I Am Afraid

I was never really afraid of dying until one of my best friends died. She was 22, healthy, beautiful, intelligent, and one of those girls you just knew was going to do well in life. But her life ended much too early, and the day she died, I couldn’t help but contemplate the length of my own life. It sounds selfish, but isn’t that what we do when someone dies? Immediately reflect on our own state of being, fear losing everything we have, want to contact every person we love just in case we might also leave this earth early. And for about thirty seconds, all of that ran through my mind. And then I cried.

I never used to think about my heartbeat. It just kind of beat, and I’d feel it beat harder when I exercised, right after sex, when something startled me, or soaking in a hot and quiet tub. But, now I think about it all the time. I reach my two fingertips up to my neck sometimes, just to check its rhythm, to make sure it's not beating abnormally, not that I even know what is normal for a heartbeat. But I’m aware of it. I envision my tiny blood vessels pumping through my veins, flowing constantly all the time, without ever stopping. Ever.

For Diana, they just stopped. She had a blood clot that started in her calf, and three months later it reached her lungs, moved into her heart, and killed her. They did everything they could, for this young strong heart.

I was always proud of myself for not fearing death, for not letting it keep me up at night, or scare me from being adventurous. But, now it truly does. Now, I know how quickly it can come, how tragic it can be, how final its result is. Because now, every time I feel a cramp or pain in my leg, I think of Diana. I think I have a blood clot, and could possibly be dying. And, I’m afraid. Afraid of it more than anything. I work myself up, and then force myself to do something else, distract my mind with something that forces me to move, to breathe, to feel my heart beat.

And, every time I hear sirens, I see Diana lying on the concrete outside of where she worked, collapsed, her blood no longer moving.

Miss New York Has Everything

For someone who has not spent a lot of time reading memoir, I have been passionately and genuinely introduced to the power of memoir through Sheryl St. Germain’s "Swamp Songs" and now Lori Jakiela’s "Miss New York Has Everything." Although very different in language and style, St. Germain and Jakiela have both touched a part of my soul that finds writing to be not only one of the most compelling forces of language but also a necessity in the daily life of being human.

Jakiela took me into the mind of a child growing up in small town Pittsburgh, shedding light on the years before I was born, to the mind of a well traveled adult who found stability and her own sense of home in the most foreign of places. I was laughing in the first essay, as Jakiela intelligently sectioned her memoir into a collection of shorter essays that acted as chapters in "Miss New York Has Everything." She successfully told a life story through creatively titled essays that although not strictly chronological, weaved into a perfect storyline that was compelling and captivating, quite the page-turner.

Her language was simple and conversational and at the same time incredibly ingenious in diction and uniqueness. I often felt I had already spent time with her, having known nothing about or of her before opening the cover. She is hysterical and clever in her ability to evoke the life of a Pittsburgh-er (as someone whose lived in Pittsburgh for 3 years now) and the communal aspects of growing up, through celebrity crushes, miss teen pageants, parent-dog relationships and the trials and tribulations of being an adopted only child with her eyes set on the dream of making it “big.”

The more I read, the deeper I was led into the mind and soul of Lori Jakiela, and into a better understanding of how we, as humans, see a world of steel workers and suburbs, shit jobs and tough breaks, small gestures and magical cities that all light up and darken our everyday lives. Jakiela’s memoir is told from a perspective that comes from every angle: a dirty Erie, Pa, an empty NYC dorm room, a pink closet room in Paris, a comfortable suburban hometown, all balanced out and complicated by the visions of a stewardess 20,000 feet above ground. Her tales from pouring coffee to walking the streets of Manhattan in search of raspberry soap to looking for “glamour” in everything she did color the page with sincerity and humor, always finding the sarcasm or lessons in every experience.

Although at times I felt she spoke of things in a somewhat stereotypical or cliché manner, particularly when speaking about foreigners, I think it was due to the little time she actually spent in a country (as a stewardess), exposing herself just on the surface to the typicality of the French, German, etc. I also believe there is usually truth behind stereotypes, even though they are for the most part gross generalizations. I also found the real heart of the memoir and the powerful reflection to be toward the end of the book. The beginning didn't seem to have much and I found myself way more interested in her voice and personal story toward the end. I wonder if it is important to bring that out earlier on so to maintain the attention of her reader.

I am looking very forward to meeting with Lori and discussing how she worked through the entire memoir process. I'd like to know her thinking with the format: Did she know before sitting down to write, the order and set-up of the essays, or did that come naturally as she began writing down her life? I'm also interested in knowing the way she recalled details, especially as someone who flew thousands of times to many different places encountering a great number of people.

Sprinting

Do three-minute sprints with each of the following topics:

Cantaloupe

It’s one of the best summer fruits, only when its cold and ripe and juicy and orange, not mushy and warm and still partly green. I used to spend afternoons making fruit salad in my parents’ old house where I grew up. I had cutting cantaloupe down to a science. I would smell it at the end, making sure it was at the perfect ripeness. I’d grab the fat knife, not perforated but heavy, the one that is good for cutting lettuce heads. Down the middle, I’d slice the lope’ into two halves, scrape out the juicy seeds with a thick silver spoon, gutting its insides, like the way I’d carve pumpkins with my dad. I found it best to then cut each half into threes, grabbing each slice and sliding the sharp metal edge of the knife down the boundary of the green rind and sweet flesh. The juice dripped down my wrist, annoyingly sliding to the edge of my elbow; I couldn’t stop to prevent it or the perfect slice would be ruined.

Cow

I don’t really like cows that much. I consider myself an animal lover- but I guess I’m not much of one if I have no real devoted interest in cows. But I love their milk. I drink it raw. Un-pasteurized. It’s heavy white substance builds cream on the top of the glass gallon, creating a rim of curd-like velvet, perfect for skimming off and plopping into my morning coffee. It’s whole and fatty, and full of Vitamin D, beta-carotene that the cows digest from the grass they eat, nutrients and minerals only offered in this flowing white juice of the cow.

Breast

I have two of them. I remember the year I got them. It’s not cliché to say they develop overnight. One day I had two little bumps under my t-shirt, and the next day they were breasts. Woman’s breasts, but I didn’t yet feel like a woman. Not until I saw my silhouette in the mirror, two round mounds of new fat that hung from my shoulders. I felt heavier and sexier. And I finally knew they were there when I’d wrap my arms around a boy, and only feel them as our chests touched, mine pushing back at me into my little rib cage I had seen bare everyday before that, naked in front of the mirror.

Window

I never considered myself claustrophobic. I’ve had numerous MRI’s and the technician always interviews me prior to being wheeled into the massive magnetic field, asking whether or not I’m claustrophobic and I answer “no” every time. Windows got me to thinking that I might be partly claustrophobic. I absolutely love windows. I want them in every room of my house, the more the better. One or two in each room doesn’t really cut it for me. I want the walls to be majority glass, so the light can come in. Natural light, so I won’t need lamps. Nothing is comparable to that morning light that shines in through the window, rays beaming down onto the wooden floor or Oriental rug, creating a hole of joy, plastered to that spot until the sun continues its rise.

Urine

I don’t really know what to say about urine. I just keep thinking of warmth, and the way it smells in the morning, dehydrated and bright yellow, but such an amazing release. I never had to deal that much with urine until I got a puppy. He pisses a lot and is learning to hold it, but the past month I’ve touched, wiped, cleaned up, and smelled more urine than ever before. I want to know why it’s yellow. I know it’s all waste, and our body cleanses through urinating but now that my trashcans are full of soaked paper towels, and my once white bath mat is almost completely yellow, I’d like to know why it’s not blue.

Pillow

The pillow has become a rather important part of my bedding the past couple of years. After a neck surgery put me in a stark white collar for a couple months, my sensitivity to pillows grew stronger. Feather down pillows were what I used most growing up. I think mainly just because that’s what my mom had and I got used to them- the smell of down, how it sometimes reminded my of stale leather or damp rugs, the little pricks that poked my cheeks when the feather tips would make their way through the 300 thread-count. I got an orthopedic neck pillow after my surgery, but hated the way it constricted my spine. I even tried sleeping with no pillow, the way my Venezuelan sister-in-law does, and claims it’s the most natural way to sleep.


Vanilla

When I think of vanilla, I don’t get that excited. The only reason for this is because of its counterpart: chocolate. I absolutely adore chocolate and would definitely label it as one of my most favorite things in the world. And, as a result, vanilla being it’s opposite gets pushed out of mind for me. Ice Cream: Chocolate or Vanilla? Chocolate! Cake: Chocolate or Vanilla? Chocolate! Pudding: Chocolate or Vanilla? Chocolate! Whenever given the choice of flavor between Chocolate and Vanilla, I choose Chocolate! But I do think about vanilla beans, how dark and earthy they look, the way you can scrape out the dark moist vanilla pulp from the inside of the bean. And, how you can use it in a recipe to make my most favorite of all: chocolate mousse!

Baggage

I work in a store that sells bags. They sit in their glass cases, transparently displayed for a buyer, for the next middle-aged woman to catch a glimpse of self-worth in this small hunk of fabric. Some are beautiful, I can’t deny that, with their soft leather straps and shiny gold hardware, begging to be thrown on a shoulder and formed to an armpit. I’ve never been a big buyer. Ten years after I stopped playing sports, my friends made fun of me for still carrying my navy blue, tattered Adidas bag. Their Vera Bradleys sat on the floor next to mine, with their matching cosmetic bags bursting of complex flower designs, spilling lip gloss and mascara. Mine sat limply behind the sofa, hiding the remnants of old shin guards.

I carried that Adidas bag over my shoulder as I deliriously walked through the arrival gates to meet my French host mom. I didn’t know at the time it would be one of the least stressful years of my life. As soon as we reached her apartment, she led me down a long hallway. The carpet was a boring brown, the walls a typical antique white, and at the very end was the door to my bedroom. A simple room, not more than 10x12 square feet with a short single bed, covered by a sheet and a blue duvet. Next to that sat a small brown box, that worked as a bedside table, with just enough surface for a lamp and my journal. I wrote in it every night. I cannot forget the charming wooden desk, with its matching chair. Here was where I spent late nights, ruffling through my French dictionary, trying to read Metamorphose, and learn the use of le subjonctif. My suitcase of clothes, folded neatly on the shelves in my closest, shared space with the few items that hung. The window was by far the highlight; a tall escape to the outside world, with its delicate wooden shutters and its heavy French doors that opened outward overlooking families gardens and backyards. Most evenings, the sky was pink, the stones dark with rain, echoing the muffled voices of couples walking to a restaurant.

Back home, I walk into a department store. I cannot bear the fluorescent lights that beat down over the aisles and aisles of stuff. Within each aisle are shelves, and within the shelves are compartments. The CEO’s see dollar signs. I see too much. I see an abundance of things, things that are needless, were needless to me in my sufficient single room. I often stand in the middle of a department store, and try to take in the actual amount of “stuff” in my sight. I think “stuff” is an overused word, but it is perfect in this sense. The shelves are stuffed, the aisles are stuffed, the big box stores are stuffed. My head is stuffed.

I'd be lying if I said that I wasn’t a consumer. I wake up each morning, push down my cotton sheets, turn on my coffee machine, and start up my computer. I am a privileged American, who has conveniences at my fingertips, all only a car ride or swipe of a credit card away. I often think back to a corner of the world, where even though I was alone living in another country, speaking a different language, immersing myself in my studies and hoping to understand at least 75% of what my host mom said, I was not stressed. There was nothing to clutter my mind, to distract my ripening thoughts, to spoil the sensation of wandering through a maze of cobblestone streets. I had a duffle bag of clothes, a couple pairs of shoes, and my books. I had never known it could be that simple.

I long to hang five shirts on the drying rack next to my window once again. As the sun dried them, I would sit and wait. I’d watch the mid morning air carry them and gaze into the ray that warmed them. They could all fit into one suitcase, one backpack, even one handbag.

Maybe it was the wine. But I keep coming back to that feeling years later, when I de-clutter my life, of fitting all my stuff in a suitcase. And when I think like this, and (don’t) buy like this, I wake up in my little French room. I think everyone should spend some time there.

Write About a Time You Slept Outside.

10 minutes. Go.

I was 16, a junior in high school. The time when my friends and I sought after parent-free houses and begged older siblings to buy alcohol, anticipating the weekend potential of full-fledge letting go, stupid boys, and back country roads. I had just had a knee surgery; an avid field hockey player, I had torn my meniscus. Crutches and an immobilizer were my new articles of clothing; they kind of went everywhere with me. It was late Fall, the trees were just starting to turn brown, preparing for their descent to the eager winter's ground.

My friends and I headed back the mile-long trail to the "campsite" my friend's older brother had found in the State Forest outside our town. It was the quintessential camping spot: a narrow creek meandered its way around an island of moss, with massive tree trunks that made perfect for sitting in front of a fire until sunrise. It was late, and pitch black. I don't know what possessed me to walk(crutch) a mile back into thick dark woods in the state I was in. The Percocet might have helped a little. And I was young, with friends and there were boys at the end of the trail. With the help of my girlfriends, I made it across the log that acted as a bridge to the campground just as the rain started its intermittent passing. The boys were poking at the hot fire, chugging Milwaukee's Best and passing around a bowl. I sat on the tree trunk most of the night, unable to go far when I needed to pee, but the beer and weed made it less embarassing having to squat so close to my peers.

The rain subsided a few hours while we laughed and drank and blurred our brains, and then came on heavy and fast the way thunderstorms do. Pouring buckets, we ran (I limped) into the one tent our guy friend had set up before our arrival. Our young, wet bodies plastered up against one another, clinging to each other, searching for anything dry. The thunder was booming, cracking so loudly; at every lightning bolt I envisioned a tree falling on top of the tent squashing me, knee brace and all. I was smashed up against the far side, shoved between my girlfriend and the thin nylon tent. Water poured down the side and in through the sheath "window." Why would we have thought to bring a waterproof tarp? Partying was our main objective.

The time between thunder and lightning shortened at every crack, securing the thought in all our minds that we were right in the middle of a treacherous storm, and there was really nothing to do but wait it out. It was the kind of storm that scares you even in the comfort of your secure, dry house. And there we were, a mile from any road, 20 miles from town, surrounded by trees blowing frantically in the storm's rapid winds, hearts racing. There are those moments in nature that turn so quickly, for the worst, to the extreme, without much warning. Suddenly, we were helpless in the weather, its roaring power and incessant destruction ripping through our getaway spot. After about 20 minutes of torrential downpours and thunder that rattled our rib cages, the fear transformed into adrenalin, to a high the weed didn't offer, a high that tested our limits. It was uncomfortable, exciting, thrilling, and dangerous: the story of most teenage years.

The Power of a Swamp Song

“Swamp Songs” has opened me up, opened me to a place I didn’t know existed. Well, I knew of Louisiana geographically and for its Mardi Gras and Hurricane Katrina, but after reading Sheryl’s memoir, it’s all become a different story. A story that transported me to a small corner of the world that breathes in hot sauce and thick heavy air, that swallows moments full of charades and dark phantom trees, all comforted and soothed by the Creole odors pumping from a kitchen in Kenner. I haven’t read much memoir in my past, but have to say that I greatly enjoyed the book being parted up into shorter essays that all interconnected and were all thread together via Louisiana landscape, culture, food, music and of course, the St. Germain family. These individual sections offered a powerful focus on specific individuals, relationships, Louisianan aspects and situations, creating the mixture that spices up life, a gumbo roux-ing with crayfish, oysters, tomatoes and peppers.

What astonished me more in this account of Sheryl’s life is the brutal honesty. I don’t believe I have ever felt so included and so let in to a piece in my life. It was as though the narrator and I had been best friends for years, and we were sitting together recounting it all, hearts spewed open, souls drowning the room with sincerity. I wonder if I feel more invested because I know her and she is my professor, but I think it would have had the same effect on me regardless. A place so far from my home, and from my background and culture, became a place I cared for, a beating swamp that felt full of stories and pain, memories and regret, but simultaneously thrived off passion and energy. I related to the pain, the loss and the darkness, like all humans that know what it feels like to be alive, to know the frustration and suffocation that comes with the bad.

The images of witch-like cypress trees grounding the swamps, salty wet fish meat that clung to hands, mystical multi-colored creatures that flocked the streets during Mardi Gras, masks shielding the truth that hid just behind them, are solidified in the back of my mind. Curved bodies and wine, cocaine and books, catfish and perfume are still stewing. Through Sheryl’s accounts of the natural world, how its being destroyed and also fed, her countless mentioning of cuisine and the rock it played in her family’s own culture, I grasped an understanding of a foreign place, a place that pushed the limits of her own security, acceptance and fear.

I particularly enjoyed the way Sheryl incorporated so many facts about the natural world of Louisiana, its fish and waters, weather and trees. I found the informational sections well placed throughout her personal story and realized how needed they were in revealing the people that came from this place. My goal as a writer is to capture a place in a way that puts the reader inside your body, walks them through the place, and brings them out on the other side, feeling the same way that I did. Sheryl has guaranteed for me that this is possible. Waiting.



Much more to say about “The Making of an Unruly Woman”….

I Believe in Santa Claus: Part II (in response to Sheryl's comment)

The feeling of Santa Claus swiftly flying through the dark winter night, landing on my house while I was sleeping, and unloading his dark red sack on the living room floor that lay below my bedroom floorboards was just the surface of the magic. Something much bigger than me existed, much more magical than all the fairy tales I curled up with at night, something that balanced out the discovery of reality as I got older. Reality that included the parts of life that made my belly hurt when I thought of them: my grandfather shooting himself in the head when my dad was 16, my grandmother dying of colon cancer the same year Santa died too, learning that Tundra, my first Husky, was buried behind the veterinarian in Alabama where I spent my first three years. All in all, it was death that introduced me to reality, absolutes that couldn’t bring back my dad’s parents, or my fluffy Tundra whom I laid with everyday to watch Mister Rodgers. And at 9, I still wanted to hold on to that feeling Santa Claus provided, the same feeling I get walking into an ancient cathedral in Europe, its colossal pillars stretching up to the heavens with image after image of brown cherubs and saintly men, its smell of spiritual moments that still linger in the dark corners, hovering over the worn-in tiles below, smooth grooves revealing all those who graced that same floor, century after century. It was a feeling I came to connect between the child who believed whole-heartedly in Santa Claus and the young adult who traveled new worlds, establishing my own spirituality in those ancient standing cathedrals. I guess I could say for me, Santa Claus was the closest I came to believing in god. It offered the same notion; I wanted to have faith in something that made me want to be a better person, to know that there was magic in a world that cried and bled, a world where suicide, young tragic death, broken hearts, and chronic medical problems polluted my innocence and outlook.

Looking back on it now, maybe that was another reason I was so devastated that morning I doubted Santa Claus. And Mama’s incessant response “Do you think he’s real, honey?” had left it up to me. Did I have the confidence and self-security to let the strength of my own belief keep Santa alive? I think this past Christmas, as I sat with my family, under those same twinkling “Chrimma” lights and let the tingling sensation of champagne soothe the back of my mouth, I realized that I did. Because that room was full of something, and somewhere deep inside, I was thanking Santa Claus.

I Believe in Santa Claus

It is the best feeling ever. Waking up Christmas morning, quickly pulling up some thick socks and jumping into a sweatshirt, frantically brushing my teeth, running into all my sisters' rooms while waiting for Papa to turn on the string of lights before we head downstairs into the warm twinkling living room. "Chrimma" as my dad refers to it always possessed a magically real quality, just like when I still believed in Santa Claus. I was a late comer in the whole Santa Claus thing; I truly believed he existed until I was in the fourth grade. This was just unheard of at my time of discovery. All my friends had left the belief behind, along with their gullible sparkling eyes and Christmas Eve dreams of reindeer. But I just couldn't let go. My oldest sister planted that deepest darkest fear right before me the day she asked me "Why don't all the starving children in Ethiopia get presents, Libba?" I ran to Mama who was outside hanging laundry. It must have been early Fall; months to prepare for His arrival on Christmas morning, lists to write and visions to venture of his incredible flight bringing color to that morning. "Mama," I demanded, "don't lie to me, is Santa Claus real?" "Do you think he's real, honey?" she replied. That was all she kept responding with, as I asked her over and over, becoming more and more frustrated, angry that this day had even happened. Now there was doubt. And, I couldn't take any of it back. Something changed that Christmas, something that introduced the feeling of disappointment, of fear that nothing else had meaning, was worth living for, if there was no magic. My parents gave me a red sweatshirt that Christmas. It had a picture of Santa Claus on the front; his huge head filling the red cotton, white-twirled beard that ran down the middle and up around the sides of his face. He was there. Big. And Smiling. Above him it read "I believe in Santa Claus." That was the only day I wore it.
This past Christmas was lovely. I spent the morning sipping Mimosas with my sisters, parents, and new husband. The strings of light were sparkling more than ever. They seem to shine more every year they're hung. I realized in that moment, smelling clementines, hearing orchestral Christmas hymns in the background, a crackling fire at my back, that the magic was still there. All these years since Santa Claus had died to me slowly transferred all that wonder and excitement, enchantment and joy into a feeling that endured year after year. I was no longer naive, a kid ignorant of pain and difficult times. I was an adult who had survived them and was still surviving them everyday. I had started to understand the power of good when there was bad in the picture; it's ability to make it all somehow totally worth living. My husband I was lucky to have, my sisters who I had grown to become best friends with, and my parents who raised me well and let me go warmed the room. I believed in the love that surrounded me, the quality of a life that I created, the gratefulness I felt for all the good that shone under that Christmas tree. I still believed in Santa Claus. Now, if only I could find that sweatshirt.