I'd ever eaten all over myself, the new leather couch, and the heirloom blanket on the couch.
Nothing was fine. Christmas was ruined. My family went into damage control, my dad crying "not the couches," my mom crying "not the blanket," and my siblings sitting in mortified, horrified shock on the floor, still dazedly holding their "Lord of the Rings Trivial Pursuit" tokens.
It was a Christmas never to be forgotten, for all the wrong reasons. I slept in the bathtub that night. The next morning I was too sick and weak to open presents.
That's it. That's why I'm an emetophobe.
Anything capable of ruining Christmas seems like a rational fear to me.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Consequences
I don't remember moments, I remember consequences and words.
The stash of Dad's Winterfresh gum was in his desk drawer. I don't know when I found it, but I remember when he found me with it. That's when I learned the word "theft" and was placed on my parents' watch list. I was banned from his office. And any room with drawers.
I wouldn't have any reason to remember the first snowstorm of my time in Utah. Except for my brother's incessant crying after I pelted him with the first snowballs of my (or his) life. Which also led to my mom using the word "assault" as she spoke to me. And I was assigned to shovel snow alone for hours. Another consequence, another new word.
And then there was the time Dad caught me watching "The Simpsons," which had been previously forbidden. "Lewd" was the word of the day and I returned to my parents' watch list. It took months of deliberately being caught watching Animal Planet before some kind of trust could be re-established.
I also remember getting "The Talk." Dad said I had installed too many games on the computer and that it was my fault it was running so slowly. Dad spent the few hours defragging the hard drive teaching me all kinds of words. Words I didn't want to know. Yikes.
I guess I have my parents to thank for my memories. And my vernacular. And an undesired familiarity with human anatomy and potential jail-able offenses.
The stash of Dad's Winterfresh gum was in his desk drawer. I don't know when I found it, but I remember when he found me with it. That's when I learned the word "theft" and was placed on my parents' watch list. I was banned from his office. And any room with drawers.
I wouldn't have any reason to remember the first snowstorm of my time in Utah. Except for my brother's incessant crying after I pelted him with the first snowballs of my (or his) life. Which also led to my mom using the word "assault" as she spoke to me. And I was assigned to shovel snow alone for hours. Another consequence, another new word.
And then there was the time Dad caught me watching "The Simpsons," which had been previously forbidden. "Lewd" was the word of the day and I returned to my parents' watch list. It took months of deliberately being caught watching Animal Planet before some kind of trust could be re-established.
I also remember getting "The Talk." Dad said I had installed too many games on the computer and that it was my fault it was running so slowly. Dad spent the few hours defragging the hard drive teaching me all kinds of words. Words I didn't want to know. Yikes.
I guess I have my parents to thank for my memories. And my vernacular. And an undesired familiarity with human anatomy and potential jail-able offenses.
Friday, January 31, 2014
911
I'll be fine, I said.
Just going to stay home and read some books, I said.
They all left to see the new house. Mom, Dad, Kate, Josh, the family car, all gone. For a few hours, they said.
Yeah, right. I wasn't going to read. That simply wasn't going to happen. There were video games to be played.
After a few hours of Jedi dismemberment, I calculated that my family was surely on the verge of coming home, and I didn't want them to see me still on the computer. I picked up a believable book and plopped myself on the couch.
After about another hour on the couch it was getting dark and I was starting to get worried. And hungry.
One of those I could fix. After a few string cheeses and a handful of tortilla chips, I was only worried.
With a bit of food, my imagination went into overdrive. The grueling silence was beginning to echo around the unfinished basement. Darkness was creeping in the blind-free windows.
I needed to do something. I went around the house, turning on lights. I flipped the TV on and cranked the volume. Ambient noise buzzed through the house.
Having turned on every light in the house, I went upstairs and sat in the living room. Waiting.
Didn't help. I couldn't stop thinking. What if they were bloody and dead, their car a burned-out husk? Who would tell me? Who would inform the family (me)?
The police. The police would come to the door, just like in the movies. "I'm sorry, son," they'd say. "It's about your family."
I had just moved to Logan: I didn't know anyone. I'd have to find some phone numbers of family members. I'd have to call and ask to be adopted by some other family--maybe my uncle. I saw myself in a black suit, standing by four caskets.
I paced the house, moving from room to room. It wouldn't leave my mind. I was panicking. My breathing intensified. My heartbeat was stuttering.
I should have gone with them. I could've saved them. I could've changed things.
Phone numbers. I needed to know which extended family members to call. My hands were shaking as I rummaged through the basket of bills and phone numbers my mom kept next to the corkboard in the kitchen.
I took that deep shuddering breath that always precedes some serious crying. She had always done bills, but it was past-tense now. She was gone and nothing I could do would bring her back.
I had led to the deaths of my family members because I wanted to play some stupid video games. My lie had been the difference between life and death.
The only thing left to do was to get the confirmation. I was crying now. I picked up the phone next to the now-scattered collection of bills and paperwork. Hands still shaking wildly, I punched in the numbers.
"911 Response, please state your emergency."
I was sobbing into the phone. "I'm home alone and. And. And."
The respondent was all business. "Remain calm. What's your emergency?"
I couldn't ask the question I wanted to ask. I needed to ask.
"Are any of my family. Are. Are. Are."
The front door opened.
They were all there. I was standing next to the kitchen counter, holding a phone, sobbing uncontrollably.
My mom hurried to me. "What's wrong?"
Nothing, I lied. Nothing at all.
Yeah, right.
Just going to stay home and read some books, I said.
They all left to see the new house. Mom, Dad, Kate, Josh, the family car, all gone. For a few hours, they said.
Yeah, right. I wasn't going to read. That simply wasn't going to happen. There were video games to be played.
After a few hours of Jedi dismemberment, I calculated that my family was surely on the verge of coming home, and I didn't want them to see me still on the computer. I picked up a believable book and plopped myself on the couch.
After about another hour on the couch it was getting dark and I was starting to get worried. And hungry.
One of those I could fix. After a few string cheeses and a handful of tortilla chips, I was only worried.
With a bit of food, my imagination went into overdrive. The grueling silence was beginning to echo around the unfinished basement. Darkness was creeping in the blind-free windows.
I needed to do something. I went around the house, turning on lights. I flipped the TV on and cranked the volume. Ambient noise buzzed through the house.
Having turned on every light in the house, I went upstairs and sat in the living room. Waiting.
Didn't help. I couldn't stop thinking. What if they were bloody and dead, their car a burned-out husk? Who would tell me? Who would inform the family (me)?
The police. The police would come to the door, just like in the movies. "I'm sorry, son," they'd say. "It's about your family."
I had just moved to Logan: I didn't know anyone. I'd have to find some phone numbers of family members. I'd have to call and ask to be adopted by some other family--maybe my uncle. I saw myself in a black suit, standing by four caskets.
I paced the house, moving from room to room. It wouldn't leave my mind. I was panicking. My breathing intensified. My heartbeat was stuttering.
I should have gone with them. I could've saved them. I could've changed things.
Phone numbers. I needed to know which extended family members to call. My hands were shaking as I rummaged through the basket of bills and phone numbers my mom kept next to the corkboard in the kitchen.
I took that deep shuddering breath that always precedes some serious crying. She had always done bills, but it was past-tense now. She was gone and nothing I could do would bring her back.
I had led to the deaths of my family members because I wanted to play some stupid video games. My lie had been the difference between life and death.
The only thing left to do was to get the confirmation. I was crying now. I picked up the phone next to the now-scattered collection of bills and paperwork. Hands still shaking wildly, I punched in the numbers.
"911 Response, please state your emergency."
I was sobbing into the phone. "I'm home alone and. And. And."
The respondent was all business. "Remain calm. What's your emergency?"
I couldn't ask the question I wanted to ask. I needed to ask.
"Are any of my family. Are. Are. Are."
The front door opened.
They were all there. I was standing next to the kitchen counter, holding a phone, sobbing uncontrollably.
My mom hurried to me. "What's wrong?"
Nothing, I lied. Nothing at all.
Yeah, right.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Lexie
There are moments of clarity from my
childhood, moments that seem particularly meaningful or significant,
even if they're not.
It was springtime and I was on the
swings. Not that it was like it wasn't always warm enough to be on
the swings, but I remember how green it was. The hills around the
school had changed from winter brown to promising green—the promise
that summer was almost upon us. It felt good.
I was alone. That wasn't really news
either—seemed like I was always alone. Not that I bothered too
much. Normally I just sat on the playground, waiting for recess to
end. I was the reserved, too-smart type, unable to converse with my
peers without giving myself away as a flaming intellectual.
I don't really know what I was thinking
about, but I was certainly distracted. So much so that I didn't
immediately recognize that a dark-haired boy was talking to me. He
had a goofy grin on his face, the kind that hinted at some illict,
ill-gained secrets.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you know Lexie?” the boy asked.
Of course I knew Lexie. I'd been in her
class for the past four grades. She had beautiful skin, dark eyes,
perfect hair and lived not far from my house. What was more, she was
brighter than I was. In my mind, I imagined that we were destined to
be together, we abandoned intellectuals. My schoolwork was mainly
aimed to impress and keep up with her. She made my elementary school
world go 'round.
“She LIKES you!” the boy blurted
out, in a mix of revulsion and excitement.
My elementary school world stopped.
It wasn't that this was something I
hadn't ever thought about, ever fantasized about. Now that the moment
was here, however, I didn't know what to do.
Lexie ran over. Suddenly, I knew even less what to do. She took one look at the other boy, one look at me, and we were all on the same page. A horror and a misery crossed her face.
Lexie ran over. Suddenly, I knew even less what to do. She took one look at the other boy, one look at me, and we were all on the same page. A horror and a misery crossed her face.
“I don't! I—I” She was
sputtering, trying to recant and undo the three words of the other
boy. She began to hit him repeatedly in the arm, berating him by
name. For the life of me, I can't remember his name. At such a
critical juncture in my life, I was paralyzed by the incomprehensible
potential of the situation and unable to process everything happening
around me.
Lexie had finally turned to me. “I
don't like you! I don't! I mean, you don't like me?” It wasn't a
statement. It was a question. This was the moment.
I opened my mouth.
And it just kind of hung there.
And it just kind of hung there.
I had been a different kind of caught.
So I did what I needed to to gain some kind of control on the
situation.
“No. No! No. Of course I don't.” I said, with more confidence than I felt.
All three of us just kind of waited for something to happen. I realized that I wasn't swinging anymore.
“No. No! No. Of course I don't.” I said, with more confidence than I felt.
All three of us just kind of waited for something to happen. I realized that I wasn't swinging anymore.
Looking back, that was the last
conversation I ever had with Lexie. My family moved away that summer.
I've always wondered what other outcomes that conversation could have
had. More than that, however, I've tried to understand what made me
lie.
It is a subversive, backwards kind of
control that makes someone lie. It's that desperation that makes
someone shelve their morals, ignore their better self and put their
credibility on the line all in pursuit of the upper hand in a
situation.
Lying, then, isn't a habit. It's not
just a pattern and a rut a careless someone gets into – it's an
addiction. I would not realize it until later in life, but my lies
embodied a craving for control and my instinctive urge to fabricate
an out for myself. In hindsight, Lexie was the first social casualty.
I wish she had been the last.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Wrestling
I was small. And I suppose that deep down, I feel like I still am.
At no time in my life was it more apparent than the day I went over to "play" with the Mendes family. The Mendes' were one of the only families in my neighborhood that attended the same church as my family, which meant that my mother had a ready-made friend in Mrs. Mendes with which to drink coffee with. I mean, if she drank coffee.
When mom and Mrs. Mendes got together, it usually meant that I would read a book or watch TV in another room. On one occasion, however, Mrs. Mendes' son Adam was home. Adam was a teenager, a good three years older and approximately ten years bigger than me. He was a burly, curly-haired football player and I was content to quietly sit and read. I had neither the size nor the temperament to be a bully. Adam had both.
In hindsight, I don't really know what the moms were thinking, trying to put us together. But at their insistence, I went outside to join Adam on the trampoline.
Adam didn't want a playmate. Adam wanted an exercise in adolescent dominance. I learned this very quickly. And for the first time in my life, I felt the fear of being in real physical danger.
Adam wanted to wrestle. His wrestling involved plenty of punches, shoves and knees in the back. I remember his arms around my throat, I remember trying to get off the trampoline and getting dragged back onto it, I remember feeling the most helpless I had felt in my life thus far. My wits, words, smarts--nothing could get me out of the situation.There was nothing I could do, nothing at all.
"Shut up you wimp! Fight me! Wrestle me!"
Eventually I managed to get to the other end of the yard. I remember crouching by some small trees, crying. My arms hurt. My chest and neck hurt.
Adam crouched in front of me. "You don't tell anybody about this." I nodded. I wanted to be done.
Before long, my mom came out the sliding back door to collect me. It was time to go home.
As we drove home, it became clear to my mother that I had been upset by something. "What's wrong, honey? What happened?"
I sniffled a bit. "Nothing. I just..."
In that moment, I had the most control I had in the entire situation. I could tell the truth and...what? What would've happened? I would've made an enemy. I would've appeared even more helpless. I would've given a bully another motive.
So I lied.
"Nothing." There were no visible marks, no bruises. I had no cuts, no wounds. If I just kept my mouth shut, I could pretend that the whole event had never happened and nobody needed to know.
And nobody did know. I thought that my lie would make it okay. And for all parties involved, it did.
Except for me.
When I got home, I saw that the screen on my new watch, the watch I had received for my birthday, the watch that had 3 different kinds of alarms and a Magic 8 Ball feature, had broken.
And then I cried.
At no time in my life was it more apparent than the day I went over to "play" with the Mendes family. The Mendes' were one of the only families in my neighborhood that attended the same church as my family, which meant that my mother had a ready-made friend in Mrs. Mendes with which to drink coffee with. I mean, if she drank coffee.
When mom and Mrs. Mendes got together, it usually meant that I would read a book or watch TV in another room. On one occasion, however, Mrs. Mendes' son Adam was home. Adam was a teenager, a good three years older and approximately ten years bigger than me. He was a burly, curly-haired football player and I was content to quietly sit and read. I had neither the size nor the temperament to be a bully. Adam had both.
In hindsight, I don't really know what the moms were thinking, trying to put us together. But at their insistence, I went outside to join Adam on the trampoline.
Adam didn't want a playmate. Adam wanted an exercise in adolescent dominance. I learned this very quickly. And for the first time in my life, I felt the fear of being in real physical danger.
Adam wanted to wrestle. His wrestling involved plenty of punches, shoves and knees in the back. I remember his arms around my throat, I remember trying to get off the trampoline and getting dragged back onto it, I remember feeling the most helpless I had felt in my life thus far. My wits, words, smarts--nothing could get me out of the situation.There was nothing I could do, nothing at all.
"Shut up you wimp! Fight me! Wrestle me!"
Eventually I managed to get to the other end of the yard. I remember crouching by some small trees, crying. My arms hurt. My chest and neck hurt.
Adam crouched in front of me. "You don't tell anybody about this." I nodded. I wanted to be done.
Before long, my mom came out the sliding back door to collect me. It was time to go home.
As we drove home, it became clear to my mother that I had been upset by something. "What's wrong, honey? What happened?"
I sniffled a bit. "Nothing. I just..."
In that moment, I had the most control I had in the entire situation. I could tell the truth and...what? What would've happened? I would've made an enemy. I would've appeared even more helpless. I would've given a bully another motive.
So I lied.
"Nothing." There were no visible marks, no bruises. I had no cuts, no wounds. If I just kept my mouth shut, I could pretend that the whole event had never happened and nobody needed to know.
And nobody did know. I thought that my lie would make it okay. And for all parties involved, it did.
Except for me.
When I got home, I saw that the screen on my new watch, the watch I had received for my birthday, the watch that had 3 different kinds of alarms and a Magic 8 Ball feature, had broken.
And then I cried.
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I'm loyal to a fault and I like to think that's good.
Must be some kind of way out of here said the joker.
All the world is a stage, and I am Mercutio no more.
I'm defined between Saturday and Sunday.
Everything will be better by morning.
Marbles, lizards, star wars and migraines.
And tomorrow will be even stronger.
Perspective, serendipity, discipline and...it's whatever.
Victory wears a lonely red scarf.
And yet I'm still here, right where the rubber meets the road.
Between the philosophical quandaries on man's perplexities and his existence and purpose of self, I am left with only one serious question: "What's for dinner?"
Head hurts, heart full, still going
I sing for my team and dance for my girl. That's it.
Ever see “that guy?” That's me.
My dad used to say “Sam, don't do drugs. But if you are going to do drugs, don't do meth.” I've lived by that advice.
I have no problem with lying. It's the consequences that get me.
I should probably just shut up
I was once told I look like Joaquin Phoenix in Gladiator. Sucks.
I don't know what I'm feeling