Friends long absent are coming back to you
The Author, 2005

“What are you going to be when you get big?” her father asked.

Amanda, in an orange sunsuit, had tired of chasing moths and was studying the peculiar afternoon shadow projected across the countryside by Bow Wow Mountain. “There is no name for what I’m going to be when I get big,” she answered.

-From Another Roadside Attraction by Tom Robbins

My friends are some of the most amazing people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. So much more than a familiar and comfortable support system, those who I have the privilege to call my friends inspire me, relax me, and challenge me. They are men and women who refuse to submit to a prescribed life. They are inventive, they are revolutionary, and they are constantly evolving. While all of my friends have chosen different ways to revel in the wonder of life, we all value living a thoughtful life above all else. To us, living thoughtfully trumps everything; if it is for the right reasons, we’ll happily take the two birds in the bush over one in the hand. While we all sometimes flounder in one way or another, it seems that this core value—rare and true—keeps us bound together. It is quite beautiful, really.

This weekend Shaun-san and I rented a cabin in Saugatuck, Michigan with a group that we have been friends with since high school. We started as a motley crew notorious for loitering about the high school drama club and we have grown into a budding collective of writers, artists, teachers, and musicians. I am so proud of my friends. I am proud that they are brave enough to do what they want. It takes balls to even contemplate what one wants from life, let alone to pursue it.

Two of our friends in this group are ditching the midwest to live in L.A. and Baltimore. They are pursuing their artistic endeavors, throwing caution to the wind and believing in their abilities and strength enough to know that they will not only survive, but they will flourish. It’s nice to see such independence and strength in a person. My partner and I, plus three other amazing pals from Michigan, celebrated our last hurrah with these two creative masterminds by racing up impossibly huge sand dunes and rolling down them to charge into the cool and fishy waters of Lake Michigan. We played Frisbee, volleyball, horse, and monkey in the middle. We went hiking, roasted hot dogs and marshmallows over a raging campfire, made and destroyed a piñata shaped as a deranged saber toothed fish, and talked about life while swimming across the small bay that our cottage was cuddled up next to.

Since we already live apart from many of our long time friends, today’s parting was no more bittersweet than usual. In fact, it was actually a bit exciting, as we started planning our New Years Eve trip to California. Redwood forest—here we come!

Now back in Chicago, my skin is dark and clear and my mind is light and happy. Stress? Never heard of it. I am refreshed and grateful. I am ready for a new day.

Tonight Shaun and I ate Thai food for dinner, as the refrigerator is barren, save for some crusty milk, an eternal bottle of vodka (we aren’t really liquor drinkers, but it was a gift), and some condiments (mincemeat and Dijon mustard, anyone?). When we received the fortune cookies with our bill, my face burst into a smile. My fortune read, “Friends long absent are coming back to you.” I couldn’t have asked for a better one.
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For those interested in spending a chilled out happy weekend in a lazy beach town on the west side of the great lake state, I wholeheartedly recommend that you book your accommodations at Goshorn Lake Resort (www.glresort.com). It’s not a fancy-smancy resort—it’s cabins, but they are an incredible value (two nights in a cabin that slept seven cost us only $240!!!). There is a private beach, basketball, volleyball, canoes, fishing boats, a pool (the beach is gorgeous, so I’m not sure why they bothered, but oh well…), a fire pit, and the friendliest proprietors you will ever meet. It is situated only 5 minutes from downtown (if you are into ignoring the gorgeous natural environment in favor of buying loads of hideous crap), as well as the famous Oval Beach and Mt. Baldy. Saugatuck is an incredibly gay friendly little town as well, so come one, come all! There also seem to be a lot of people with dogs in tow, so really—two legs or four, everyone is invited.

What great getaways do you recommend?

I wrote a sassy little rant last Thursday while riding the 6:00pm train out of Chicago to see our family in Michigan. Shaun and I were happily “un-plugged” that weekend, so my little ponderings sat forgotten on our laptop until this afternoon, when I remembered that I wrote them. So, help soothe the little essay’s loneliness–give it a skim at the very least. ::smile::

As always, thank you for your readership!

Plastic Buyers
© The Author, June 9th 2005

I am riding the Amtrak train home to Michigan, wishing I could stop gawking at the smooth profile of a peach cheeked, cheese curd nibbling Amish woman who sits in the seat kitty-corner from me. I can’t get over how precious her skin looks; it is flawless, clear, and if it weren’t for her starched white bonnet and her blue tank of a dress, you’d think she walked straight out of a Dove commercial. I wonder if my skin would look less like the layer of oil that forms a gooey slick atop natural peanut butter, and more like soft and sweet powdered sugar if I too rendered lard and lye and carved out a shapely little bit to use as soap. As it stands, I don’t even know which animal lard officially comes from (although all us mammals are pretty lard-assed), so I’m guessing I’ll just have to keep forking over my hard earned cash to Proactiv Solutions in a desperate attempt to look as fresh as Ms. Amish does. However unlikely my ability to thrive while living primitively may be, I wonder if the products and technology that I’ve been told are essential to my survival are quietly ruining me.

While I am by no means a high maintenance gal, I still feel stifled by the pressure to buy. This is not a matter of excess–I loathe shopping anywhere but the Farmer’s Market and my idea of a fashion find is a cool Halloween costume–but it is still a stress to afford all the things that American culture tells me that I need. This is especially true with both Shaun and I trying to live off the (p)hat paychecks cut by our not-for-profit places of employment (snicker).

In my June 5th entry dubbed The Money Changers, many of you assured me that you don’t pay much attention to advertising and that it doesn’t affect you. But that’s the worst part: you don’t even have to be paying attention for the messages of capitalism to latch on to you and suck you dry. In fact, the hottest trend in marketing is to deemphasize the product. As many of you aptly commented on my last post, much of the time consumers aren’t even aware of which product is being advertised. This is intentional. Marketers know that consumers are growing skeptical and tired of traditional ads. They are now branding an image, an experience, and a lifestyle. They aim to create buzz–it’s not about products anymore; it’s about a state of mind. Creepy, eh?

Whether you realize it or not, advertising not only influences you to buy stuff but it also defines your culture. And one way or another, your culture dictates the way you live (the pretty Amish girl pleasantly excluded).

Since mine is making me itch like a mad bastard at the moment, let’s take bras as an example of how we are blithely supporting capitalism with our under wire cups. Bras do nothing but create sweating, aggravated tits, but still women wear them because they have been peddled in some heinous form or another for eons as something women ought to wear. I am the proud owner of the world’s smallest rack (and I am a so-called feminist to boot), and I still buy bras that mold my silhouette into the product that I’ve been raised by our society to recognize as the female form.

For gentleman perusing this fine essay, lest you feel alienated by my brazier rant, rest assured: you too are at the whims of an advertising based society. Fellows, do you wear deodorant? Pit stick has been a must have for both American men and women alike long enough for it to be ingrained in us that if we don’t wear it we’ll seem–god forbid–French. Has the whiff of the pit always been such an offense? No, in fact, body odor only become rancid once smart businesspeople started to realize they could make money off their invention that the gentle onion waft was an atrocity. We are culturally compelled to spend $5 a stick to ensure that the area where our arms meet our torsos smell like flavors designated as Clean: Lilac, Ocean Breeze, Rainy Day with Worms, and Fresh Fish. Oh wait–scratch those last two; figments of my imagination as they may be, they are just as nonsensical as the rest.

Some might argue that they find the odor of toxins exiting from their pores grotesque, but I wonder: how many of these people actually break an honest sweat during the week? Since the U.S. is no longer a manufacturing society (our C.E.O’s and government prefer cheaper, much browner people in other countries to do this task for them), a large portion of Americans earn a paycheck in an overly air conditioned office. Regardless, we slather on a pit product every morning. We’ve been trained, my dear readers. That’s why if we skipped out of the pit shellac one experimental morning and dared to shed one droplet from our weary pits while at work, our co-workers would call us smelly freaks with B.O. and make fun of us mercilessly behind our backs. A promotion? Don’t make me laugh. With that rancor steaming from your pits, you’re likely to get fired. Then you couldn’t afford to buy deodorant even if you wanted to. See how that works?

Why is it considered hygienic to seal up the body’s pores and keep all the body’s toxins inside to rot us from there? Why do women accept the idea that our breasts must be round, identical, gravity defying bulbs? Even though bare flesh is wriggling and strutting all over the media, it is all primped and tweezed and shorn and sterilized. American media may appear racy, but I see a different story. Americans are sexually constipated; our ads and our culture (forever linked) teach us that the most basic, natural functions and forms of our bodies are filthy and undesirable.

Advertising permeates more than just our body image and gender identity. Consumer products dictate the way we interact with each other as well. Cell phones, ipods, laptops, personal computers, televisions, and digital cameras–these things are cool and I truly believe that they make my life easier and better. As sick as it is, I can’t imagine much of my life without them. Even our little blue ipod–acquired only last week–has already become an actual member of our household; how else could I perform the important task of practicing foreign languages while I’m out on my morning run?

All these products are truly great, but I wonder if I believe that they make my life better for the same reason that I believe my pits to be traitors to my hygiene if they moisten. I suspect the Amish girl who is now sleeping peacefully in her seat is just as satisfied with her life as I am with mine. Only she doesn’t have the worried, over stimulated complexion that I have, and looking at her little picnic basket versus my hulking laptop bag, she has much less luggage to heave than I do.

While Ms. Amish has an entirely different world to assimilate to, I suspect hers is much cheaper than mine. I’m guessing from her peaceful expression that her breasts are comfortable and her armpits are unconcerned with whatever they chose to emit. And while I don’t dwell on these things nearly as much as this essay that highlights these two basic examples may indicate, it takes a special, scheduled time for me to feel as she must feel. Hiking, running, laughing with my posse around a campfire, hugging my partner, and diving off my family’s cottage dock into the cool, green water: these are the times when I feel that closeness to my body and my spirit that seem to be the source of the Amish girl’s beauty. The rest of the time I am detached.

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When do feel at home in your skin?

Click here for a good laugh.

*Thanks for sending this to me Nick! I love you, you satirical little brat! ::smile::

Help!

I’m looking for a bit of professional advice today. If you have ever applied for a job within the same institution that you work for, can you fill me in about how you did that gracefully?

I appreciate my employment in the marketing department at the MCA (that stands for Museum of Contemporary Art, folks) endlessly—my coworkers are great and I couldn’t ask for a better first out-of-college job—but a position in the MCA media relations department opened up and I couldn’t pass up applying for it. If I score this job in media relations, I would be writing a lot more (press releases for exhibitions, special events, and the museum social scene) and I would have more responsibilities (I’d be the point person for the press), both of which would be dreamy. Plus, the position in media relations would be full time, so I would not have to juggle a million jobs to create a full-time schedule (I’m part-time in the marketing department now).

The only downside to this position would be that if I got it, I would have to forfeit my position as a tutor at the Writing Center, which is my favorite job of all. But the pay there is crap, and it’s getting increasingly difficult to survive on it. I’ve secured a position teaching writing workshops for a few weekends this summer, so hopefully that job alone will quench my thirst for teaching English composition. 

So, after handing over my carefully crafted cover letter and resume to the director of media relations at the MCA yesterday, my question is this: what now? Do I tell my boss, the director of marketing, that I’ve applied? Do I tell her after I’ve secured an interview for the other position? Do I tell her after/if I get this other position? Will it be weird? What if I don’t get it—will I feel like a freak? Yikes!

Your comments are much appreciated.

A note that is relevant only to those who know me “offline”:
If you are wondering, “why are you applying for jobs in Chicago, aren’t you moving in September?” No, we’re not moving this September. After mourning the fact the Scotland is a no-go, Shaun wasn’t pleased with the craziness and disorganization of California State, so we’re staying put. This year we’ll squirrel away more money and keep on keepin’ on. Shaun-san is going to be taking a few more classes at AIC, free thanks to his awesome work benefits, and I’ll just keep getting more work experience. We’re happy here, but the world is calling! Shaun’s going try again–applying to more programs this time–and he’ll be starting somewhere next fall. We will be moving out of our rancid, hellish apartment once the lease is up in September. The window sill in the bathroom is rotting away and there are weird buggies and mushrooms growing on it. Besides creating a space to conduct a biology experiment, why would anyone build a bathtub and shower next to a big window with a wood frame? Grotesque!

edit later this morning:

With my pulse throbbing in my neck, I did it. And it was no problem at all—my boss was lovely about it and said she would give me a stellar recommendation (thanks for that insight mydogischealsea!). Oh, what would I do without my peep’s giving me such good advice? ::smile:: Now, it’s back to work for me—I never blog at work, but our network is down this morning, so we’re all slacking a tinsy bit.  

 

 

Revelations
The Author, 2005

Sometimes I stumble upon moments that are so raw that they hit me like
water blasting from a garden hose set on jet spray; stunned, my skin
prickles and chills as I am rinsed clean of everything that is not at
the very core of me. Operating on reaction and instinct alone, learned
behaviors dissipate and I am shocked to find what my true essence
reveals itself to be.

Riding the Amtrak train back to Chicago from my hometown in Michigan
this afternoon, I woke drooling on my husband’s shoulder at the
Dearborn stop. Bleary eyed, I turned to watch the last minute farewells
happening outside the window. Here I spied the little girl who made me
cry.

A man who appeared to be her father carried the girl; her slight,
creamed coffee colored limbs fell to either side of his round belly.
The little girl, no older than three, pushed her body away from his and
twisted around to face the train. She wiggled against her fathers grip,
and with her arms stretched desperately towards the train, she wailed,
her mouth to hanging tragically in the shape of an oversized lima bean.
In her tiny fist, she held a clover flower, her fevered offering to the
boarding passenger that she loved so, so much.

Seeing this girl strain to retrieve whomever it was that left her
reminded me that I have been doing the same for a few years now. As
progressive and adaptable as my adult-self postures, I am straining to
retrieve so much in my life. At my core, I like the way tradition
settles in my bones; I look forward to certain continuities. I don’t
want to be this kind of person, but today, I suppose I am; I guess it’s
pretty human to favor the familiar. As the train moved away from the
station, the little girl collapsed onto her father’s chest in defeat,
and I cried.

Visiting my hometown and family in Michigan are never what I expect
they will be, which kind of defeats the purpose of visiting. When Shaun
and I first moved to Chicago three years ago, I had illusions that
things in Michigan would stay the same, that relationships and
friendships would be unaltered. But as the character Andrew Largeman
(Zach Braff) discovers in the movie Garden State,the concept of home shifts for people in their twenties. Largeman
ponders, “It’s like you get homesick for a place that doesn’t exist. I
mean it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t have this
feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you
know, for you kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or
something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that’s all family really is. A
group of people who miss the same imaginary place.”

In the three years since my partner and I have lived in Chicago, my mom
and step-dad divorced, my little brothers became teenagers, my
childhood home was sold, many of my friends disappeared into
unidentifiable versions of their former personalities, and the town I
grew up in went from dirt roads and quiet to strip malls and traffic
jams. The home I knew no longer exists.  

In his book, Thus Spake Zarathustra, Nietzsche proposes that
an ideal man behaves as his friend would expect him to, otherwise the
foundation of the relationship is forever shattered. While there is
much of Nietzsche’s philosophy that is horrifying (his assertion that
women are incapable of friendship, for example), and I don’t expect
those I love to be “ideal humans,” I know what its like to have to
rebuild a relationship when someone is suddenly different than they
originally presented themselves. In specific, when my parents divorced,
I felt like I had to reacquaint myself with my mom and step-dad. They
had almost become strangers to me, with different mannerisms, habits,
and preferences than the people I grew up loving.

For instance, I always thought my mom loved cooking. Our family meals
were pretty unique and experimental for a white family living in the
suburbs. A week’s menu might include English curried chicken, bear
burgers, venison stir-fry, Spanish rice, accompanied by monumental
salads with veggies grown fresh from mom’s garden. For desert, we’d
enjoy a frosty glass of chocolate rice milk, fresh pie, or homemade
strawberry shortcake. When I was younger, I didn’t like eating
anything, let alone something as strong as bear meat, but my mom’s
adventurous spirit, and the consistent expression of love through
nourishment was always appreciated on some level–even if it was hard
to tell as I chewed up “one more bite” of my rice
pilaf with my nose plugged to mask the taste.

Our family ate home cooked meals together nightly, and this mandatory
tradition is a big part of my concept of family. During a phone
conversation after the divorce, my mom told me that she never really
enjoyed cooking those meals. It wasn’t the fact that she didn’t like
cooking that stung, but rather that she had been dishonest about it for
over two decades, doing something she hated while I thought that loving
us in this way was something she enjoyed doing.

If all the instances of re-acquaintance were as uncomplicated and clean
as this innocent example, then my family’s transition would be so much
easier to bare. But of course, like any proper family drama, nothing is
simple. A sickly knot of revelations has settled in the hollow of my
throat, gagging me whenever I attempt to purge it. My inability to
express my feelings about these revelations (I’ve always been bad at confronting those I care about) results in more of them getting dumped on me. And the knot tightens further.

This past weekend spend visiting my family in Michigan did not leave me
wrecked–in fact, I actually enjoyed my stay, and in many ways it
revived me. I spent Friday happily splashing and swimming in the
seaweed-infested waters at my family cottage with my partner and my
thirteen-year old brother. That night we went to dinner with my
step-dad and sixteen-year old brother at The Clarkston Union, one of
our favorite restaurants. There we ran into one of Shaun’s lovely
sisters and her husband and we joined them to chew the fat (literally).

Saturday we went with Shaun’s parents to visit Shaun’s other sister and
our new nephew Noah, who got a kick out of chewing on my
ever-accommodating husband’s big Greek nose. Saturday night we visited
my biological dad’s new restaurant: a gourmet pizza place and deli
dubbed Renderoni’s. We met my grandparents there and gorged ourselves
on my dad’s delicious creations. Despite the many, many undesirable
qualities my dad possesses, one thing is for certain: the man can cook
and he knows food (and he’s got the gargantuan body to prove it).
Saturday night we visited my mom. It is always good to hug her, even if
her sadness haunts her lately.    

Leaving this morning, I was surprised not to feel my usual sense of
relief and escape as the train pulled out of the Pontiac station.
Instead I felt unsettled and sad. Perhaps because I did not cry myself
to sleep or get into a fight with my mom once during this trip I
realized that I may finally be able to recognize this new, updated
version of my family. And for once, it seemed like a strain for
everyone to say goodbye.
________________________________________________________

What change have you processed lately? How did you process it?

The Money Changers
© The Author, 2005

There are ways to live in an advertisement-saturated society without having your identity branded and your paycheck squandered. In fact, for the media literate, freebie hungry individual, product whoredom can be lucrative and fun; especially once you learn how to stop being the whore and start being the pimp.

Product trials of the past were quite limited, and they often indicated a puny size or a service with an expiration date. While this is still true for many items, there are plenty of products that are yours to keep. Thanks to my lovely partners pimping, we have a nice little harem of products that came to us free of charge from companies so desperate for our spending power and our brand loyalty that they let us come in the back door; we didn’t pay a cent for them. As of now, our freebie collection includes the following:

1.) One Gevalia Coffee Maker and two pounds of Gevalia Coffee
2.) $120 in Best Buy Gift Certificates
3.) Nintendo DS
4.) One iPod FM Transmitter
5.) Nintendo Games (a few)
6.) The complete Rush Hour French Lesson set on MP3
7.) A month of free movie rentals trials (provided by Netflicks and Blockbuster)
8.) A shoddy digital camera

And most recently, an iPod Mini!

All of these items came to us from my partner’s hobby of scouring the Internet for free products. Shaun is a tenacious lad, and he is someone who naturally gravitates to the fine print, which are exactly the qualities one needs to possess if they wish to pimp companies for free products. As a person who prefers the larger picture to the details, I am not cut out for this hobby, but for those who think they can rise to the challenge Shaun recommends anything4free.com. This website is a forum where you can get the scoop on companies currently offering free trials. Some of these trials—those that you avoid—cost money. There are also a few wimpy pimps who are not as attentive in their efforts to attain freebies who complain on this forum: ignore them. According to my partner, you can find great leads to freebies after sifting through these few deterrents.

The pimp approach to free trials and product giveaways is interesting because it gives the consumer the chance to demonstrate that they are sick of being loyal to companies; it is time for companies to start showing a bit of loyalty to the consumer. Advertising has come full circle it seems; it has mutated into a crazed, wild, and thrashing beast, and in the process it has overturned the tables of the traditional selling model.

While our homes may not be temples, they are sacred and sales pitches come hurtling into them unrelentingly. When Jesus found ancient dudes money changing in the temple, he got pissed and knocked their tables to the ground. Just don’t be like Jesus and scamper away from the situation without grabbing a little something for your trouble. After all, a pimp’s gotta get paid.

_______________________________________________________________________

What are your thoughts on advertising?

I hope everyone’s holiday weekend was fabulous, and for those of you who didn’t get the day off today, you have my deepest sympathies. I’ve been there.

While walking home with my canvas sacks of groceries today, I saw a brief spat between a couple that inspired me to write a little ditty. It’s not done yet, but without feedback, what is? Enjoy!

Kick the Can
© The Author, 2005

“Lets be on the warm side,” Samantha said, playfully pulling me across the street and away from the shadows cast by the tall neighborhood condos. The sun made her even more beautiful than usual. I tried to look casual as I glimpsed the goose bumps on the bare skin of her shoulders melt like butter. Girls should wear halter-tops more often.

We were on our way to a barbeque at my college roommate Jay’s new pad in Wicker Park. I was stewing a bit about Jay’s new digs—we had only just graduated college in early May and already Jay had secured a fat and steady paycheck from JP Morgan (where, coincidently, his dad had been working for 35 years). While Jay was spending his post-graduate days crunching numbers in his new accounting position and his nights throwing back brews on his disgustingly large deck, I was back living with my parents in Glencoe and working at the same reeking chicken joint that I worked at in High School. Not that I envied Jay’s life per se; as far as I was concerned, a paint-by-numbers life only hurtled you towards death faster. I was just unsure of what any other life might look like. So far, my attempts at authentic living added up to an undergraduate degree in environmental science, a managerial position at a shitty restaurant, and Samantha. And lucky for me, Samantha was gorgeous.

Sam and I met at work. My first day back on the job, I was stocking the walk in freezer with rib slabs—careful to not account for enough that I could sneak a few out without notice—when I heard the owner Tim’s irritating nasal voice in the kitchen. Anyone who’s ever worked in a kitchen knows that whenever the owner comes in, everything goes to shit, so I swung the freezer door open hard, eager to make myself look productive and capable enough that Tim would go back home for the night. I didn’t consider the possibility that a beautiful brunette carrying a huge bowl of coleslaw would be smack dab in the path of the barreling stainless steel door. The first time I laid eyes on Sam, she was removing a bowl of mayonnaise-ed cabbage from her breasts and laughing.

Thank god she was laughing.

Closing the restaurant that night was the only time that I have actually put the chairs up on the tables before sweeping and mopping. Usually I just skim over the general area, rushing out of the place to catch a late movie with friends or to get high and go to the Steak and Shake, but that night I wanted to stay as long as possible with this smiling, hazel eyed girl. Plus, most of my buddies were gone, either to grad school or off working in the city. I was the only looser that had stayed in Glencoe.

As she wrapped the silverware—more than she needed to, I noticed—she told me about her life as a psychology student at Northwestern University. She had one more year left and absolutely no clue as to what she wanted to do after graduation.

“I like the science of psyc, but I don’t know if I could handle listening to people’s fucked up lives all day long for the rest of my life, you know?”

Of course I did.

We kissed that night in the parking lot and she smelled like chicken grease and sour coleslaw. But her hair smelled remarkably clean, which is more than I can say after sweating out a closing shift.

“I’d like to see you sometime when we’re not at work, okay?”
“Of course,” I said, kissing her pleasantly shiny forehead.
Of course.

After a month of groping in the walk in freezer and star gazing on the roof of my car after work (where, I feel inclined to mention, we groped further), I was bringing her to meet Jay, which I was hoping would really tick him off since he is a pussy when it comes to dating. Sam was looking particularly hot that day, and she was so smiley and fun that I had almost forgotten my Jay-envy (not that I envied him—just his deck and his money, which hopefully Samantha wouldn’t notice).

“You look distracted,” She said, looking up at me through her bangs.
“Nope.”
“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?” She cooed.

I was sort of getting sick of her asking that. Half the time I wasn’t thinking anything, and the other half I knew that honesty was only the best policy for ensuring that I’d get dumped. For instance, last week while we were sharing an M&M blizzard at the Dairy Queen, I was pondering the possible significance of a dream I had about shitting out a whole, peeled carrot. My mind drifted to the imagery of the squeaky-clean carrot bobbing around in the toilet bowl (my dreaming mind debating if it would be wasteful to flush) when Sam chimed in with her favorite question.
“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?”
I told her I was thinking about her eyes.

On this day, I skirted the question by kissing the top of her head, and when she turned her face to look up at me, I leaned down to kiss her lips. This action produced a clang.

“Oh shit!” Samantha squealed. Someone had left a half full Lipton ice tea can (who drinks that poison anyways?!) on the sidewalk and Sam had kicked its contents onto her fresh pedicure mid-smooch. I chuckled.

“It’s not funny!” She said, smiling and playfully smacking me with her miniature purse. She shook her foot off and slipped her arm around me, and began to walk. I paused.

“Aren’t you going to pick it up?” I asked.
“No—I didn’t leave it there!”
We separated a bit. I wasn’t sure if she would get pissed if I picked up the can, although it was hard for me not to. I’ve always just sort of done that kind of thing.
“Yeah, but you ran into it—are you just going to leave it?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to ruin things before Jay’s. What did it matter anyhow? Trying to be light hearted, I squeezed my arms around Sam, “It’s okay, litterbug.”
She pushed me. “I am not a litter bug. That fucking can is not my responsibility.”
“Whose is it?”
Things were tense for real now, and I didn’t know how to navigate since we’ve never really been tense with each other before, let alone over something as ridiculous as a can. If things were going to be crap between us weather the can was there or not, I thought the least I could do is pick up the fucking can, but when I made my move, Sam snorted.
“What, are you trying to guilt trip me about this or something?”
“No. I’m just picking up the can. Don’t worry about it.”
“Fine. Be a do-gooder. I’m a bad person.”
“You are not a bad person,” I said, putting my arm around her and holding the dripping can away from me.

We kept on walking without saying anything. The sun was beating down on us and suddenly I was pissed off that Sam always wanted to walk on the “warm side.” What kind of a person wants to sweat bullets as the sun bounces off of all this godforsaken pavement? What kind of a person leaves a can?

Sam was keeping herself occupied by gazing at all the fancy condos and peering into their windows at all the catalogue fresh decor (once even meowing to somebody’s vocal tom cat perched inside a first floor window). I couldn’t help but notice her interest in any possible thing that wasn’t me or my can holding.

The can was beginning to dry and the sticky tea was crusting onto my fingers. An ant crawled out from under the tab and scurried about my hand hair and up my arm. I pretended not to notice. As we continued on, counting down the addresses, I was starting to feel like a real dumb ass because suddenly it seemed like all the garbage in the city was at my feet. How did I not notice before that this city was a jungle of trash? Plastic bags drifted aimlessly across intersections, cars rolled by tangling newspaper under their tires, dog shit dotted the walkways, and soon we passed the cherry on the cake: a used rubber, crusted with dirt, and cemented grossly to the sidewalk like a baked worm. At this, Samantha couldn’t help herself.

“Are you gonna pick that up too?” She taunted.

I didn’t answer. My can clung to my hand and I cursed the day its owner left it. I cursed the city for not supplying the neighborhoods with garbage cans. I cursed Sam for making me feel like such an idiot. I cursed myself for being such an idiot. Hot tears were starting to well up at the back of my stupid, can saving face.

“Hey, 1845 N. Wood. This is it. Wow—it’s so big!”

I looked at the building that Sam was gaping at. It was monumental. Brand spanking new, the cold grey building looked almost like a grand ship setting sail; the curving decks and round windows had a definite nautical flair to them. The musty goodness of barbeque filled the air and Dave Mathews blared on the stereo. A hideously tan Jay called down to us from the second story deck, waving his cold Guinness.

I waved back, hiding my rancid can behind my back.

“Hey man! Come on in—I’ll buzz ya!”

I looked at Samantha and she seemed to glare at me, disgusted. Next summer Samantha would definitely not be back at the chicken shack. She would be living in a place like this, sleeping with a sell-out like Jay. And all I would have was my fucking can.

As the buzzer broke the silence between us, I came to my senses and re-abandoned the stinking can on the sidewalk; after all, this place was too nice to bring some rotting can into. How far does personal responsibility actually go, anyhow?

After the unburdening of the can, it wasn’t like I was expecting Sam and I to embrace and spout forth reconciliations like it was a scene from Gone with the Wind or some shit, but when Sam rolled her eyes at me when I met her gaze, I knew that it was over. We walked through the door anyhow.

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What have you witnessed recently that has inspired you?

I confess! I’m a Book Slut!

I’ll post a real entry sooner or later as this week draws to a close, but in the meantime, one of my favorite bloggers, Bastetmax, tagged me to indulge you all in a book survey. I did not write the questions (I don’t really know who did—it’s just one of those anonymous web thingies I guess, which is cool in its own way), but I’ll try to answer them.

1) # of books I own?
I never used to buy books, because I am a big fan of the library, but Shaun loves to buy books, and since we’ve got so many great used bookstores around us, I’m pretty game for it now. Although, I haven’t forgotten about my beloved library!

Between novels and comic books I’d say we have about 1,500, all stuffed into a 450 square foot apartment with two dinky closets. So it seems like there are more books than there actually are, since they are all crammed together in the same little nest. This number does not include magazines (my precious New Yorker’s, Bust’s, Utne’s, and Art Forum’s), which I horde like a freak because I do a lot of art work with them. Basically, Shaun, Giles (the kitty) and I live in a fire hazard.

2) Last book I bought?
The last book I bought was a gift for my partner. Last payday, I bought him American Voices 2005: The Finest Writing Emerging From The Top Writing Programs and Workshops. It’s important to know who our completion is!
The last book I bought for myself was a book of poetry entitled, Loose Woman by Sandra Cisneros. I also bought a copy for my mom for mother’s day.
Oh wait! I almost forgot! Shaun and I just bought two other books this week for his twin sister’s birthday. I’m not sure if they read this or not, so I can’t say what the titles are—but they are fantastic! ::smile::

3) Last book I read?
The last book I read was Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel by Susanna Clark

4) 5 books that mean a lot to me?
I don’t know if there are only five books that mean a lot to me. But I’ll ignore the five and I’ll just write the first things that pop into my head. These titles are in no particular order.

To Kill a Mockingbird—Harper Lee
Love in the Time of Cholera- Gabriel Garcia Marquez
One hundred Years of Solitude- Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Handmaid’s Tale-by Margaret Atwood
Lolita- Vladimir Nabakov
The Sun Also Rises-Hemmingway
For Whom the Bell Tolls-Hemmingway
A Moveable Feast-Hemmingway
The Catcher in the Rye- J.D. Salinger
The Perks of Being a Wallflower- Stephen Chbosky
Bee Season-Goldberg
The Bean Trees-Kingsolver
Pigs in Heaven-Kingsolver
The Joy Luck Club-Amy Tan
Small Wonders–Kingsolver
The Bonesetter’s Daughter—Amy Tan
Jitterbug Perfume-Tom Robbins
Life of Pi- Yann Martel
Ave Luna-Isabel Allende
The Stories of Ave Luna- Isabel Allende
The House of the Spirits- Isabel Allende
Loose Woman-Sandra Cisneros
Carmella-Sandra Cisneros
The House on Mango Street-Sandra Cisneros
Centaur by JOHN UPDIKE
Couples by Updike
Turtle Moon by Alice Hoffman
Fortune’s Daughter by Alice Hoffman
Local Girls by Alice Hoffman
Just So Stories (Books of Wonder) by Rudyard Kipling
The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnet
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
War of the Worlds—H.G. Wells
Animal Farm and 1984 by George Orwell


That’s all off the top of my head….I can’t pick and choose…it seems to mean!

I won’t tag anyone else, but I’d LOVE to know your favorite books; I’m always in the market to read a new one!

Hello ladies and gents. Thank you for all your great comments recently. I really do cherish our dialogue. In fact, one comment I received last week from blogger TimsHead prompted me to write this essay. TimsHead made a comment on my essay about mentoring that I might make a good mother one day. The desire for motherhood is an assumption we make of all women, and even though I have tentatively decided that parenthood is in my future, I wanted to write about a few of the reasons (besides that the obvious and overdone reason that this world is too nasty a place for me to bring any fresh genes of mine into) why motherhood is in many regards, a big uncertainty for me. So thanks for all your great comments, and a special thanks to TimsHead for being the gadfly for this. I really appreciate it. With this essay more than ever (its personal this time folks), your comments are cherished. Thanks—I hope you all had a fantastic weekend!
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The Mother Load
© The Author, 2005

As a child growing up in a conservative suburb of Detroit, I was given the strong impression that adults without children were suspect. They were irresponsible, selfish people, and any mention of these childless hedonists was accompanied by a big roll of the eyes and a look that implied that these people were obviously strange. Our family did not know too many people without kids (as not too many people move to the suburbs if they are looking for anything other than “good schools”), so I guess that in our small community, people without kids might be a little out of place. One way that my mom asserted her opinions about the gluttonous tendencies of the childless was with statements like, “Yeah, [insert childless wack-o’s name here] is really great—he/she has a great career, a huge house, jet skis and a pool—but you know—they don’t have any kids.

Sentiments like these are not restricted to my family alone—obviously the expectation to breed is everywhere. With that in mind, it is really important to me that my “decision” to have a child (much later in life, mind you) is a choice that is reflective of something I actually want, rather than something I agreed to in order to escape the inevitable familial and societal backlash that accompanies the choice to remain childless. Worse, I hope my “decision” to have a child has not been made simply because my body can have one. I want to be sure that my decision to have a child is the right one, but the trouble is, I just can’t seem to think of any logical reasons for me to reproduce.

When I was a girl, I couldn’t think of a more dull game than playing with baby dolls. I loathed them—especially the ones that had functioning plastic urethras. I still can’t fathom why a kid would want to change a dolls diaper for fun. Many kids in preschool couldn’t wait to play house. I hated playing house. I much preferred playing restaurant—I’ll poison your food and you pretend to die. Now we’ll switch—my turn to die! I had a much better time playing with my arts and craft supplies, playing make believe, lip-synching to my favorite bands, or pretending to be psychic with my stuffed animals. Care giving just seemed to be entirely dull and un-gratifying to me. My thoughts on the issue haven’t evolved much.

As I started to make friends in elementary school, many of them said that they wanted to be mommies when they grew up. I found this to be a repugnant idea. I wanted to be a writer or an artist or a paleontologist or a radio disk jockey—mommy was never a part of my plan.

As a teenager, babysitting was the pits. Sure, the money was all right for an 13-year old, but the best part of the job was getting to sample all the different cereals and sodas that the children’s households contained. The actual kids were irritating after the first 45 minutes or so.

Granted, I did have two younger brothers that I had the pleasure of knowing since they were babies. Anthony was born when I was nearly seven and Julian was born when I was ten. I loved playing with them and reading books to them. I still love to nurture their ideas and their development and it has been amazing to watch them become individuals—even through their present unflattering teenage years.

Aside from learning that I am capable of enjoying a child’s company, the presence of little brothers in my life gave me a glimpse into the realities of parenthood. It is not that lovey-dovey stuff of Johnson and Johnson commercials. Parenthood is stinky. It is exhausting. It is brutal. And the stakes are so ridiculously high and society is of little assistance. Until recently, my mom never really had time to lead her own life, as the challenges that parenthood throws at a person tend to dominate everything. Since I was a kid, my mom taught me that there were endless opportunities in this world to make a life out of. It surprised me then—and it dumbfounds me still—that in this limitless world, anyone would choose the messy, loud, time consuming, shit reeking servitude called motherhood.

When I met Shaun, I indulged in a few girly thoughts about what our genes would be like combined in another human being. But then I would hyperventilate into the nearest paper bag and be plagued with thoughts that a crazed, run away sperm had evaded the vigilance of my birth control (and spermicide, and condom—that sperm would have had to yielded the son of god if it penetrated all those barriers!) and fertilized one of my fearful teenage eggs.

However much I avoided pregnancy, the thought of what our kid might look like (in my head our genes combined would yield a smart, skinny, cartoonish-looking character) prompted me to make a young and naive “decision” that I someday wanted to have a kid with Shaun. But just one. It was already enough that I had “decided” to have any kids at all and one was pushing it. I would have this child at age 29, because if you pop a kid before 30, your chance of contracting a nasty woman-type cancer is reportedly reduced. I figured that if I was going to ravage my body (even temporarily) for this gene-mixing experiment, I might as well have some health benefit come out of it.

Now that I realize that 29 isn’t so far away, I get a little panicky. Having a kid isn’t even on my radar yet. Where will pregnancy fit in with grad school, getting my doctorate, writing novels, making movies, traveling the world, and figuring out a path to world peace? My life is open, easy, fun, energized—why I should spoil that with having a kid?

While that question may seem selfish and self-centered—at least it is logical and can be supported with obvious motivations. Having children intentionally these days simply cannot. We are no longer struggling to maintain our species—in fact, there are so bloody many of us that is seems that over population is likely to threaten existence (of both humans and other, more innocent animals). So why all the breeding?!? Why can’t we give it a rest?

The only logical reason I can come up with is human’s innate fear of death. Certainly that was a motivating factor for cave men. I can just picture a cave brute pacing around his little cave den, scolding his cave wench on the 14th day of her cycle, “Hurry up and ovulate already! I’ve got to fertilize your egg so the species can continue after I die trying to kill us a wooly mammoth for dinner!” This type of replacement reproduction did not limit itself to the cave; modern male soldiers going off to war are infamous for marrying their sweethearts and furiously attempting to knock them up before they are off to stare death in the face on the battlefield. Apparently it is easier for us to accept death if we think we are thwarting it by mixing a little amazing bundle of our genetic code with someone else’s. Hey, it may not be a clone, but it’s all we’ve got in terms of biological immortality.

Since I don’t particularly fear death (I live a pretty cush life here in America), and neither Shaun or I are going off to war anytime soon, fear of death probably won’t be a motivating factor for me to reproduce in my fertile years. Now, if for some horrible reason Shaun did have to stare death in its bloody face—I’m sure I’d flush my ortho-tricyclin down the toilet in a second.

It seems that many people who don’t face death justify their need to reproduce with love. Phrases like, “I love you so much; I want you to be the father of my children,” implies that love is a logical reason to impregnate someone. This concept makes no sense to me. Loving Shaun doesn’t translate into a desire to create another human being. However, one of the reasons I love him is because I know I can trust him to give 110% of himself in any situation he is in including, I assume, parenting. He is a gentle, loving, and funny person and I’m sure a child will appreciate that as much as I do. But potentially sharing him with a package of our genes does not necessarily motivate me to want to reproduce.

It may seem like all this attempted logic and multiple assertions of my avoidance of children throughout my short life may imply that I should obviously steer clear of motherhood at all costs, but things are not as simple as that. I actually love elementary kids and teenagers. The majority of people in these age groups that I meet are really cool and bonding with them has been amazingly fulfilling and soul nourishing.

I met a six-year old girl named Emily at my sister-in-law’s wedding last spring with whom I had a great conversation. She told me all about her imaginary pet: a deformed cat named Elvis. Emily also stole my cell phone and pranked all numbers in my phone book. I should have been mad, but I overheard her pranking and I was trying not to laugh when I reprimanded her—her pranks were pretty funny. Emily and I really got along and I honestly can say she is one of the best people I have ever met at a wedding.

I also mentor a great 15 year-old through a local community organization. She is sardonic and opinionated and once you get past the standoffish teenage attitude that presents itself in the first ten minutes of hanging out with her, those good elements really shine through. Many people like to write teenagers off and assume that they are an ignorant, obnoxious lot. While this may be true about teens when they are hanging out in groups (“group think” can illicit rancid behavior from teens and adults alike), the majority of teens that I have interacted with on an individual level are much more sophisticated than the assumptions that are made of them presume.

To be honest, I would love to parent a child above the age of four. Care giving to a baby is what really seems like a completely unrewarding situation. I mean, after experiencing the gruesome, nightmarish hell of pregnancy, your great reward is a screaming, writhing, red-faced baby? Come on! Nature could have at least thrown mothers some sort of a bone there.

Babies are monsters. It’s amazing to me that the human race survived seeing as how babies are just about the most irritating things on the planet. Babies only eat and shit and cry. They are completely defenseless, they take eons to be able to do the littlest thing (like hold their heads upright on their necks), and they are not even cute. Frankly, I’m surprised that more mothers don’t eat their young.

Obviously, I’m only half serious.

At the risk of sounding like a complete ass hole (even though I’m sure I’ve come across as a selfish, irritable prat already), I’ll venture this: if it were strictly up to me, I’d adopt a six year old. And not just to get out of the whole birthing and baby shebang, either. I just feel like there are lots of people who are already pre-made and they need parents and I’d like to help raise someone, so what’s the problem? It’s an easy fit, right? But then how do you go about picking whom you are supposed to raise? Do you pick the cutest kid you can find at risk of them becoming more of an accessory than an actual person?

There are tons of yuppie moms strutting about Lincoln Park who are using adopted children as accessories. These select women window-shop in the middle of the day, chatting on their cell phones, sipping an iced latte while they half heartedly push a designer carriage containing an Asian girl baby (dressed in Prada), as if the child were only a mere upgrade from last season’s purse dog. I exaggerate and oversimplify things here, but I worry that if these Asian girl babies don’t grow up to be the pretty “model minority” their privileged adoptive parents thought they would be, the parents will throw the towel in. I can see how it would be easy for adoptive parents to dismiss the problems that their kids will inevitably develop (not because they are adopted, but because working though difficult issues is a part of any person’s development) by stating, “well, what can you do? They are just not one of us..”

On my step dad’s side of the family, there are two adopted people, now adults, who are forever kept on the sidelines of the family. When a rat bit Uncle Deridge’s testicle and he was rendered infertile (true story—I don’t know or want to know what a rat was doing in such close proximity to my great uncle’s loins), adopting two cute Italian kids seemed like a good idea. But when one of those kids grew up to be a snarl toothed woman with multiple ex-husbands and no self esteem and the other turned out to be a weird, gun obsessed drunk who you’d rather die than sit next to at a wedding, the family seems overly eager to throw their hands in the air and exclaim, “whaddya gonna do? They’re adopted!”

Humans’ nature to shun children that are not biologically related to them can also be seen in the twisted archetypes of step parenting. On one hand, you have the evil stepmother and the abusive stepfather; both are eager and willing to rid any evidence (aka children) that their current partner used to bang someone else. On the other hand you have the type of stepparent that many of my contemporaries and I can relate to: the laissez faire step parent.

The laissez faire stepparent is sweet and nurturing, but when their child needs punishment or boundaries set, they are always quick to wash their hands of the matter and refer the child to the biological parent in the house.

The tendency to dismiss genetics that are not our own can even be found in single parent households. My biological parents have been divorced and living in separate households since I was a toddler. When I really pissed either of them off, they would look at me, a snarl upon their faces, and say in a low, guttural growl, “You’re just like your father,” or “You’re just like your mother.” This was a way for them to wash their hands of me at any given moment—to say, “you’re not mine and these issues you’re having are not my responsibility.” I know that this type of hurtful phrasing is not exclusive to my childhood, and it furthers my concerns about adoption. While I would never think that Shaun or I are the type of people that would treat our adoptive child this way, I have to admit that there is no “type” of person who acts this way. People act this way—its one sick fabric of our makeup. Many adoptive parents manage this instinct well, but I doubt they do it without acknowledging first that the tendency exists in them simply because they are human. These adoptive parents are amazing and they are far better people than most of us who are unable to overcome what culture and history has imbedded in us: that blood is thicker than water.

So, if adoption is a challenge that I don’t know if I’m strong enough to handle, and I don’t fear death and loving Shaun isn’t accompanied by a craving for a fetus to occupy my uterus, is parenting in my future at all?

Perhaps you cannot rationalize the desire to have kids; it could just be a warped mix of instinct and a craving to love (and be loved) that prompts people to continue the life cycle. However, one item that I am ignoring is that babies are a bi product of sex (duh). The pleasure of sex is a perfectly logical pursuit! The fact that sometimes this blissful activity produces children is just something humans (or rather, people who have heterosexual sex) are forced to incur in order to indulge their licentiousness. While this reasoning is the strongest I can create for human reproduction, it does not pertain directly to me, as I ingest birth control responsibly and regularly. As thus, I have to think of a good reason to stop taking it.

So, do I want to be a mother in five or six years? I guess so, but I don’t know why.
Regardless of whether a bun is in my oven or not in 2011, I refuse to believe that I will be an irresponsible hedonist if I do later choose to forgo motherhood, despite what this culture might try to tell me. There are many ways that people can offer positive contributions to the next generation without actually producing members of it. I mentor, I tutor, and my life goals focus heavily on serving the youth of this world. It does not take motherhood to motivate me to become involved in cultivating a healthy environment for the next generation, but knowing that seems to have made the decision of whether to parent or not even more difficult.

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What are your thoughts on parenthood? If you are a parent, how did you make that choice?

Not Only Padrisimo, but Hermosa As Well
© The Author, 2005

My mentee Sandra* is a funny, whip smart girl. Her biggest challenge in life seems to be choosing which of her many talents she would like to make a living off of. She excels at science and could easily fulfill her immigrant parent’s dreams for her to become a doctor (her mom is Mexican and her dad is Puerto Rican). In fact, when prompted, Sandra will tell you that she’s planning to study pre-med in college. But once you get to know her, she quickly reveals that she truly desires something very different than a career in medicine. She is a poet, an artist, a fashion designer (for “real” women), a party planner, a bookworm, a public speaker, and an independent thinker. The community program that I became her mentor through must have known that pre-med was just her alibi when they assigned me to her.

When I first met Sandra two years ago, she was starting 8th grade. I was completely blown away when the first conversation we had was about her insightful and dead on accurate interpretations of Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha. Even more amazing, she was reading this heavy literature for fun. You wouldn’t guess that an eighth grade girl wearing a stilettos, gargantuan hoop earrings, and a tight, intricately parted pony tail would have Siddhartha, a sketchbook, and color coded chemistry flash cards crammed into her book bag, but Sandra’s favorite game is to throw people for a loop.

“My style is ghetto princess, but my brain is Harvard all the way.”

Sandra is great. Which is why it broke my heart today to find out that she doesn’t feel as spectacular as she is.

Today Sandra and I went to see a salsa musical play called Cinderella Eats Rice and Beans at DePaul’s Merle Reskin Theater. Despite being a production aimed at younger audiences, this play was the most revolutionary feminist work I have had the pleasure of encountering all year. I won’t spoil the plot adaptation for you here, but lets just say I was pleased as punch to have Cinderella recast as a Spanish speaking foreign exchange student who is stellar at math, excellent at salsa dancing, and in love with basketball. Cinderella Eats Rice and Beans takes an insipid fairy tale about a woman who is stuck with her crappy life until a prince charming decides to marry her, and creates an empowering story that encourages audience members to embrace sisterhood and their own cultural heritage. The new reality presented in Cinderella Eats Rice and Beans is amazing and beautiful and exactly the type of empowerment that every child needs to be raised with.

Anyhow, as we exited the theater into the gorgeous sunny day, I was eager to talk with Sandra about what she thought of the production over some yummy Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Sandra is always thoughtful and opinionated, but this play really brought it out in her. As we walked a few blocks to the scoop shop, our conversation quickly moved from a critique of the play itself to a critique of how U.S. culture treats women.

“Barbie’s are such crap! If you are a Barbie you are either white or black—you are never Chicano. You are never Puerto Rican. You are never—god forbid—mixed.”

This girl floors me. I had only thought to loathe Barbie’s because first of all, they are boring, and second of all they are bimbo’s with alien bodies with a “white” ideal of beauty. It never would have occurred to me to boycott them on the basis of not being biracial.

Sandra went on, lambasting women for being crewel to other women. “Sisterhood is a load of crap too. No one is a sister to one another—even your best girlfriend judges you on the stupidest stuff. If you don’t like a guy at the moment or you are just not in the mood for a boyfriend, they pressure you. They’re all like, ‘oh, lets go through the year book and find a guy for you to like.’ I don’t think so. That’s not sisterhood.”

Her diatribe continued, “And the way girls are always criticizing each other! They go through magazines and laugh at all the celebrities, ‘oh look how gordo she is!’ Or, ‘She Ugly.’ It’s like no body is perfect enough for them.”

I was almost too caught up in being amazed at how dead on she was to notice that this point on sisterhood really hit a sore spot with her. When I caught her eye, I noticed that her face had shifted, constricting in the way that faces do when they are trying not to cry. Her eyes looked sad.

“I know what you mean. But you’ll find girls who are revolutionary like you are, I promise. They are out there.”

“Well, they aren’t Latinas,” she said.

The el rumbled by and I let the noise of it break up our conversation, giving Sandra a bit of space.

“Do you say that because some of your friends at school are being weird?”

“You could say that.”

I didn’t press the issue. We walked quietly for a time, occasionally commenting on how weirdly quiet the loop is on the weekends. Sandra is very feline in her approach to opening up to me. If she comes to me, she’ll open right up. If I go to her, she shuts right down, so I kept my distance for a while. Once we were happily munching away on our treats at Ben and Jerry’s, she was ready to let me know what was up.

“I’m doing this project about Kenya for school and I found out about this artist guy who tried to find out what Kenyans thought was beautiful. He took all these pictures of people in Kenya and he asked other Kenyans to rate who in the pictures was the most beautiful and on what they judged that by.” Sandra paused for effect, giving her head a ghetto superstar swivel before continuing, “The top three things on their list of what makes someone beautiful were personality, fashion sense, and hair style. There was one picture of a girl who wore a really bright, red dress and wore her hair really long—almost down to her back—braided with cloth. But she had really bad acne, right. But that didn’t matter to the Kenyans who voted on who was the prettiest because she was so nice and she had style.”

Sandra hesitated before she brought tears to my eyes. “I wish someone would think I was beautiful even though I have a hideous face,” she said.

I was stunned. “What?”

She looked out the window. “My face—I hate it. I want to go to a dermatologist, but my mom says no, it’s not on our insurance.”

“Everybody gets zits. I get zits. Shaun gets zits. For god sake, my mom is in her forties and she still gets zits when she’s stressed.”

“I’m the only one in my high school who has zits.”

I restrained myself from being a know-it-all and saying what I was thinking, which was something like, I sincerely doubt that.

“You know, I thought I was really ugly in high school.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I am 6 feet tall and I stand out like a sore thumb, which I like now, but in high school it made me an easy target for teasing. I was just this skinny, gawky girl with no chest to speak of and I had HUGE zits all over my cheeks for years. I went to the dermatologist and it diddn’t even help. I thought I was the only one who had zits and I was the only one who was awkward looking. But now I look back at old pictures and my yearbook and I can see that wasn’t true at all. You know what I mean?”

“I guess.”

“Look—I still have acne scars all over my cheeks.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.” I pointed them out to her.

“Oh—I never noticed.”

“And I never notice the zits you are so worried about.”

She considered this for a time.

“You are so beautiful. You are smart, opinionated, articulate, and your face is movie star gorgeous.”

“No its not…”

“Yes it is.”

“Whatever,” she said.

Sandra turned to the window and stared out at the pedestrians. She blotted her eye with her sleeve, trying to look casual as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye without me noticing.

But I noticed.

What were you self-conscious about in high school?
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*Sandra is not her real name–I felt weird writing her real name without her permission. Not that you, my dear readers, would know that anyway, but it will let me sleep better at night if I know that you know. You know?