Top 5s, and all the rest

Last night I had a dream about people I haven’t thought about in years - several people I lived with in Myers Hall at the University of Georgia my freshman year, but haven’t kept in touch with, not even on Facebook. They were a few of the first people I met in college - some lived across the hall from me, some were friends of theirs. We bonded over things in common - our shared love for R.E.M., our majors, etc - and for a while we saw each other regularly and were friends. Then we met other people, got busy studying for exams, deliberating whether our newly selected directions in life were the right ones, etc, and spent less time together. And now, these particular people are no longer in my life. 

But they’re still part of me, because last night, they were hanging out with me in the YouTube cafe, and we were on our way to an offsite and celebrating someone’s birthday with a Bi-Rite pie all at the same time. It was strange because I haven’t thought of their names or faces in years, possibly more than a decade, and yet there they were, hanging out somewhere in my unconscious mind.

As I laid in bed and reflected on the dream, I started going through all the years individually, starting in college, next through my travels in Fiji and Australia, then moving into my decade in New York City, my now two years in San Francisco, my experiences at Google, and all the far-flung international travel in between. There have been so many people who have come in and out of my life, whose roles varied in significance, who grew to be more or less important. It’s something I’m conscious of when I see the absolute number of Facebook friends listed on my timeline, but when I start to think about them all individually, their faces, the memories we shared, the effects of those relationships I carry with me to this day, I start to feel almost overwhelmed. 

The last Facebook post I shared was about a website called Polygraph, which is an audio visualization of how music taste has evolved over time. It runs you through the top five hits of every year since the 1950s, and plays and changes the top hit when it changed over time. Playing with it the other day brought on this huge barrage of feelings - all these songs I hadn’t heard in years in some cases were suddenly bringing up memories and their associated emotions so vividly that they felt as if they’d just happened. 

I realized then that people are like that too. There’s this quote that floats around from time to time, with the idea being that you are the average of the top five people you spend the most time with. But those top five change all the time, based on proximity and experiences and time commitments and changes in group dynamics, so in reality, you’re the sum of a multitude of people you’ve shared time and location with throughout your life. People come into your life, and sometimes they leave your life forever, yet as my dream illustrated for me, everyone stays in there somewhere, and so everyone must have an effect, whether you’re conscious of it or not.

If that’s the case, I am extremely grateful to be the sum of so many of you strange and wonderful people. I’m grateful for you all - those of you with whom I have shared experiences both exceptional and mundane, who have talked to me late into the night about your dreams and fears, who have listened to my dreams and fears in return. I’m thankful for those who were close long ago and who remain close, for those who were distant and grew closer when we got enough experience to gain perspective, for those who are newer but equally as important. I’m grateful for those I may have met only once but changed my life forever, for those I expected to meet only once but then ran into again years later and halfway around the world, for those I have known only casually but who have said something once that forever changed my perspective. 

I wish we had a way to recognize the moment that will be the last moment we’ll ever physically see any given individual. If we knew that, we could take that opportunity to pause and reflect on what we’ve meant to one another; we could take a minute to give each other a huge hug and say “thank you” for what we’ve given one another, which is doubtless more than we’ll even realize at the time.

Since I won’t ever be able to do that, I’m trying to do what I can now. I hope you’re all doing well, that you’re healthy and happy. I’m grateful for you. You make me who I am.

From the Masai Mara, A Story of Strength

“It is what we make out of what we have, not what we are given, that separates one person from another.” - Nelson Mandela

We sit comfortably in deep armchairs and sofas in the impeccably decorated “living” area of Bataleur Camp in Kichwa Tembo Tented Camp, just outside the Masai Mara National Reserve in Kenya, bellies full from a three-course lunch that rivals that of any top-named San Francisco restaurant. We’ve just watched an impressive thunderstorm roll in from across our expansive view of the Mara, and we are listening to it lash the heavy canvas of the tent walls and the roof while we chat amiably to pass the time until our next game drive. It’s all very civilized. I’m a bit of an interloper here – my current roommate and I have tagged along on a safari that was planned by my close friend’s father, who has visited Kenya extensively over the past few decades. We are on the second week of safari and we are coming close to the end of our trip, with Masai Mara being our final park. Kichwa Tembo is well outside of my immediate friend group’s current pay grade, but because part of the extended group that I know is staying there, we’ve been invited for lunch.

Jim, my friend’s father, mentions that the resident naturalist, Ann, will be coming shortly to give us a cultural talk on the Maasai as we wait for the rain to pass. After a short while, Ann enters.  She is taller than me, and very slender. She is beautifully dressed in red, a traditionally Maasai color, and the dress looks like it may be for a special occasion based on its cut and her beautiful jewelry made of colorful beads and small silver discs, which jingle softly and shimmer in the light. She is young – 22 years old, with about shoulder-length hair pulled back neatly in a low ponytail, and glasses. Her chocolate brown skin is nearly flawless, with the exception of two symmetrical sets of three small, vertical scars, one set on each smiling cheek.

“Good afternoon,” Ann says. Her voice is soft, pleasant – her smile carries to her voice. “I am Ann, the resident naturalist. I met some of you last night, and welcome to the others of you who have come today. I wanted to give you a talk about the Maasai people. I know many people have questions about the Maasai, and I am happy to answer them. Many people are often worried their questions might be too personal, but really, do not be worried. I can answer these questions too.

“For instance, many people wonder about the scars they see on our faces. These are very common and many receive them when they are young. When I was a child, I was crying all the time. So my mother made these cuts in my face because the tears are salty, and when they would run down into the scars, they would hurt. This would remind me to not cry, and it was very effective.

“I will give you a brief talk about my people, maybe fifteen minutes, and then I will give you as long as you want to ask as many questions as you want.”

We nod silently, smile. Because she speaks softly, and because it is still raining, many of us lean forward to hear her. Some of us know a little about the Maasai based on what has been conveyed in popular culture – they are warriors, fierce, nomadic people who defend their herds of cattle from lions with spears, dressed in a brilliant red that the lions supposedly learned to fear. Really, I know little else, and I’m eager to learn more.

Ann begins by explaining that the Maasai originally came from north of Lake Turkana and began migrating south with their cattle, moving into what is now Kenya and Tanzania. The spelling “Maasai,” with two “a’s” refers to people who speak Maa, as opposed to “Masai” which refers instead to things, like the Masai Mara park. She tells us how cattle are very important to the Maasai and that they believe all the cattle in the world belong to them, so they will conduct raids to seize cattle (or, take them back). She then begins to describe the differences in roles and growing up between males and females in Maasai culture.

“The boys,” she said, “care for the calves and the lambs when they are small. When boys are teenagers they can begin the training to become a warrior. They are circumcised and they must go live in the bush, protect themselves, and participate in rites of passage to demonstrate that they are ready to be warriors. When they have finished their training, usually in their early 20s, they become warriors and can protect their community. After this, they can marry.

“Boys and girls both go to school, but if a family has several children and cannot afford to send them all to school, preference is given to the boys.

“Girls also take care of the cows and goats, but they also do things such as gathering water, cooking, and sweeping. When girls are between 10 and 12, they also are circumcised and after that, they can be married. Men can ‘book’ girls for marriage from when they are very young, sometimes even before they are born. If, for instance, a man knows that a woman who is known as being a very good woman is going to have a child, he may go to her and say ‘If you have a girl, I would like to book her for marriage.’ So this is decided for girls by the parents. In Maasai culture, men can have more than one wife, really as many wives as he can care for. For instance I grew up in a family with three mothers.”

After providing a few more details, Ann asks if we have any questions.

We fall silent for a brief moment, thinking.

She had said it all so matter-of-factly, but still I had stiffened with the word “circumcision.” In the west we refer to female circumcision as “female genital mutilation,” or FGM. When she had said girl children were married at 10 to 12, I did my best not to visibly react, to put on my cultural relativism hat for a moment, even though I do not believe cultural relativism applies to FGM or child marriage and consider them human rights violations. I rolled my questions around in my head, trying to think of a way to ask them that wouldn’t be insensitive.

“Are you married?” someone asks.

“No, I am not married. I was lucky and escaped going through the circumcision, but Maasai men see a woman who is uncircumcised and say ‘I do not want this woman.’ So it is difficult for me.”

The word “escape” lent us a clue about her personal opinions on the matter.

“Can you tell us about your story? You obviously are very educated and I’m interested to know what got you to here,” asks Alison, my roommate.

Ann smiles, nods. “Of course. As I mentioned, I had three mothers, and had many siblings. When I was young it was my job to watch the sheep, so that my brothers could go to school. But I found myself also wanting to go to school. So, I would take the sheep out to graze next to the school building and sit outside every day, listening to the lessons. I would do this every day, and I would even go on the weekends because I fell into this habit.

“But because I was there every day, a man, the chief, noticed me sitting outside the building. And so one day when I was about nine years old he calls me over and he says ‘Girl, tell me what you are doing outside when the other children are inside?’ I told him that I wanted to go to school but that my brothers had to go and I had to watch the sheep. So this man takes me home and asks to speak with my father to tell him that I wished to go to school. My father refused because it was my job to watch the sheep.

“Unfortunately this same day, one of the sheep went missing. Because my father now knew where I had been, I knew that he would beat me up, so I ran away from home to my aunt’s house. I stayed there a few days, but then I knew I could go back home and be forgiven.

“I started again going back outside the school, and again the chief went back to my father and said ‘This girl, she will be very unhappy if she does not go to school. You should allow her to go.’ But my father replied ‘Who will then watch my sheep, and do her chores? Will it be your daughter?’ The chief continued to talk to my father and in the end came to an agreement that he would allow me to go to school if I got all my chores for the day done first.

“So I would wake up very early and start with my chores for the day - gathering the water, sweeping the floors, and all the other jobs. Sometimes I would be late and miss the first lesson. Sometimes there was just too much work, and I would not be able to go that day. But still, I managed to make very good marks, even though I was not able to attend all the time.

“This went on until I was about 12 years old. At that time, I learned that I had been booked for marriage, and the man had come to claim me, so I would have to be circumcised. But a Kikuyu woman who was one of my teachers had told me about all the negative effects of the circumcision, and I decided I did not want this. I told my parents I did not want to be circumcised but they said I would have to, as the man was coming to claim me. So this time, I ran away from home but did not come back.

“My teacher provided me with help at this time, as did others, so I could continue to go to school. At times my church would also help me and come together to buy me some personal items. So I finished school with very high marks, and I was able to get a government scholarship to go on to college, where I also did well.

“Our college graduation was announced on a local radio station. The day that I graduated from college was the day that I saw my father again. He had heard about my graduation on the radio and came to see. When he saw me being recognized, he was very surprised, and he came to me and fell to his knees, and he asked for me to forgive him.

“So that is how I got here. I do feel very lucky. Some girls my age, they have three or four children, but I get to work here as the naturalist, and get to meet many new people like yourselves.”

The sound of now occasional raindrops spattering the roof takes over as we process the story this remarkable young woman has just shared with us. For me, our innate privileges seemed quietly but visibly present in the room, standing in stark contrast to the challenges that this woman had faced and overcome, and to the harsh realities that many other women in her culture still face. I struggle to come up with anything to say that could adequately acknowledge the significance of what she has shared with us.

We thank her for sharing her story, praise her courage. Someone reminds us that we should mobilize for our next game drive and we start to make moves. I am still having difficulty articulating what I’m feeling, which is something like awe, for this amazing person standing in front of me, so I thank her personally and exchange Facebook details, because I have no doubt that hers is a life worth following.

We see Ann again the following day at the Kichwa Tembo airstrip when we go to see the folks staying at Bataleur Camp off. We chat for a while, and I ask Ann what’s next for her. She says that she really enjoys her job here, but would maybe like to go back for university, maybe to study law. She says that she would like to help represent the the Maasai people - since she is one of them, she feels she can stand up for their best interests.

As we say our goodbyes, Ann gives me a hug and says “Thank you for accepting me as who I am. It is still difficult with some people in my village, so it’s nice when I meet people who are accepting of me.”

I don’t know what to say. It’s almost unfathomable to me that anyone could shun this bright, brave, and obviously compassionate woman, who still wants to help the culture that stood in the way of her dreams. I hug her back and promise to keep in touch.

Ann’s story left a deep impression on me. I read a great deal about issues affecting women across the globe, and I’ve known about FGM and its terrible consequences for a long time, but never before had knowingly been amongst cultures like the Maasai and Samburu, where an estimated 90% of women are cut. Ann’s strength is undeniable - her desire to learn, her scrappiness in getting some education even before any was offered to her, her defiance of cultural norms, bravery to set out on her own, determination to achieve her goals, and her steadfastness in the face of loneliness and cultural ostracism are impressive by any measure of human character.

I consider myself an extremely fortunate individual. While I can demonstrate that I have worked hard during my life to achieve a number of goals, I cannot deny the fact that I won the birth place and time lottery. I was born in the United States, to a two-parent household at the end of the 20th century. Those factors alone give me an enormous inherent social and economic leg up over many women (and men) in the world. I’ve certainly faced obstacles and uncertainties. But I’ve never had to raise my own food and had to worry when drought threatened to starve us all. I never questioned whether I would receive an education, because it was a given that I would. I’ve never had to abandon my home as a result of warfare and wonder if I will ever be safe again. I have always had the right to determine my own destiny and have been able to access the resources to move me closer to my dreams. I consider myself a strong person, but I can’t help but wonder whether, if placed at birth in the same cultural context as Ann, would I be as strong as she is? There’s no way to know, but knowing that she is out there talking about her experiences, working hard, and fighting for acceptance and justice for both women and her culture gives me renewed faith in human resilience, and it makes me hopeful that other girls and women can and will find the strength to do the same.

Note

I did my best to recall Ann’s telling of her story in as much detail as possible, but memory is fallible and I may have made a few mistakes along the way. It’s my hope that she tells her story to the world to educate people about her culture and to encourage young women to stand up for themselves and to inspire them become who they want to be.

The Maasai

The Maasai culture is fascinating, and images of Maasai people featuring vivid colors, intricate beadwork, and body modification such as scarring and earlobe stretching are fairly well known to westerners, due to many Maasai peoples’ proximity to prominent parks in Kenya and Tanzania. An interesting bit of historical information is that the Maasai have always stood against slavery, never taking conquered tribes for slaves, and never engaging in the western slave trade. They have a reputation as fierce fighters, and outsiders looking for people to enslave avoided the Maasai.

A traditionally semi-nomadic group of people, the Maasai are facing a number of challenges due to private land ownership, government regulations, etc. Maasai leaders are working to find a way to preserve traditions while balancing the need for education for their children and acknowledging realities of changes in the modern world.

Here are a few online resources about the Maasai:

• Maasai Association
• Survival International
• Countries & Cultures

Female Genital Mutilation

The U.N. estimates more than 140 million girls and women alive today have undergone some form of female genital mutilation (FGM). FGM has been recognized by the World Health Organization as a violation of the human rights of girls and women. With that said, the issue isn’t entirely as black and white as it seems. It’s critical to understand the cultural and socio-economic realities aside from inherent gender power constructs that perpetuate the practice - for instance, many indigenous families cannot afford to send all their children to school, so they marry their girls off young to protect them from a life of poverty - the marriage ensures they will be cared for. Contributing factors and systemic social challenges should also be examined and addressed in conjunction with FGM to ensure success.

To learn more about female genital mutilation/female circumcision and alternatives being explored:

• Overviews
• World Health Organization fact sheet about female genital mutilation
• UNICEF: Female genital mutilation/cutting
• International Day of Zero Tolerance for Female Genital Mutilation
• Wikipedia: Female Genital Mutilation
• Diagram: Types of FGM
• Prevalence
• Infographic of Africa, 2013
• Population Reference Bureau article on prevalence, including stats on the United States
• Alternatives
• An alternative to female genital mutilation that prevents girls suffering
• Alternatives to female genital mutilation on the rise in Kenya
• Individual Stories
• FGM: Maasai Women Speak Out
• Kenyan woman who was locked indoors for six weeks during 'cutting season' to escape female genital mutilation is campaigning to end the practice in rural Africa
• Kenyan-based organizations
• SAFE Kenya

Choices

Sometimes you have to make a choice between your past and your future. And while it's always hard to let go of what you had and what may have once filled you with joy, I think it's probably worse to wake up one day and realize you've been sitting still, alone, while the world moved on. Here's to moving forward, even if you don't always know where you're going.

Now

I feel like an afterthought to you.

Do You Remember:

Now at night, it's quiet. Now again I go home on my own, without the barely contained excitement of knowing I'll see you soon. Now all I have is all these intensely colored memories we made together, and then abruptly stopped making. They won't leave me alone, or let me sleep. They hit me unexpectedly, when I'm walking across McCarren Park, when I pass by BAM or cross Atlantic Avenue, when I get into my car and shut the door. Any little action can bring back a surge of emotion as I remember a look, a brief touch, your smile, your hair over your eyes. I remember all these things so vividly. Do you think about them? Do they take you by surprise? Or have you put them all away, compartmentalized them somewhere so you can focus now on your more distant memories of someone else? Here is what I have. Here are some of the things that take my breath away.

That first kiss, in a bar over a second bourbon barrel-aged ale, when I came back from the bathroom, opened my mouth to continue a thought, and found your hand on my face and your lips on mine.

The anticipation of seeing one another for the second time, after the first time we had seen each other in a year.

The time you unexpectedly enjoyed "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas," lying in the grass beneath the Williamsburg bridge and the night sky when we didn't want to get up, didn't want to stop kissing, didn't want to let go.

The time wandering in lower Manhattan when I convinced you I could give you a piggyback ride, and I did (maybe a whole five steps), and then I almost ripped my dress when I tried to hop on your back for a ride. The side-splitting laughter as we stumbled down the sidewalk after our friends.

The first day at Rockaway where we spent time swimming and then laying in the sand, skin to skin, just staring at one another, smiling, feeling warm and like summer wouldn't end.

The windows-down drive back from Rockaway the second time, where after surfing and stuffing ourselves on tacos we noticed the sky over the water and the city, fruitlessly tried to snap pictures while moving, couldn't stop exclaiming about the colors in that cloudless dusk sky, about the city skyline, about the placement of the crescent moon over the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, about the perfect stars peering out through indigo, couldn't stop smiling, or singing to Counting Crows, or touching each other, feeling as if our hearts might explode from pure, unadulterated joy at living and being there together at that moment.

The way we looked at each other late at night from adjacent pillows. The way that we smiled at each other first thing in the morning and said "I like waking up next to you."

The time we assembled your bed together and had to take the absurd step of filing metal with screws to make larger holes, and after a few hours finally got to throw the mattress on and give it a whirl while listening to the Flaming Lips.

The way I never wanted you to go home.

The taxi cab ride to Greenpoint back from a friend's shiny new Midtown whiskey bar, when the cab driver, apparently aghast at what he might witness, sternly exclaimed "Sir! Sir, you must sit back and put your seat belt on!" The way we sheepishly and impishly giggled the whole way home then ran up the stairs to lose ourselves again.

The way you said "This is crazy. It's not supposed to be like this the first time," and "This is crazy, the way I feel about you." The way it was crazy and didn't seem crazy at all.

The way we couldn't keep our hands off one another.

The way we dreamed out loud together. Couldn't stop planning things. Couldn't stop feeling excited.

The drive to Washington, D.C. where we talked and sang the whole way to my old CD collection and ate greasy Popeye's from a rest stop, and upon arrival when we spent the nights in your parents' second bedroom, trying to be quiet and to act innocent. The way I made you laugh when I said I had bad news and good news. 

The way I thought "This is what I want." The way you acted like you never wanted anything else.

The weekend I was away in San Francisco and you wanted to see what I was seeing, and asked for pictures, and said we should go there together, and casually talked of buying a house, like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

The weekend on the Jersey Shore and the night in the tent on the beach where I almost cried because I wasn't sure I'd ever felt that close another person, or whether I would again.

The way you'd surprise me with periodic texts that said "I can't wait to kiss your face" or "I was thinking about you. (about what?) About the way your face looked on our walk on the beach," or just "I miss you."

The way you'd tell me I was beautiful. The way I couldn't stop looking at you.

The night in Connecticut with beer and home cooked food and gin and strip poker and the pounding rain on the tin roof, which was exactly what I wanted. The last time I felt unbelievably close to you, and I'm positive you felt close to me again too. The time that gave me hope, which started to leave me at 4 am, when I woke up in a panic, dreaming about exactly what would happen a few hours later on the porch overlooking the lake.

I feel raw. I am sure that you felt as close to me as I did to you, because I felt it the second your feelings started to change. I wish I knew how you could just turn it off, change your mind. I wish I could do the same. Because all these beautiful memories won't leave me alone. And all I (still) want is time to make more.

I hope that you remember all these moments, all the tiny details, too. I wish I knew if they made you feel anything for what we had - could have had - had you continued to let me in to try to understand you, and try to help work through the past to potentially move forward together.

But in retrospect, I suppose the time we sat and listened to "Anna Begins" in my parked car under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway was prescient. You weren't ready for this sort of thing. Now I wish I hadn't been.

When It Begins to Crack

"Is everything ok?"

"Yes. Is it ok with you?" 

"Yeah, fine." 

"Your eyes don't look fine." 

"Well, it's just that this week, I feel like something changed. And I've been trying to tell myself it's nothing, but..."

Pause. I start to feel it, ever so slightly. A tiny crack.

"Yeah. I guess it's just everything has been happening so fast that this week everything started to catch up with me. And I guess I needed to catch my breath. So that is probably what you were feeling."

"OK." Don't fall apart.

"But it doesn't mean I don't want to see you anymore." 

Breathe. "I mean, should we look into not going to Connecticut when we get back then? It's going to be tough timing anyway. And maybe I should just look into whether I can cancel and get my money back." Talking about finances feels less personal. It's better that way.

"No, I want to go. Do you?"

"Yeah."

...

"Just...I need you to talk to me. I don't want to be blindsided. I need to know if things are changing."

"OK."

And then we dance around it some more. I tell him to have fun, he says Portland won't be a fun trip, and I remind him that France will be. He says "oh yeah." It sounds like he didn't quite remember that he won't see me when he gets back from Portland because I'll be in Georgia. He asks if we can keep talking. I say yes. I don't know what any of this means. I think I asked him if we should take a break and he said no, but I don't really remember. He kisses me goodbye. I give him a hard hug. It doesn't feel like he's hugging me back because he wants to, but rather because he should. 

I don't know what any of this means.

Late Nights

Some nights you find yourself standing alone in a tee shirt in the middle of a giant luxury hotel room listening to amazing, soul-wrenching music, yet feeling small and alone.

You got yourself here. You got yourself into the life of perks and business miles. You worked your ass off, being smarter than your job calls for, going above and beyond. But you look in the mirror and see this tiny person with so much dark, messy hair, and you still feel like a little kid.

I'm not sure when that ends. Do you need someone to validate your adulthood when you're a seven-course cocktail tasting menu in, or do you ever feel like you are a grown up? After a four hour conversation with one of your good college friends about life and travel and human depravity and prostitution and cannibalism and reproduction and the direction of your own lives, do you go back to your king-sized bed with surplus pillows and feel more connected, or more isolated?

I have no answers. I'm asking these questions to myself, listening to songs for people who might drink too much on repeat. Anyone want to talk?

Christmas is...

What Christmas, or rather the Christmas season, meant to me was family. My mom came from a family with four siblings each of whom had two children, with the exception of one, who adopted three. On holidays, we always all got together at my grandma's house for more food than was reasonable, playtime with cousins, and later with cousins' kids, and, while my grandmother was alive, music.  I have vivid, beautiful memories of warm houses and Christmas lights and laughter.

Then my grandma passed away and the awful shit that sometimes happens with families over relatives' estates happens, effectively splitting the larger group in half. Which honestly was fine - holiday celebrations got streamlined, but those who were leftover were still close. We still gathered on holidays, and I always still felt an extreme sense of appreciation for these people that I love. 

So in recent years, I've still kept coming home for a few weeks, and we've cooked a lot with more butter than one should probably ever use in a meal, and we've still gathered and laughed. And everything still felt like home.

This year is different. This year, to be perfectly honest, I feel nothing. 

It's mostly me. In this past year I have felt more distant from the people in my life than ever before. I can't tell you why that is. Possibly it started more than a year ago, when I started distancing myself from my partner of six years. It wasn't really sustainable. We both knew it. So probably to make it easier for myself emotionally, I started putting up walls. When the break finally came it still hurt, but I was able to not think about it most of the time, since I'd already started not thinking about our relationship most of the time. Unfortunately, he was my best friend, the person I told everything to. I still felt like I had close friends though, and even though they were slowly going their separate ways, mostly with their partners, I still felt like there was a good enough support system to call on when I needed it. 

The problem, I guess, is that I decided I was really self sufficient. And I am. I try to take care of myself and my dog and not bother anyone too much. I work really hard, and I have a lot of things I'm interested in that keep me busy. I go on dates and make the rounds with friends. But I don't spend a lot of time with anyone. So I guess really I've started to feel disconnected from everything. I always thought I felt close to my parents, though.

But they've been having a lot of problems lately. More and more it seems like they can't stand one another for a a multitude of reasons I won't even begin to explain. Unfortunately I don't feel like I have much to contribute in terms of making things better. If I dare to disagree with my mother, I've taken sides with my father, and to a lesser extent it works in the other direction too. So I mostly just try to listen hoping that talking out loud will get them through it. It hasn't though, and when I'm home now, all I hear constantly around me is fighting, and all I feel is tension. And then when I've had enough and ask if everyone can please just shut up, that makes no one talk to anyone.

So I just shut myself away, and sit with the dogs, and do little things to keep myself busy. It's Christmas eve and I've barely spoken three words to anyone today. I used to spend all day in the kitchen helping my mom and joking with her. She doesn't want to be in the same room with anyone. Instead, I've sat with my laptop and caught up on email and contemplated getting a jump start on some work I have to do this week, because I don't have anything better to do. 

I wish I could feel that warmth and sense of belonging I felt before. I wish I felt anything. Instead, I just feel empty. It feels like any other day. 

Seriously

On days like this - gray, raining, chilly, hungover days - all I want in the world is someone to share it with. Don't get me wrong, I love sharing the bright summer days too - but on those days I feel more a part of the world than apart from the world, like I do on the dreary ones.

I wish there was someone out there who wanted to go look at taxidermy mouse dioramas with me at the Morbid Anatomy Holiday Fair, then stumble around downtown Brooklyn a little, then maybe sit and start watching True Blood with me.

Driving in the Dark

We only live forever in the lights we make
When we were young we used to say
That you only hear the music when your heart begins to break
Now we are the kids from yesterday.

All I want is a long, aimless drive on dark, nearly deserted streets, blasting my car stereo, so I can sing as loudly as I want until the music replaces the vague longing I feel for something I can't put my finger on with something else that feels a bit more complete. There are no dark, nearly deserted roads in New York City where I can drive 70 miles an hour, few streets that wouldn't require me to stop every few blocks for a red light.

I experienced a brief moment of the pure joy that comes with accelerating unimpeded to 55, 60, 65 miles per hour and beyond accompanied by music and my own out-of-shape voice tonight while driving back home from downtown Brooklyn along the BQE, and I just wanted it to go on forever. For a minute I got to relive countless moments with friends, boyfriends, my brother, moments where we drove and sang and talked together and felt free and alive, moments I thought were in infinite supply, but which turned out ultimately to be limited.

When I almost ran into a parked service truck on my exit ramp, I got an intense flashback of deja vu from when I did the exact same thing in the exact same place seven years ago, when I'd just moved to Brooklyn, when even the cold felt new and exciting, when the sense of endless possibility was ever-present. For a second, everything still felt possible. For just a second, I didn't mind that it was winter. I thought that maybe if I could keep driving, I could make that all stick, but the first traffic light brought the reality of city driving back, so I came home, and instead tried to bring my memories in with me.

I miss you, nearly pitch-black, two-lane back roads of rural Georgia. I miss you all, my shotgun co-pilots, who'd also shamelessly belt along to ridiculously emo songs or rock opera or hair metal or musical theater until we'd sung ourselves hoarse, then who'd accompany me home to lie on the floor and talk about whatever it was that was so important until the wee hours of the night. There was really almost nothing better than us, my car, and a long night ahead.

Dinner Drivel

(Note: I'm currently discovering old drafts I never published, and just pressing publish if they aren't entirely incomplete.)

Some people are really impressed by certain evidences of achievement--by masters degrees or doctorates, by the names of the schools that others attended, by their employment histories with high-profile companies. Others really enjoy sharing their achievements, sliding them into small talk--or even dominating entire conversations with their impressive scholastic and business accomplishments--as if this somehow affirms that you chose the right dinner partner indeed.

There are some people who really take note of these mentions, who are impressed by them, and who like to surround themselves with people who have perhaps been to Ivy-league schools, who have MBAs, who summer at their homes in the north and winter in their second homes in the south, and who drive their brand new cars in between the two, who know exactly how many square feet each of these homes have.

I personally don't give a shit.

Where you went to school and what company provides you with a desk and a paycheck and how many quality possessions you own--none of these things make me care any more or any less about you, because they don't really tell me anything about who you are. What I want to know are things like what do you really care about--what lights up your eyes and makes you raise your voice with passion? What have you done to make a difference, either in the larger world or in just one life? What makes you different from every other person in this restaurant, on the street, in the subway? I suppose for some, the answers to these questions are the things mentioned in the first sentence of this paragraph. I find dinner conversations with this type of person insufferable. All I want to do is to tell them to shut up, to point out that because they were so busy talking about themselves, they haven't asked a single question of anyone else, as if they presume they have nothing to learn from anyone else.

I want to have dinner with the genuine people, the people you can skip quickly through the small talk and get into real conversations about the things that really keep us up at night, like what we're going to do to make a contribution to the world, like what kind of people we're going to be when we're older, like what kind of people we're going to share our lives with and how we're going maintain these relationships, because we know that none of us is perfect, and that everything has the potential to fall apart if we don't work hard at the important things.

Remember when...

Music and autumn are the ultimate catalysts for nostalgia.

Music brings your youth back in floods. There are those songs that you used to play over and over again, so much so that you know every single note, every last exhalation and subtle finger scratch on guitar strings. They were so important to you, because at the time you had discovered an accurate articulation of what was swirling around inside of you. You don't play them often anymore, because they no longer necessarily appropriately reflect your daily inner soundtrack, but when they come on unannounced, everything, every single little detail comes flooding back and you feel, momentarily, exactly the same as you felt five, ten, twenty or more years ago.

The difference that is so striking to me is the difference between how much we felt then and how much we allow ourselves to feel now.

Remember how young we were? Remember how old we felt?

Your first love was so unadulterated in its intensity that you swore that no one could have ever loved anyone like this before. And then when he broke your heart, you felt like you would die, because no one could possibly survive such pain. Remember how much it hurt? Do you remember how it took over everything, every last part of your day-- how you couldn't get away from it, how acute the experience was? Now as adults we've experienced loss so well beyond the scope of what we understood then, but we don't get to let that pain out. Instead we silently hold it close to our hearts and really push it aside as much as we can so that we can put on a good face for the world. We no longer get to embrace and express our pain.

(Note: Nov 2012: I don't remember when I wrote this. I know there was more. I know it involved the smell of autumn.)

A Facebook message I almost sent

I don't know who gets these messages, but...

Matt, I don't know what to do about the fact that your sisters, the tiny girls who used to follow us around on the beach, now have children. I wish you were around for me to lament about the passing of our youths. Instead, I have the knowledge that you're not there. Except...a lot of the time you still are. I go home, and I see you around the turns on 144. I hear you singing along to Oasis in the car. We hang out in my dreams, and I don't miss you then, because we get to spend some time together. But in my waking hours, and in these weird dark hours where I should probably just go to bed, I miss...I miss you. I miss our past. I miss your future. I want to know what happens. 

I fucking hate the shit life deals us sometimes.

Love,

Rebecca

Last night

It was one of those nights.

"I really want to kiss you right now."

Fuck. It was one of those nights I haven't had since college, I think. Sitting with a friend, having a good conversation, and suddenly, this confession. Blame it on the alcohol -- it's fine when we do that. It's not as awkward later.

The problem is, that in college, this shit happened. Sometimes there were drunk confessions from guys I thought were just close friends. But now I'm at the point in my life where this hasn't happened in forever. I thought it was a thing of the past. I'm too old. Friends are friends. I no longer inspire these feelings of passion that were once (dare I say?) almost commonplace.

But here it is, in this bar, from a dear, close friend. 

All I can say is "No." All I can think is "You're engaged." Goddamnit. 

And then my feelings. My fucking feelings are all over the place. Because part of me wants to kiss him anyway. Part of me agrees with him. If it hadn't been a matter of geography, we might be together. We might be the ones getting married and working on dual citizenships and an international relationship.

Part of me hates myself. Hates everything. Because it's still too soon after the last relationship, the one I thought I could will to last.

Part of me feels hopeful. Maybe I'm not past my prime after all.

And part of me just feels sad. Like I should just go to bed.

Some days...

Some days everything hurts--the sincerely kind things people say break your heart, the thoughts of what might have been overwhelm you, and the longing to talk to those who can never speak again makes you want to lay down and cry. Some days, beneath the smiles and the day-to-day transactions, you are dying inside. 

Not every day can feel this way, though, and I've got to believe that this year will be better. We all have to keep moving forward.

Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

We lost one of the good ones today. Matt Freeman, Captain, USMC, my dear friend--and friend, brother, son, husband to others--was killed on the ground in Afghanistan.

I still don't know the exact circumstances of his death, and I can't seem to get my head around the fact that he's gone. The last time I saw him was two years ago, at Amy's funeral in Savannah, and now the last time I may see him will be at his own funeral.

Nothing in life prepares you for this, prepares you to start losing the people you love before they turn thirty. I am taking turns feeling stunned, devastated, angry, and empty.

Yes, it had been awhile since we talked, and longer since we had seen one another, but I always felt like Matt was close, like we could pick up where we left off in a second. He was one of those people who would (will) always be important in my life. First and foremost, he was one of my closest friends throughout high school, someone I felt like I could tell pretty much anything and never be judged, which is nothing short of monumental at that age. He could always be counted on for a great conversation, for a laugh, and well, for anything else for which you might need him.

For a time it was more complex than that--he has actually appeared on this blog before, in my very first post, the friend who kissed me beside the pond when I was wearing a gold prom dress. Even though it turned out to be relatively brief, he became one of my first serious relationships, and it helped me to understand what a mature, respectful romantic relationship should be like (as opposed to my previous experiences with what turned out to be a complete scumbag). It ended due to indecision on my part, but somehow we still remained friends--and not just in name, but actual friends.

I remember long, lazy days in the sun at the beach, running back to his parents' beach house to escape afternoon thundershowers. There were late nights in various locations, groups of us sitting up and talking, scheming, planning to change the world. There was drama class and drama club, various plays and rehearsals, field trips and hilarity. There were the days we'd just run around town aimlessly, and then he'd drive me home, speeding like a madman in his teal Geo Metro around that sharp bend on Highway 144, racing to get me back in time for curfew. Later there were oyster roast reunions, where everything had changed for everyone, but somehow it all felt the same. I feel like I don't do it justice, but my memories of high school are memories with Matt. He was part of me growing up, and his friendship likely deeply affected who I became. I am having a hard time understanding that that is where he will have to remain from this day forward--in the past.

Those who know my left-leaning tendencies will understand why I am mad. There's also the greater existential anger--why the hell is it always the best people, the people with the most to offer, who die?

I guess that I should take comfort in the fact that he died doing what he wanted to do. I mean, hell, I am actually hugely impressed at how much Matt really lived in his twenty-nine years. He'd not only traveled all over the world, but he flew a lot of it himself. He worked his ass off and ended up with the job of his dreams--flying planes for the military--and in fact, he had one of the coolest-sounding jobs of anyone I have known. No matter where he went, he still found ways to stay close to his family. He found love (well, rediscovered might be more like it) with his wife, Theresa. A lot of people don't achieve all this in fifty to sixty years, let alone fewer than thirty.

But still, I mourn. I am sad that he won't be a parent--because he probably would have been a fantastic dad. The thought of what his family is going through makes me break down in tears. The realization that we'll never again reconnect on the phone or catch up during a trip home...well, it makes me feel like my youth is dead. And while I know that in the end we will honor his sacrifice in the name of service to country, tonight I feel like my country stole my friend from me. Call me an anti-patriot, but we're all entitled to our various stages of grief.

Matt had a better attitude than I do; in fact, I'm sure he would have argued heatedly with me over the above sentiment. When I spoke with his mom tonight, she said "I talked to him on the phone the other day, and he told me that he was happy that he was finally doing what he wanted to do. And he asked for us to send more pens and paper, things like that, because he said 'Each one of these that I hand out is one less person shooting at me.'" He believed he was helping change the world. I'm positive that he did help change the world. I just wish he was still here to help it continue to evolve for good.

This post is scattered, unfocused, poorly-constructed. I am unable to properly harness words to best convey what I am feeling tonight, so I'll lay it to rest with words from the Bard, from one of the plays Matt loved dearly: "Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

Sunny with Passing Clouds

It's one of those rare, stunningly gorgeous spring days in Brooklyn, when the air is clear, the sky is blue, and the sun somehow highlights what green lives in this city and makes it glow in stark relief against the gray of concrete. I've been aimlessly wandering in my neighborhood most of the day, strolling through the farmer's market, perusing the flea market, petting strangers' dogs, and browsing shops I haven't visited in awhile. It's been a lovely, relaxing day and even though I grow increasingly more restless here, overall I have been content.

Of course two small things broke my heart today, and they stand in sharp contrast to the rest of the day. The first involved pigeons. Although everywhere else in the world I don't terribly mind pigeons, in New York City, I'm not-so-secretly disgusted by them. However, my distaste was trumped by the site of two pigeons under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. I happened to glance over and almost cried when I saw one pigeon gently preening another, which was lying dead on the ground. I don't know how many emotions birds experience, but witnessing this exhibition of something so much like grief in these two small creatures caused heartbreak number one.

Heartbreak number two came when wandering down Havemeyer Street while taking a different way back to my place. Amidst old, plain residences and construction frames on what will presumably become more "luxury" high rises, I noticed a sign with no-nonsense red lettering hanging out in front of a restaurant with open windows: "Kenny's Trattoria." Inside was decorated simply in brown wood. There was no one in the restaurant except a middle-aged man sitting in a chair, gazing outside, slowly rubbing his hands together, waiting. With little to no foot traffic in that part of the neighborhood, I wondered how long he'd been waiting on customers who hadn't come. The site of the empty tables and the faraway look on his face caused literal pain in my chest. How many days has he passed, waiting for customers to buy meals so he can pay his overhead? I hope not many; I hope that this is an unusual off day. But how many times does this happen to people who work hard and save to open a business and live the American dream, only to be disappointed? The near-continual shuttering of restaurants and businesses around me lets me know that the answer to this question is "all the time."

So that's really all--sunshine with a few passing clouds today for me. For others, I hope those clouds dissipate soon.

April Showers

I love a good thunderstorm. Growing up in Savannah, thunderstorms were a near daily occurrence in the summertime, and I always loved the sound of rain on the roof and windows, the play of light across the marsh, the dim lights in my house, the low rumbles interspersed with giant roars of thunder. Insanely as a kid I'd get a thrill from running around in the yard barefoot as they raged, until my mother would yell my first and middle names at me, telling me to get inside or else. Then I'd go take a quick hot bath, put on warm, dry clothes, and sit by the glass doors in the back or lie sprawled on my bed, watching, listening, thinking, savoring. To this day I can sometimes think of nothing more satisfying than getting in bed, opening the blinds, and listening to the rain on the glass and the wind in the trees.

Unfortunately there aren't as many thunderstorms in New York City, and most days that's probably a good thing given concrete's propensity to make it rain both up and down simultaneously. But tonight--tonight there is thunder, and rain, and wind. Now that I've taken off my soaked clothes and put on soft flannel pants and I've gotten in my bed, I feel...I suppose I just feel happy to be alive, and warm, and listening to the rain. This quiet moment alone has value beyond measure, and I am thankful for it, and for all the others I have left.

Gray Hair and Graves

I think my little brother's girlfriend is dying.

Actually, even though it's hard to say it about someone that young, my little brother's girlfriend is dying. She has Hodgkin's lymphoma--I'm not positive, but it sounds like stage III-IV--and her prognosis is not good. The other night, she came down with an infection, and if her mother (with whom she had to move back in) hadn't unexpectedly checked on her, the doctors said she probably wouldn't have made it through the night. She's been in the hospital more than out lately. She's twenty-one years old, with luminous brown eyes and a soft southern accent. She never got to go to college, because she's been sick so long. She's twenty-one years old, and she likely won't see twenty-two.

My brother has been spending more time in the hospital than any twenty-six-year-old ever should, waiting. I can only begin to imagine what he thinks as he waits, and just trying to get my head around it absolutely breaks my heart. Inevitably, he'll finally hear the words he's been dreading. He'll have to go home, drive home in his car like he did the day before when he knew he had at least one more day to talk to her, except it won't be the same at all. Then the next day he'll have to get up and figure out how he's going to make it to twenty-seven.

Not too long ago I was putting my hair in a ponytail and gasped as I revealed two bright silver hairs beneath the top layer of dark hair. I felt like it was the end of the world, like my youth was gone, like I may as well hang it up now and figure out how to be happy with my lot, now that I no longer had my pretty face and any time to waste. Right now I realize how absolutely ridiculous and melodramatic I was being. In fact, I'm lucky I get to live long enough to grow gray hair. I will most likely get to turn twenty-eight next month.

Eventually, each one of us will end up in a grave of one kind or another. Not all of us, though, will get the chance to find our gray hairs, to watch them slowly gain more ground on our scalps. We don't all get to accumulate the stories, the laughter and heartbreak, the knowledge and experience that adds up to wisdom, that accompanies those gray hairs. Sometimes it's hard to understand that you're fortunate until you take a moment to put things in perspective.

One day you'll be the mom on the online social network.

You know you've heard it before. One of your coworkers, from her cubicle five feet away screams "Oh my god, my mom just friend requested me on Facebook!" Your other five coworkers who sit within a ten foot radius join her and you in a mutual grimace and agree: "Ick." Then everyone joins in with bits of advice, such as "You'd better delete those pictures of yourself funneling beer in a baby pool of Jello," and "Dude, go ahead and make a 'family' list and put her on it and set the restrictions so she can't see ANYTHING, I mean she won't know the difference anyway--she's old."

Of course your gut reaction is "ick." After all, we are the generation that pioneered the social networking frontier. We found MySpace and Facebook and Friendster when they first launched, and we latched on. We put everything online, all those pictures of us partying like rock stars, thinking we looked so cool, or all those dimly-lit photographs of us giving bedroom eyes to the camera where we thought we looked so hot, disclosing on our profiles that we love spicy food and Australian men, and oh, that we're willing to try anything once. And then a few years later we realized that actually we looked like drunk twelve-year-olds and got tired of forty-year-old balding men or thug playas writing "Hey baby u look Hott i think u need 2 holla back" whilst masturbating over our pictures that feature us in the foreground and our dirty laundry in a pile in the background, and we yanked all those pictures and put up a few that made us still look fun, but more maturely fun, the kind of people who climb cliffs by the Mediterranean and then pose for photos fun. We still disclose online, but only just enough, chuckling over the actual twelve-year-olds who make all the same mistakes we once did. We add friends we haven't seen since middle school. We actually talk to some of those people online and realize occasionally that we both are no longer as dorky as we once were. We check our multiple social networking accounts at least once a day. We post on each others' walls to keep in touch, because regular e-mail just takes so much time. We have portions of an entire industries built around us--people get paid to keep our online lives running, other people get paid to figure out how they can use the information we willingly provide to target advertisements to our tastes. We're the generation that owns social media--we made it what it is, and to an extent, it made us who we are. So yes, we laugh (or scream and complain) when the older generation tries to get in on the action, to see what all the noise is about. I mean really, whose mom is really cool enough to even have any "about me" information to put on a profile?

But hang on a second there. As a whole, we may still be awesome and cool enough to add really amazing photos of us rocking out in whatever capacity, but have you noticed that some of us have (gasp) passed the thirty-year mark? That many of our friends are now starting to post pictures of their kids and pets and homes alongside those of themselves vacationing on verdant seasides? Well, since I mentioned them, what about those kids, the ones who ended up online before they even knew what the internet was (but who will never know a world without it)? Those kids are going to get older. They're going to become teenagers and young adults, and as we know firsthand, teenagers and young adults love social media, because it allows them to declare to the world "Hey, I'm here, and this is who I am." And one day, they too will create personal profiles on whatever social networking sites continue to thrive in the coming decades.

So the question is--what then? Who are we then? I mean, we made these sites what they are. Do we eventually drop off because the demands of a job and a family and full-on adulthood make it so that we no longer have time to write "Hey dude, thought about you today" on someone's wall? Do we drop off because spending time on MySpace or Facebook becomes considered immature? Do our kids create lists with restrictions that prohibit those included on them from seeing anything that says anything about who they think they are, and add us to those lists?

I think that realistically, our perceptions of social networking and family members' places on it will evolve as we continue to use them and our kids join in on the game. But I also that some things will never change--for the most part, when someone's parent friend requests her, that person will still yell and scream and tell her friends and coworkers, and have a silent moment of panic as she wonders what in hell she should do. Right now, we get to be the cool kids who complain, but in just a few short years, many of us are going to be the uncool parents.

I think the change in perspective will be painful for us in many ways. But then, I think getting older will continue to be painful in a lot of ways. Unfortunately there's no fighting it, so I suppose laughing at it helps some.