Tonight after dinner, my 3rd grade son asked me to come down to his room to talk to him about something very important. After checking the hallway 4 times to make sure no one was spying on us, he closed his door and revealed the following:
He told me that Valentine's Day was coming up soon and that he needed me to take him to the store to buy something special for someone special. He told me how much money he had and asked if I thought it was enough for what he had in mind. I assured him we would be able to find something.
On the way to the book store, he talked non-stop about how nice this girl is. How pretty this girl is. How smart this girl is. How fun this girl is. How he has been spending time with her at recess. How he noticed a sticker of Shakespeare on one of her folders and asked her if she liked Shakespeare, to which she replied yes, because of which we were now going to the book store.
When we got there he asked a clerk where the "Shakespeare stuff" would be. First, we found a book of love poems. His eyes lit up in a way I'm not used to seeing in my 8 year old son. He looked closely at the book, then commented that he would hold onto it so no one else took it but that he still wanted to see the others before he decided for sure. He held the book against his chest.
Next, we found the classics collection. And then he spotted it. A leather bound, gold trimmed, complete works of Shakespeare. He asked me if "complete works" meant that it had all the love poems and all the plays in it--including "Romeo and Juliet". I told him that yes, indeed, the complete works would have all the poems and all the plays. He put down the poem book he'd been holding to his chest and picked up the beautiful complete works book. "This is it" he said, "this is the one I want to give her."
He then looked at the price tag. His face dropped for a moment. He knew he was short. WAY short. He looked up at me with his little angel face and said, "Mom. I know it's a lot, but will you cover the rest of what this book costs then just keep my allowance for however many weeks it takes for me to pay you back?"
Of course, I had already decided I would be covering the rest of the cost of this book long before he ever realized he'd need to ask that question.
I smiled and nodded and said something about vacuuming the stairs more often. He said he'd vacuum them every single day and clean anything else I wanted him to clean because getting this book was SOOOOO worth it.
When we got home, he went directly to the storage room to look for a gift bag for the book. I held one up as a suggestion. "No, mom," he said, "I want something pretty and fancy and not childish. Something like what YOU would want to get." After rejecting dozens of gift bags, he finally settled on a white one with lace on it. Quite fancy. Quite pretty. Quite grown up.
I watched him as he carefully put the book in the gift bag and surrounded it with white and blue tissue. "Who is this boy?" I wondered tenderly.
Then he asked me to come back to his room again. He showed me the card he'd been making for her. He told me that he had already spent hours on it, making it the most beautiful and perfect card he'd ever made before. The front had very intricate detailed designs in multiple colors and he had begun to do the same on the back.
"And on the inside, mom, on the inside of the card, that's where I'm going to tell her that I like her."
I almost started crying.
Instead, I asked him when he planned to give it to her. Was he going to do it at the Valentine's party at school? Did he want me to drive him to her house some afternoon?
He informed me that he had it all planned out. He would give it to her at school, in the hall, outside the classroom, by the coat hooks, when they were all alone. When it was just the two of them so that it would be a special moment. So that he could tell her that the card was ONLY FOR HER--she shouldn't even show it to her sister.
I pictured my little 3rd grade son declaring his love to this lucky little 3rd grade girl there in the hall by the coat hooks. Declaring his love with the complete works of Shakespeare; with his own artwork and the hours it took to create; with all the money he possessed; with the promise to vaccuum the stairs from this day forward.
Please little 3rd grade girl, don't break my son's heart.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Strawberry Yoga OR All the Voices in My Head
Yoga teacher: “Let’s talk about your writing assignment that is due next week.”
Voice inside my head: “Ok. We’ve been talking about this for way too long. This could have been covered in 5 minutes. It didn’t need 30. EFFICIENCY! Let’s get to the workout already!”
Other voice inside my head: “Ummmm…. I think it’s anti-yoga to be impatient during yoga. One doesn’t rush the yoga teacher. It is not the yoga way.”
-------------------
Yoga teacher: “Focus on being in the present. The past is gone. The future is not guaranteed. The present is the only time you have. The past and the future are nowhere. You need to move from nowhere to now here. Have you ever been driving somewhere and gone right past your destination because you were thinking about something past or future? That’s the kind of think I’m talking about.”
Voice inside my head: “Oh yeah. I do that all the time. I did it just the other day on my way to the faculty day thing. I flew right past Jordan campus because I was thinking about that episode of Star Trek. Which, really, has everything to do with this. It was about a disruption in the space time continuum and the alternate reality which it created. So then I started thinking about that TNG episode where Worf makes a massive split in the space time continuum and thousands of parallel universes start showing up in our own. And I wonder how many alternate realities there could be. Infinite, I’m sure. Because every single little choice sets the future in a direction and an unlimited number of options exist for each choice, each leading toward a different future reality and all branching out in exponential craziness. So certainly parallel universes must exist…..
Other voice inside my head: “Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me! I think we are exponentially far from NOW HERE.”
----------------
Yoga teacher: “Let’s start with a meditation chant that will be able to help you calm down in any situation from any negative emotion.”
Voice inside my head: “That’s a pretty big claim. Is there sufficient evidence to back that claim?”
Other voice inside my head: “I’m pretty sure yoga isn’t about argumentation.”
---------------
Yoga teacher: “Repeat after me: Ta. Sa. Na. Ma.”
Voice inside my head: “This is just like speech therapy. That’s not good. Recollections of speech therapy are NOT going to bring me to inner peace and stillness. Although, it did require a lot of self-discipline to use those annoying little syllables to rebuild my speech. And I can see the mind/body connection with the voice. But inner peace from these syllables? I think not. More like dredging up turmoil and anguish.
Other voice inside my head: “Let’s see. ‘Ta’ is an unvoiced dental. One of the easier sounds. ‘Da’, being the voiced dental is the easiest sound. ‘Na’ and ‘Ma’ are nasals. Not so easy. They come later in rebuilding speech. ‘Ga’, the voiced guttural and ‘Ka’ the unvoiced guttural, also pretty easy. They are near the beginning. ‘Pa’ and ‘Ba’ the unvoiced and voiced labials can go either way—sometimes easy sometimes hard. The breathing for those are different. Then, let’s see, the aspirates. Which is different from aspirate (long A) because that is choking from inhaling something. Which reminds me that I find these syllables exasperating. So, no. No inner peace and stillness for me from these exasperating, painful-memory-inducing syllables.
-----------------
Yoga teacher: “Let me tell you a story about living in the moment. The Buddha, in the incarnation right before he became the Buddha, fell over the edge of a cliff and was hanging on to a branch for dear life. He spotted the most perfect, beautiful strawberry. He picked it and ate it and enjoyed it completely. His whole being focused on the experience of eating the strawberry.”
Voice in my head: “I should find this story for my folklore class. It would be good to use. I wonder if our library has it. We do have that whole folklore section up in the library. I bet I could find it.”
Other voice in my head: “You’re doing it again. I don’t think you are enjoying the strawberry of this yoga class.”
Voice in my head: “Strawberry yogurt is gross. I still remember throwing up on it when I was 8. Haven’t been able to eat it ever since. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. Strawberry yogurt is vomitous.
Other voice in my head: “Stop it now. Stop thinking about vomit. Stop it now.”
Voice in my head: “SERENITY NOW! SERENITY NOW!”
Other voice in my head: “Serenity now = much better mantra than ‘ta, sa, na, ma’. But really, I’m content with my current life mantra: MUTINY!”
Voice in my head: “Oh yes. We’re accomplishing mutiny right now. Good job. FOCUS. FOCUS. FOCUS ALREADY!”
---------------------------
Yoga teacher: “Ok, let’s get to the work out. Put your mat this way. Stand with your legs hip width apart and breathe deeply. Arms go up with the inhale. Down with the exhale.”
Voice in my head: “Finally. Here we go. I should blog about this. I know just what to write. Too bad I can’t just think it onto my blog right now. Wouldn’t that be great if I could just think something into existence. Blog be written. Laundry be done. Gourmet dinner be on the table. Papers be graded. I could just do all these yoga poses all day long and think things into existence. Surely someday my brain will be able to link to the network and translate my thoughts into text on a page without my fingers having to do anything. Perhaps in one of those parallel universes. Perhaps an alternate reality self of mine can think through the space time continuum and transmit this power to the self of this universe.”
Other voice in my head: “Oy! Be NOW HERE. Be NOW HERE. Not in an alternate dimension. Now here.”
-----------------------------
Yoga teacher: “This pose is called the warrior.”
Voice in my head: “Oh yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! I know this pose from Wii fit.
Other voice in my head: “I told you video games were not part of the dark side. Use the force. Use the force and focus on your yoga.”
Voice in my head: “And think blog entries into existence?”
Other voice in my head: “I think you’ve gone to the dark side of the force. Pay attention already.”
---------------------------
Yoga teacher: “Now, place both hands on the ground in this position. Both feet here. Then slide the left knee up between your hands, then roll onto your hip. Lift your chest.”
Voice in my head: “The human body can do that?”
Other voice in my head: “You have our full attention now.”
Voice inside my head: “Ok. We’ve been talking about this for way too long. This could have been covered in 5 minutes. It didn’t need 30. EFFICIENCY! Let’s get to the workout already!”
Other voice inside my head: “Ummmm…. I think it’s anti-yoga to be impatient during yoga. One doesn’t rush the yoga teacher. It is not the yoga way.”
-------------------
Yoga teacher: “Focus on being in the present. The past is gone. The future is not guaranteed. The present is the only time you have. The past and the future are nowhere. You need to move from nowhere to now here. Have you ever been driving somewhere and gone right past your destination because you were thinking about something past or future? That’s the kind of think I’m talking about.”
Voice inside my head: “Oh yeah. I do that all the time. I did it just the other day on my way to the faculty day thing. I flew right past Jordan campus because I was thinking about that episode of Star Trek. Which, really, has everything to do with this. It was about a disruption in the space time continuum and the alternate reality which it created. So then I started thinking about that TNG episode where Worf makes a massive split in the space time continuum and thousands of parallel universes start showing up in our own. And I wonder how many alternate realities there could be. Infinite, I’m sure. Because every single little choice sets the future in a direction and an unlimited number of options exist for each choice, each leading toward a different future reality and all branching out in exponential craziness. So certainly parallel universes must exist…..
Other voice inside my head: “Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me! I think we are exponentially far from NOW HERE.”
----------------
Yoga teacher: “Let’s start with a meditation chant that will be able to help you calm down in any situation from any negative emotion.”
Voice inside my head: “That’s a pretty big claim. Is there sufficient evidence to back that claim?”
Other voice inside my head: “I’m pretty sure yoga isn’t about argumentation.”
---------------
Yoga teacher: “Repeat after me: Ta. Sa. Na. Ma.”
Voice inside my head: “This is just like speech therapy. That’s not good. Recollections of speech therapy are NOT going to bring me to inner peace and stillness. Although, it did require a lot of self-discipline to use those annoying little syllables to rebuild my speech. And I can see the mind/body connection with the voice. But inner peace from these syllables? I think not. More like dredging up turmoil and anguish.
Other voice inside my head: “Let’s see. ‘Ta’ is an unvoiced dental. One of the easier sounds. ‘Da’, being the voiced dental is the easiest sound. ‘Na’ and ‘Ma’ are nasals. Not so easy. They come later in rebuilding speech. ‘Ga’, the voiced guttural and ‘Ka’ the unvoiced guttural, also pretty easy. They are near the beginning. ‘Pa’ and ‘Ba’ the unvoiced and voiced labials can go either way—sometimes easy sometimes hard. The breathing for those are different. Then, let’s see, the aspirates. Which is different from aspirate (long A) because that is choking from inhaling something. Which reminds me that I find these syllables exasperating. So, no. No inner peace and stillness for me from these exasperating, painful-memory-inducing syllables.
-----------------
Yoga teacher: “Let me tell you a story about living in the moment. The Buddha, in the incarnation right before he became the Buddha, fell over the edge of a cliff and was hanging on to a branch for dear life. He spotted the most perfect, beautiful strawberry. He picked it and ate it and enjoyed it completely. His whole being focused on the experience of eating the strawberry.”
Voice in my head: “I should find this story for my folklore class. It would be good to use. I wonder if our library has it. We do have that whole folklore section up in the library. I bet I could find it.”
Other voice in my head: “You’re doing it again. I don’t think you are enjoying the strawberry of this yoga class.”
Voice in my head: “Strawberry yogurt is gross. I still remember throwing up on it when I was 8. Haven’t been able to eat it ever since. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. Strawberry yogurt is vomitous.
Other voice in my head: “Stop it now. Stop thinking about vomit. Stop it now.”
Voice in my head: “SERENITY NOW! SERENITY NOW!”
Other voice in my head: “Serenity now = much better mantra than ‘ta, sa, na, ma’. But really, I’m content with my current life mantra: MUTINY!”
Voice in my head: “Oh yes. We’re accomplishing mutiny right now. Good job. FOCUS. FOCUS. FOCUS ALREADY!”
---------------------------
Yoga teacher: “Ok, let’s get to the work out. Put your mat this way. Stand with your legs hip width apart and breathe deeply. Arms go up with the inhale. Down with the exhale.”
Voice in my head: “Finally. Here we go. I should blog about this. I know just what to write. Too bad I can’t just think it onto my blog right now. Wouldn’t that be great if I could just think something into existence. Blog be written. Laundry be done. Gourmet dinner be on the table. Papers be graded. I could just do all these yoga poses all day long and think things into existence. Surely someday my brain will be able to link to the network and translate my thoughts into text on a page without my fingers having to do anything. Perhaps in one of those parallel universes. Perhaps an alternate reality self of mine can think through the space time continuum and transmit this power to the self of this universe.”
Other voice in my head: “Oy! Be NOW HERE. Be NOW HERE. Not in an alternate dimension. Now here.”
-----------------------------
Yoga teacher: “This pose is called the warrior.”
Voice in my head: “Oh yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! I know this pose from Wii fit.
Other voice in my head: “I told you video games were not part of the dark side. Use the force. Use the force and focus on your yoga.”
Voice in my head: “And think blog entries into existence?”
Other voice in my head: “I think you’ve gone to the dark side of the force. Pay attention already.”
---------------------------
Yoga teacher: “Now, place both hands on the ground in this position. Both feet here. Then slide the left knee up between your hands, then roll onto your hip. Lift your chest.”
Voice in my head: “The human body can do that?”
Other voice in my head: “You have our full attention now.”
Thursday, December 31, 2009
New Year's More-Solutions
In 2010 I shall:
- Get more sleep.
- Claim more play time.
- Score more points on Guitar Hero.
- Eat more chocolate. (Yes, I said EAT MORE--not less--MORE)
- Laugh more.
- See more movies in the theater. (So.....that would mean at least 4)
- Do more hiking.
- Try more activities. (Such as yoga, zumba, kick boxing, crossfit, belly dancing)
- Read more books.
- Write more words.
- Play more music.
- Spend more time in the sun.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
What Are We Thinking? The First of Many Rants
A woman clings to her window seat.
2.5 billion people do not have clean drinking water. (Worldwide, waterborne illness is the leading cause of death among children.)
A nation obsesses over the sex life of a golfer.
An entire continent is ravaged by war, poverty, hunger, and illness.
Hollywood spends millions on an awards ceremony--and keeps creating MORE awards ceremonies. (BTW, where are the awards ceremonies for parents? Teachers? Medical professionals? Social workers?)
$60 will feed, clothe, house, and educate a child in Viet Nam for an entire year.
Mary Pipher writes about how our global cultural can make us more apathetic because the needs seem both so far away and so overwhelmingly huge at the same time. She contrasts this to a community culture, where the needs a person is aware of are both close and usually manageable. She argues that being more aware of more of the world and its needs actually makes us less involved because it's too big and too distant. Our minds and bodies literally do not know how to reconcile the desire to act with the inability to do so; the defense mechanism becomes to shut down, to withdraw, to develop tunnel vision. And so we give more news coverage to an adulterous athlete than we do to genocide.
I do not claim to have any answers. I do know that I am learning to take my global citizenship very seriously. Does it matter that I purchased Christmas presents from Amnesty International this year instead of Target? Does it matter that I recycle? Does it matter that I think more carefully now about where I spend my money and my time? Does it matter what I write? Does it matter what I teach my children? Does it matter that I vote? After all, I am only 1 of 6,000,000,000. It is easy to feel insignificant and thus to act insignificantly. It is easy to feel powerless and thus to act apathetically. Do my choices make any difference? I do not know if they do. But I DO KNOW that if I choose not to think about my global citizenship, then certainly my choices and actions do not make any difference at all.
Or maybe that's not true either. Not thinking about something is a choice in and of itself and has its own consequences--makes its own kind of difference. Maybe what it boils down to is that I can only be at peace with myself if I take my global citizenship seriously. The alternative is no longer acceptable to me.
2.5 billion people do not have clean drinking water. (Worldwide, waterborne illness is the leading cause of death among children.)
A nation obsesses over the sex life of a golfer.
An entire continent is ravaged by war, poverty, hunger, and illness.
Hollywood spends millions on an awards ceremony--and keeps creating MORE awards ceremonies. (BTW, where are the awards ceremonies for parents? Teachers? Medical professionals? Social workers?)
$60 will feed, clothe, house, and educate a child in Viet Nam for an entire year.
Mary Pipher writes about how our global cultural can make us more apathetic because the needs seem both so far away and so overwhelmingly huge at the same time. She contrasts this to a community culture, where the needs a person is aware of are both close and usually manageable. She argues that being more aware of more of the world and its needs actually makes us less involved because it's too big and too distant. Our minds and bodies literally do not know how to reconcile the desire to act with the inability to do so; the defense mechanism becomes to shut down, to withdraw, to develop tunnel vision. And so we give more news coverage to an adulterous athlete than we do to genocide.
I do not claim to have any answers. I do know that I am learning to take my global citizenship very seriously. Does it matter that I purchased Christmas presents from Amnesty International this year instead of Target? Does it matter that I recycle? Does it matter that I think more carefully now about where I spend my money and my time? Does it matter what I write? Does it matter what I teach my children? Does it matter that I vote? After all, I am only 1 of 6,000,000,000. It is easy to feel insignificant and thus to act insignificantly. It is easy to feel powerless and thus to act apathetically. Do my choices make any difference? I do not know if they do. But I DO KNOW that if I choose not to think about my global citizenship, then certainly my choices and actions do not make any difference at all.
Or maybe that's not true either. Not thinking about something is a choice in and of itself and has its own consequences--makes its own kind of difference. Maybe what it boils down to is that I can only be at peace with myself if I take my global citizenship seriously. The alternative is no longer acceptable to me.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Window Seat
She couldn’t remember the last time she had showered. Or eaten. Or slept. 36 hours maybe? 40? 46? She couldn’t do math in her head anymore. She had seen the same Thursday dawn three times now. How is that even possible? Yet it was true. It reminded her of the time she had flown over the North Pole and watched the sun set out of one side of the plane, then walked to the other side of the plane to watch the same sun rise just moments later. She felt the disruption of the space time continuum in her mind and her body. It at once weighed her whole being down and rent her in two. But wait, she had been torn in two already. How many days ago was that? She couldn’t remember. Her brain was too tired to do math. And she didn’t want to remember anyway.
She was hanging by a thread, and yet she was the strongest of the three. He had cocooned himself hours—days?—ago. His every effort was turned toward keeping himself breathing. Nothing else existed for him, really. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. His body was racked with coughing and fever. When his eyes had glazed over so long ago on that other airplane, she knew she was alone.
And the child she carried—the child she carried—tiny. Sick. Weak. Frightened. She had her own look in her eyes; like the man’s eyes, her eyes reflected the deep struggle for survival that was going on internally. Unlike the man though, the look in her eyes was not detached; the look in her eyes engaged everything around her with the desperation of a cornered animal. The woman could see the panic flowing out the child’s eyes. So much fear and confusion spinning at high speed inside her—and no place for it to go, except out her eyes.
The flight had been booked for them last minute. How many hours ago was that? Or was it days? The man had gone back through security to get the cell phone and make the call while the woman and the child sat in the small office awaiting yet another packet of papers that had to be guarded. By the time he made it back through the metal detectors and body checks, she had the packet in hand and had begun counting the hours until she would be at the airport. On the first plane. Back in the United States. On the second plane. On the ground. In the airport. In her house. In her shower. In her bed. Not only did she know how many hours until each of those things—she knew how many minutes. Her countdown had begun. And she kept track of all those arrivals simultaneously. Her brain was like one of those walls displaying a dozen clocks showing the times of all the major cities across the world and across the time zones. She knew she could make it if she kept that math in her head—if she fixed her mind on the multiple countdowns.
But now she couldn’t remember any of the math—not backwards or forwards. She felt like shit. She knew she looked like shit. Her mind couldn’t grasp at anything to keep her going. She was dysphoric. Trapped.
She walked down the tight aisle of the plane carrying the child. The man had taken his assigned seat—a middle seat toward the front of the plane—several minutes ago. Her seat—and the child’s—were further back. A middle and an aisle.
She saw the stranger sitting by the window seat. She was dressed to the nines. Her hair and make-up were perfect. How was that even possible at this god forsaken hour? She remembers wondering why the stranger wasn’t in first class. Her jewelry, her carry-on, her demeanor all screamed, “I belong in first class.” The woman had a moment of self consciousness over her bedraggled appearance as she asked the stranger to switch seats with the man.
“Where is he seated?” the stranger asked.
“A few rows up.”
“Window seat?”
“No. Middle.”
The stranger pursed her lips and said that she wouldn’t sit in a middle seat. She wanted a window seat and she was going to keep it.
The woman began her story, telling the stranger why the seat change was so desperately needed.
The stranger shook her head vehemently “I am NOT giving up my window seat.”
Are you fucking kidding me? the woman thought (and now wishes she had said). But she had no energy for this. She needed to sit.
She placed the child in the middle seat, buckled the seatbelt around her and covered her with the green blanket. She then placed herself in that confined little space of an aisle seat and tried desperately to dig deeply enough in herself to find a way to make it through this last stretch. The next—how many hours was it? How many minutes? The numbers spun meaninglessly in her head.
The stranger started rambling about some self-centered nonsense. Fortunately, the woman’s mind was already so unfocused she had no trouble blocking the stranger out. The child, who hadn’t slept since—when was it? Tuesday, maybe? But Tuesday there or here? And what is it now here? There? Nevermind—the child began throwing herself backwards against the seat. She threw the blanket off. Then her shoes. Then her socks. The woman understood the child was releasing her agony the only way she knew how.
“Can’t you make her stop that?” the stranger said accusingly.
“No.”
replied the woman as she placed her hand gently behind the child’s head to protect her from the impact of her own fury. The other hand, she placed on the child’s chest to try to slow the rhythm of the child’s body. The child grabbed the woman’s arm, pinching and scratching.
The stranger looked on in disgust. Then continued her rambling drivel.
The child began screaming.
The stranger’s eyes widened.
The woman asked the stranger if she wanted to trade seats with the man now. The stranger tilted her head back slightly and replied, “I will not give up my window seat. She’ll eventually stop crying and fall asleep.” Then she pulled some stupid fashion magazine out of her carryon and positioned herself facing the window.
“What a selfish bitch” the woman thought. “What a clueless, evil, selfish bitch.”
There was nothing left but to endure.
How far was it from Newark to Salt Lake City? How many hours? How many minutes? She tried to find that graph in her head, but she couldn’t. And then she wondered if she were going to Dallas to spend the night there. Wait. Why did she think she was going to Texas? She wasn’t. Was she? She was pretty sure she wasn’t. But she didn’t really care anymore anyway. All she knew was that when this plane landed she was getting off and sleeping somewhere for a long time. She didn’t care where.
The child continued screaming and throwing her body. The woman silently kept her hands on the child. One behind her head. One on her chest. She didn’t even feel the child’s scratches and pinches anymore. She just let her body move in rhythm to the child’s. To protect her. To bond with her. She smiled as the child screamed and the bitch by the window nervously fidgeted around with her ridiculous fashion magazine.
As the plane started moving, the woman looked out the window. In the line of her sight were her own dirty scratched up arm, the screaming and terrified child, the self centered bitch, the ridiculous fashion magazine, the window pane (which reminded her of another window pane—the one she was looking through the moment she blew apart), the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and the sun rising…..again.
She was hanging by a thread, and yet she was the strongest of the three. He had cocooned himself hours—days?—ago. His every effort was turned toward keeping himself breathing. Nothing else existed for him, really. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. His body was racked with coughing and fever. When his eyes had glazed over so long ago on that other airplane, she knew she was alone.
And the child she carried—the child she carried—tiny. Sick. Weak. Frightened. She had her own look in her eyes; like the man’s eyes, her eyes reflected the deep struggle for survival that was going on internally. Unlike the man though, the look in her eyes was not detached; the look in her eyes engaged everything around her with the desperation of a cornered animal. The woman could see the panic flowing out the child’s eyes. So much fear and confusion spinning at high speed inside her—and no place for it to go, except out her eyes.
The flight had been booked for them last minute. How many hours ago was that? Or was it days? The man had gone back through security to get the cell phone and make the call while the woman and the child sat in the small office awaiting yet another packet of papers that had to be guarded. By the time he made it back through the metal detectors and body checks, she had the packet in hand and had begun counting the hours until she would be at the airport. On the first plane. Back in the United States. On the second plane. On the ground. In the airport. In her house. In her shower. In her bed. Not only did she know how many hours until each of those things—she knew how many minutes. Her countdown had begun. And she kept track of all those arrivals simultaneously. Her brain was like one of those walls displaying a dozen clocks showing the times of all the major cities across the world and across the time zones. She knew she could make it if she kept that math in her head—if she fixed her mind on the multiple countdowns.
But now she couldn’t remember any of the math—not backwards or forwards. She felt like shit. She knew she looked like shit. Her mind couldn’t grasp at anything to keep her going. She was dysphoric. Trapped.
She walked down the tight aisle of the plane carrying the child. The man had taken his assigned seat—a middle seat toward the front of the plane—several minutes ago. Her seat—and the child’s—were further back. A middle and an aisle.
She saw the stranger sitting by the window seat. She was dressed to the nines. Her hair and make-up were perfect. How was that even possible at this god forsaken hour? She remembers wondering why the stranger wasn’t in first class. Her jewelry, her carry-on, her demeanor all screamed, “I belong in first class.” The woman had a moment of self consciousness over her bedraggled appearance as she asked the stranger to switch seats with the man.
“Where is he seated?” the stranger asked.
“A few rows up.”
“Window seat?”
“No. Middle.”
The stranger pursed her lips and said that she wouldn’t sit in a middle seat. She wanted a window seat and she was going to keep it.
The woman began her story, telling the stranger why the seat change was so desperately needed.
The stranger shook her head vehemently “I am NOT giving up my window seat.”
Are you fucking kidding me? the woman thought (and now wishes she had said). But she had no energy for this. She needed to sit.
She placed the child in the middle seat, buckled the seatbelt around her and covered her with the green blanket. She then placed herself in that confined little space of an aisle seat and tried desperately to dig deeply enough in herself to find a way to make it through this last stretch. The next—how many hours was it? How many minutes? The numbers spun meaninglessly in her head.
The stranger started rambling about some self-centered nonsense. Fortunately, the woman’s mind was already so unfocused she had no trouble blocking the stranger out. The child, who hadn’t slept since—when was it? Tuesday, maybe? But Tuesday there or here? And what is it now here? There? Nevermind—the child began throwing herself backwards against the seat. She threw the blanket off. Then her shoes. Then her socks. The woman understood the child was releasing her agony the only way she knew how.
“Can’t you make her stop that?” the stranger said accusingly.
“No.”
replied the woman as she placed her hand gently behind the child’s head to protect her from the impact of her own fury. The other hand, she placed on the child’s chest to try to slow the rhythm of the child’s body. The child grabbed the woman’s arm, pinching and scratching.
The stranger looked on in disgust. Then continued her rambling drivel.
The child began screaming.
The stranger’s eyes widened.
The woman asked the stranger if she wanted to trade seats with the man now. The stranger tilted her head back slightly and replied, “I will not give up my window seat. She’ll eventually stop crying and fall asleep.” Then she pulled some stupid fashion magazine out of her carryon and positioned herself facing the window.
“What a selfish bitch” the woman thought. “What a clueless, evil, selfish bitch.”
There was nothing left but to endure.
How far was it from Newark to Salt Lake City? How many hours? How many minutes? She tried to find that graph in her head, but she couldn’t. And then she wondered if she were going to Dallas to spend the night there. Wait. Why did she think she was going to Texas? She wasn’t. Was she? She was pretty sure she wasn’t. But she didn’t really care anymore anyway. All she knew was that when this plane landed she was getting off and sleeping somewhere for a long time. She didn’t care where.
The child continued screaming and throwing her body. The woman silently kept her hands on the child. One behind her head. One on her chest. She didn’t even feel the child’s scratches and pinches anymore. She just let her body move in rhythm to the child’s. To protect her. To bond with her. She smiled as the child screamed and the bitch by the window nervously fidgeted around with her ridiculous fashion magazine.
As the plane started moving, the woman looked out the window. In the line of her sight were her own dirty scratched up arm, the screaming and terrified child, the self centered bitch, the ridiculous fashion magazine, the window pane (which reminded her of another window pane—the one she was looking through the moment she blew apart), the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and the sun rising…..again.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Why You Should Give Me Something for Nothing
Dear Employer,
I am writing to you because I am concerned about my upcoming pay check. I'm worried that it's not going to be as much as I need it to be. I want you to know that earning a good pay check is really, really important to me. Advancing to the next level of this job is also very important to me. In fact if I don't advance right away and if I don't get a really good pay check, I run the risk of losing my government aid and of not being able to move on to my next employer which I really really want to do soon. You see, my whole future, actually, depends on this upcoming pay check.
Now, I know that I haven't been showing up for work very often lately, but I've been really really busy. And I did tell you at the beginning of the job that I had a lot on my plate and might not be able to be here very much. Surely you can understand that right? I'm just too busy to be here every day.
I also know that I'm behind in the projects you've given me and that I totally bailed on my group. So I'm hoping you'll let me start over with a new project all on my own--one where I don't have to bother working with other people, because that's really really hard you know--to coordinate schedules and to get things done. So anyway, I've cleared my schedule for this weekend so I can focus on this job. I swear I can catch up with everything you wanted me to do. And if there's any chance you could give me an extra project on top of it to do this weekend--you know, something to help me earn a little extra money--that would be great too.
And by the way, this is the best job ever. And you're the best employer ever. I've gotten so much out of working here. At first, I really didn't want to take this job. In fact, I've been fired from this exact same job before. But this time it's different. You really helped me get a lot out of it. Thanks for being so awesome. I know you can help me out here.
Oh, and I was only late about half the time. And once I got all my technical issues figured out, I was finally able to send in the work I'd been doing. I don't know why my computer crashed 7 times in the last little while. Oh well. I'll just make up for everything this weekend, ok?
Thanks in advance for the help I know you're going to give me. You're really swell.
Sincerely,
Your Employee
I am writing to you because I am concerned about my upcoming pay check. I'm worried that it's not going to be as much as I need it to be. I want you to know that earning a good pay check is really, really important to me. Advancing to the next level of this job is also very important to me. In fact if I don't advance right away and if I don't get a really good pay check, I run the risk of losing my government aid and of not being able to move on to my next employer which I really really want to do soon. You see, my whole future, actually, depends on this upcoming pay check.
Now, I know that I haven't been showing up for work very often lately, but I've been really really busy. And I did tell you at the beginning of the job that I had a lot on my plate and might not be able to be here very much. Surely you can understand that right? I'm just too busy to be here every day.
I also know that I'm behind in the projects you've given me and that I totally bailed on my group. So I'm hoping you'll let me start over with a new project all on my own--one where I don't have to bother working with other people, because that's really really hard you know--to coordinate schedules and to get things done. So anyway, I've cleared my schedule for this weekend so I can focus on this job. I swear I can catch up with everything you wanted me to do. And if there's any chance you could give me an extra project on top of it to do this weekend--you know, something to help me earn a little extra money--that would be great too.
And by the way, this is the best job ever. And you're the best employer ever. I've gotten so much out of working here. At first, I really didn't want to take this job. In fact, I've been fired from this exact same job before. But this time it's different. You really helped me get a lot out of it. Thanks for being so awesome. I know you can help me out here.
Oh, and I was only late about half the time. And once I got all my technical issues figured out, I was finally able to send in the work I'd been doing. I don't know why my computer crashed 7 times in the last little while. Oh well. I'll just make up for everything this weekend, ok?
Thanks in advance for the help I know you're going to give me. You're really swell.
Sincerely,
Your Employee
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Reflections on India, One Year Later, Friday
I hear you quietly opening your door. You may be ready to be done napping; but I am not. I hear you tromp down the stairs, and I pretend to still be asleep on the couch because I know what you will do next if you think I’m asleep. I feel your nose pressed against my face as you whisper “cuddle with you now Mommy?” I look sideways at you through barely open eyes, and I see you smiling expectant face. I scoot over, pat the side of the couch with my hand and open my arm for you to climb in. You lay your head on my chest and wrap your fingers tightly around one of mine. I can feel your steady breathing as I hold your tiny body. And I begin to remember.
Your caretakers went quickly to you and spoke softly to you, wiping your tears away. Father Francis told us it was best to just take you and go—the faster the separation, the better. Minal handed you to your new daddy. Someone handed me your ball and your photo album. The women cried and kissed you, then clasped my hands and told me that you ate bananas with a spoon. That you didn’t like milk. That you were a good sleeper. That you liked your hair in pigtails. That you were used to having a nap around 10:30 in the morning. That you were a sweet girl. I thanked them for loving you and taking care of you. They thanked me for loving you and coming to get you.
As we walked through the streets—a beautiful part of India—making photocopies, getting your visa picture taken, buying groceries, you sat still and quiet in Daddy’s arms. I remember the brave look on your face. I remember how wobbly you seemed; like you didn’t know how to lean in to him and be held. I carried you for awhile on those streets. You weighed next to nothing. And as I had observed, you did not know how to lean in and be held—not like now.
I remember when Father Francis said “Oh….Ovi is coming now.” We had been talking about the election in the United States, how hopeful he was that our new president would do more in regards to the nuclear issue between India and Pakistan. He stopped very abruptly, because he heard you coming ceremoniously down the stairs.
I caught my breath. My tears started. I had waited so long to meet you. I had been “talking to you” for 18 months now—even before I knew your name or how old you were—and finally, finally you would hear my voice, and I would hear yours.
You came into that small office with your own little entourage. You were so beautiful. You were wearing the green dress I had sent you as soon as I was allowed to send presents. You had a bindi on your forehead in honor of the special occasion. You had little blue corduroy shoes on. You were carrying the photo album I had sent you, and a little orange ball—presumably a favorite toy you were taking with you from the orphanage—something for you to retain from the early part of your life.
I could see you were scared. Father Francis told you to come and see your parents. You threw the ball and the photo album and ran crying into a corner. Jen—our wonderful social worker—had told us to expect this. I was prepared for it. And I understood it. So many times I had imagined how different this all was from your perspective than it was from mine. For you, we were ripping you away from everything you’d ever known; for me, I was birthing a new daughter in my heart.
Your caretakers went quickly to you and spoke softly to you, wiping your tears away. Father Francis told us it was best to just take you and go—the faster the separation, the better. Minal handed you to your new daddy. Someone handed me your ball and your photo album. The women cried and kissed you, then clasped my hands and told me that you ate bananas with a spoon. That you didn’t like milk. That you were a good sleeper. That you liked your hair in pigtails. That you were used to having a nap around 10:30 in the morning. That you were a sweet girl. I thanked them for loving you and taking care of you. They thanked me for loving you and coming to get you.I was surprised by how quickly you settled down in the car. Less than five minutes and you had stopped crying. Daddy played a “hide the ball” game with you. You even almost smiled once. I saw it starting to form on your lips, and I saw you quickly pull it back. It would be a couple days still before you allowed yourself to smile with us.
As we walked through the streets—a beautiful part of India—making photocopies, getting your visa picture taken, buying groceries, you sat still and quiet in Daddy’s arms. I remember the brave look on your face. I remember how wobbly you seemed; like you didn’t know how to lean in to him and be held. I carried you for awhile on those streets. You weighed next to nothing. And as I had observed, you did not know how to lean in and be held—not like now.Now, you are cuddled up on the couch in my arms, holding on tight with both of your still tiny hands as you smile and hum softly. And I begin to remember.
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