The snow is gone, so I took Brittany's car west on Main, toward the sunset.
I stopped and started past Broulim's and fenced houses and trees so bare that, from far away, they look fuzzed on top--like my knitted hat after so many wears. I finally found a long, vertical spread of road to follow at 65mph.
The sky ahead was orange and pink and dirty grey, and I could see the circle of the sun when I focused on the flat clouds surrounding it. My arms were cold, and I flicked the heat switch to Hi. I tried to see the colors of sage brush lining the road, but saw bright blue residue instead, where the sun had burned my eyes. The dots followed everywhere I looked and collected on themselves.
I took a deep breath to see if it would make things--the essays, the people who don't listen or care, the money, and the plans after graduation--leave me or make me feel different. It didn't, and headlights approached in the left lane, reminding me of everything I drove to escape.
I checked the gas gage: a quarter and a half tank left. I thought of the 16 dollars in my bank account and what the drive would cost me. I could freaking care less; I need this, I thought. And I passed a "Watch for Stock" sign.
I stopped at Beaver Dick Park, to see the sun dip lower into the mountains from a set of monkey bars. It was too cold to think, and the metal was hard, but the sun turned a golden orange. I climbed down, ate a tropical Trio bar, and continued my drive toward the colors.
I'll turn around at the next flap of road, I thought. I drove slowly, so the gas wouldn't burn faster than the decending sun. I drove on the left side of the road, I held down the horn, I screamed, and I thought of Darl from As I Lay Dying. I am as human as he is, I thought. I stopped at the flap of road and got out. I saw three snake holes and wouldn't walk any farther into the brush because of them, so I picked some weeds that grew on the outskirts of the road and continued to drive west with a chewing straw in my teeth.
I turned the music down and watched the flowing landscape--as much as I could watch without veering left or right. I heard the wheels on the road loudly shhhh me through the belly of the car. The hills on the sides of me were small and crowded with tiny blue sage bushes. The sky was big. I saw no headlights, no people, no glass bottles or wrappers, no powerlines, no houses, no beeping lights. I am small and alone. I drove on.
I reversed and turned around in the middle of the highway when I came to the first curve. I rolled the two front windows down, opened the sunroof, and blasted the heat to tame my goosebumps. My hair whipped around my eyelashes and into my mouth. I stretched my entire arm out of the window to feel the wind. I imagined God's hand grabbing mine through the air and picking me up and out of this life, toward Heaven, and setting me down again, because Frost says, "Earth's the right place for love." I suppose.
I rolled the windows up, closed the sunroof, turned up Mumford & Sons until my ears pricked, and drove toward darkness, watching the pink glow in the west from my rearview mirror.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Necklaces
When Ivor comes over, he asks for Brittany. When Skyler and Hugh come over, they ask for Victoria. The people who come over and ask for me are generally those I ask to come, or my visiting teachers, who come because they have to report back to coordinators.
I’m sitting on my bed, beneath the brown quilt my mother and I tied two summers ago. I’m on my computer, checking Facebook for a new wall post or a new message, and I leave the internet window open as I write this, just in case someone wants to send an instant message. After I wash my face or run downstairs to change a load of laundry, I check my phone for a new text message or missed call.
Yesterday I had two missed calls and three text messages after class—it was my mother.
There’s something about this semester that feels utterly alone. I come home from early classes to make my bed and re-do my hair, then sit for a while and stare at the light brown knobs on my white dresser. Or I pick up my guitar and play the same song I’ve been playing for the past two months. Or I glaze over the necklaces I've collected through recent years and the ones my mother bought from Anthropologie last Christmas--one made with creme-colored ribbon and tiny glass balls, another with thick, navy-blue stones. They hang in long strands from the hooks I bought with my employee discount at Pier1. At least I have beautiful things, I think.
I have siblings—four of them. The last time I heard from Michelle was last week—she wrote on my Facebook wall and said, xoxoxoxox.... Miss you much!!! My news feed showed that she wrote the same thing on all of my siblings’ walls. “You should really give your sister a call to let her know what’s going on with your life,” my mom says. Yeah, I think, but if she really wanted to know what was going on with my life, she’d call instead of use the internet to send me virtual hugs and kisses. The last time I talked to Nathan, I called him for decision-making advice about my mission. The last time we talked on the phone before that, was a year ago. Jared never calls. And two weeks ago, Justin asked my mom if I would babysit Josh--while he goes to Florence on a complimentary business trip this April--instead of going on the British Literary Tour. "You know, Aly," my mom continues, "these relationships are two-way." But for some reason, I feel like, because I'm younger and unmarried and far away, they should be a little more concerned.
When my mom complains about ticket pricing for flying me to and from school, Justin says, “I didn’t tell her to go to that freaking school. I told her to go to UTSA,” which is an hour and a half away from home. It's not like I'm competent enough to choose my own school. When my sister’s husband trash-talked BYU-I as we drove down an Arizona highway one Thanksgiving break, she turned to me from the front seat, smiled through her lipstick, and said, “Oh, Gordon, she’s just having fun up there, huh.” Yeah, I thought, and my chest thumped hard, I don’t write 10 page single-spaced analyses on Germany’s economic and cultural progression, or stay up all night to paint acrylic color charts for Color and Design, or research Tess of the d’Ubervilles’ feminist criticism on JSTOR for six hours at a time. I just twiddle my thumbs with my mouth open and drool on myself all day. I've done that for the past four years. Sometimes I feel like my siblings understand absolutely nothing about me, yet I am sealed to them forever.
There have been times when they’ve tried. Like the times Michelle bought me pink Hello Kitty pencils and strawberry lip-gloss from the Orange County Main Place Mall, when I was six or seven. Or the times when Jared picked me up from Cedar Valley Middle School every day in his black Nissan truck, booming Eminem through his subwoofer. Or when Justin bought me a silver dolphin necklace in fifth grade that I’ve worn twice, which now lays tarnished in a ceramic cup on a book shelf back home.
Nathan tried during my Senior year of high school. With the money I made scooping ice cream, I bought two tickets to see The Shins play downtown at Stubbs. My mother suggested Nathan take me, and he did. It took us two hours to drive the usual-thirty-minute drive because of rush hour traffic and a rainstorm. We made it to Stubbs ten minutes after six, and because of the rain, the show was cancelled. Nathan looked at me with black-brown eyes and a one-sided frown.
“What should we do now, Aly?” I remember he wore a grey Old Navy shirt, which was darkly spotted with rain, and a white visor that dripped.
“Run through those puddles?” I turned my head to look across the street at an empty parking lot, bordered by vine-covered canals, and I pointed. Nathan smiled with his speckled, white teeth, and I remembered the gap in them before his braces. I nodded my head. “I really want to.”
That night, we ran through rain puddles and gulped long breaths of humid, summer air. We ate at The Spaghetti Factory, took pictures beneath the Frost bank tower, and delivered two Big Macs to a homeless man. The Early November played beneath the squeak-swish of the windshield wipers the entire way home, and Nathan let me rewind that one great guitar riff each time it would end.
I used to let myself ugly-cry in front of Nathan, but he’s married now, and I guess that means no more rained out concerts or long road trips through Arizona. I used to try on Michelle’s earrings and shoes, but she lives in another state, closer to her husband’s family. Justin used to ask me questions about volleyball and violin and art, but now questions the value of my education. Jared used to tease me when we'd play a jungle-themed memory game, but now he has two daughters and a son—all under five—to tease.
When I check my e-mail, my Facebook, my phone, I wonder where my siblings are. I wonder if they’re busy at all or always. I wonder if they’re missing anything. I wonder if they know they have a little sister somewhere in the world who feels alone. At least I have beautiful things, like necklaces.
I’m sitting on my bed, beneath the brown quilt my mother and I tied two summers ago. I’m on my computer, checking Facebook for a new wall post or a new message, and I leave the internet window open as I write this, just in case someone wants to send an instant message. After I wash my face or run downstairs to change a load of laundry, I check my phone for a new text message or missed call.
Yesterday I had two missed calls and three text messages after class—it was my mother.
There’s something about this semester that feels utterly alone. I come home from early classes to make my bed and re-do my hair, then sit for a while and stare at the light brown knobs on my white dresser. Or I pick up my guitar and play the same song I’ve been playing for the past two months. Or I glaze over the necklaces I've collected through recent years and the ones my mother bought from Anthropologie last Christmas--one made with creme-colored ribbon and tiny glass balls, another with thick, navy-blue stones. They hang in long strands from the hooks I bought with my employee discount at Pier1. At least I have beautiful things, I think.
I have siblings—four of them. The last time I heard from Michelle was last week—she wrote on my Facebook wall and said, xoxoxoxox.... Miss you much!!! My news feed showed that she wrote the same thing on all of my siblings’ walls. “You should really give your sister a call to let her know what’s going on with your life,” my mom says. Yeah, I think, but if she really wanted to know what was going on with my life, she’d call instead of use the internet to send me virtual hugs and kisses. The last time I talked to Nathan, I called him for decision-making advice about my mission. The last time we talked on the phone before that, was a year ago. Jared never calls. And two weeks ago, Justin asked my mom if I would babysit Josh--while he goes to Florence on a complimentary business trip this April--instead of going on the British Literary Tour. "You know, Aly," my mom continues, "these relationships are two-way." But for some reason, I feel like, because I'm younger and unmarried and far away, they should be a little more concerned.
When my mom complains about ticket pricing for flying me to and from school, Justin says, “I didn’t tell her to go to that freaking school. I told her to go to UTSA,” which is an hour and a half away from home. It's not like I'm competent enough to choose my own school. When my sister’s husband trash-talked BYU-I as we drove down an Arizona highway one Thanksgiving break, she turned to me from the front seat, smiled through her lipstick, and said, “Oh, Gordon, she’s just having fun up there, huh.” Yeah, I thought, and my chest thumped hard, I don’t write 10 page single-spaced analyses on Germany’s economic and cultural progression, or stay up all night to paint acrylic color charts for Color and Design, or research Tess of the d’Ubervilles’ feminist criticism on JSTOR for six hours at a time. I just twiddle my thumbs with my mouth open and drool on myself all day. I've done that for the past four years. Sometimes I feel like my siblings understand absolutely nothing about me, yet I am sealed to them forever.
There have been times when they’ve tried. Like the times Michelle bought me pink Hello Kitty pencils and strawberry lip-gloss from the Orange County Main Place Mall, when I was six or seven. Or the times when Jared picked me up from Cedar Valley Middle School every day in his black Nissan truck, booming Eminem through his subwoofer. Or when Justin bought me a silver dolphin necklace in fifth grade that I’ve worn twice, which now lays tarnished in a ceramic cup on a book shelf back home.
Nathan tried during my Senior year of high school. With the money I made scooping ice cream, I bought two tickets to see The Shins play downtown at Stubbs. My mother suggested Nathan take me, and he did. It took us two hours to drive the usual-thirty-minute drive because of rush hour traffic and a rainstorm. We made it to Stubbs ten minutes after six, and because of the rain, the show was cancelled. Nathan looked at me with black-brown eyes and a one-sided frown.
“What should we do now, Aly?” I remember he wore a grey Old Navy shirt, which was darkly spotted with rain, and a white visor that dripped.
“Run through those puddles?” I turned my head to look across the street at an empty parking lot, bordered by vine-covered canals, and I pointed. Nathan smiled with his speckled, white teeth, and I remembered the gap in them before his braces. I nodded my head. “I really want to.”
That night, we ran through rain puddles and gulped long breaths of humid, summer air. We ate at The Spaghetti Factory, took pictures beneath the Frost bank tower, and delivered two Big Macs to a homeless man. The Early November played beneath the squeak-swish of the windshield wipers the entire way home, and Nathan let me rewind that one great guitar riff each time it would end.
I used to let myself ugly-cry in front of Nathan, but he’s married now, and I guess that means no more rained out concerts or long road trips through Arizona. I used to try on Michelle’s earrings and shoes, but she lives in another state, closer to her husband’s family. Justin used to ask me questions about volleyball and violin and art, but now questions the value of my education. Jared used to tease me when we'd play a jungle-themed memory game, but now he has two daughters and a son—all under five—to tease.
When I check my e-mail, my Facebook, my phone, I wonder where my siblings are. I wonder if they’re busy at all or always. I wonder if they’re missing anything. I wonder if they know they have a little sister somewhere in the world who feels alone. At least I have beautiful things, like necklaces.
Friday, February 12, 2010
What I Think of When I Close My Eyes
I want to breathe in cold mountain air.
I want to see a hummingbird.
I want to run across a plain of dry grass grown up to my waste.
I want to feel the wind blow my hair from the back of my neck.
I want to stand on rocky cliffs that overlook crashing white waves and close my eyes.
I want to ride in a hot air balloon over evergreen covered mountains.
I want to drive through warm countryside with the windows down, without smelling exhaust or oil or sulfur, just trees.
I want to lie down in the snow without getting my pants wet or shivering.
I want to stand on a beach in white flannel pants and large sunglasses, smelling the sandy wind and feeling my skin scrunch in the heat of the sun.
I want to finger paint, sitting crisscrossed on the floor with a scarf tied in my hair.
I want to meditate to cello music.
I want to ride my blue cruiser bike down a long hill.
I want to scrape my knees on choral.
I want to taste a honeysuckle flower.
I want to smell the Redwoods.
I want to climb outside of the second story window to sit on the snow that’s collected on the roof.
I want to ride a horse across some part of the desert, like they do in Westerns.
I want to watch the shadows of the earth change on a road trip.
I want to dance in circles on dusty dirt, in my bare feet.
I want to hear shells rolling on the ocean floor.
I want more moments where I don’t think about my 10 page research paper on The Picture of Dorian Gray or my depleted bank account.
I want more moments where I feel God.
I want to see a hummingbird.
I want to run across a plain of dry grass grown up to my waste.
I want to feel the wind blow my hair from the back of my neck.
I want to stand on rocky cliffs that overlook crashing white waves and close my eyes.
I want to ride in a hot air balloon over evergreen covered mountains.
I want to drive through warm countryside with the windows down, without smelling exhaust or oil or sulfur, just trees.
I want to lie down in the snow without getting my pants wet or shivering.
I want to stand on a beach in white flannel pants and large sunglasses, smelling the sandy wind and feeling my skin scrunch in the heat of the sun.
I want to finger paint, sitting crisscrossed on the floor with a scarf tied in my hair.
I want to meditate to cello music.
I want to ride my blue cruiser bike down a long hill.
I want to scrape my knees on choral.
I want to taste a honeysuckle flower.
I want to smell the Redwoods.
I want to climb outside of the second story window to sit on the snow that’s collected on the roof.
I want to ride a horse across some part of the desert, like they do in Westerns.
I want to watch the shadows of the earth change on a road trip.
I want to dance in circles on dusty dirt, in my bare feet.
I want to hear shells rolling on the ocean floor.
I want more moments where I don’t think about my 10 page research paper on The Picture of Dorian Gray or my depleted bank account.
I want more moments where I feel God.
Friday, February 5, 2010
A Reminder
Saturday night, while planning a Relief Society lesson for the next morning, my body aches intensified to the point of distraction. I was coming down with something and decided to take a break for some ibuprofen.
I felt the chill from the lower part of the house with each step I took down the stairs and coughed to relieve the tickles from my chest. I reached the living room with old green couches and heard voices from the kitchen. As I approached, I expected the ordinary—one or more of my eleven roommates with maybe a few of their friends visiting.
When I looked towards the back of the kitchen, I recognized him immediately sitting in one of our black-backed wooden chairs at the kitchen table. I felt something beneath my ribs, something like my heart rolling over or kicking. He hadn’t seen me yet, and I continued walking to the glassed-cupboard to my left, the old carpeted kitchen floor thumping each time I stepped with my heels. My fingers tingled from what felt like an electric shock that came with the sight of him. He was so familiar; I knew where the creases of his face lay better than the girl he was visiting did. My right hand shook uncontrollably when I grabbed for my purple botanical mug. And when I went to the sink for tap water, I studied the increasing water level in my cup.
Rounding the refrigerator to get to the pantry, I had to face him, and our eyes met.“Oh, hey,” I said with a half-smile. And I got some satisfaction from knowing that he knew what my real smiles looked like. “How’s it going?”
“Hey, Aly,” he said. I wished he would leave.
When we first started dating a year ago, the girls across the hall, the ones he was such good friends with, told me in secret how he was “really into it this time” and “so happy.” I remember the first time he came over to watch Amelie with me and sat so far away on our tan couch. I remember the green, pocketed coat that he wore the night he told me he liked me and wanted to date. We stood outside my apartment door on the third floor, and all I could do was quickly nod my head and offer a closed-lip smile.
I remember the night he invited me over to an apartment to watch The Breakfast Club, and when I sat close to him, he grabbed my legs and draped them sideways over his.
I remember how every time he’d tell me he thought I was beautiful or that he was happy, his blue eyes would blink slowly, and I’d feel his truth.
I remember the blue robot shirt he wore as we stood on the chip isle at Broulim’s, when he told me he loved me and immediately called it a Freudian slip. I remember hoping he meant it.
I remember when he danced with me in the kitchen over conference weekend and dipped me after I bit into a hot dog. I choked, and we laughed. I remember when he dipped his tortilla chips in sour cream.
I remember when we laid close on his plaid couch, and the sun streamed through the blinds hitting the wall in stripes, and he told me he loved me. His arm was under my neck; I looked at him like I didn’t believe him; “Not with a big L yet, a little l,” he said. I knew I loved him back, and I was so safe.
He'd carry me when I asked him to.
I remember when the Rexburg fields were tan and dead from winter, and everything looked gold. The sun was out, and his friend Miranda took pictures of us walking down the railroad tracks, standing on the SEED building, and kissing in front of the railroad crossing sign. I remember Miranda saying to him, “Man, your kids are going to be gorgeous.” And for a minute, I let myself imagine. I never got to see those photos.
I remember when he let me touch the stubble under his chin and above his top lip. I remember when I’d grab his sides and he’d cringe and laugh. I remember when he used my acrylic paints to color a cartoon picture of me that he drew. I remember when we saw Bedtime Stories at the cheap theater, and he repeated Adam Sandler’s “For free?” line days after. I remember that my hand felt small in his. I remember seeing him parked in the Hart parking lot at the end of the walkway, waiting for me in the snow. He’d get out to hug me, before I got in. I remember walking in the cold, trying to jam both of our hands into his green jacket pocket.
I remember the night before we both had to leave for the semester. He laid under the dashboard of his old Chevy sedan, while I laid on the front seat-bench, because we both couldn’t fit there, and we talked until 3:00 in the morning. When he dropped me off at my apartment, I watched him from my third floor window. He smiled up at me as he walked in the snow to his car and got in. I waved to him as he drove away. I was confident we’d last through the summer.
I swallowed my ibuprofen in the pantry and waited for my hands to stop shaking. I said nothing when I quickly rounded the refrigerator to get back to my room, where I played a song on guitar and choked at the chorus.
I felt the chill from the lower part of the house with each step I took down the stairs and coughed to relieve the tickles from my chest. I reached the living room with old green couches and heard voices from the kitchen. As I approached, I expected the ordinary—one or more of my eleven roommates with maybe a few of their friends visiting.
When I looked towards the back of the kitchen, I recognized him immediately sitting in one of our black-backed wooden chairs at the kitchen table. I felt something beneath my ribs, something like my heart rolling over or kicking. He hadn’t seen me yet, and I continued walking to the glassed-cupboard to my left, the old carpeted kitchen floor thumping each time I stepped with my heels. My fingers tingled from what felt like an electric shock that came with the sight of him. He was so familiar; I knew where the creases of his face lay better than the girl he was visiting did. My right hand shook uncontrollably when I grabbed for my purple botanical mug. And when I went to the sink for tap water, I studied the increasing water level in my cup.
Rounding the refrigerator to get to the pantry, I had to face him, and our eyes met.“Oh, hey,” I said with a half-smile. And I got some satisfaction from knowing that he knew what my real smiles looked like. “How’s it going?”
“Hey, Aly,” he said. I wished he would leave.
When we first started dating a year ago, the girls across the hall, the ones he was such good friends with, told me in secret how he was “really into it this time” and “so happy.” I remember the first time he came over to watch Amelie with me and sat so far away on our tan couch. I remember the green, pocketed coat that he wore the night he told me he liked me and wanted to date. We stood outside my apartment door on the third floor, and all I could do was quickly nod my head and offer a closed-lip smile.
I remember the night he invited me over to an apartment to watch The Breakfast Club, and when I sat close to him, he grabbed my legs and draped them sideways over his.
I remember how every time he’d tell me he thought I was beautiful or that he was happy, his blue eyes would blink slowly, and I’d feel his truth.
I remember the blue robot shirt he wore as we stood on the chip isle at Broulim’s, when he told me he loved me and immediately called it a Freudian slip. I remember hoping he meant it.
I remember when he danced with me in the kitchen over conference weekend and dipped me after I bit into a hot dog. I choked, and we laughed. I remember when he dipped his tortilla chips in sour cream.
I remember when we laid close on his plaid couch, and the sun streamed through the blinds hitting the wall in stripes, and he told me he loved me. His arm was under my neck; I looked at him like I didn’t believe him; “Not with a big L yet, a little l,” he said. I knew I loved him back, and I was so safe.
He'd carry me when I asked him to.
I remember when the Rexburg fields were tan and dead from winter, and everything looked gold. The sun was out, and his friend Miranda took pictures of us walking down the railroad tracks, standing on the SEED building, and kissing in front of the railroad crossing sign. I remember Miranda saying to him, “Man, your kids are going to be gorgeous.” And for a minute, I let myself imagine. I never got to see those photos.
I remember when he let me touch the stubble under his chin and above his top lip. I remember when I’d grab his sides and he’d cringe and laugh. I remember when he used my acrylic paints to color a cartoon picture of me that he drew. I remember when we saw Bedtime Stories at the cheap theater, and he repeated Adam Sandler’s “For free?” line days after. I remember that my hand felt small in his. I remember seeing him parked in the Hart parking lot at the end of the walkway, waiting for me in the snow. He’d get out to hug me, before I got in. I remember walking in the cold, trying to jam both of our hands into his green jacket pocket.
I remember the night before we both had to leave for the semester. He laid under the dashboard of his old Chevy sedan, while I laid on the front seat-bench, because we both couldn’t fit there, and we talked until 3:00 in the morning. When he dropped me off at my apartment, I watched him from my third floor window. He smiled up at me as he walked in the snow to his car and got in. I waved to him as he drove away. I was confident we’d last through the summer.
I swallowed my ibuprofen in the pantry and waited for my hands to stop shaking. I said nothing when I quickly rounded the refrigerator to get back to my room, where I played a song on guitar and choked at the chorus.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Weirdie
Sunday, I walked out of what they call the “Sunday school room” in the Clark building on campus—on weekdays this room is used for home economics and family management classes. My intention was to walk home as quickly as is possible in heels, to heat up the last of our leftover Cholent. My social apathy set in, and I shuffled my way past the crowd of recently released church-goers, to the large glass doors, avoiding any eye-contact.
He swooped in front of me. “Hey. What’s your name?” I stopped. My roommates broke past the crowd from behind me, and one stood at the door with her hands on the long metal push bar. She looked back at me.
“Aly,” I told him. I noticed I was taller than this guy in my grey heels.
“What semester is this for you?” Really? I’m hungry, dude, I thought. He had a huge bottom lip, his suit was brown, and he had straight, semi-white teeth. I looked to make sure my roommates hadn’t abandoned me altogether. They were still there.
“Oh, this is my last semester. Then I’ll be going on a mission,” which means I already don’t want to date you, so please stop trying.
His eyes widened, and he bounced on his toes. He dangled his arms in front of his body the way a thug would and said, “No way, that’s awesome. . .” I smiled and nodded. “That’s really awesome.” His eyes fell to the floor. K, can I go now? He wasn’t finished. “Well, cool. Um, well we should hang out sometime.” Based on what information? I asked myself. Unless I’m totally oblivious to your ability to read minds or to decipher really awesome people from others, how would you know we should hang out? I smiled without my eyes.
“Yeahhh. . .” He pulled out his phone, got my number, and texted me that same night.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .
He swooped in front of me. “Hey. What’s your name?” I stopped. My roommates broke past the crowd from behind me, and one stood at the door with her hands on the long metal push bar. She looked back at me.
“Aly,” I told him. I noticed I was taller than this guy in my grey heels.
“What semester is this for you?” Really? I’m hungry, dude, I thought. He had a huge bottom lip, his suit was brown, and he had straight, semi-white teeth. I looked to make sure my roommates hadn’t abandoned me altogether. They were still there.
“Oh, this is my last semester. Then I’ll be going on a mission,” which means I already don’t want to date you, so please stop trying.
His eyes widened, and he bounced on his toes. He dangled his arms in front of his body the way a thug would and said, “No way, that’s awesome. . .” I smiled and nodded. “That’s really awesome.” His eyes fell to the floor. K, can I go now? He wasn’t finished. “Well, cool. Um, well we should hang out sometime.” Based on what information? I asked myself. Unless I’m totally oblivious to your ability to read minds or to decipher really awesome people from others, how would you know we should hang out? I smiled without my eyes.
“Yeahhh. . .” He pulled out his phone, got my number, and texted me that same night.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .
Monday, January 18, 2010
Surfacing
Today, I stuck leaves on the head of an already-built snowman and laughed at the tree bark mustache Jen put under its orange popsicle nose when Sister Morgan wasn't looking. I walked in foot-deep snow and pushed branches out of my way, sometimes forgetting someone was walking behind me. I crunched open a cattail and blew flurries onto Britt's Northface jacket. Some landed on my teeth when I smiled. I looked past naked trees to see the pastel sunset, and I inhaled. For lunch, I ate cookies with carobe chips, instead of chocolate, and agave nectar, instead of sugar. I didn't shower until 6:00PM. All of these things were beautiful.
But there's this feeling that I still have. It comes when a good friend no longer asks me what my favorite part of my day was anymore. It comes when people come to visit the collective Aly-Britt, instead of just Aly. It comes when my brothers don't call. It comes when a guy asks me if we should go to the group home evening together or watch a movie one-on-one, and my response is, 'you're the man, you decide,' because I've been hurt, and thats his job. It comes when I need to finish a novel by 8:00AM tomorrow, and I'm only halfway through; I'm left wondering how I will ever get through a literature-based graduate program. It comes when I'm pretty sure everything is telling me that I need to go on a mission, but all I want is to be married before age 25.
Maybe that feeling is there because, when I walked through the snow today, I watched my footsteps instead of the clouds and the trees. Maybe it's there because I thought about my close reading essay when Sister Morgan rolled the bottom sphere of our snowman instead of being there to start the second sphere. Maybe it's there because I didn't inhale enough cold air or touch enough snow. Or maybe it's there because I forget to remember that God is in control. And I was too busy to let that sink in.
But there's this feeling that I still have. It comes when a good friend no longer asks me what my favorite part of my day was anymore. It comes when people come to visit the collective Aly-Britt, instead of just Aly. It comes when my brothers don't call. It comes when a guy asks me if we should go to the group home evening together or watch a movie one-on-one, and my response is, 'you're the man, you decide,' because I've been hurt, and thats his job. It comes when I need to finish a novel by 8:00AM tomorrow, and I'm only halfway through; I'm left wondering how I will ever get through a literature-based graduate program. It comes when I'm pretty sure everything is telling me that I need to go on a mission, but all I want is to be married before age 25.
Maybe that feeling is there because, when I walked through the snow today, I watched my footsteps instead of the clouds and the trees. Maybe it's there because I thought about my close reading essay when Sister Morgan rolled the bottom sphere of our snowman instead of being there to start the second sphere. Maybe it's there because I didn't inhale enough cold air or touch enough snow. Or maybe it's there because I forget to remember that God is in control. And I was too busy to let that sink in.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
My So-Called Life
If I were to create my life from scratch, including every little detail I’ve ever fabricated, starting from now, this would be it.
I will graduate from BYU-Idaho with my Bachelor’s in English: Creative Writing in April 2010. My mother and grandmother, I am told, will come to my graduation for sure. They will stay at the Best Western or the Inn by Applebee’s for a few nights. My mother will jump up and down, grab my face, and kiss my cheek, saying how I am her only child to graduate. And I will introduce them both to some of the greatest people I know. We will eat at Café Rio or Macaroni Grille in Idaho Falls.
I will stay with Brittany for three weeks—one in Utah, and two in Rexburg—while I prepare for the British Literary Tour. I go to France, Ireland, Great Britain, and Wales and fly home, to Austin, from Salt Lake City.
By this time, I will have a job lined up for me to come home to, hopefully using some of what I’ve learned in the past five years. I will work in downtown Austin at one of the high rise buildings. It will be a professional sort of job, and I will dress professionally every day—in Anthropologie. After a month or two, I will buy a car. And I will begrudgingly attend the Austin Institute of Religion.
Within a year or so of working at this place, I will take cake decorating courses, become a Daughter of the American Revolution, have a flat stomach, get my scuba diving license, learn how to rock climb and play the harmonica, join a band, read books on eastern religions, prepare for the GRE, and work towards Italian citizenship.
Then, I will go to Boston University and get my MFA in creative writing. While I’m at BU, I develop a great camaraderie with those in the same program. One of whom is a muscular man with thick, wavy, brownish-blonde hair and brown eyes; he wears plaid button-ups, scarves, braided-leather shoes, and pea coats. We will talk about Thoreau, Faulkner, and Plath, about Sting and the history of the Bee Gee’s, and about pop-culture of the 1980’s. We’ll listen to Fleet Foxes, Blitzen Trapper, and Bob Dylan. We’ll make each other laugh. He won’t act like an emotional girl, or play any games with me, and he’ll actually like me. We like watching artistic and foreign films—edited, of course—and making/eating our own trail mix.
One day, we’ll take a walk in a snow-covered park. I’ll be in heels from Anthropologie, and my hair will be really long by now—I’m like 26 or 27. He’s like 28 or 29 and 6’3”. He’ll carry me over the icy parts and move my hair out of my face with his fingertips.
I decide to take a weekend trip to New York City. By this time we’re both graduated, and Dream Man is a professor at NYU. He buys me an affordable, Tiffany cushion-cut engagement ring and proposes on a bench in Central Park. We get married in the Manhattan temple and have our reception in his parents’ backyard in Rochester.
He’s making millions by now, and I decide to open up a cake café—people eat cake while reading from my favorite novels. We live in a small, downtown apartment, like the one Meg Ryan lives in, in You’ve Got Mail. I have it decorated with Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters, and I refinish old furniture from Goodwill and the D.I. I accent with real white Dasies and Spray Roses.
We decide to start our family. I’m like 30 now. But we don’t want to raise our kids in the city, so we move to New Jersey or Connecticut or Upstate New York. We drive eco-friendly cars. We have a small house, like the cute little ones in Rexburg and downtown Salt Lake and downtown Austin, and about 4 acres. We own three horses, two chickens, a potty-trained pot belly pig that we let live indoors, two cows, and two caged doves. We have four kids—three boys and one girl. I have a small square foot garden and plant basil, parsley, tomatoes, carrots, cabbage, squash, blackberries, strawberries, blueberries, grapes, and lavender. We have an apple tree, a cherry tree, and an orange tree. I cook Vegan food, and bake purely organic cakes.
My husband plays guitar, and I play the harmonica, the violin, the cello, the piano, the six-string, and the harp. We sing songs like the Von Trap family. I play in the community orchestra. I teach my kids six weeks at a time, and the next six weeks they attend private school. We take road trips through the American and church history sites. Once a year, we visit my family in Austin. For major holidays, we do service projects as a family. At Christmas, all gifts are from Santa Claus, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Each person maybe gets five gifts. The rest of our time and money goes toward helping needy families. We do Christmas Jars and make gingerbread houses. I read my children Truman Capote’s Christmas Memory. For Easter, I hot glue moss and fake feathered birds to baskets. We decorate a small Easter tree. My boys don’t watch televised sports or obnoxious cartoons. They shovel dirt and play soccer and listen to good music and ask girls on dates when they’re sixteen. They all get jobs. My daughter knows how to sew and bake and cook and quilt and paint and play instruments, and she has long legs and dances.
My children get married to people just as amazing as they are. My husband and I retire and read books. We’re both published writers and edit each others’ work. I paint and get my art into a gallery. My husband and I travel through Europe. We serve missions in Romania, Russia, Italy, Japan, French Canada, Brazil, and San Francisco.
I die in my sleep one day when I’m 88. My husband follows suit a week later.
I will graduate from BYU-Idaho with my Bachelor’s in English: Creative Writing in April 2010. My mother and grandmother, I am told, will come to my graduation for sure. They will stay at the Best Western or the Inn by Applebee’s for a few nights. My mother will jump up and down, grab my face, and kiss my cheek, saying how I am her only child to graduate. And I will introduce them both to some of the greatest people I know. We will eat at Café Rio or Macaroni Grille in Idaho Falls.
I will stay with Brittany for three weeks—one in Utah, and two in Rexburg—while I prepare for the British Literary Tour. I go to France, Ireland, Great Britain, and Wales and fly home, to Austin, from Salt Lake City.
By this time, I will have a job lined up for me to come home to, hopefully using some of what I’ve learned in the past five years. I will work in downtown Austin at one of the high rise buildings. It will be a professional sort of job, and I will dress professionally every day—in Anthropologie. After a month or two, I will buy a car. And I will begrudgingly attend the Austin Institute of Religion.
Within a year or so of working at this place, I will take cake decorating courses, become a Daughter of the American Revolution, have a flat stomach, get my scuba diving license, learn how to rock climb and play the harmonica, join a band, read books on eastern religions, prepare for the GRE, and work towards Italian citizenship.
Then, I will go to Boston University and get my MFA in creative writing. While I’m at BU, I develop a great camaraderie with those in the same program. One of whom is a muscular man with thick, wavy, brownish-blonde hair and brown eyes; he wears plaid button-ups, scarves, braided-leather shoes, and pea coats. We will talk about Thoreau, Faulkner, and Plath, about Sting and the history of the Bee Gee’s, and about pop-culture of the 1980’s. We’ll listen to Fleet Foxes, Blitzen Trapper, and Bob Dylan. We’ll make each other laugh. He won’t act like an emotional girl, or play any games with me, and he’ll actually like me. We like watching artistic and foreign films—edited, of course—and making/eating our own trail mix.
One day, we’ll take a walk in a snow-covered park. I’ll be in heels from Anthropologie, and my hair will be really long by now—I’m like 26 or 27. He’s like 28 or 29 and 6’3”. He’ll carry me over the icy parts and move my hair out of my face with his fingertips.
I decide to take a weekend trip to New York City. By this time we’re both graduated, and Dream Man is a professor at NYU. He buys me an affordable, Tiffany cushion-cut engagement ring and proposes on a bench in Central Park. We get married in the Manhattan temple and have our reception in his parents’ backyard in Rochester.
He’s making millions by now, and I decide to open up a cake café—people eat cake while reading from my favorite novels. We live in a small, downtown apartment, like the one Meg Ryan lives in, in You’ve Got Mail. I have it decorated with Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters, and I refinish old furniture from Goodwill and the D.I. I accent with real white Dasies and Spray Roses.
We decide to start our family. I’m like 30 now. But we don’t want to raise our kids in the city, so we move to New Jersey or Connecticut or Upstate New York. We drive eco-friendly cars. We have a small house, like the cute little ones in Rexburg and downtown Salt Lake and downtown Austin, and about 4 acres. We own three horses, two chickens, a potty-trained pot belly pig that we let live indoors, two cows, and two caged doves. We have four kids—three boys and one girl. I have a small square foot garden and plant basil, parsley, tomatoes, carrots, cabbage, squash, blackberries, strawberries, blueberries, grapes, and lavender. We have an apple tree, a cherry tree, and an orange tree. I cook Vegan food, and bake purely organic cakes.
My husband plays guitar, and I play the harmonica, the violin, the cello, the piano, the six-string, and the harp. We sing songs like the Von Trap family. I play in the community orchestra. I teach my kids six weeks at a time, and the next six weeks they attend private school. We take road trips through the American and church history sites. Once a year, we visit my family in Austin. For major holidays, we do service projects as a family. At Christmas, all gifts are from Santa Claus, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Each person maybe gets five gifts. The rest of our time and money goes toward helping needy families. We do Christmas Jars and make gingerbread houses. I read my children Truman Capote’s Christmas Memory. For Easter, I hot glue moss and fake feathered birds to baskets. We decorate a small Easter tree. My boys don’t watch televised sports or obnoxious cartoons. They shovel dirt and play soccer and listen to good music and ask girls on dates when they’re sixteen. They all get jobs. My daughter knows how to sew and bake and cook and quilt and paint and play instruments, and she has long legs and dances.
My children get married to people just as amazing as they are. My husband and I retire and read books. We’re both published writers and edit each others’ work. I paint and get my art into a gallery. My husband and I travel through Europe. We serve missions in Romania, Russia, Italy, Japan, French Canada, Brazil, and San Francisco.
I die in my sleep one day when I’m 88. My husband follows suit a week later.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Whipped Cream
From the three degree weather, I walked into the Ridge apartment with Lauren and Russell.
"We've got cake, ice cream, hot chocolate; do you guys want anything?" I dont remember his name. He talked like a cartoon character. He was the birthday boy.
"I'll take some hot chocolate," I said to him and smiled. He grabbed a styrofoam cup and ran the hot tap water, periodically checking the temperature with his fingers; he put two scoops of cocoa into the cup, stirred, and handed it to Lauren. He didn't go to make another.
"Oh, I'll make my own, I guess," I whispered to myself. And I made my own hot chocolate.
I didn't know anyone there. Boys--who were aged somewhere between twenty-one to twenty-seven--ricocheted a tennis ball off of the ledge above the kitchen; they threw the tennis ball to each other; they aimed the tennis ball at others' faces. Once, the ball missed my own face by about two feet.
"Do you guys want whipped cream for your hot chocolate?" The birthday boy looked at Lauren first, then me.
"Oh, no thank you," Lauren said sweetly. I think she wore fake eyelashes. The boy looked at me, his jaw crunched and his bottom lip covered his top.
"No thanks, I'm good," I said, and I sipped my semi-warm, diluted cocoa.
"You sure?" He shrugged and outstretched his arm towards me. I smiled.
"Yeah, I'm sure," I said nodding, taking another sip.
"I think you should have some whipped cream."
"Fine, I'll try the whipped cream," I sighed loudly. Nobody laughed. The boy walked to the fridge.
"You sure you don't want any whipped cream?" Oh my gosh.
"Yeah, I really don't want any whipped cream," I said sternly. I looked at Russell. His eyebrows furrowed and he quickly began watching the boys playing with their tennis ball.
"We've got cake, ice cream, hot chocolate; do you guys want anything?" I dont remember his name. He talked like a cartoon character. He was the birthday boy.
"I'll take some hot chocolate," I said to him and smiled. He grabbed a styrofoam cup and ran the hot tap water, periodically checking the temperature with his fingers; he put two scoops of cocoa into the cup, stirred, and handed it to Lauren. He didn't go to make another.
"Oh, I'll make my own, I guess," I whispered to myself. And I made my own hot chocolate.
I didn't know anyone there. Boys--who were aged somewhere between twenty-one to twenty-seven--ricocheted a tennis ball off of the ledge above the kitchen; they threw the tennis ball to each other; they aimed the tennis ball at others' faces. Once, the ball missed my own face by about two feet.
"Do you guys want whipped cream for your hot chocolate?" The birthday boy looked at Lauren first, then me.
"Oh, no thank you," Lauren said sweetly. I think she wore fake eyelashes. The boy looked at me, his jaw crunched and his bottom lip covered his top.
"No thanks, I'm good," I said, and I sipped my semi-warm, diluted cocoa.
"You sure?" He shrugged and outstretched his arm towards me. I smiled.
"Yeah, I'm sure," I said nodding, taking another sip.
"I think you should have some whipped cream."
"Fine, I'll try the whipped cream," I sighed loudly. Nobody laughed. The boy walked to the fridge.
"You sure you don't want any whipped cream?" Oh my gosh.
"Yeah, I really don't want any whipped cream," I said sternly. I looked at Russell. His eyebrows furrowed and he quickly began watching the boys playing with their tennis ball.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Perfection
“What is it like to be so beautiful, yet so alone?” My friend Matt asked me this as we sat at my kitchen table to design the EAS Halloween Reading poster together. I was looking for a legible, spooky font.
I looked up from the drop down menu to see Matt’s face. His blue eyes didn’t smile; he was serious. “Um…” I hesitated. I looked back down at the laptop, watching the curser move with my finger. “Well…” I looked up at Matt again. “Honestly?” He nodded quickly with his mouth closed into a tiny smirk. “It sucks!” I clenched my fists and pressed them to the table. I swallowed the lump in the bottom of my throat, and Matt rubbed my shoulder to comfort me. I realized then how consumed I was by this emotion.
My mom says things like: “You are going to make an incredible wife and mother... You have such talents to share with your family... You’ll find someone someday that will be crazy about you.” I think, no I won’t. I can’t see it. My mom was beautiful. My mom was talented. Look what she got. “All of your blessings say that you will get married, that your husband is being prepared for you.”
“I don’t think I believe them,” I say. Maybe all of those blessings apply to my life after death. But there have been times when I believed my mom, when I believed my blessings.
Last February, Jordan said he’d talked himself into everything—into marrying me. I forced this from him during a phone call on my birthday at three in the morning, and I cried in short breaths like a child when we hung up. Now it’s October, and I see him at the Reading Center through a long string of glass windows every time I come to work. He’s a business major, I think, why would he work there? When I got my job at the Writing Center in January, he was the first I told, even before my mother. It’s become my sanctuary. When I am not in class or at home, I am at the Center. I come here to write—this is my space. I come here to talk to the friends that I share my greatest fears with—they are my friends. His wife has applied to work here twice since I’ve been here. I can’t imagine sharing essays like these with my ex-boyfriend’s wife. He smiles at me when he clocks in at the computer, and I think things like, we decided to name our first boy Dominic, and you were the first man I ever loved. I met Graham a week after Jordan and I broke up.
In June, I told Graham to stop calling me from Alberta if he felt obligated to. So, he did stop, and I never understood why. Coming back to school this semester, I was addicted to the idea that Graham and I finally lived in the same city. I’d walk through the Crossroads cafeteria and hope he’d be sitting at a round table somewhere; he’d see me and ask me to come eat with him. I’d imagine him bringing a Political Science paper to the Writing Center and requesting me to be his tutor. Or I’d think maybe, since I live with his step-sister by coincidence, he would have a good enough excuse to come over without being obvious. Maybe he’d leave me a note on my hippie bike—that’s what he used to call it. Maybe he’d ask me to go with him to Music Outlet or play him one of the new songs I’ve learned on my Jasmine acoustic.
After about a month of disillusionment, I asked him to come over to talk. He only agreed to come over when I told him over Facebook chat that I needed this to move on. We sat about three feet apart on the couch. I shoved my body against the stained armrest and watched my own fingers pick at the torn knee of my jeans. “You’re going to pick those so much you won’t be able to wear them on campus anymore,” he joked. I sighed a laugh and told him I still loved him. I took the brown hair tie from my wrist and weaved it through my fingers. “I dunno, Aly,” he said, “I just wasn’t happy.” He grabbed my hand from my lap, and I took a deep breath to suppress showing what I felt. He told me he would never want to “rekindle an old flame,” and I smiled to prove to him that I was okay. We hugged goodbye.
When I see attractive men on campus, I think I bet you’re a jerk. Because I remember how Jordan had to talk himself into loving me and how Graham lost interest after four months. I remember the time when I dated an attractive salesman in Texas for a week, and after asking him what his intentions were he said that, basically, all he wanted was someone to kiss while watching Casino Royale on a big screen. I remember the time my dad told me he’d be in the parking lot at 1:00 p.m. on early release day, and he didn’t show up until 7:00 p.m. When I see attractive men on campus, I get this contracting feeling in the back of my throat, like a gag. I feel my upper lip turn, and I clench my molars together. I don’t know if I’ll be able to trust any of you again, I think. When I see a couple—even a married one—hugging in a hallway or kissing goodbye, I think, I wonder how long that will last. And I walk faster with my head up and my shoulders back. I’ll be one of those amazing, single women like Sheri Dew or Barbara Thompson, I tell myself. I’ll write books. I’ll get my MFA and teach. I’ll travel; I’ll sing; I’ll paint.
The truth is there is nothing I want more than the love of a man. That’s all I’ve wanted from the time I turned 16 and could date. I want to get my simple B.A. in English and start my family with a man who will ask me to explain the symbolism in my collages. I want him to remember that I like dark chocolate over milk, and that I can’t stand it when the toilet paper is facing up. I want a thousand small pieces from what I’ve had in my past relationships to combine into one person—a person I don’t even know how to define.
I think a lot of what I do want I’ve picked up from the movies. Still, when the movie is over, I think, Now what happens? Does Meg Ryan move back to Baltimore after she finally meets Tom Hanks at the top of the Empire State Building? Do they try long distance for a few months, and one day, Tom decides he’s been talking himself into everything? Does he decide she’s not worth calling anymore? I’m afraid that what I want is a lie, an elaborate fabrication, something the media or my own imagination have told me to believe.
All of my siblings are married, and the favored topic, when I am there or not, is my dating life. One time, during a family gathering, this was brought up again. My sister-in-law Lindsay related her stories. She told us that when she met my brother, she saw so much of her dad in him.
“You know,” she said, her tiny hand pointed towards me, with her palm up, “they say that you marry your dad.” She smiled at me, and I felt something inside of me drop. “Aly, you’ll probably marry someone just like Chuck.” I looked at her, trying to smile, and I excused myself from the room. I don’t want someone like my father. That’s all I am sure of, and it makes dating scary.
I remember New Years this year; Jordan flew from Puyallup, Washington to my home in Austin, Texas and stayed for five days. We had waited to exchange Christmas gifts so we could open them together. He told me earlier that he wanted to learn the guitar, so I printed every Jason Mraz, Jack Johnson, and John Mayer guitar tab that I could find from the internet. I alphabetized them in a book and collaged the outsides of it to say Jordan’s Book of Guitar Tabs and Chords. I wrapped it in gold paper. I glued a Reese’s to the top—his favorite candy. He bought me a scarf and had it wrapped in the bag it came in. I smiled to be polite and later on, couldn’t help but think of the Christmas my dad bought my mom a toilet seat cover from Home Depot. The farther I get from my relationship with Jordan, the more similarities I see between him and my own father.
This semester, an old roommate introduced me to Adam. He’s an illustration major, and he wears four leather bracelets on his right wrist. I asked him if he had a story for them, or if he just wore them to look cool. He spent the next fifteen minutes talking about a week-long pioneer trek in Nauvoo and a little girl in Guatemala. Adam has shown an amount of depth and sensitivity that I look for. After dating a week, he invited me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his sister in Portland. I thought that’s something you did with someone you were serious with—I felt trapped. One night before the holiday, as Adam and I sat on the cold leather seats of his car, I told him I didn’t want to date him anymore. Now, I wonder if I threw something away that I shouldn’t have. I wonder if I threw someone away who will ask me to explain the symbolism in my collages or who will remember I love dark chocolate over milk. Maybe what I want is perfection.
And here I am, buying my own 3-dollar ticket to watch 500 Days of Summer at the cheap theater on a Friday or Saturday night. Some nights I’ll make fat-free popcorn and write rhetorical essays about deductive and inductive arguments for class. Other nights I’ll go to bed at 9:30 p.m. without being tired, texting my mom about how I want to go home or how I need her to tell me she loves me. I’ll be one of those amazing, single women like Sheri Dew or Barbara Thompson, I tell myself, because until I find what I want, I will be alone.
I looked up from the drop down menu to see Matt’s face. His blue eyes didn’t smile; he was serious. “Um…” I hesitated. I looked back down at the laptop, watching the curser move with my finger. “Well…” I looked up at Matt again. “Honestly?” He nodded quickly with his mouth closed into a tiny smirk. “It sucks!” I clenched my fists and pressed them to the table. I swallowed the lump in the bottom of my throat, and Matt rubbed my shoulder to comfort me. I realized then how consumed I was by this emotion.
My mom says things like: “You are going to make an incredible wife and mother... You have such talents to share with your family... You’ll find someone someday that will be crazy about you.” I think, no I won’t. I can’t see it. My mom was beautiful. My mom was talented. Look what she got. “All of your blessings say that you will get married, that your husband is being prepared for you.”
“I don’t think I believe them,” I say. Maybe all of those blessings apply to my life after death. But there have been times when I believed my mom, when I believed my blessings.
Last February, Jordan said he’d talked himself into everything—into marrying me. I forced this from him during a phone call on my birthday at three in the morning, and I cried in short breaths like a child when we hung up. Now it’s October, and I see him at the Reading Center through a long string of glass windows every time I come to work. He’s a business major, I think, why would he work there? When I got my job at the Writing Center in January, he was the first I told, even before my mother. It’s become my sanctuary. When I am not in class or at home, I am at the Center. I come here to write—this is my space. I come here to talk to the friends that I share my greatest fears with—they are my friends. His wife has applied to work here twice since I’ve been here. I can’t imagine sharing essays like these with my ex-boyfriend’s wife. He smiles at me when he clocks in at the computer, and I think things like, we decided to name our first boy Dominic, and you were the first man I ever loved. I met Graham a week after Jordan and I broke up.
In June, I told Graham to stop calling me from Alberta if he felt obligated to. So, he did stop, and I never understood why. Coming back to school this semester, I was addicted to the idea that Graham and I finally lived in the same city. I’d walk through the Crossroads cafeteria and hope he’d be sitting at a round table somewhere; he’d see me and ask me to come eat with him. I’d imagine him bringing a Political Science paper to the Writing Center and requesting me to be his tutor. Or I’d think maybe, since I live with his step-sister by coincidence, he would have a good enough excuse to come over without being obvious. Maybe he’d leave me a note on my hippie bike—that’s what he used to call it. Maybe he’d ask me to go with him to Music Outlet or play him one of the new songs I’ve learned on my Jasmine acoustic.
After about a month of disillusionment, I asked him to come over to talk. He only agreed to come over when I told him over Facebook chat that I needed this to move on. We sat about three feet apart on the couch. I shoved my body against the stained armrest and watched my own fingers pick at the torn knee of my jeans. “You’re going to pick those so much you won’t be able to wear them on campus anymore,” he joked. I sighed a laugh and told him I still loved him. I took the brown hair tie from my wrist and weaved it through my fingers. “I dunno, Aly,” he said, “I just wasn’t happy.” He grabbed my hand from my lap, and I took a deep breath to suppress showing what I felt. He told me he would never want to “rekindle an old flame,” and I smiled to prove to him that I was okay. We hugged goodbye.
When I see attractive men on campus, I think I bet you’re a jerk. Because I remember how Jordan had to talk himself into loving me and how Graham lost interest after four months. I remember the time when I dated an attractive salesman in Texas for a week, and after asking him what his intentions were he said that, basically, all he wanted was someone to kiss while watching Casino Royale on a big screen. I remember the time my dad told me he’d be in the parking lot at 1:00 p.m. on early release day, and he didn’t show up until 7:00 p.m. When I see attractive men on campus, I get this contracting feeling in the back of my throat, like a gag. I feel my upper lip turn, and I clench my molars together. I don’t know if I’ll be able to trust any of you again, I think. When I see a couple—even a married one—hugging in a hallway or kissing goodbye, I think, I wonder how long that will last. And I walk faster with my head up and my shoulders back. I’ll be one of those amazing, single women like Sheri Dew or Barbara Thompson, I tell myself. I’ll write books. I’ll get my MFA and teach. I’ll travel; I’ll sing; I’ll paint.
The truth is there is nothing I want more than the love of a man. That’s all I’ve wanted from the time I turned 16 and could date. I want to get my simple B.A. in English and start my family with a man who will ask me to explain the symbolism in my collages. I want him to remember that I like dark chocolate over milk, and that I can’t stand it when the toilet paper is facing up. I want a thousand small pieces from what I’ve had in my past relationships to combine into one person—a person I don’t even know how to define.
I think a lot of what I do want I’ve picked up from the movies. Still, when the movie is over, I think, Now what happens? Does Meg Ryan move back to Baltimore after she finally meets Tom Hanks at the top of the Empire State Building? Do they try long distance for a few months, and one day, Tom decides he’s been talking himself into everything? Does he decide she’s not worth calling anymore? I’m afraid that what I want is a lie, an elaborate fabrication, something the media or my own imagination have told me to believe.
All of my siblings are married, and the favored topic, when I am there or not, is my dating life. One time, during a family gathering, this was brought up again. My sister-in-law Lindsay related her stories. She told us that when she met my brother, she saw so much of her dad in him.
“You know,” she said, her tiny hand pointed towards me, with her palm up, “they say that you marry your dad.” She smiled at me, and I felt something inside of me drop. “Aly, you’ll probably marry someone just like Chuck.” I looked at her, trying to smile, and I excused myself from the room. I don’t want someone like my father. That’s all I am sure of, and it makes dating scary.
I remember New Years this year; Jordan flew from Puyallup, Washington to my home in Austin, Texas and stayed for five days. We had waited to exchange Christmas gifts so we could open them together. He told me earlier that he wanted to learn the guitar, so I printed every Jason Mraz, Jack Johnson, and John Mayer guitar tab that I could find from the internet. I alphabetized them in a book and collaged the outsides of it to say Jordan’s Book of Guitar Tabs and Chords. I wrapped it in gold paper. I glued a Reese’s to the top—his favorite candy. He bought me a scarf and had it wrapped in the bag it came in. I smiled to be polite and later on, couldn’t help but think of the Christmas my dad bought my mom a toilet seat cover from Home Depot. The farther I get from my relationship with Jordan, the more similarities I see between him and my own father.
This semester, an old roommate introduced me to Adam. He’s an illustration major, and he wears four leather bracelets on his right wrist. I asked him if he had a story for them, or if he just wore them to look cool. He spent the next fifteen minutes talking about a week-long pioneer trek in Nauvoo and a little girl in Guatemala. Adam has shown an amount of depth and sensitivity that I look for. After dating a week, he invited me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his sister in Portland. I thought that’s something you did with someone you were serious with—I felt trapped. One night before the holiday, as Adam and I sat on the cold leather seats of his car, I told him I didn’t want to date him anymore. Now, I wonder if I threw something away that I shouldn’t have. I wonder if I threw someone away who will ask me to explain the symbolism in my collages or who will remember I love dark chocolate over milk. Maybe what I want is perfection.
And here I am, buying my own 3-dollar ticket to watch 500 Days of Summer at the cheap theater on a Friday or Saturday night. Some nights I’ll make fat-free popcorn and write rhetorical essays about deductive and inductive arguments for class. Other nights I’ll go to bed at 9:30 p.m. without being tired, texting my mom about how I want to go home or how I need her to tell me she loves me. I’ll be one of those amazing, single women like Sheri Dew or Barbara Thompson, I tell myself, because until I find what I want, I will be alone.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Autumn Leaves
When I was seventeen, I was left to stay home with my dad for four months against my will. My mom was in Florida assisting my grandmother with a knee surgery. I would have gone with her if I didn’t have school.
One night, on the ride home from my four-hour work shift at Pier 1, I told my dad that I loved seeing the autumn leaves on the ground.
“You know, when I was about six or seven,” he started, and I turned my head to watch his face become illuminated with the headlights of passing cars. I thought to myself, I have never heard a story from Pop’s childhood, and he talked about using the gutter leaves as a roof for the war bunker he and his brother imagined in the sewer. I wanted to ask him to tell me more.
What was your mother like; did you cry when she died? Why don’t you ever talk to Uncle John; why have I only met him once? What else would you imagine when you were little? I will remember that car ride as long as I have a memory. It was the only time I ever felt like my dad could feel.
One night, on the ride home from my four-hour work shift at Pier 1, I told my dad that I loved seeing the autumn leaves on the ground.
“You know, when I was about six or seven,” he started, and I turned my head to watch his face become illuminated with the headlights of passing cars. I thought to myself, I have never heard a story from Pop’s childhood, and he talked about using the gutter leaves as a roof for the war bunker he and his brother imagined in the sewer. I wanted to ask him to tell me more.
What was your mother like; did you cry when she died? Why don’t you ever talk to Uncle John; why have I only met him once? What else would you imagine when you were little? I will remember that car ride as long as I have a memory. It was the only time I ever felt like my dad could feel.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Hills Like These
Fiesole is a small, clandestine town that rests on a hill just outside of Florence, Italy. The pocketbook tourist guide that I bought from a Barnes and Noble suggested I visit Fiesole for its fine cuisine and intimacy. My friend Josh and I decided to go.
My pocketbook guide also suggested we take the number 7 bus from Piazza Dalmazia, in Florence, to Piazza Mino, in Fiesole. The trip was an estimated 20 minutes, at most.
“I say we take the train,” Josh said.
“What?” I looked up from the little guide book. “Why?”
“Aly, I’ve done it before. The scenery is amazing.” I was done with all of my class assignments for the week; I had time to explore. Besides, I trusted Josh. He was two years older than I and spoke fluent Italian and Spanish. I was in good hands.
“Okay!” I exclaimed, and we walked the ¾ mile to the Piazza della Stazione from our little apartments on Via dei Magazzini.
The train took us through grape vineyards and terracotta-roofed homes, all resting on the slanted hillsides. It was dusk, and the orange sun streamed through long clouds. The hills, I thought, were too large to be called hills, yet too small to be called mountains; some were dotted with basil-colored trees and others were blanketed with tan brush. Italian cypress seemed to poke the underbellies of purple-pink clouds, and I told Josh we will be neighbors someday in these hills.
After about 40 minutes in the cabin, Josh and I exited in Caldine. There were no other people at the stop besides a small child and, I assume, his grandmother. They boarded the train and left Josh and me to ourselves.
“Okay, my friend, now we just need to find a bus to take us up.” Josh said. By this time, the air was blue and cold. I shivered in my red, nylon sundress and sequined sandals.
Minutes later, we found the bus stop, and discovered the routes had stopped running for the night. We looked at the map plastered to a bench and began walking up the long Via Fontelucente. The road would lead us directly into Fiesole’s main piazza; it ran uphill the entire way, wrapping the mountainside. There were no sidewalks, and Josh and I walked in brown Cypress needles that collected at the edges of the road. Every few moments a Euro sports coupe would zip towards us—we’d both fake a scream, and Josh would protect me by trading me places to walk closer to traffic. The arches of my feet rubbed raw against my shoes. My mouth felt full of cotton. It was around 9:30 p.m. and it had been about six hours since I had eaten.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Josh turned his body toward the view, walking backwards, and spread his arms to hug the scenery. I turned my neck to glance, then found myself stopped to face the view.
I’d seen large hills before, probably in southern California or northern Utah, but I’d never seen them like these with vineyards draped over the sides. I’d never seen them with a deep purple backdrop, or with tall stucco houses lit with orange light. I’d never seen hills like these, and now I was standing in the middle of them, breathing their vapor, dirtying my feet with their residue. I breathed deep with my eyes closed, turned back around, and continued my walk to Fiesole.
My pocketbook guide also suggested we take the number 7 bus from Piazza Dalmazia, in Florence, to Piazza Mino, in Fiesole. The trip was an estimated 20 minutes, at most.
“I say we take the train,” Josh said.
“What?” I looked up from the little guide book. “Why?”
“Aly, I’ve done it before. The scenery is amazing.” I was done with all of my class assignments for the week; I had time to explore. Besides, I trusted Josh. He was two years older than I and spoke fluent Italian and Spanish. I was in good hands.
“Okay!” I exclaimed, and we walked the ¾ mile to the Piazza della Stazione from our little apartments on Via dei Magazzini.
The train took us through grape vineyards and terracotta-roofed homes, all resting on the slanted hillsides. It was dusk, and the orange sun streamed through long clouds. The hills, I thought, were too large to be called hills, yet too small to be called mountains; some were dotted with basil-colored trees and others were blanketed with tan brush. Italian cypress seemed to poke the underbellies of purple-pink clouds, and I told Josh we will be neighbors someday in these hills.
After about 40 minutes in the cabin, Josh and I exited in Caldine. There were no other people at the stop besides a small child and, I assume, his grandmother. They boarded the train and left Josh and me to ourselves.
“Okay, my friend, now we just need to find a bus to take us up.” Josh said. By this time, the air was blue and cold. I shivered in my red, nylon sundress and sequined sandals.
Minutes later, we found the bus stop, and discovered the routes had stopped running for the night. We looked at the map plastered to a bench and began walking up the long Via Fontelucente. The road would lead us directly into Fiesole’s main piazza; it ran uphill the entire way, wrapping the mountainside. There were no sidewalks, and Josh and I walked in brown Cypress needles that collected at the edges of the road. Every few moments a Euro sports coupe would zip towards us—we’d both fake a scream, and Josh would protect me by trading me places to walk closer to traffic. The arches of my feet rubbed raw against my shoes. My mouth felt full of cotton. It was around 9:30 p.m. and it had been about six hours since I had eaten.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Josh turned his body toward the view, walking backwards, and spread his arms to hug the scenery. I turned my neck to glance, then found myself stopped to face the view.
I’d seen large hills before, probably in southern California or northern Utah, but I’d never seen them like these with vineyards draped over the sides. I’d never seen them with a deep purple backdrop, or with tall stucco houses lit with orange light. I’d never seen hills like these, and now I was standing in the middle of them, breathing their vapor, dirtying my feet with their residue. I breathed deep with my eyes closed, turned back around, and continued my walk to Fiesole.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Where is Home?
Throughout my childhood, I lived and breathed Italian. Every Christmas, my mother rolled deli meats, placed them on platters as big as snow saucers, toppled them over with peppers, olives, water mozzarella, and called it antipasto. In the summer she’d mash boiled potatoes to a cream, knead them with flour and eggs, shape them into little dumplings, and call them gnocchi. I was a true Italian, I thought. My mother’s vocabulary and cooking expertise confirmed that for me at an early age.
My first day in Florence felt like I was coming home. Every man I saw with a hooked nose, olive skin, and crocodile Gucci boots looked like a brother of mine, an uncle, someone from an old brown photograph my mother had tucked in her closet. The old women’s bodies I saw were like my grandmother’s—soggy necks, abundant chests, hunched backs and wobbly walks. Was this home? My flat forehead and almond eyes suggested that it could have been, but my American citizenship and months of Berlitz language training suggested otherwise.
One particular night, I took the four hour Trenitalia from Rome to Florence. The seats were dark blue, and I felt their rough, fabric balls through my nylon dress. Blisters lined the arches of my feet, and my ankles were sore from walking the cobblestone without a map. A low murmur of others’ voices in the cabin sang to me as I watched the warm orange lights from the buildings pass the windows like glowing tadpoles. I held my tired head up with the palm of my hand. My hollow stomach snarled at me, and my eyes burned each time I closed them longer than a blink. I propped my legs up on the stained seat cushions facing me, my Rome-dipped shoes touching the fabric balls. I fell asleep.
“Che schivo!” I cracked my stiff eyes and looked up to see a tiny man wearing a dark blue conductor hat just above me. He pointed to my feet, waved his hands in my face, then pointed to my feet again. His fast Italian words filtered into my brain, and I squinted my eyes, trying to understand every word. How disgusting, he said. Dirty American, he said. I quickly removed my feet from the seat in front of me. Scanning the cabin to see what kind of attention this was drawing, I saw a woman with long brown hair from the next seat down stretching her neck around to watch. She spoke to the small man, nodding her head. She looked at me straight-lipped and waved her hands when she spoke.
“Me despiace!” I looked at the man and apologized, but he continued to yell. “Me despiace!” I apologized again, with all of the energy I could collect in that exhausted moment. I thought of Grandpa Tony—he would be so ashamed of me right now. The small, angry man handed me a pink slip with €7.50 written on the line at the bottom. I couldn’t decipher the entirety of the little yellow paper, but I understood that they were asking for the remainder of my trip money.
“Fee to clean.” The man pointed to the yellow carbon copy like he was practicing Morse Code in mid-air. “Che schivo.” He snatched the shaking money from my hands. I’ve wronged the people, I thought.
Throughout my entire stay in Italy, I had tried so hard to be accepted by these people—I imitated native speakers when asking for a cone of chocolate or pistachio gelato, I wore fancy sun dresses from Dillard’s and Khol’s instead of tropical tourist shirts and khaki shorts, and I even purchased a paintbrush from a local artisan to make my brushstrokes look more Italian. I tried so hard to be accepted by these people who I knew I was a product of—their blood ran in mine. But to them, I was just a dirty American.
I stayed awake, with my feet planted on the floor, the rest of the ride to Florence.
Now, when my mom pronounces Riccotta the way she always has, I correct her. When she calls my dad a stoonad, I tell her that I asked a native what it meant, and he didn’t know. When she says that’s how the real Italians do it, I ask her how she knows. The truth is I can never be a native Italian—the people will always know; I will always know. What I am is found within some paradigm of Italy and Ellis Island, New York. Somewhere, between those two places, I belong. Somewhere, between those two places, is home.
My first day in Florence felt like I was coming home. Every man I saw with a hooked nose, olive skin, and crocodile Gucci boots looked like a brother of mine, an uncle, someone from an old brown photograph my mother had tucked in her closet. The old women’s bodies I saw were like my grandmother’s—soggy necks, abundant chests, hunched backs and wobbly walks. Was this home? My flat forehead and almond eyes suggested that it could have been, but my American citizenship and months of Berlitz language training suggested otherwise.
One particular night, I took the four hour Trenitalia from Rome to Florence. The seats were dark blue, and I felt their rough, fabric balls through my nylon dress. Blisters lined the arches of my feet, and my ankles were sore from walking the cobblestone without a map. A low murmur of others’ voices in the cabin sang to me as I watched the warm orange lights from the buildings pass the windows like glowing tadpoles. I held my tired head up with the palm of my hand. My hollow stomach snarled at me, and my eyes burned each time I closed them longer than a blink. I propped my legs up on the stained seat cushions facing me, my Rome-dipped shoes touching the fabric balls. I fell asleep.
“Che schivo!” I cracked my stiff eyes and looked up to see a tiny man wearing a dark blue conductor hat just above me. He pointed to my feet, waved his hands in my face, then pointed to my feet again. His fast Italian words filtered into my brain, and I squinted my eyes, trying to understand every word. How disgusting, he said. Dirty American, he said. I quickly removed my feet from the seat in front of me. Scanning the cabin to see what kind of attention this was drawing, I saw a woman with long brown hair from the next seat down stretching her neck around to watch. She spoke to the small man, nodding her head. She looked at me straight-lipped and waved her hands when she spoke.
“Me despiace!” I looked at the man and apologized, but he continued to yell. “Me despiace!” I apologized again, with all of the energy I could collect in that exhausted moment. I thought of Grandpa Tony—he would be so ashamed of me right now. The small, angry man handed me a pink slip with €7.50 written on the line at the bottom. I couldn’t decipher the entirety of the little yellow paper, but I understood that they were asking for the remainder of my trip money.
“Fee to clean.” The man pointed to the yellow carbon copy like he was practicing Morse Code in mid-air. “Che schivo.” He snatched the shaking money from my hands. I’ve wronged the people, I thought.
Throughout my entire stay in Italy, I had tried so hard to be accepted by these people—I imitated native speakers when asking for a cone of chocolate or pistachio gelato, I wore fancy sun dresses from Dillard’s and Khol’s instead of tropical tourist shirts and khaki shorts, and I even purchased a paintbrush from a local artisan to make my brushstrokes look more Italian. I tried so hard to be accepted by these people who I knew I was a product of—their blood ran in mine. But to them, I was just a dirty American.
I stayed awake, with my feet planted on the floor, the rest of the ride to Florence.
Now, when my mom pronounces Riccotta the way she always has, I correct her. When she calls my dad a stoonad, I tell her that I asked a native what it meant, and he didn’t know. When she says that’s how the real Italians do it, I ask her how she knows. The truth is I can never be a native Italian—the people will always know; I will always know. What I am is found within some paradigm of Italy and Ellis Island, New York. Somewhere, between those two places, I belong. Somewhere, between those two places, is home.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Taco Party
I reluctantly walked a block in the cold to attend a Taco Party on a Wednesday night. I automatically assumed the company would be superficial, the food would be greasy, and the experience would not really be worth replacing the bag of popcorn and homework that I had planned. Nevertheless, I knew that I needed to try something new.
One of the guys I met at the party had some self-given name like Folge or Grunk. He wore a light brown shirt with deer antlers on it, orange boots, and wranglers. He asked me where I was from. Texas, I said. He served his mission in Houston and—judging from the look on his face—I think he assumed this would make us insta-friends, even though I’m from Austin, which is a good four hours away, and I’ve only been to Houston twice.
“What year in school are you?” He asked ordinary questions.
“I graduate next semester.” He smiled big and scooted to the edge of the couch, closer towards me.
“Will you be my sugar mama?” He practically shouted. Are you kidding me? I thought to myself.
“Um,” I looked at him with, what felt like, a disgusted expression, “No.”
“Why not?” he asked genuinely confused, throwing his hands up into the air.
“Well, because I expect a man to take care of me. Sorry.” My forehead wrinkled up in honesty.
He continued to plead with me for about two minutes, and I didn’t know whether or not I should keep pretending to smile. I am done with this, I thought. My mouth quivered with confusion, I averted my eyes from his, and walked home by myself about ten minutes later.
One of the guys I met at the party had some self-given name like Folge or Grunk. He wore a light brown shirt with deer antlers on it, orange boots, and wranglers. He asked me where I was from. Texas, I said. He served his mission in Houston and—judging from the look on his face—I think he assumed this would make us insta-friends, even though I’m from Austin, which is a good four hours away, and I’ve only been to Houston twice.
“What year in school are you?” He asked ordinary questions.
“I graduate next semester.” He smiled big and scooted to the edge of the couch, closer towards me.
“Will you be my sugar mama?” He practically shouted. Are you kidding me? I thought to myself.
“Um,” I looked at him with, what felt like, a disgusted expression, “No.”
“Why not?” he asked genuinely confused, throwing his hands up into the air.
“Well, because I expect a man to take care of me. Sorry.” My forehead wrinkled up in honesty.
He continued to plead with me for about two minutes, and I didn’t know whether or not I should keep pretending to smile. I am done with this, I thought. My mouth quivered with confusion, I averted my eyes from his, and walked home by myself about ten minutes later.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Walking Alone
I walked alone today, in my royal blue flats and a borrowed brown jacket. Stepping on wet leaves, I headed home down W. 2nd S.—with my eyes closed, and my face and my neck turned up to the grey sky. Carla Bruni sang Quelqu-un m’a dit one time after the other to me, through the earphones I bought last summer. She understands this beauty I feel. I passed the football field and ran my fingers along the chain-link fence, watching them vibrate.
The French song plays in 500 Days of Summer when Zooey is in the passenger seat, wearing a light blue shirt. Her bangs are dark and in her face. She laughs, but the music plays over it. I will go see that movie tonight.
I pushed the little white button on the crosswalk, saw my breath in the air, and waited for the lights to change. I remembered a dream I had the night before. I wore the spandex pants and grey school sweatshirt I often sleep in. I’m not sure exactly where I was, but someone I once loved was there, talking to me. He was tall, and I strained my neck to look at him. He told me he loved me for all the right reasons. He told me he always meant it. I looked at him confused, but said nothing. The light changed, and as I crossed the street, I watched a man with a beanie riding his bike in the park.
This morning when I woke up and walked alone to class in my royal blue flats and a borrowed brown jacket, I saw the tall person from my dream, the one I once loved. I’m sure he saw me, but crossed the street plugged into his iPod, and never looked. It hurts, and you’d like to feel miserable about this, but you can still make your day a good one.
On W. 2nd S., I stopped to take a picture of the yellow tree I love with dark brown branches that sits across the street. I took a cold breath, pulled my earphones from my ears, and walked up the driveway of the light-blue house on the corner.
The French song plays in 500 Days of Summer when Zooey is in the passenger seat, wearing a light blue shirt. Her bangs are dark and in her face. She laughs, but the music plays over it. I will go see that movie tonight.
I pushed the little white button on the crosswalk, saw my breath in the air, and waited for the lights to change. I remembered a dream I had the night before. I wore the spandex pants and grey school sweatshirt I often sleep in. I’m not sure exactly where I was, but someone I once loved was there, talking to me. He was tall, and I strained my neck to look at him. He told me he loved me for all the right reasons. He told me he always meant it. I looked at him confused, but said nothing. The light changed, and as I crossed the street, I watched a man with a beanie riding his bike in the park.
This morning when I woke up and walked alone to class in my royal blue flats and a borrowed brown jacket, I saw the tall person from my dream, the one I once loved. I’m sure he saw me, but crossed the street plugged into his iPod, and never looked. It hurts, and you’d like to feel miserable about this, but you can still make your day a good one.
On W. 2nd S., I stopped to take a picture of the yellow tree I love with dark brown branches that sits across the street. I took a cold breath, pulled my earphones from my ears, and walked up the driveway of the light-blue house on the corner.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Only Grandparent
I hadn’t called my grandmother since last summer when my mom told me to thank her for the donation that she made towards my tuition. When I called then, she expressed to me how grateful she was to hear from me, how she never heard from my mother’s other four children, and how I remind her of grandpa with my talent for still life paintings. The only other times I’ve called my grandmother have been to wish her happy birthdays in October—and that’s about how frequently we talk.
I was hesitant to tap the little green call button on my iPhone. How would the conversation begin? Am I allowed to say things like what’s up or how’s it goin’ to my grandmother? I called my mom earlier to tell her that I thought it would be more of a service to interview Grandma than it would be for me to interview a complete stranger—she is my only living grandparent, and I am the only grandchild who writes. My mother agreed, and told me during our next phone call that Grandma was expecting my call. Would she know that I would be interviewing her, writing in her voice? I sat myself down on the stained couch in my college living room, grabbed my grey, 5-subject spiral and pen, and gently hinted my finger on the iPhone touch screen.
“Hello?” Her New York accent was just as thick as I remembered; it’s the same accent my brothers imitate during the holidays when she visits. I could picture her sitting in her blue recliner, the small chain of her pink-framed glasses dangling on either side of her neck, holding the cordless phone to her ear. I thought of Lipton Soup with Acini De Pepe and White Shoulders perfume. I thought of her little pink villa in Florida, and how she lives there alone.
“Hi, Grandma,” I smiled big enough for her to hear through the phone.
“Hello my baby. How is school?” I replied with my usual. It’s great; I’m really busy all of the time; I spend twelve hours a day on campus; I share a room with three people; and the house is old. “You datin’ anyone yet?” I replied with my usual. No. “What the heck is wrong with these people? My granddaughter’s meetin’ wimps out dere in Idaho. You’re gorgeous and-and-and talented—just a gem, Aly. You’ll meet some schmuck someday.”
“But Grandma,” I laughed, rocking my entire body forward, “that’s exactly what I don’t want to do is meet some schmuck.” For some reason, hearing my grandmother’s slang words and ideas on dating is refreshing and takes me by surprise. I remember now that there are places in the world besides Rexburg; I am made up of more than this.
She told me about how she just had dinner last week with her old bishop: Bishop Montgomery. Apparently he has a gorgeous son in the Air Force and a daughter at BYU-Idaho that I should befriend. “Didn’t your mother tell you?” No, she didn’t. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. I’m gonna clobber her. I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. You just wait til I get her. I’m gonna pull her hair outta her head.” I laughed loud again. I hadn’t laughed like this in a while. “Oh, I guess that’s okay. She’s got more problems than hair on her head, that woman.”
I propped my legs up onto the couch and pulled a pillow from the ground to place in my lap. I set my notebook on top and drew swirls on the lined paper with my purple pen.
“You know,” she began. I expected her to recommend I meet with the Montgomery brother or tell me what the Swami said about me in her last Tarot reading. “My friend fell down, and she looks like a raccoon.” I laughed. Okay, change of subject, I guess.
“What? She fell down?”
Grandma chuckled, I think, at her raccoon simile. “Yeah, I’m not kiddin’ you. Annie was walkin’down tha steps at tha community centa and fell down. Now she’s walkin’ around with a black eye, for God’s sake.” She continued. “You know, we got March of the Widows over here with all these women. The only men here are the old bitties that are about to croak, God bless ‘em. They look at me like they wanna date me—are they kiddin’? Whadu I wanna be with an old man for?” Grandma is eighty-six. I laughed again, and I tried to scribble down all of her classic lines as fast as she talked. This is my mother’s mom, and though I don’t talk to her much, I feel deeply connected. She raised the most influential person in my life, and because of that, I am connected.
The conversation about our current lives lasted an hour. “Well thank you for calling, baby.” I felt adrenaline as I remembered that I hadn’t interviewed her yet—that was the main purpose of this call. I wouldn’t have thought to call without the assignment. I am a crappy grandchild, I thought.
“Grandma?” I asked before she could hang up. “Mom told you about how I need to interview you for a class, right?”
“Oh yeah, yeah.”
“Is that okay if I ask you some questions? Do you have time?”
“Of course.”
“I was thinking about the deli?”
“The deli? Whaddaya wanna know about it?”
And my grandmother told me about her little deli in Nanuet, NY. We talked for another hour.
I was hesitant to tap the little green call button on my iPhone. How would the conversation begin? Am I allowed to say things like what’s up or how’s it goin’ to my grandmother? I called my mom earlier to tell her that I thought it would be more of a service to interview Grandma than it would be for me to interview a complete stranger—she is my only living grandparent, and I am the only grandchild who writes. My mother agreed, and told me during our next phone call that Grandma was expecting my call. Would she know that I would be interviewing her, writing in her voice? I sat myself down on the stained couch in my college living room, grabbed my grey, 5-subject spiral and pen, and gently hinted my finger on the iPhone touch screen.
“Hello?” Her New York accent was just as thick as I remembered; it’s the same accent my brothers imitate during the holidays when she visits. I could picture her sitting in her blue recliner, the small chain of her pink-framed glasses dangling on either side of her neck, holding the cordless phone to her ear. I thought of Lipton Soup with Acini De Pepe and White Shoulders perfume. I thought of her little pink villa in Florida, and how she lives there alone.
“Hi, Grandma,” I smiled big enough for her to hear through the phone.
“Hello my baby. How is school?” I replied with my usual. It’s great; I’m really busy all of the time; I spend twelve hours a day on campus; I share a room with three people; and the house is old. “You datin’ anyone yet?” I replied with my usual. No. “What the heck is wrong with these people? My granddaughter’s meetin’ wimps out dere in Idaho. You’re gorgeous and-and-and talented—just a gem, Aly. You’ll meet some schmuck someday.”
“But Grandma,” I laughed, rocking my entire body forward, “that’s exactly what I don’t want to do is meet some schmuck.” For some reason, hearing my grandmother’s slang words and ideas on dating is refreshing and takes me by surprise. I remember now that there are places in the world besides Rexburg; I am made up of more than this.
She told me about how she just had dinner last week with her old bishop: Bishop Montgomery. Apparently he has a gorgeous son in the Air Force and a daughter at BYU-Idaho that I should befriend. “Didn’t your mother tell you?” No, she didn’t. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. I’m gonna clobber her. I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. You just wait til I get her. I’m gonna pull her hair outta her head.” I laughed loud again. I hadn’t laughed like this in a while. “Oh, I guess that’s okay. She’s got more problems than hair on her head, that woman.”
I propped my legs up onto the couch and pulled a pillow from the ground to place in my lap. I set my notebook on top and drew swirls on the lined paper with my purple pen.
“You know,” she began. I expected her to recommend I meet with the Montgomery brother or tell me what the Swami said about me in her last Tarot reading. “My friend fell down, and she looks like a raccoon.” I laughed. Okay, change of subject, I guess.
“What? She fell down?”
Grandma chuckled, I think, at her raccoon simile. “Yeah, I’m not kiddin’ you. Annie was walkin’down tha steps at tha community centa and fell down. Now she’s walkin’ around with a black eye, for God’s sake.” She continued. “You know, we got March of the Widows over here with all these women. The only men here are the old bitties that are about to croak, God bless ‘em. They look at me like they wanna date me—are they kiddin’? Whadu I wanna be with an old man for?” Grandma is eighty-six. I laughed again, and I tried to scribble down all of her classic lines as fast as she talked. This is my mother’s mom, and though I don’t talk to her much, I feel deeply connected. She raised the most influential person in my life, and because of that, I am connected.
The conversation about our current lives lasted an hour. “Well thank you for calling, baby.” I felt adrenaline as I remembered that I hadn’t interviewed her yet—that was the main purpose of this call. I wouldn’t have thought to call without the assignment. I am a crappy grandchild, I thought.
“Grandma?” I asked before she could hang up. “Mom told you about how I need to interview you for a class, right?”
“Oh yeah, yeah.”
“Is that okay if I ask you some questions? Do you have time?”
“Of course.”
“I was thinking about the deli?”
“The deli? Whaddaya wanna know about it?”
And my grandmother told me about her little deli in Nanuet, NY. We talked for another hour.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Deli
I interviewed my eighty-six-year-old grandmother about an interesting time in her life. The following essay is written in her voice:
The Deli
I’m sorry we hadda sell it. Grandpa was so happy workin’ in it. But I got sick. My pneumonia came back because I’d work up a sweat from runnin’ around all day. Then I’d go into our cooler-freeza to get things, and I’d get tha chills. I told him not to sell it, but Grandpa says to me, if I lose you, Jean, what’s tha deli to me? So, we sold our Hobbies deli to a family of five.
Whadda you wanna know about it? It was around 1977. Grandpa and I were in our 50’s with no kids anymore—they were all outta tha house by then. It was tough work, man. We’d be in there workin’ from seven a.m. to nine p.m. Some nights, especially if it was snowin’, we’d sleep on tha couch bed in tha back. We had everythin’ we needed in there. We had each other, and we’s were doin’ what we loved.
People came to tha deli because they were crazy about tha food—what can I say? One time a man came in, and he complained to me about there bein’ too much roast beef in his sandwich—do you believe it? I made two roast beefs a day, and of course I used them up in those sandwiches; I wasn’t gonna skimp nobody. His was the only complaint I ever got. It was a pretty good complaint to have, if you ask me.
It smelled like roast beef and garlic all tha time in there. We had an eight-foot salad bar that was always loaded with potato salad, chicken salad, veal and peppers—tha works, okay? I’d cook up a storm and make 250 meatballs a day. Our floor was brown, and we had three aisles of canned foods and other things for people to purchase. There were no seats. This wasn’t a restaurant—are you kidding me? Grandpa and I would nevah have been able to do that on our own. People just came in, got what they wanted, and then they’d leave.
The entire place was immaculate. Tha health inspector came in once and all he could say about tha place was that our bathroom door didn’t close fast enough. I says to him, oh, was that all you could find? I’m pleased.
We had a reputation, boy. One time my mom was comin’ in from the airport, and she told tha cab drivah Hobbie’s Deli, downtown Nanuet. It was on the other side of tha Hudson. Tha cabbie says to her, I eat there all of tha time. She says you’re kiddin’ me, my daughter and son-in-law own that place. He told her he loved it—especially tha sausage and peppa sandwich. There was also a trucker man that would plan his route around our meatball sandwich. What can I tell you? Italians know what’s good.
We’d specially order tha bread for those sandwiches from the Italian bakery down tha street. Sometimes tha sandwiches would go so fast, we’d have to make two trips to tha place in a day. Our sandwiches were magnificent, sure, but our trays were somethin' else. Grandpa made 'em look just fabulous—gorgeous, even. You wouldn’t believe them. He was such an artist, and he’d fold tha Boars Head cold cuts just so. It was tha happiest I’d seen him. He gained weight workin’ there—he was always a skinny mini otherwise. He ate so much pasta and meatballs; he had his fill, boy. I have a picture of him standin’ behind tha deli counter, smilin’. He was always smilin’, Mr. Happy Tooth.
I never liked to eat tha food like Grandpa did. There was so much of it all of tha time; I’d be sick just thinkin’ of eating it. So you know what I’d do? I’d go to tha nearby diner to have an omelet. Tha people workin’ there would say to me, Jean, with all that great food you got over there, you’re eatin’ an omelet? Those people looked at me like I had bugs crawlin’ outta my ears.
We had some experiences in that place. We’d cooked for tha mental institution in Orangeburg, New York, a number of times for Christmas, New Years, Thanksgiving—you name it. They ordered h’orderves and cold cut trays from us. Any time we went inside with our trays and bins to set up, we’d pass tha patients runnin’ around or sittin’ on tha floor. One time in particular, I was in tha kitchen puttin’ tha h’orderves into the oven, and I sees this guy come in. He starts runnin’ around tha table hootin’ and hollerin’ like an owl, takin’ his clothes off. I says to myself, if he comes near me, I’m gonna hit him over tha head with a pot. He didn’t ever come near me, and I just minded my business. I’m tellin’ you, tha things I saw.
Another time, a woman with red hair came into tha deli and said she was a waitress and wanted a caterin’ job. I told her I was caterin’ a colored wedding, and she could help. I was out settin’ things up, runnin’ back and forth, makin’ sure everything was just so. I found her in tha kitchen takin’ shots like don’t ask, with tha men who were mixin’ tha drinks. They thought it was hilarious. Of course she couldn’t help with tha trays after that; she could hardly stand up straight. We were sittin’ in tha van afterwards, and she says to me, boy I had a really great time; that was a beautiful wedding. I told her yeah, that’s tha last time you’re workin’ for me. I was no dummy.
We catered for tha homeless children once. It was tha nun’s 25th anniversary and about 200 people were there. We had so much food left over; I let tha Reverend Mother keep it for tha kids. She says to me Jean, God has to bless you; the children will be eatin’ for a whole week with what you gave me.
So I got sick from tha cooler-freezah, but God spared, and my pneumonia went away. I was blessed; what can I say? No matta how happy Grandpa was makin’ those trays and washin’ our windows, he still sold tha place. I was it for him. He woulda gone crazy without me.
It was a lotta work, that deli. But man, was it a hoot. And that’s it. What else you wanna know?
Friday, October 16, 2009
A Tree
I lived there in the summer. There was a tree close to the foundation of my neighbor's red-brick home. If I wanted to, I could walk across a small, black driveway to get to its trunk, but I never did. I only watched the tree from my upstairs window; it wasn't mine.
The branches gnarled like a wise, aged hand and stretched to my window. At night, the shadows of its form would play on my ceiling, and I'd watch it from my bed those times my friend would call from Canada.
When the sun baked my old, brown carpet and dust trickled through the sunlight, I would struggle for a clean breath. I'd open both of my windows--they didn't have screens--and I'd reach from the sill to touch the leaves. I'd examine their waxy coating, their veins, their jagged outline. I'd drink the clean air and sometimes smell the leaves' damp chlorophyll when it rained.
When songs by Joshua Radin or Rosie Thomas played too long for me to feel the words, I'd sit by the window in my wooden chair, prop my feet up on the sill, and listen to the leaves rub together in the wind. The tree was whispering things to me, I'm sure of it, but my thoughts were never pristine enough to hear what was said--I was always emptying myself onto it.
I could never bring myself to pluck a leaf. The leaves weren't mine. The tree belonged to my neighbor, and it sat close to the foundation of the red-brick home. When the Fall came, I was the one to leave it.
The branches gnarled like a wise, aged hand and stretched to my window. At night, the shadows of its form would play on my ceiling, and I'd watch it from my bed those times my friend would call from Canada.
When the sun baked my old, brown carpet and dust trickled through the sunlight, I would struggle for a clean breath. I'd open both of my windows--they didn't have screens--and I'd reach from the sill to touch the leaves. I'd examine their waxy coating, their veins, their jagged outline. I'd drink the clean air and sometimes smell the leaves' damp chlorophyll when it rained.
When songs by Joshua Radin or Rosie Thomas played too long for me to feel the words, I'd sit by the window in my wooden chair, prop my feet up on the sill, and listen to the leaves rub together in the wind. The tree was whispering things to me, I'm sure of it, but my thoughts were never pristine enough to hear what was said--I was always emptying myself onto it.
I could never bring myself to pluck a leaf. The leaves weren't mine. The tree belonged to my neighbor, and it sat close to the foundation of the red-brick home. When the Fall came, I was the one to leave it.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Snow
I woke up to the first snowfall of the semester, but the weather isn't the only thing that's changed.
I have found myself smiling at strangers passing by in the MC or on the sidewalk, when before I'd walk with somewhat of a cloudy eye, focused on my destination and nothing inbetween. A roommate of mine told me that a text message I sent made her day, and I want to understand her. A girl in my creative writing class opened up to me to the point of tears. I felt so much love for her and so much sorrow for what I'd thought of her before. A stout girl offered the scripture in class, and I studied her chapped lips and empathized with her. I got excited about an assignment given: to interview an elderly person about a specific moment in their life and write about it, providing a small record for that person and their family. A really great guy that I know ate lunch with me today and had me listen to about eight of his favorite classical songs, and I felt his enthusiasm.
I've decided that after graduation, in April, I'm going to serve a mission. There was something about Elder Perry's talk during General Conference on Sunday, and all of the talks following, that really echoed that message. I never wanted to go; in fact, I was positive I would never go.
It's amazing to me that changes like these can take place overnight. But the snow has brought this with it, and I am content.
I have found myself smiling at strangers passing by in the MC or on the sidewalk, when before I'd walk with somewhat of a cloudy eye, focused on my destination and nothing inbetween. A roommate of mine told me that a text message I sent made her day, and I want to understand her. A girl in my creative writing class opened up to me to the point of tears. I felt so much love for her and so much sorrow for what I'd thought of her before. A stout girl offered the scripture in class, and I studied her chapped lips and empathized with her. I got excited about an assignment given: to interview an elderly person about a specific moment in their life and write about it, providing a small record for that person and their family. A really great guy that I know ate lunch with me today and had me listen to about eight of his favorite classical songs, and I felt his enthusiasm.
I've decided that after graduation, in April, I'm going to serve a mission. There was something about Elder Perry's talk during General Conference on Sunday, and all of the talks following, that really echoed that message. I never wanted to go; in fact, I was positive I would never go.
It's amazing to me that changes like these can take place overnight. But the snow has brought this with it, and I am content.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
It's Too Late
When my dad, Charles, was on a business trip, I slept in the master bedroom with my mother. She cries when she tells me about an earlier time when she was in love with a man named Paul.
She met Paul when she was twenty-two and working at American Can Company. Every day she drove an hour-and-a-half in her yellow Plymouth Duster, from Wappinger Falls to Greenwich, Connecticut, where she worked as the executive secretary. Paul was a lawyer.
He asked her to help put together an office party. She says she wasn’t attracted to him at first, but from the way she's painted, I picture him as a young George Peppard—handsome, always dressed up in business suits, his light-brown hair parted to one side. She tells me he was quiet-natured, French-Canadian, a vegetarian, and spoke through a cracked tooth—a mark from playing football at Brandice University. My mother says he had a gorgeous body, and she could kiss him for hours. I told her I thought that was disgusting. Aly, when you love someone..., she says.
I'd never seen her kiss my dad.
I have a black-and-white photograph of my mother at age twenty-two; I hang and re-hang it each time I switch college apartments. It was taken of her before she met my dad. I think I like it because it proves that she once had a time when her future was untouched and happy. In it, she has black-brown hair past her waist and is carrying a breakfast tray. Her high cheekbones synch in her thin face; she tells me that she’d cure her hunger with cigarettes and an occasional PB&J on an unsalted Matzo cracker.
From listening to her stories, I've developed this image of my mother in a red, 1960's Volkswagen with her bare feet on the dashboard of the passenger seat. Paul is in the driver's seat, and the car is parked at the beach. The Moody Blues—their favorite group—is singing everyone is looking for the answer/well look again/come on my friend/love will find them in the end. Her hair falls from both sides of her head in long braids, and she's wearing a blue-and-white striped shirt, Daisy Dukes, large circle-framed sunglasses, and a straw hat that she keeps from blowing away by holding it to the top of her head. It's a hot day and all of the windows of the car are rolled down. Paul has said something, and my mother has the same smile and look on her face as she does in that old black-and-white photo.
I imagine her at lunch with Paul. My mother hovers over her half-eaten turkey sandwich. “What age group should we keep the party in?” She holds her pen between her then smooth and un-aged fingers, scribbling on a white, rectangle napkin.
“How about ages twenty to thirty-two?” Paul’s body is angled over the table, towards her.
“Are you crazy?” She looks up from her napkin and raises her eyebrows. “That’s so old.”
“You think thirty-two is old?” He smiles, “I’m thirty-two.”
I imagine her looking back down at her napkin.
When my mother was a child—somewhere between five and eight—she would walk through the halls of her house in Yorktown Heights, with a black veil draped over her head, singing Catholic hymns. She would say her Hail Mary, her Our Father, and The Act of Contrition nights and mornings, and I suspect many times in between. I wanted to be a nun from the time I was a little girl, she says. She tells me that she pratically has lived like a nun since she married my dad; he hasn’t touched her in twenty-three years. Her pale-pink rosary beads still hang in her Tiffany jewelry box, and she lets me take them out to try them on, because she knows I honor them. Bury me with those beads, Aly, she says, even though she has been a pious Mormon for thirty-something years. And I will bury her with them; they are a part of her.
I imagine the lunch conversation somehow transitioning.
“You’ve been married?” Paul was surprised; she was only twenty-two. I imagine him leaning in closer to the lunch table, his eyes fastened to her.
“Yeah, but it was annulled by the Catholic Church after two-and-a-half years.” My mother married a man named Bob when she was eighteen.
“Have you ever been married?” She asked Paul.
“Never,” he leaned back, “I don’t believe in marriage.”
She and Paul shopped for the party together; she had never shopped with a man—not even her father or Bob. Paul juggled oranges for her in the produce section, and they laughed when she said she had been “fishing for fish.” He made fun of her for being from Wappinger Falls—a funny name, he said—for smoking, and for eating meat. I stayed a vegetarian for two years because of Paul, she tells me. I told her once, around age fifteen, while shuffling through a salad bar line, that I liked banana chips. "Paul loved banana chips," she said. Even after thirty-something years, she's remembered.
At Paul’s beach house in Stamford, Connecticut, during the party, he asked her to dance. When we moved together, Aly, it felt like we were one. I get chills when my mother tells me this. I feel something for her and Paul—maybe anxiety, maybe pain, maybe frustration.
I wish I could’ve seen her with him. I wish Paul could have been my father. Sunday night dinners might’ve been different; we might have had family vacations or family reunions. My mother would have wanted to grocery shop with him, and they would’ve decided on what style couches to buy together, without a fight. Paul would have hung the mirrors and pictures up on the walls for my mother without her asking. He would have known that she wouldn’t like a five-dollar Poncho from the Mexican border for Christmas. He would have set up a good retirement fund for her; he would have taken her to Italy like she’s always wished. He would have taken her to the hospital when she was hemorrhaging during her pregnancy with the twins. Paul never would have locked her up in her room for a day to discipline her; he wouldn’t have told her to just cool it Honey and drag her by her arm. He wouldn’t have ignored me as a child or said that my paintings were just interesting. Paul would have been different. I love Paul. I love my dreams about Paul being my father. I love him for giving my mother what he did.
My mother dated Paul for two years. They were both members of the 1970’s Servants of Awareness cult, and smoked pot to channel their Christ consciousness in love, mercy, gratitude, and satisfaction. I was constantly in search of truth, she tells me. And to me, it feels like she was free back then.
“If I moved in with you, Paul, Dad would be down here with a shotgun.” My mother wanted to marry Paul after their two years of dating. She wanted purity and family with the man she loved.
“I just don’t believe in marriage, Barbara.” Paul wrote away to the Servants of Awareness leaders, asking if they thought marriage was necessary. The leaders replied with a no.
“You’re going to let me go?” My mother cried. Paul cried. “You’re so stupid, Paul. You’re so stupid.” And they broke up in an underground garage parking lot at American Can Company.
The next day, my mother met my dad in an elevator, and he invited her to have dinner with him at a Steak ‘N Stein in Wappinger Falls. She ate two bites of steak—her first time in two years—and she says it made her sick.
Four months later, two hours before my parents were married, Paul called my mother. "I'm coming to get you, Barbara. Are you married yet? Are you married?” My mother said it's too late, got drunk on tequila shots, and married my dad.
The idea of Paul follows both my mother and me. I wonder if he regrets what happened, or if he knows that her smile has changed. I wonder if he would have saved her from her life. I wonder if Paul tells his children about a time when he was in love with a woman named Barbara.
My mother cries when she tells me these things, and I touch her shoulder. The next morning my dad, Charles, will pull into the driveway.
She met Paul when she was twenty-two and working at American Can Company. Every day she drove an hour-and-a-half in her yellow Plymouth Duster, from Wappinger Falls to Greenwich, Connecticut, where she worked as the executive secretary. Paul was a lawyer.
He asked her to help put together an office party. She says she wasn’t attracted to him at first, but from the way she's painted, I picture him as a young George Peppard—handsome, always dressed up in business suits, his light-brown hair parted to one side. She tells me he was quiet-natured, French-Canadian, a vegetarian, and spoke through a cracked tooth—a mark from playing football at Brandice University. My mother says he had a gorgeous body, and she could kiss him for hours. I told her I thought that was disgusting. Aly, when you love someone..., she says.
I'd never seen her kiss my dad.
I have a black-and-white photograph of my mother at age twenty-two; I hang and re-hang it each time I switch college apartments. It was taken of her before she met my dad. I think I like it because it proves that she once had a time when her future was untouched and happy. In it, she has black-brown hair past her waist and is carrying a breakfast tray. Her high cheekbones synch in her thin face; she tells me that she’d cure her hunger with cigarettes and an occasional PB&J on an unsalted Matzo cracker.
From listening to her stories, I've developed this image of my mother in a red, 1960's Volkswagen with her bare feet on the dashboard of the passenger seat. Paul is in the driver's seat, and the car is parked at the beach. The Moody Blues—their favorite group—is singing everyone is looking for the answer/well look again/come on my friend/love will find them in the end. Her hair falls from both sides of her head in long braids, and she's wearing a blue-and-white striped shirt, Daisy Dukes, large circle-framed sunglasses, and a straw hat that she keeps from blowing away by holding it to the top of her head. It's a hot day and all of the windows of the car are rolled down. Paul has said something, and my mother has the same smile and look on her face as she does in that old black-and-white photo.
I imagine her at lunch with Paul. My mother hovers over her half-eaten turkey sandwich. “What age group should we keep the party in?” She holds her pen between her then smooth and un-aged fingers, scribbling on a white, rectangle napkin.
“How about ages twenty to thirty-two?” Paul’s body is angled over the table, towards her.
“Are you crazy?” She looks up from her napkin and raises her eyebrows. “That’s so old.”
“You think thirty-two is old?” He smiles, “I’m thirty-two.”
I imagine her looking back down at her napkin.
When my mother was a child—somewhere between five and eight—she would walk through the halls of her house in Yorktown Heights, with a black veil draped over her head, singing Catholic hymns. She would say her Hail Mary, her Our Father, and The Act of Contrition nights and mornings, and I suspect many times in between. I wanted to be a nun from the time I was a little girl, she says. She tells me that she pratically has lived like a nun since she married my dad; he hasn’t touched her in twenty-three years. Her pale-pink rosary beads still hang in her Tiffany jewelry box, and she lets me take them out to try them on, because she knows I honor them. Bury me with those beads, Aly, she says, even though she has been a pious Mormon for thirty-something years. And I will bury her with them; they are a part of her.
I imagine the lunch conversation somehow transitioning.
“You’ve been married?” Paul was surprised; she was only twenty-two. I imagine him leaning in closer to the lunch table, his eyes fastened to her.
“Yeah, but it was annulled by the Catholic Church after two-and-a-half years.” My mother married a man named Bob when she was eighteen.
“Have you ever been married?” She asked Paul.
“Never,” he leaned back, “I don’t believe in marriage.”
She and Paul shopped for the party together; she had never shopped with a man—not even her father or Bob. Paul juggled oranges for her in the produce section, and they laughed when she said she had been “fishing for fish.” He made fun of her for being from Wappinger Falls—a funny name, he said—for smoking, and for eating meat. I stayed a vegetarian for two years because of Paul, she tells me. I told her once, around age fifteen, while shuffling through a salad bar line, that I liked banana chips. "Paul loved banana chips," she said. Even after thirty-something years, she's remembered.
At Paul’s beach house in Stamford, Connecticut, during the party, he asked her to dance. When we moved together, Aly, it felt like we were one. I get chills when my mother tells me this. I feel something for her and Paul—maybe anxiety, maybe pain, maybe frustration.
I wish I could’ve seen her with him. I wish Paul could have been my father. Sunday night dinners might’ve been different; we might have had family vacations or family reunions. My mother would have wanted to grocery shop with him, and they would’ve decided on what style couches to buy together, without a fight. Paul would have hung the mirrors and pictures up on the walls for my mother without her asking. He would have known that she wouldn’t like a five-dollar Poncho from the Mexican border for Christmas. He would have set up a good retirement fund for her; he would have taken her to Italy like she’s always wished. He would have taken her to the hospital when she was hemorrhaging during her pregnancy with the twins. Paul never would have locked her up in her room for a day to discipline her; he wouldn’t have told her to just cool it Honey and drag her by her arm. He wouldn’t have ignored me as a child or said that my paintings were just interesting. Paul would have been different. I love Paul. I love my dreams about Paul being my father. I love him for giving my mother what he did.
My mother dated Paul for two years. They were both members of the 1970’s Servants of Awareness cult, and smoked pot to channel their Christ consciousness in love, mercy, gratitude, and satisfaction. I was constantly in search of truth, she tells me. And to me, it feels like she was free back then.
“If I moved in with you, Paul, Dad would be down here with a shotgun.” My mother wanted to marry Paul after their two years of dating. She wanted purity and family with the man she loved.
“I just don’t believe in marriage, Barbara.” Paul wrote away to the Servants of Awareness leaders, asking if they thought marriage was necessary. The leaders replied with a no.
“You’re going to let me go?” My mother cried. Paul cried. “You’re so stupid, Paul. You’re so stupid.” And they broke up in an underground garage parking lot at American Can Company.
The next day, my mother met my dad in an elevator, and he invited her to have dinner with him at a Steak ‘N Stein in Wappinger Falls. She ate two bites of steak—her first time in two years—and she says it made her sick.
Four months later, two hours before my parents were married, Paul called my mother. "I'm coming to get you, Barbara. Are you married yet? Are you married?” My mother said it's too late, got drunk on tequila shots, and married my dad.
The idea of Paul follows both my mother and me. I wonder if he regrets what happened, or if he knows that her smile has changed. I wonder if he would have saved her from her life. I wonder if Paul tells his children about a time when he was in love with a woman named Barbara.
My mother cries when she tells me these things, and I touch her shoulder. The next morning my dad, Charles, will pull into the driveway.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
I Write Too
He knows where I work, where I spend all of my time between classes. I am always available, always accessible, and that's not fair. I envision him walking in, like he could not waste another day or minute. He places his hands on the front desk and, in rapid breaths, asks if I am here. He sees me before the receptionist can answer. I am sitting alone at one of the tables, copying quotes into my notebook--the ones that endear me, from Tammy Williams' "I Write" essay.
His neck is straight; his light blue eyes are serious. He's sure this time; this is deliberate. I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. He walks over slowly; his face is hot from running in the cold, outside air. I write to quell the pain. His dark-brown hair is stiff and swooshed like I remember. I write to remember. He is wearing his blue robot shirt with grey jeans. I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. Did he even have grey jeans? I write to forget. I don't remember.
He reaches the table where I am writing--alone. I haven't noticed him yet, I haven't seen who it is, but I hear his breath. I recognize his breath. I feel the cold air on his clothes, and I sense someone tall standing beside the table. I write to forget. I write to forget. I write to forget. I look up. My heart pounds in my throat. But...I thought you were done with me, my face says. Blood creeps up to my cheeks; it is pounding in my head and in my ears and in my throat. I feel stinging, prickling blood in my arms and legs. Is this real? No. His expression is real; he means this. "I made a mistake," he'll say, and I will cry, because he is damn right he made a mistake.
I write as though I am whispering into the ear of someone I love. I will jump to him. I will hold his face in my hands. I will whisper into his ear: you have a good heart. And I will wait for something different to find me.
I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams.
His neck is straight; his light blue eyes are serious. He's sure this time; this is deliberate. I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. He walks over slowly; his face is hot from running in the cold, outside air. I write to quell the pain. His dark-brown hair is stiff and swooshed like I remember. I write to remember. He is wearing his blue robot shirt with grey jeans. I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. Did he even have grey jeans? I write to forget. I don't remember.
He reaches the table where I am writing--alone. I haven't noticed him yet, I haven't seen who it is, but I hear his breath. I recognize his breath. I feel the cold air on his clothes, and I sense someone tall standing beside the table. I write to forget. I write to forget. I write to forget. I look up. My heart pounds in my throat. But...I thought you were done with me, my face says. Blood creeps up to my cheeks; it is pounding in my head and in my ears and in my throat. I feel stinging, prickling blood in my arms and legs. Is this real? No. His expression is real; he means this. "I made a mistake," he'll say, and I will cry, because he is damn right he made a mistake.
I write as though I am whispering into the ear of someone I love. I will jump to him. I will hold his face in my hands. I will whisper into his ear: you have a good heart. And I will wait for something different to find me.
I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams.
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