Phoenix

It's been a long time since I had a poem just come to me like this one did. It fell onto the paper, almost entirely as you see it now. I don't have a title because...titles are frustrating. But I do have a poem.


When the phoenix has lived for 500 years
the legend states the gold and scarlet bird builds itself a nest.
It collects the twigs and places them, night after night,
making sure the base, the sides, the circumference
are just right. The painstaking perfection
the broken repeating truth of impending change
rests on his feathers like lead snowflakes
increasing his brilliance
and the necessity of destruction.
His urge to self-destruct outweighs
the 500 years,
the brilliance of his feathers
the masterpiece of a home,
being a divine creature in an earthly world.

In Tibet, the monks in gold and crimson robes
place grain after grain of sand
day after painstaking day
creating a masterpiece whose only purpose
is to be destroyed
to serve as a reminder
that what we are is transitory,
this life
is impermanent
but destruction
is in our blood
when it's time, the bird and nest ignite
burn until only ashes remain,
the masterpiece of sand is washed to sea
and then it all starts again
the phoenix is born--ashes become egg
sand is collected and dyed
we give this life another try
with hope reborn from desperation.

But destruction rides along our bloodstream
traced by the map our doctors call veins
I know some days, they're my compass
leading me steadily to yes
and there are days
those roadmaps sit dangerously close to the surface
I trace the history of my life with glass
that used to be grains of sand
those pulsing maps
are waiting to be destroyed into ash
and who's to say, what we call veins
aren't blue sheaths holding our crimson feathers
our heart is the egg that holds our ashes
waiting to resurrect us
when a person in a gold and crimson robe
washes us --the masterpiece--
to sea.

Ten things...

In her TED talk, spoken word poet, Sarah Kay, talks about the writing workshops she leads, and mentions this exercise:

Write a list of 10 things you know to be true.

Write a list of 10 things you should have learned by now.

Below, you can find my lists.  You can post yours in the comments, or post the link to your own blogpost there.  What are 10 things you know to be true?  What are 10 things you should have learned by now?

                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ten Things I Know to be True

1.) Lists are important. They make life more manageable. This list may or may not be important. Your list may or may not be important.  But our collective lists of truths could likely change the world.

2.) Everyone has two stories: the story the tell and the story they live.  There is no way these two stories can become one, but our closest connections with others should be an attempt to try.

3.) Having a pet can change--and even save--a person's life. 

 4.) The more education I have, the less I know. 

5.) I should never have been scared to express my knowledge and my passion. 

6.) I have always and will always care to the very core of my being.  I am, in Eve Ensler's words, "an emotional creature."

7.) Asking for help and acknowledging that I am not Superwoman is like pushing a wheelbarrow of bricks up Mt. Everest, backwards, while wearing stilettos.  In other words, it's really fucking hard.

8.) I will finish graduate school and will be officially a doctor.  There were times when I definitely did not think this would be true.  I don't care that I will be a doctor, I care that I finished when I didn't think I could.  I care that I will have a job where I can know that, even if I never manage it, I will be in a position that I can try every day to change someone's life.

9.) The hardest things in life are not related to school, or work, or not being able to live your dream, or attempting to achieve your goals.  The hardest things in life are the things that blindside you on a sunny, Thursday afternoon.  The phone call you get on a Tuesday morning.  The fun night out one Friday with friends.

10.) One day, I will remember that I am worthy of love, without reminders.

                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ten Things I Should Have Learned By Now

1.) If there is frost/snow/ice on my car, I need to get out the door earlier than I usually do.  The car does not magically defrost itself.

2.) Some people are never going to make you feel good about yourself.  It's okay to limit your interactions with them to whatever extent makes you feel comfortable.  Boundaries are our friends.

3.) I don't need to have the answers to everything.  There is beauty in the silence, connection in the confusion, and power in the shared struggle to find our own answers.  This silence, confusion, and shared struggle is likely called "life."

4.) Perfectionism is too much work.

5.) Like it or not, I inherited my mother's (and grandmother's, and grandfather's, and great-grandfather's...) need desire for control.  I can, however, channel that desire in the way that fits me best.

6.) Loving and living intensely is not a character flaw.  Empathy is not a weakness.

7.) There is such a thing as righteous anger.  Anger can be passionate, righteous, fulfilling, driving, or unhealthy.  It is important to know it, not be afraid of it, and use it accordingly.

8.) Dishes never wash themselves.

9.) My words are powerful.

10.) My voice can be, and should be respected.  I can choose to use it in nearly every situation, as long as I am speaking my truth.

For Your Safety and Comfort...

Do you ever have those things that come up in your life that just happen again, and again, and again, and again...until you just have to scream "OKAY!  I get it.  I get it, already.  What is it that I'm supposed to learn here?  Is there a lesson I'm missing?  Something I'm supposed to learn?  Because I'm obviously missing the point."  Maybe there isn't a lesson.  Maybe this is just a "life is going to add small complications to show you how much you can handle," type thing.  Or maybe a "life is just going to add little stressors to get under your skin for the fun of it."  That last possibility there might be it.

I have lots of those little things right now.  (Don't we all?)  But the biggest little thing that is getting under my skin and is set to send me off the deep end is transportation.  Oh, transportation.  "Ah yes," I hear you thinking.  "Everybody hates sitting in traffic."  And I do hate sitting in traffic.  But let me tell you a story here.  The story of me getting to work these past 6.5 months.

If I were to drive from my house to work at 2:30AM on a Sunday morning, it would likely take me about 35 minutes.  That's not a bad commute at all.  35 minutes is perfectly reasonable, respectable commute.  However, I never drive to work at that time, so it takes me anywhere from 1 hr 15 mins to an 1.5 hours.  Sometimes longer, if I'm lucky.  But that isn't the end of the commute.  I can't park at the building I work in...nope...lowly interns are not lucky enough to get a parking pass, so I need to park at a different building, then take a shuttle up to my building.  Shuttles run every half hour, so if I have a client at 9, I need to get to the shuttle by 8:30 to get to my building at 8:45, which means I have to leave my house between 6:45 and 7 to make sure I leave enough time to park on the 53rd level of the parking garage* and walk to the shuttle before he puts it into drive at 8:29 to step on the gas and leave any stragglers in the dust at 8:30.  I'm not kidding.  Marcus** waits for no one.

So, when I realized this would be the case back in July, I decided I would take the metro to work.  It takes me 15-20 minutes to drive to the metro, 30 minutes on the metro, and deposits me right across the street from where I need to be.  Perfect, right?  No traffic, I can sit and read, no need to worry about missing the shuttle...life is beautiful.

July through September, I took the metro.  Some days, it was a piece of cake.  It was quick, smooth, clean, calm, environmentally friendly, and totally not sketchy.  Perfect!  As I continued taking the metro, though, my life became considerably more...interesting.  Of the multitude of incidents I could share, the two that stick out are as follows:

1.) The infamous chicken incident.  Coming home from work one day, I was sitting on the train in the station, waiting to go, with a handful of other people.  Just as the train was about to leave, a man boarded the train.  "What the fuck is your problem?" he asked of me and the woman across from me.  "Fucking bitches."  I looked out the window at the wall, and the man found a seat several rows in front of me, facing me. 

"For your safety and comfort," stated the recording on the train, "your safety is being monitored.  Please be mindful of MTA's prohibited acts.  Individuals eating, drinking, or playing electronic devices without headphones are subject to arrest."

I wondered, not for  the first time, whether the train was actually monitored as the doors closed and we began to move.  As I continued watching, the man pulled out a box of fried chicken from the Popeye's on the corner and proceeded to pull out a piece of fried chicken in each hand.  The train swerved slightly and he leaned, dramatically, nearly falling over as whatever drug he had recently ingested began to take a stronger hold.  He dropped the chicken from one hand and picked another piece out of the box, taking a bite, and then dropping that piece, too.  He then began searching, blindly, on the floor for the chicken, unable to see it right next to his foot.  The train leaned again and he fell heavily onto one side, saw the chicken on the floor, picked it up, and resumed eating.  Humming, grunting, and making loud, exaggerated chewing noises, I feel comfortable speaking for everyone when I say we were all sufficiently grossed out, and some of us were pretty freaked out.

Two women, one with a baby, got on the train at the next stop and, unknowingly, sat down in front of Chicken Man.  Having sufficiently finished one piece of dropped, picked up, gnawed on, and dropped again chicken, he did the only natural thing one would do when you are holding a chicken bone on the metro.  He put it on the back of the seat in front of him.  The entire train seemed to collectively hold its breath as the mother in front of him put the baby up on her shoulder.  And the baby, being a baby, did the only natural thing a baby would do when it sees a chicken bone right behind its mother's shoulder within reach.  I'll leave what happened next to your imagination.  I mean, you could be reading this while you're eating dinner, right? 

Needless to say, the mother caught on and took care of baby, glared at the man behind her, and continued her conversation with her friend.  The man, almost completely gone, but still aware enough to know that the Mama in front of him was pissed off, did the next, completely logical reaction.  He took another chicken bone in his right hand, reached forward with his left, grabbed the back of Mama's shirt, and dropped the chicken bone straight down the back of her shirt.  And with that, he fell over completely, dropped the box of chicken on the floor, and did not sit back up. 

Mama, of course, screamed, jumped up, and did the "get this chicken bone out of the back of my shirt" dance.  If you've never seen it, you'll know it as soon as you do.  It's pretty unmistakable. 

2.) While going to work, a man with a weed whacker got on the train.  This wasn't just any weed whacker.  This was a BIG weed whacker.  He got on the train, just like the woman with her groceries, the man with his briefcase, and the kid with the backpack and sat down. 

The train on this particular morning was crowded and, a second later, someone in an MTA uniform popped her head in.  "Uh uh," she said, motioning to him.  "You can't get on here with that."

"Then how the hell am I supposed to get to work?" he exploded.  "I've gotta get to work and you can't stop me."

She motioned again.  "Off.  That has gasoline in it.  Can't be on here.  Figure it out."

The man exploded again, but got off the train and walked over to the trashcan, unscrewing the gas tank.  He began dumping the gasoline into the trashcan and, as soon as Uniform Lady looked at him, walked over to the track on the opposite side and acted like he was going to pour gasoline on the other track.  She ignored him and continued walking.  He closed the gas tank and got back on the train.  I rode to work with a pissed off man wielding a weed whacker muttering his discontent under his breath sitting in front of me.  Obviously, he was not some infamous Weed Whacker Train Killer I had not yet heard of...but in the moment, I wasn't so sure.

"For your safety and comfort," came the announcement, "this vehicle is being monitored..."

At any rate, after a few of these incidents, plus a few too many sketchy guys trying bad pick up lines and refusing to leave me alone, I decided I was done.  I finished out the month on my pass and decided to start driving to work.  Week 1, Day 1, I see a pedestrian get hit by a car 3 cars in front of me.  A couple nurses jumped out to help and the police arrived shortly after.  I don't know what happened with that.

Week 1, Day 3: I drive into The Building I Park At and park.  So far so good!  I go down and wait for the shuttle to take me to The Building I Work At. (These shuttles are private shuttles just for my organization for the safety and comfort of people--particularly interns--to get to and from the myriad of locations).  It comes right on time and I get in.  It had been a particularly stressful week at work, and it was my colleague's birthday, so I had made cupcakes and was trying to balance my purse, the cupcakes, my jacket, and climbing into and out of the shuttle, so I sat in front.   I was the only one there, aside from PK, the driver.  "This is easy," I think.  "This is totally going to work out.  No chicken incidents, no weed whackers, no bad pick up lines...I got this!"

PK**, the shuttle driver gets in.  "How you doin'?" he asks.  As an aside, there were issues with PK I had heard about from other interns.  PK asking personal questions, asking for money, asking where they lived, what types of cars they drove, if they were married...these things had been reported to our training director about a week before.

"I'm good, PK.  How are you?"  I know PK from riding the shuttle between buildings when I have to go other places for meetings.

"I'm jus' fine.  Those look good," he says, eyeing my cupcakes.

"Want one?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, enthusiastically.  I laugh and give him a cupcake, which he eats half of before we start driving.  "That's real good," he tells me.  "If this work thing don't work out for you, you start a cupcake store and let me know where it at, mmkay?"

"Sounds like a plan," I say.  We ride in silence for a few moments as we start driving through downtown.  The streets we take, I have to say, are sketchy.  Adult movie theaters, sex shops, unlabeled buildings with people always hanging out outside of them, and rehab buildings make up the entire street, with a few churches and boarded up buildings thrown in in-between. 

"I don' usually see you in the morning," PK says. 

"No," I say.  "I used to take the metro, but I'll be driving to work from here on out, so you'll be seeing me more regularly."

"Why you stop takin' the metro?" he asked.

"Well," I said, "honestly, it was just kind of...sketchy.  I just didn't feel very safe."

"What do you mean, sketchy?" he asked.

"You know...just kind of...sketchy.  It made me uncomfortable.  I never felt very safe."
"I feel you," he said.  "That's why I always carry a blade on me."  I didn't say anything for a moment.

"Oh," I said.  "Huh."  We stopped at the stoplight across from the XXX Movie Theater. 

"Yeah," he said.  "Don't tell nobody, because I know it's against The Organization's policy, but I gotta have my blade.  See?"  He lifts up his shirt to show me what seemed like a sword size switchblade on his belt/in his pocket."

I say nothing, but my mind starts racing: "PK has creeped out other female interns, and now I am sitting alone in a van in a bad section of the city with PK with a freaking huge knife he won't stop talking about.  What the hell am I going to do?"

So I did the only thing I could think to do.  I sat in the van, listened to him talking about his knife, and I waited.  I arrived safely at my building and went inside.  As I walked into the office, I (for reasons still unknown to me), decided it was no big deal and would not tell my colleagues about the knife, figuring I was just over-reacting.  So, I walked in, and resorted to one of my natural anxiety responses.  I laughed.  "Hey guys," I giggled.  They looked up at me, immediately aware something was off.  "I brought cupcakes!"  I laughed some more.  I turned on my computer and waited for it to boot up.  I laughed again.

"How was the trip in?" asked Matt*, obviously aware that something was weird.  Sarah* and Amanda* turned around.

"It was fine," I lied.  "Just...it was weird."  They looked at me, expectantly.  They were used to weird transportation stories, looked forward to them, even, as their morning entertainment.  "I don't think it's a big deal, but..." I told them the story, and they freaked out.  I called our training director, who also freaked out.  Long story short, I got PK fired that day (and banned from The Organization's property) and then had a couple weeks of escorts to and from my car, two shuttle drivers (for safety and security purposes), and increased security at the front of every building.  HR and facilities had to be aware of my schedule to increase security during the times I was in transit as they were worried PK would link his firing to me and somehow target me for being fired.  Kinda made me wish I hadn't given the guy a cupcake.

A few weeks after things had blown over, I got a call from my training director.  "You're not going anywhere anytime soon, are you?" she asked.  Apparently, PK was spotted hanging out across from The Organization's property, they were increasing security, were going to find out why he was there, and I was to remain in the building for the next several hours.  This has completely blown over, I no longer need to feel like I am surrounded by the secret service, and there have not been any PK sightings. 

Starting January 1, I switched buildings, so I need to park in a new place, with a new shuttle, and a new route.  However, there were issues getting my parking pass, so the past two weeks, I've been taking the metro.  In the past two weeks, I saw a drug deal go down, saw a man get chased off the train by men who were trying to get money from him, and sat for nearly 45 minutes waiting underground because there was a man in a wheelchair stuck under the metro.  Nobody knows how he got there.

Starting on Tuesday, I start the new parking situation adventure.  Needless to say, I can't wait*** to see what...adventures are ahead as I take advantage of these modes of transportation in place for my safety and comfort. 

*This may or may not be an exaggeration. 

**Names have been changed.

***This may or may not be sarcasm.

Reflections: Year of the Trees

My friend and fellow blogger, the fantastic Reticula who, unlike me, is a real blogger who posts and everything, posted this to mark the beginning of the year.  Or maybe, to mark the end of the old year.  You'd have to ask her which way she sees it.  Either way, as she often does, she served as inspiration for me to write my own post.  She said I could write my own, should even, and I'm giving her credit, so I'm not in fact stealing her idea because I'm short on my own (even though I happen to be just that).  It also just happens to be an awesome post, so you should go and read it and all of the fantasticness she writes.

I did not make "resolutions" last year because, in all honesty, I didn't really want to mark the beginning of a new year.  Hence the reason that last year is the only year I didn't write a letter.  (Admittedly, I haven't written that damn letter yet this year either.  But I will.  I will, I tell you!)

When I read Reticula's list, my first thought after "WOW, what a year!" was "I don't think I did anything this year."  I thought about it for a little bit and confirmed my original thought.  Nope.  Nothing interesting.  Nothing worth writing about.  2011 was, admittedly, not the best year ever.  Not the worst, but definitely not the best.  And that's okay.  I still made it to 2012 and, best of all, we are a whole 2 days in and the Mayan prophecy has not yet been fulfilled.  The end of the world would definitely put a damper on the year, wouldn't it?

Anyway, I'm stalling.  You don't REALLY want to hear about my year, right?  You do?  I set all this up and now you're curious, huh?  Damn.  This might be a long post.  You don't have to read the whole thing.  I know I've said this before, but I am just reminded as I sit to write this that, while I am only hitting the big events of the year -- and there have been a few, in spite of my initial impressions -- it is sometimes the small things we don't write about that mean more.  Sometimes, when we look back on our lives or our year or our day, we see the forest and we think "wow, that was a really dense forest" and we are proud of having made it through that time.  We can remember the one time we ran into the coyote and had to run for our lives, or the time we tripped over that root in the particularly rough patch and broke an ankle, or the time we thought we were about to be trampled by the herd of deer, and it turned out they weren't running in our direction at all.  We can also remember the meadow clearings we found, the cool streams, the fellow travelers, and the way the sun felt on your forehead as it blessed you in the early morning hours. 

As I think back on my year, though, I'm not yet able to see the forest.  I still see every fucking tree I passed, every root I tripped over, and every thorn that caught my skin.  I was not trampled by deer, I was not eaten by a coyote, and no ankles were broken.  There were rainbows, and there was sun.  There were cool streams and fellow travelers.  There was dew on the grass in the morning.  In telling the stories that make up the story of my year, it does not seem extraordinary.  From a distance as an outsider, I am sure it is a forest that looks like any other forest.  I am certain it is just as dense and wild and beautiful and frightening as yours.  One day, I am sure it will look like a forest I have exited, even as I am about to enter another.  Right now, I am still in the thicket, and I still remember each of those damn trees. 

Does this metaphor even make sense? 

What I mean to say is this: I cannot really give you a tour of my forest.  I can tell you about the sunlight, and about the nose and tail and ears of the certain animals I saw.  I can paint you pictures of the rain and the meadow and the summer flowers, but I can't bring you in and have you feel what it's like to walk amongst all those damn trees, and that is what makes up the journey.  One day, maybe I'll look back and remember the highlights: the sunlight, the thunderstorms, the snakes, and the flowers.  Or maybe I will always look back on these past 2 years as the year of the trees.  If that is the case, then I am also sure that, one day, I will also be okay with that.

So anyway, here are some of the patches of sunlight, the rainbows, and the flowers from my year.  I may throw in a thunderstorm or two, and maybe even a snake, but probably not.  There is no reason for me to remember those storms and dangers.  They are in the past.  (This is in random order, not chronological, and not in order of importance.  There is no good way to organize this list). 

I was totally almost to this point
with my dissertation.  The end was
a little hairy.

1.) I finished my 4th year of grad school.  Hallelujah.  Enough said.

2.) I stressed over my dissertation.  I set a date for my dissertation defense.  I finished my dissertation.  I tweaked my dissertation.  I rewrote half my dissertation.  I sent it to my advisor, who approved it, and to my committee, who also approved it.  I made my presentation for my dissertation.  A week before the dissertation defense, my committee member informed me she couldn't be there.  I had a nervous breakdown  rescheduled my defense.  A month later, I defended my dissertation.  I actually remember very little about the defense.  They asked me questions.  I answered them.  "Reconstructing Autism: A phenomenological study of the relationship between parents and their children diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder" is soon to be published in the no-mans land where all happily passed dissertations end their merry little lives.  Hallelujah.

I totally considered doing this for my
defense.  I didn't.  But I considered it.

3.) In late 2010, I applied to 19 internship sites.  Out of all of these sites, I got 1 interview in early January 2011.  I felt sure I wasn't going to get in.  The 1 interview was at the most competitive site I applied to, and at the site my training director told me I wouldn't get in.  It was "out of my league."  I am now 6 months finished with my internship at said site.  Better yet, I'm pretty sure they'll take me for a post-doc if I apply.  Apparently, it just takes one interview.  Nobody tells me I can't do something.  So there.

4.) I moved across the country for the second time in my life.  Actually, this was the 4th time I've moved in 5 years.  This move was a difficult one for me.  I miss my Ohio friends and the amazing community I had there.  I have yet to find that community here.  I will...but I haven't yet.  I don't like where I'm living and haven't gotten up the energy to do anything about that yet, but I'm going to work that out really soon.  Believe me.  I will.

5.)  I've worked for 6 months at a super intense site.  I managed a caseload of over 100 kids.  I heard stories that would break anyone's heart.  I have been frustrated and angry and sad and proud and overjoyed, and at the end of those 6 months, I am exhausted and feel blessed to call this my "work."  It is not easy, and there are days when it makes me question everything I know about humanity, but it is deeply fulfilling, painful, beautiful, difficult work. 

6.) I took a trip to a strange city, including flying on an airplane and navigating public transportation, by myself.  Don't laugh.  For me, this was a big deal.  I've rarely felt so confident and independent.

7.) Winter quarter 2010, I taught my first undergrad class (abnormal psychology) and discovered I really like teaching.  I also discovered the joys of reading student papers and giving grades.  I developed a new appreciation for teachers.  Through the experience of reading student papers, I learned interesting phrases such as "chugg the watt."  As in something like, "individuals with Schizophrenia often experience hallucinations and chugg the watt."  Confused?  Go hug a teacher.  They deserve it.

8.) I read poetry that I had written out loud in front of people--lots of people--and it was amazing.  It's addicting, almost, and I can't wait for the opportunity to do it again.  I read in front of one person, two people, four people...a whole congregation of people.  It's one of the most exhilarating highs I've experienced.

9.) I participated in several events speaking out against sexual violence.  This was, in a word, terrifying.  This is not something I told anyone, other than the people who would be there, that I was doing.  Nobody--except for those who were there--knows that I did it.  But I did, and I firmly believe that I am a better person for it.   It was one of those experiences that is indescribable.  Powerful, terrifying, knock the breath out of you sort of experience.  There are so many people I hold in my heart from these events--for so many reasons.

10.) I was involved with the most amazing group of youth at church in Ohio and had the opportunity to learn with them and from them.  I watched them grow and change and care about one another and their world.  They allowed me to become part of their lives, and they and the rest of the amazing community at church gave me a gift I still don't know how to ever thank them for.  So many people there--kids and adults alike--hold such a big piece of my heart.  They leave me with so much to be grateful for.

11.)  Most importantly, I think this year was a process of opening my heart.  The business of opening your heart--to life, to love, to others, and to yourself--is hard and painful work.  It is healing work.  It is important work.  It is work I imagine I will spend the rest of my life doing.  I can't imagine doing anything else.

 

Peace. <3

Traditions

I stopped believing in Santa when I was 9 years old, but I didn't tell my parents I didn't believe for another 2 years.  At that point, I'm pretty sure my mother thought I was never going to stop believing in Santa but, the truth was, I knew I had to pretend anyway for my younger sisters, and I didn't want to disappoint my parents or have them think I was less excited about the holiday.  My mom sat me down at some point to have the "there is no Santa" conversation, at which point, I finished her sentence and told her I hadn't believed in Santa "for YEARS."  It was a short conversation.  I even told her that at Christmas I could pretend pretty well, but damn if I didn't feel like a fool for pretending to believe some big bunny hid eggs in my front yard a couple months later. 

While I officially stopped believing when I was 9, I'm pretty sure I never really bought the whole Santa thing.  I know the year I stopped believing in Santa because, like most of the major events of my life, I have it documented in one of the bagillion journals I have kept over the years.  When I was 9, I started a "tradition" of my own, that has come to mean a great deal to me over the years.  Sometime between Christmas eve and New Years day, I started writing a letter to myself.  As I continued this ritual for years and years, part of the tradition became reading my old letters.  At 12, and 16, and 21, it was strangely comforting to have this tradition that was all my own, away from the hustle and confusion and chaos that seemed to be associated with the holidays.  Until now, this tradition of mine has always been "secret."  I never wanted anyone to know what I was doing, why I did it, or how much it meant to me.  I didn't want to answer any questions about why it was important, or what I wrote in these letters.  In a family that was often into, on top of, underneath, and in between everyone else's business, having this one private tradition was essential.

As a child being raised with parents of different religions, celebrating Christmas, Chanukah, and sometimes the solstice too, I was not always sure what this time of year meant.  To be perfectly honest, I am still trying to determine what means the most to me, how I want to celebrate it, and how I want to conceptualize it in my mind so that the traditions feel meaningful and the holiday spiritually fulfilling.  I haven't gotten there yet.  My tradition, though--my secret tradition--is special.  It gives me the permission to take the time and space to reflect on the year.  To talk to myself and take stock of what is going on with me, what's good, what's bad, what's changed, and what needs changing.  As I read some of my letters, I laugh remembering the craziness of that year, or laugh at how I thought I would never forget it, and I can now barely remember what I thought was so important.  Some of the letters, though, make me sad.  There were some rough years in there, and I wish someone had told me things would be okay.  I wish someone had told me somewhere along the line that I was a pretty cool kid.  I don't think I would have listened or been able to hear it, but I wish I could have told me that I was definitely pretty okay.

I haven't gone back and checked, but I'm pretty sure that I have a letter written every year from the time I was 9 until I was 25.  Last year, though, I didn't write a letter.  I wanted to write a letter.  I tried to write a letter.  I'm pretty sure I even started a letter.  But I didn't write one.  I even remember starting a post for this very blog about the fact that I was not writing a letter, and trying to justify not writing one.  I told myself that traditions change, and that this is a good thing.  I was lying to myself, though, and I knew it, so I didn't write the blog post OR the letter.  Halfway through January, I was still thinking about the damn letter, feeling like it should be written.  At that point, I told myself the chance was already past, and I didn't really want to write the letter anyway, and soon, I forgot about it.  (I swear, I am not normally this rigid about things).  I guess 2010 was just a rough year, and one that I was not ready to think about or remember. 

When I was very young (and in some of my older letters, too), I started out by writing a bulleted list of "who I am."  This ranged from lists of adjectives to descriptions of how I wore my hair to long lists of what types of music I liked and my favorite books.  Looking back at some of those letters, you would think I was putting them into a time capsule, or explaining myself to an alien who knows nothing about this culture, much less me.  There was a time when I could write long lists of who I am that was punctuated by exclamation points, smiley faces, stars, hearts, and positivity.  These lists gradually faded away and have become increasingly difficult to write.  Last year, even the act of writing the letter was an act of self-care and, potentially, gentleness, that I was unable and unwilling to venture into.  That I was unwilling to give myself.  Perhaps I was unsure of who I was.  Maybe I still am.

This year, though, I am going to write a letter.  I haven't written it yet.  I'm not going to post it here when I do write it, because this tradition is secret, remember, and it is just for me.  This tradition is something that, in my core, is important to me.  It is something I want to continue to do--for me.  Perhaps you could even say this tradition I developed is part of who I am.

Do you have a personal holiday tradition that is meaningful for you?  Have you/do you write yourself letters?  Would you consider writing down who you are--now?  Be gentle with yourself as you write.  Remember that the events and memories you share with your paper are precious, and that every part of you is deserving of love and gentleness because those memories make up the person you are today.  I will try to remember this as I write, too. 

The Makings of a Writer

Not me, but I was totally this cute



I have been a writer for as long as I can remember.  I think one of the earliest pieces of writing I have is from when I was in 1st grade.  I wrote my parents a letter that states: "Dear, Famile. (insert several stars and hearts here).  I am goeing awoy becuse (sister) has ben agervading my incibes incides out.  Love, (Autodidactpoet).  (Translation: Dear Family, I am going away because (sister) has been aggravating my insides out). 

Another prime example of my early writing comes from a journal when I was in 2nd grade.  It reads like this: "Thesmorning whan The bus came my sister (name) kisted me so hard and so closeto my nose that my nose bone started to hert."  There's a picture of us at the bus stop with me with a "herting nose bone."    What about that doesn't scream of greatness?

In 1996, however, my writing exploded and my talent soared to heights I have yet to recreate, and it was all due to one character.  I have no idea where this character came from, but my 11 year old mind created this character, who will one day be loved by children everywhere: Sam Funny.  Sam Funny is a 5 year old hippo and, after the success of "Sam's Hanukkah" (which won the 11-15 year old fiction prize in the county's writing competition, thank you*), I wrote "Sam's Ballet Class," "Sam Becomes Vegetarian," "Sam Goes to the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship," and "Sam Becomes Homeschooled."  Of course, I was also vegetarian, homeschooled, and Unitarian Universalist, celebrated Hanukkah with my dad's family, and was a dancer.  I like to think of Sam's Ballet Class as the first example of a time I tackled writing about gender politics, as Sam was a boy who was made fun of for taking ballet (as was one of my best friends at the time). 

Here today, in its original form, complete and unabridged,  for the first time since 1996, I am going to share the story of "Sam's Hanukkah," (otherwise known as "The Story That Inspired It All").

Sam was going to Hanukkah dinner.  This year, it fell on the 13th of December, but that was the day Sam's playgroup went to the swamp.  So Sam's mother tried to pick him up early, but he didn't seem to want to leave.  Sam's sister, Maxine, carried him to the car in her best dress.  "To think that I put on all that perfume just to get to smell like a swamp!" said Maxine disgustedly.

"I always wanted to smell like this," said Sam.

When they reached their yellow house on Neighborly Lane, they saw their neighbor, Mr. Grump.  He took one look at the muddy family and turned away. 

"I guess Mr. Grump isn't being very neighborly today," sighed Maxine.

"No wonder!" said their father who had been waiting for them.

"DADDY!" cried Sam as the muddy figure ran and hugged his clean father.  There was an uneasy silence until his father said, " I guess I'll go change."

Not Sam.  He's definitely cuter.

Then came the trouble of getting Sam in his suit and tie.  The trouble was his mother practically had to shove him into it.  Sam howled, "why can't I wear my Bahama shorts and top!?!"

"Because it's the...whew, you really are getting big, Sam...middle of December...and...and..."

"It just isn't appropriate," said Maxine walking in.

"Exactly!" said his mother.

When the whole family was dressed and on their way, Sam's mother said, "now remember Sam, BE POLITE."

"And eat your kugel even if it is hard," added his father.

"And be kind to Aunt Ern," said Maxine as they drove up the drive to Aunt Ern's cottage.

They all piled out of the car and walked up to the door.  Mom rang the bell and they heard a thousand voices saying, "I'll get it!"

"Let Johnny get it," said a voice.  The door flew open and so did Sam's mouth because there stood his cousin in his Bahama shorts and top.  Sam's family swallowed hard.

"Look at Sam!" exclaimed Uncle Bert.

"Isn't he cunning?" said Aunt May.

"He's really adorable," said Aunt Ern.  Sam hid behind his mother.

"Has the cat got your tongue?" asked Uncle Max.  Sam peeked out and stuck out his tongue.

"Uhhhhh!" his aunts gasped.

"He's really literal about things," said Sam's mother with a fake laugh. 

"Dinner's read," said Aunt Ern in a flat tone.  Everyone ate in silence until Aunt Ern asked, " well, is the food good?"

"The kugel's hard," said Aunt May.

"I think it's wonderful!" said Sam.

"Bless his little heart," Aunt Ern said sweetly.

"I think the bagels are too dry.  I guess I'll have to talk to the baker," said Aunt Ern.

"Not when you put cream cheese on them!" said Sam, happy to be getting on his aunt's good side again.  Somehow, everyone found something to complain about, but Sam liked everything.

After dinner, Uncle Bert said, "well, well, is it time to say the blessing over the Hanukkah candles?  Jonny, will you say it this year?"

"Um...ahh...sure, I guess so."

Believe it or not, Google Images
did not have a picture of a hippo
lighting a menorah.



"Good."

"Um, what is the blessing?"

"All right, I guess Johnny won't say it this year.  Veronica?  Naomi?  Kristen?"  They all looked at the ceiling.

"I'll say the blessing, Uncle Bert!" cried Sam.  Uncle Bert looked touched.

"Why yes, say it Sam."

"Adorable, just adorable," sighed his aunts.

"Go ahead, Sam," said his father.  The lights dimmed as Sam sang, "Baruch ata adonai, eloheynu melach ha-olam, asher kid-shanu b'mitzvotav, vitzivanu, l'hadlik ner, shel Hanukkah."

Everyone clapped and cheered, "bravo Sam, bravo!"  As they turned up the lights, they saw Sam fast asleep on the chair. 

"Bless his little heart," Aunt Ern said.

"Well, we really have to go.  Thank you for everything, it was lovely," said Sam's mother.

"Oh, don't mention it," they said.

"Well goodbye, goodbye!"

As the family piled into the car, Sam popped his eyes open and said, "did you see Johnny in his Bahama shorts and top?  That sure wasn't appropriate, was it?"

"Go to bed you stinker," said Maxine.

"I can't wait till next Hanukkah," sighed Sam as he fell asleep.

*I think I was also the ONLY one who entered the fiction writing competition in the 11-15 year old age group, but that's hardly my point.

On Being The Ugly Friend, or, the one in which I remember how gender stereotypes are harmful

I'll be the first person to admit that I am not like my peers.  I never have been.  I never will be.  The majority of the time--99% of the time, even--I am quite alright with that.  I can fit in enough to...well...fit in enough, but I am definitely different.  Most of the time, actually, I don't even think about it anymore because I hang with people on the same wavelength as me.  My friends are people who get it, and get me, and are people I feel good around.  I guess that's why we're friends.

This weekend, though, I had a holiday party thing I had to go to for work, and I stayed with some of my colleagues from work--friends from work--who invited me to stay and go to a Christmas festival near their apartment the following day.  What fun!  I love working with these folks.  They make great colleagues, we laugh, we help each other out, we support one another, and we serve as sounding boards and idea generators for one another.  I could not ask for better people to work with.

So I went, I hung out, we had fun, we laughed a lot, and I came home.  Driving home yesterday afternoon, though, I had this distinct sinking feeling in my stomach.  It had been coming for a while and had been building throughout the afternoon.  I ignored it, because I knew I had fun, I knew spending the weekend with them was better than spending the weekend at home in SmallTownUSA by myself, and I knew my friends had fun as well.  What's the problem?

I'm not good at ignoring things for long, though.  My mind likes me to think things to death, and if I attempt to avoid that, it only serves to make it worse.  So I started thinking.

My friends, Amanda*, Sarah*, and Matt*, were the primary cool kids I hung out with this weekend.  Other people were there at various points, but Amanda, Sarah, Matt and I were the fearless four who went adventuring.  Amanda and Sarah are, in a word, gorgeous.  They both in different ways exemplify our culture's ideas of beauty.  Although we were just going to a street festival in the cold where people drank beer and bought gingerbread cookies,  Amanda spent at least half an hour doing her make-up before we left.   She straightened her hair.  She tried on three different outfits before settling on the skinny jeans, tall boots, sweater with a cowel neck and a belt that emphasized her skinny waist, and I swear to all that is holy, her purse matched her boots.  When we met up with Sarah, she was also in the skinny jeans, with boots, a cute holiday-ish shirt, and an adorable little peacoat.  Every hair was in place, her eyelashes were aligned, and she had a cute little purse that Amanda flipped over.  Their jewelry all matched and I'd bet money that their underwear matched their bras.  And Matt?  He wore a red shirt with a black tie and a pullover sweater so he looked like he stepped out of an L.L.Bean catalog.  I was, without a doubt, the ugly friend.  If I'm honest with you--and I do believe in honesty--I spent much of my time walking around focused on the fact that I was the bruised or misshapen banana in this bunch, and praying to the Goddess-of-Women-Who-Don't-Fit-In that nobody had a camera in their adorable, shoe-matching bag.

To be fair, I was at a distinct disadvantage because I had only what I had packed, did not have access to my full wardrobe or make-up or accessories, and...let's get real.  Even if I had, I wouldn't have looked like that because that's not how I dress.  My hair is always in some sort of disarray, my body is far from perfect, my accessories never match, and I don't own any matching bra and underwear sets.  Sure I'll wear some mascara, but that's typically the extent of the makeup, and my eyes are terrible and have been rejecting of any contact I have tried in the past 5 years, so I seem to be stuck with glasses until I can afford Lasik.  To make me feel even better, Amanda and Sarah commented routinely on their appearance, asked one another for opinions, and commented on how much they had eaten, or hadn't eaten, and which clothes were going to fit or not fit after the upcoming holiday season.  When Sarah posed questions about what to wear to an upcoming winter wedding, and which purse would match her dress, Amanda was able to think it through and come up with an answer.  Me?  I just agreed with whatever was said as I, honestly, have no opinion or experience to offer on whether a clutch with feathers or a clutch with sequins would be better with a black strapless dress with gold sequins and a little poof in the skirt at a winter wedding.  (The answer, for anyone curious, was feathers).

So we're walking down the street and we started going into stores along the very expensive stretch of road we walked along.  There were jewelry stores, purse stores, shoe stores, and expensive cupcake stores.  There were random expensive clothing stores, insanely expensive furniture stores, and another jewelry store.  We walked through the festival, sometimes going into stores to warm-up, and it was in these stores that my sinking stomach feeling originated.   See, when women shop together, I've found, we all comment on what we see and what we love and what we don't like and what we can't imagine anyone ever buying.  This proves difficult, however, when the women you are with act like they would buy out the store in a heartbeat and, had someone given you a thousand dollars upon entering the store and told you to buy whatever you like, you would have left empty-handed.  There is something in me that just can't justify ever spending that much money on a purse.  And the shoes?  I would either break my leg, wobble like an elephant on stilts, or never get my foot in the damn things to begin with. 

But you know, even being the ugly friend, even having nothing to say about the $500 purses, and even being the only one who didn't try on a pair of $185 heels didn't bug me as much as this: the signs/mugs/plaques.  You know what I'm talking about?  They have signs like these in all cute little shops.  They can say anything, but these signs held primarily quotes about lipstick and shoes and what it "means" to be a woman.  What women should be like.  The way, supposedly, that women are.  "A girl should be two things: fabulous and classy," said one, with pictures of high heels and lipstick around it.  "Shoes are the foundation of all fashion," said another.  My friend pointed to it, and nodded knowingly.  "That is so true," she said.  I nodded.  "Yup," I said.  One can only crack so many jokes to avoid the awkwardness, and one can only disagree so many times.  "Just around the corner in every woman's mind - is a lovely dress, a wonderful suit, or entire costume which will make an enchanting new creature of her."  "A dress makes no sense unless it inspires men to want to take it off you."  The quotes were endless.  My friends agreed, "yes, that's TOTALLY true."  I laughed with them.  As The Ugly Friend, it seemed only appropriate: one can't be The Ugly Friend and also disagree about things every woman wants!  That would indicate being perhaps a hopeless cause, or worse. 

At one point, I was desperate for some sort of validation.  As Matt and I stood waiting for Sarah and Amanda, I pointed to a sign that said something to the effect of "All a woman needs is a good pair of heels and some great lipstick."  I nudged him and motioned towards the sign: "I've gotta tell you," I said, "I just don't buy it."  I motioned in the direction of the $500 purses.  "And that?  I just can't understand."

"Oh," said Matt.  "Huh."

"Yeah," I said.  "Just not how I was raised, I guess."

"Hmm," he said.  "Every woman I've ever known went crazy for this stuff."

And just like that, the final bottoming out of my stomach happened.  Perhaps, because I was different, because I don't wear skinny jeans and match my earrings to my purse and my purse to my shoes, perhaps I am less of a woman.  That feeling--that feeling of being less of a woman, of not quite meeting the criteria I am supposed to fulfill to keep that title--is what stuck with me in the car ride on the way home.  I am different, and somehow less than, and not what I am supposed to be.

It's not anything my friends said or did.  If anything, it's my own insecurity playing out and has nothing to do with them, but it's also the effect of a society that has taught men and women alike that, just as "all men" are macho and strong and manly and brave, women are interested in shoes, moody, cry at the drop of a hat, are sweet, and match their lipstick with their purse.  When people--such as myself--don't fill that stereotype, and are among people who either fill that stereotype because that is genuinely who they are or because they drank the Kool-Aid, the only logical conclusion that can come up in the moment, sometimes, is that they are less than what is expected.  Are there women out there who love fashion and shoes and lipstick?  Absolutely.  Is there anything wrong with that?  Of course not.  Is this trend representative of all women?  No.

I don't generally mind marching to the beat of a different drummer.  Sometimes, though I wish the drummer would just, at the very least, be in tune with the music of the others around me. 

*All names have been changed.