Interesting Developments

So I may not have mentioned that my father has a new girlfriend. (Boy/girlfriend is a weird word to use for senior citizens, lol. I feel like there should be a more grown-up word. Except, I'm fine referring to my mom's boyfriends as such. Maybe I'm just being ageist. Anyway.) This is...weird for me. I know, I know, I should be used to the whole parents dating thing now, as I can basically recount the various stages of my life according to who my mother was with at the time, but something about this just feels...off. I suppose that I have simply come to think of my father as a person who is alone. My mother and I both describe him as hard to live with (though I think he would say that other people are the problem,  not him); she calls him (and anyone related to him, myself included) a kook. He has never been particularly social--he doesn't have many friends, loves sports but doesn't go over to like, bars or live games with "the guys". My dad, Mr. Solo Dolo. 
Whereas my mom has never been man-less for any substantial period of my lifetime, as far as I can tell, my father has dated at most four people (both my mother and his current booskie included) over the last 21 years. My mom left my dad when I was just a few months old. When I was a kid, maybe 6 or so, we used to go over to my dad's friend K's house, where should would let me bring all my stuffed animals over and my teaset for tea parties. She had nieces whose stuffed animals she'd let me borrow, and I thought she was awesome because she gave me real (iced) tea for my tea parties, whereas my mom made me play with water. [Lame.] It has recently come to my attention that they were most likely dating...didn't cross my six-year-old mind. When I was twelve and he was living in Detroit, he was seeing some woman who was a figure skater. I never met this woman, but I absolutely hated her for a while, because he was supposed to come back to NJ to visit me for my 13th birthday [it would have been the first time he'd come home since having moved when I was 9] and she went and broke her fucking ankle like three days before my birthday and he stayed in Detroit to take care of her instead of coming to see me. I was furious. (And now I'm wondering regretfully whether my fury influenced their breaking up at all, hmmm.) And now, all these years later, he's started dating again. He was even on an online dating site (but met his current girlfriend in real life). 
I suppose it didn't strike me until recently that my father was probably very lonely. I figured he was used to it, being the only child of only children and having lived alone for all but maybe 8 years of his adult life...but just because something has become a habit doesn't mean it's the way you should keep doing things. I'm glad he decided he need something in his life other than sports (which don't give anything back for your time, dedication, and anxiety...especially when your fantasy team does really well in your league for the vast majority of the season and then tanks in the end losing you lots of potential money/bragging rights) and two grown daughters who live thousands of miles away from each other and him. I'm further glad that beyond just deciding/accepting this, he actually went out of his way to act on it. I really hope she's good to him or I will go to Florida myself to smack the shit out of her. #that'sapromise 
It's just weird to be on the opposite end of the hey-I'm-kind-of-busy-with-this-person-who-is-actually-physically-present-in-my-life-right-now-and-I-don't-wanna-rush-you-but-I-actually-do-kind-of-want-to-rush-you phone call. Since I became a teenager (a period of my life that ended a year and a half ago, wow), that's always been how I feel talking to him. It has always been a chore, something that is interrupting whatever I'd rather be doing. It's...both offensive and amusing to recognize those same patterns of trying-to-end-this-conversation-asap-in-as-friendly-a-manner-as-possible-ness coming from him. I guess it's cute. I'm glad he has someone. ...And somewhat also glad that this someone is taking up all the empty space in his life he used to try to fill with talking to me, haha.   

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 11: Letter to your Future Employer

Dear ___________ College/University,

This letter is hard, because I've never really thought about what I want from you before. That probably isn't good, so I'm going to try to rise to the occasion. 

First off, I suppose I should thank you for taking a chance and hiring me. I was just one more in a sea of eager grad students waving their dissertations in your face trying to show you that I was just a little more interesting than the guy next to me...and you believed me! For that, you have my eternal gratitude. I hope this works out well for us. 
I work best under loose structure. My hope is that you'll provide assistant professors with a mentor, a higher-up in their department who can show them the ropes and help us make the transition from being a student to teaching them. [My work deals with the sociological social psychology of identity in the midst of transitions, so I expect that I will feel a little lost  during this shift. I would like a professional shoulder to lean on, if possible.] We're going to get along great if I can pick what I want to teach, or at least choose from a list of available options. I would like to design my own syllabuses, or at least have the opportunity to modify established ones. I expect the freedom to come to class as I am, curly fro and all; I don't want to be one of those stuffy old professors who wears a suit every day. Again, my work is on identity: I hope we can find a way to let me be me while still representing you. 
I can't tell you how excited I am to have an office. As a student, I was always fascinated by those professors whose offices mysteriously contained just the right book/journal to help you, young grasshopper amidst countless volumes and mountains of paper. There was always something to be inferred by the condition of one's office: the carefully organized shelves professor v. the precarious stacks making the floor a maze professor, the comfy chairs to sit and chat in professor v. the two wooden chairs in front of his/her desk professor. I'm thrilled at the prospect of decorating a place of knowledge, even of having a physical space of knowledge to call my own. 
I hope you're the kind of school where professors precept and office hours are widely attended. I want to get to know my students. I want to help them. I'm not sure yet whether I want to be a PowerPoint professor or a chalk-stains-on-my-pants professor, but I want to inspire them. I want to teach an intro class and an advanced one--I want to reel students in the way I "caught the SOC bug" at Princeton, and once they're in I want to make them ask the harder questions. I won't be afraid to ask the harder questions. I hope that's why you hired me. 
I hope you're an institution that favors interdisciplinary work. I want to be friends with social psychologists (yes, even though I'm a sociologist!). I want to work for (or even in) your African-American studies department. In your Gender and Sexuality department, too. I don't want to be put in a box; I hate boxes. I hope you're a fairly liberal institution...I don't want to be afraid that I won't get tenure because you're scared of what I have to say. I hope you're not scared of controversy. I hope we serve each other well. 

I'm really looking forward to working with you,

Maya

Intimacy

I was young and naive once. Don’t laugh too hard,

we all were. And when I was, I equated intimacy with, well, sex.

Or the clandestine touching and kissing that may or may not

have been leading up to it. The rushed whispering of “Can I”s

and “Let me”s. The relinquishing of clothing.

The offering of oneself piece by piece. 
 

You have taught me that intimacy does not come in pieces.

That it is neither the desire for or the act of nudity, not its touch or taste.

It does not, in fact, even necessitate these things.

It is, perhaps, the feeling of nakedness, of wanting shamelessly

to lay myself bare before you. It is wanting to shout the boldest of “Let me”s,

“Let me give you all of me.” 
 

It is seeing that gift appreciated fully. It is learning the true meaning of the word

acceptance. It can play, like tickle wars in between bouts of kissing,

but that play has purpose--intoxicating, stimulating, your smile is the highest high

It is your tongue in the gap between my two front teeth, your words saying you

love even this hidden part of me. It is not caring whether I’ve shaved.

It is bed head and morning breath after the best sleep I’ve ever had every night with you.

It is wanting to spend every night with you. It is embarrassing stories from

elementary school and the tenderest of teasings. It is both talking freely and

having comfortably quiet time. It is knowing the weight of your head in my lap.

It is honesty. It is never needing to put on a brave face.

It is pure unadulterated fascination at the wonder that is you.

It is “I need us” over “I need you”. It is “Share my life.”
   

I used to believe that love was an impossible dream.

I once thought happiness was an emotion rather than a state of being.

I didn’t know growth could stem from joy.

I was blind to the difference between frenzy and fervor.  

In the past, I mistook physicality for intimacy.

Meh.

The struggfest between my inner academic and my inner couch computer-chair-potato is madddddd real. 

I have a describable and achievable goal, the means by which to get to my end, the time to do it all without feeling rushed...and yet I'm not being productive. I feel...uninspired. I need to refocus. Someday in the not-too-distant future, books and notes like these will be one of the biggest chunks of my life. Remember that fervor we had when we first started our JP readings, Maya? How we devoured article after article and book after book and carried that giant tote bag of library books just to show Alex how dedicated we were? Get that feeling back. Or at the very least, learn how to progress in its absence. #ValuableLifeSkills 

 

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day Ten: Letter to Someone You Work With

Hey girl heyyyyyy!

You do happen to be someone I work with, but you're also a good friend. In fact, you're a surprisingly good friend respective to like, the amount of time we actually spend together. I always know I can talk to you about any issues I'm having (and visa versa), even the stuff that sometimes embarrasses me to talk to other Princetonians about like my family or money, because I know you feel me on stuff like that. On being black at Princeton and not religious. On being natural. On gender normativity. On...anything. And you're one of those people that I know I can count on when shit is rough. I will never forget how you SAVED MY LIFE when I left my wristlet (contents: student ID, government ID, debit card, insurance card, dorm keys, house keys, about $60 cash, random other important things) at the movie theater at the mall--running into you walking across campus while I was freaking out was the best thing that could possibly have happened. 
You're one of those good people in my life that makes me wonder whether I'm a good enough person/friend. I hope you feel like you can count on me in all the same ways, even if I don't drive or can't do some of the more practical things. I've got your back the same way you've got mine. 
As much as I do enjoy having gotten moved to a desk where there is a computer to keep me occupied as we "work" (#Ihopemybossneverfiguresoutthisisn'tarealjob), I miss getting paid to sit and chat with you. I feel like we got a lot closer that week we guarded the double doors together. I might start randomly taking "bathroom breaks" to come visit you out there. 
Long story short, I wanna spend more time with you. I'm excited for our roadtrip to AC to see Erykah Badu next weekend. I'm excited to just like, randomly chill with you over the course of the summer. I guess you got hired late, or whatever, because your email address wasn't in that original list our boss sent out (which I scoured looking for people I was excited to be with), but working with you is a wonderful surprise. Let's make a pact to keep this going when the school year starts again, okay? 

:),


Maya

Sometimes...

Sometimes things change.

...Shocking, I know. Even more shocking:

Sometimes they change in ways we are not happy with. 

Sometimes the changes make it seem like new-chunk-of-life-you're-entering won't feel normal. Sometimes the anticipation of that impending lack of normality will fill the pit of your stomach with a nasty feeling that can only be called dread. Sometimes you will want to stick your head in the sand and hide from that feeling...that will never make it actually go away. (It knows you're under there.) Sometimes you will sit at "work" for hours trying to imagine ways to make this new-chunk-of-life-you're-entering feel more like the old/current-chunk-of-life-you've-come-to-adore , what can be done to approximate that comfortable sense of normality you don't want to part with under any circumstances. Sometimes you will become exceedingly frustrated as that seems less and less possible the more you think about it. Sometimes you will overanalyze and become unnecessarily worried about things that will not matter in the long run, even if the short run seems so overwhelmingly significant right now. 

...Sometimes you need to just breathe. Sometimes you need to calm yourself down and take a moment to remember who and what you are and note that if you've made it through x, y, and z, then this isn't going to kill you. And look back over your life and realize that whoever said that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger had a point. And remember that things that don't accept change don't last long--we must accommodate when accommodation is due. So if the old normal has to go, let it. Don't think of the change as a change, think of it as a new normal. Get just as comfortable in it. Love it the same way. It's the only way every moment of a less-than-ideal situation won't be the worst thing ever. And honey, your life can't be the worst thing ever--it's far too fabulous. 

<3

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day Nine: Letter to the Last Person You Hugged

Hmm...I'm not sure which of you I hugged first and which I hugged second, so I'll write to both of you, I guess. I'd just met both of you a few hours before and your hugs were within ten seconds of each other, so it seems appropriate.

Dear J and M,


You're both pretty cool guys. I was surprised by how much I meant it when I told you it was great meeting both of you. Usually that's just something you say because it's socially normative, but it actually really was a pleasure meeting both of you--and not just because you bought us shots, M. (Side note: a round is totally on me at some point in the future.)
I feel like our time at Corner on Friday night might well be my first like, overwhelmingly positive being-at-a-bar-with-strangers experience. Hailing from a magical place called the Princeton Quadrangle Club where the liquor flows free (read: is included in the gazillions of dollars Princeton spends for me to be a member), I haven't spent a huge amount of time in bars since I turned 21 in January. In fact, the number of times I'd been out drinking in my entire life more than doubled in the two weeks I was home between Princeton and New Brunswick, making me wonder what I used to do when I was home (ABSOLUTELY NOTHING). 
Anyway, two of my going-out-drinking experiences when I was home included strangers. One was pretty neutral, as the strangers seemed nice enough but had been going for a while by the time my friend F and I joined, and basically left us to our own devices. One of their dad's bought us all a drink, though, so that was nice and canceled out the fact that we were being ignored. The other was like, a pretty good experience with my best friend from forever and some of his new friends, who I'd been dying to meet, but Idk I guess I just didn't click with them as much. We sat down and had dinner and talked and stuff over our drinks, but it still wasn't anything special.
But you guys...J, when you came from across the street, picked T up, and carried her inside the bar, I knew it was going to be a good night. M, when you said J was supposed to meet you two hours before, and you'd had a pitcher and a half to yourself while you were waiting for him, I knew you were going to be fun people to hang out with. J, you made your smartphone's 1001 Cocktails app readily available to satisfy our whims. M, you bought us delicious colorful Kool-Aid flavored vodka and gracefully (lol) lost two games of pool to us girls. J, you wrote T a message in the sand on the shuffleboard table as we struggled to figure out how the game was supposed to work and made her smile. Neither of you made a big deal about the fact that I go to Princeton, like a lot of people I meet do (+2 awesome points), and talking with you guys just seemed easy and natural. There was none of that weird I'm just gonna talk to the person I'm actually friends with like I experienced at other bars-with-strangers outings; I felt really included and like we could all be good friends. 
I'm really looking forward to getting to hang out with you guys again. I feel like Quad would love you, haha. T and/or I must have a party for you both to come to. And M, I'm seriously taking you up on your parent's pool if your offer was serious. 

Here's to a fun summer, guys!

Maya 

Today I finished reading a wonderful book called My Name is Memory

Ann Brashares is on the road to becoming one of those authors I read everything by (like Jodi Picoult) because of her ability to be taking me along through a beautiful story that I can get lost in, developing characters whose pain and joys I feel as if they were my own (or, at the very least, those of someone I'm close to), and then all of a sudden hit me out of nowhere with a line or a phrase that brings me up out of this delicious book-world and back into the real world and makes me question something major in my life and the world at large. 

All her descriptions of the eternal undying lasting love and devotion between the two main characters nestled warmly into the depths of my heart like someones snuggling under a blanket, but they're not what I want to talk about. That happens a lot these days. 

Example A

The little tiny afterthought-like bit that blew me away was as follows:

"It took a half-dozen of those lives for me to recognize the difference between a means and an end." --Ann Brashares, "My Name is Memory" pp. 154

I suppose I first wondered some semblance of this towards the end of high school, when Student Council president came around to ask the Top Ten graduating seniors to fill out this sheet with some questions on it for little blurbs about us that would be put in our yearbooks. One of the questions was "What is your favorite memory from your time at Oakcrest?" or something to that effect. The 8 other members of the Top Ten who were sitting in AP Calc with me started laughing and remembering awesome times they'd had in this club or at that party or whatever, and I was struggling majorly to come up with anything worthy of eternal glorification in the pages of my yearbook. It dawned on me then that these people, my friends, had legitimately enjoyed high school to some extent. Particularly after my personal life exploded at the beginning of junior year, I had been treating it and my experiences in it like a means to an end. It was one more thing I was ready to get the hell away from, til it was over and I realized I had never really experienced it at all. 

And so I made a vow to myself that I was going to start living my life differently. I was going to stop taking my life and my day-to-day experiences for granted, I was going to treat each day like an adventure, I was going to do x-thing and y-thing and become an awesome person. And to varying extents at various times, I have done those things, I think. But although I pause to look at my life with wonder more often, and I meditate, and I occasionally walk around Princeton just to look at its beauty and marvel at the fact that I'm here, and I tell my friends just how much they mean to me, and I have begun to take chances...just like college was the end-goal of high school, grad school has been sneaking up as the end-goal of college. Professorship as the end-goal of grad school. And yes, these things are my goals, they are what I want to do with my life, and I'm okay with that. I like them. I actively chose those goals over the other options and am happy with my choice (for now, at least). This is what I want. 

...But what is the end-goal of professorship? Can that be the end-all be-all of the end-goals? Should it be a means? What end would it serve? #BigImportantLifeQuestions  

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day Eight: Letter to a Food You've Been Craving Recently

Dear Home-Cooked Meals,

I suppose you're technically a bending of the rules for this letter, because you aren't a particular food, but nevertheless I've been craving you recently. It's not that I particularly enjoy cooking, because I don't (no offense), but a) I'd like to show the skeptics that I can make you, that I have the ability to make real meals from ingredients instead of from bags in a freezer, b) I want the satisfaction that comes with eating something that I spent the time making, as opposed to a-glorified-version-of-defrosting-ing, and c) because I somehow forgot to purchase much frozen food when T and I were at ShopRite yesterday (possibly a function of how much of a rush she was in to get off the frozen food aisle because she was cold due to a lack of appropriate clothing, which happens to her often, haha) which means I need to start actually making you or I will starve.
And so I came home last night, took a quick shower followed by a leisurely bath (don't judge me), and once I was feeling all clean and pampered, I made my way to the kitchen to cook you. And I got out a pot and a lid and began searching the cabinets for a measuring cup to measure out the water to boil to make my rice. I found more pots and pans than I can ever imagine needing, a George Forman grill, a colander, a mixing bowl, lots of ice trays, a blender, a cookie sheet (which was good since I bought cookie dough yesterday), lots of solid measuring cups, etc....but a liquid measuring cup was nowhere to be found. It was a disaster! My basic understanding of cooking is of it as a science (sadly, I am neither skilled nor interested enough to view it as an art), and science needs measurement. I hung my head in disappointment, and ate a sandwich.
Then today I embarked on a mission to find a dollar store, from which I could purchase a measuring cup and maybe some other make-my-life-easier household objects. I wrote down my walking directions from Google maps and set out to walk a mile in the near 80 degree weather, determined to find a measuring cup and cook you at last, dear home cooked meals! On the way there, my had-been-dying-for-about-a-week-now headphones finally gave out, which I should have taken as a bad omen. I got to step five of my directions and was perplexed because I didn't remember thinking that there would be much distance between steps 5 and 6. I persisted, I was on a mission to find what I needed to have you at last! Then I eventually realized I'd been walking for about half an hour, on a trip that should have taken 18 minutes, and I relented and admitted defeat. I hung my head again, and turned around to go home, comforted by the boyfriend's desire for me not to get lost. 
It turns out I had forgotten to write down a step, and had been walking parallel to the street I needed to end up on for about 15 minutes. THE MEASURING CUP WAS WITHIN A BLOCK OF ME AND I NEVER FOUND IT. But now I know where I made my mistake, and tomorrow, MEASURING CUP WILL BE MINE. AND THEN SO WILL YOU.

So simple, yet soooooo elusive.

That's a promise.

Maya   

You know that moment where you can sense something bad is about to happen to a character in a book...

...and you don't realize how emotionally invested you've gotten in him/her until your heart is pounding and you want to scream out a warning? When this collection of words has somehow become a friend that is near and dear to your heart and needs protecting?

I live for that moment. 

So the blogosphere has been touting the benefits of olive oil for a long time

and I have been reluctant to try for reasons I can't really even identify. But after I manipulated it a lot to come up with some pretty cute styles involving hideaway combs last week (including a fro-hawk that actually looked like a hawk according to my friend B and a half back look with cute side bangs) my hair was pretty frustrated with me today. I cowashed in the shower like usual BEFORE going to the beach, and even then it was dry and frizzy and like it was not in a good mood, so I promised it an overdue deep condition post-ocean and left for ShopRite. I knew my hair needed some good moisturization, but the new products I just bought from CurlMart won't be in til Wednesday and I was not about to spend dinero on something to tide me over from CVS. Then at ShopRite T was checking out olive oil for pasta, and there was some on sale for $2 and I said...this might be worth a shot for my overworked hair. 
So I came back from the beach with sand like, visible in my curls and before I even cooked dinner I decided to treat my hair because it deserved some love and affection. I showered and applied my DC, then ran a bath, poured some OO into the water too because the random foreign lady on the aisle at ShopRite reminded me of the wonders it can work on skin too, and relaxed with music playing and the awesome book I'm reading for a 45 minute soak. I could feel the OO coating my skin in a delicious silkiness like really good lotion, and when it was time to rinse the DC out I just slid farther back into the tub til my head was underwater, letting the conditioner come out and the olive-oily-water take its place. Then I poured some OO into my palm and worked that into my scalp, then spread another palmful or two sparingly from roots to ends. 
AND LET ME TELL YOU, my hair feels so soft and bouncy and luscious right now! Rarely have I ever found a product that can take me so dramatically from dry mess to tight curls, and it was TWO DOLLARS. Even if it is working in conjunction with the DC, DAYUM. 
Long story short, olive oil is going to become a part of my regular stash. I might go back to ShopRite to stock up while it's on sale. And I don't think I smell like a salad, so it's all good.   

Stuffed Animal Roadkill

I saw something so sad today it almost made me want to cry. As T, E, and I were driving back from the beach in Long Branch (side note: SOMEONE PLEASE REMIND ME TO NEVER EVER EVER SPEND THE WARM MONTHS OF THE YEAR AN HOUR FROM A LARGE BODY OF WATER EVER AGAIN. WHY HAVE I DONE THIS TO MYSELF?!) this evening, we passed what can only be described as stuffed animal roadkill. 

It was an adorable little stuffed monkey. He looked like he was soft and fun and would be nice company on a desk or a bookshelf...he was so small that he could get lost in a bed and not be very conducive to snuggling. But he was the cutest thing ever. So brown and fuzzy. And he was lying on the side of the road, discarded like some ungrateful child tossed him out the window. A seam had opened on his back and fluffy white stuffing was spilling out. IT WAS LIKE HE WAS BLEEDING.

If we hadn't been in the middle of a superbusy highway, I would have screamed for T to stop the car so I could run out and save him and stitch him up and give him a loving home. As it were, I could only tell T and E the horror I had just witnessed, prompting T to comment on the irony of the fact that we have been entirely desensitized to actual roadkill but my heart had gone out to this poor stuffed animal. He didn't seem to deserve such a cruel fate. Kids can be so mean. Whatever child abandoned that poor monkey is the second person I wish I could have slapped today.

#ThingsThatAnnoyMe:

Older black women [or any other person of any other race and/or gender, for that matter] who think they can touch me without permission. This most often happens with regards to my hair, which often beckons the touch of complete strangers (I welcome touches from those I know and love, but randos are a whole different story...). Today's situation, however, went a little something like this:

Me: [approaches register with very full shopping cart at ShopRite. Doesn't notice tank top riding up to expose her lower back.]
Random older black woman: [Reaches over and pulls my shirt down while saying] You should pull your shirt down, okay? 
Me: [stiffens noticeably at the feel of strange fingers on the small of my back, turns around to glare at her]
Her: Okay?
Me: [decides I don't have time to give this woman a propriety lesson. Storms off.] 

What gave this woman the right to think she could just touch me like that? I have two words for her: PERSONAL FUCKING SPACE. If the fact that MY shirt is riding up to expose MY lower back is somehow offensive to YOU, the appropriate thing to do is to keep it to yourself. The also fairly appropriate thing to do is to discreetly mention to me that I might want to fix my shirt. The absolutely inappropriate under every possible circumstance thing to do is to fix it yourself. 

If I hadn't been in a rush, you would have gotten smacked, fyi. Consider it my good deed of the day that you didn't.

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day Seven: Letter to a Band/Singer

Dear Peter Gene Hernandez (aka Bruno Mars),

I can't believe T wrote to you too. She totally lives inside my head. If other people couldn't see her/be driven to the beach by her, I would sometimes doubt she existed anywhere else. <3 
I contemplated writing to someone else after reading her post, but what I want to say to you seems important, so I'll keep going. 

You seem so much more like a Peter than like a Bruno. Bruno sounds like a) a name I'd give my dog, and b) like you're trying to reinvent yourself into being the cool kid now because like Bowling for Soup taught us, High School Never Ends. I'm glad Mars is the end of your stage name, it's appropriately spacey. I think I'm going to call you Peter throughout this post, if you don't mind. Peter, you won my musical allegiance within the first 30 seconds of the first time I saw the music video for "Just the Way You Are".  

You hadn't even started singing yet, but the sneaky smile you gave the girl and the first of the tape-drawings clued me into the fact that I was going to love this song. And love it I did. It was so obnoxiously cute in all the ways I've always openly criticized/condemned/judged/scorned but secretly harbored intense desires for. (Really secretly...I would admit to any perceived hypocrisy, you have my word. I really don't think I knew how much I wanted that cuteness and those feelings until they were suddenly in my life and I wouldn't have it any other way.) This song was adorably sappily over-the-top cutesy perfect in the way I then thought only songs could be (I have since been proven wonderfully fantastically wrong), and I was hooked. I had friends that made fun of you when Grenade came out, over-analyzing the lyrics and calling it stupid, but I stuck up for you because I liked that song, too. I had once felt a warped semblance of the feeling and the situation you were trying to express, and I couldn't have expressed it any better.

After that, I decided to go on a little internet-hunt to see what other good songs you had. And then I basically went on a Bruno-binge, listening to and downloading song after song, even the ones I thought were a little weird, like Liquor Store Blues (which has a video now, I didn't know), because I could still identify with some of it, empathize with all of it, and above all it just made me want to give you a hug, Peter. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I downloaded a song that would later (read: has now) become the unofficial theme song to my life:

It's evidently a Brandy cover and was never released on Doo-Wops & Hooligans or your EP (not that I'm really sure what the difference between an album and an EP is. Maybe something to do with the fact that It's Better if You Don't Understand only has a few songs on it? Note to self: seek further enlightenment.) but I have a feeling that its appearance in my life at just the right time will lead it to always be my favorite. It's so perfect. If I were a pre-angsty preteen, I'd say it's like you understand my life. It's really just like all of our lives are part of the same great big story and though everyone's pain is different it's also all a little bit the same.

There was one song, though, that I just couldn't bring myself to download, Peter. In fact, I couldn't even bring myself to listen attentively to the whole thing. (My little brother loves this song. Go figure.) This song is the same song T wrote about, because we shared the experience of watching your video for it for the first time together last night. If the song itself wasn't bad enough, your synchronized-swimmers/90s-boy-band-esque backup dancers were monkeys, and the entire video is you dancing around the room with them. I feel like this could be reworked into a children's cartoon. It was like undiscovered-wannabe-Youtube-sensation plus friend-who-does-some-light-choreo plus other-friend-who-is-into-computer-graphics-a-bit maybe part of the point, too lazy to make a real video?). Maybe you're going for a difference audience (like my little brother, whose musical tastes I generally disdain) here or something, but I want you to know that I disapprove with every fiber of my being. Some days I just want to be lazy too, but that song...makes me wanna get up and do anything else but listen to it.

So this letter is to say that 95% of your music makes me happy (even the songs that remind me that I'm a little sad). And we can just pretend that other song never happened. It was a Bruno moment. I won't talk about it if you don't, Peter. 

Adoringly,

Maya 

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day Six: Letter to a Store

Dear Charlotte Russe,

You have been T's favorite store for quite some time. I was getting fairly sick of you recently, though. I've drooled over your shoes for a zillion years, but you consistently only carried shoes up to a 10. Strike one. You have the cutest bras I've ever seen, both don't carry them in big enough (or supportive enough) sizes/styles for the girls. Strike two. Your clearance section has been getting less and less cheap, which is unfortunate. And last time I was there, there was a small clearance rack, a medium clearance rack, and a large clearance rack--no love for the extra larges. Strike three. 
But then, you had a little change of heart, Charlotte Russe. You have made a serious move in my favor, and for this I applaud you. The last time I was there, as I was lamenting over the lack of an XL clearance rack, I noticed a collection of fall boots on a rack in the middle of the store, with a large sign advertising that they were on clearance for $4.99. I shook my head at the fact that I had purchased a very similar pair of boots elsewhere for almost $40 this past fall, and rued the day my feet grew past a size 10. And then T ran over to me with a pair of flats that were a size 11. And my shock and curiosity provoked me to inspect the boots on the rack...ALL OF THEM WERE AN ELEVEN. EVERY SINGLE PAIR. 
Confused as to what was happening, I bought three pairs before someone could pinch me and wake me up from this dream. Then, as I was casually windows-shopping (my term for browsing the websites of various stores I frequent without really intending to buy anything, aka a cure for boredom) I clicked on Shoes on charlotterusse.com and discovered that LO AND BEHOLD, SIZE ELEVEN WAS NOW AN OPTION ON THE DROPDOWN MENU. The world is a changed place.
So I thank you, Charlotte Russe, for recognizing that large-footed women wanna be cute too. Now if we could get the same thing going for large-breasted women, you and I wouldn't have any more problems...

Maya

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day Five--Letter to the Last Person Who Hit on You

Dear It's-Not-Like-You-Had-the-Manners-to-Introduce-Yourself, 

First off, don't go thinking you're special or anything because you got a Facebook status and a blog post, that's just a matter of circumstance. I was halfway hoping someone else would hit on me before today so I could write to them, but I can't say I'm really disappointed it didn't happen...it's a little uncomfortable. Like, part of me likes the attention and goes Mhmm I know I'm cute/sexy/fly but thanks for pointing it out, but another (larger?) part of me disapproves entirely of the manner by which you (and guys like you) choose to make your opinion known, and yet another part of me wonders if I really want to be considered attractive by the kind of guy who leans on sides of buildings/sits on front stoops and calls out to women as they pass by. That almost feels like I'm doing something wrong. But then I take a step back and remember that no, sir, YOU are in the wrong, and I'll be damned if you make me feel like I've made a bad decision by wearing shorts or walking with confidence or generally being presentable. So there.
Let's review what happened here, shall we? I was minding my own business, walking home from the train station after a long day of "work", not really demanding or even inviting your attention in any way. I certainly wouldn't have minded a compliment, but I feel the need to inform you, sir brotha, that "Brown Chocolate, Whassup baby?" is NOT a compliment. Let's dissect that statement: I am brown-skinned, yes, okay. Chocolate? Like you wanna eat me up? A) That's pretty damn forward, and B) I got that handled already, tyvm. Most importantly, I am not your "baby". You don't even know my name, and I'm supposed to answer to that? You and I both know I walked the hell away without the slightest hint of a response. I heard laughter after that, not sure if your boys were laughing at you  because I ignored you or if y'all were laughing at me because you said something rude in response to my ignoring you (which would just further prove all the points I'm trying to make here), but frankly [stranger] I don't give a damn. 
See, you don't know this, but the guy before you got a response, at least. It was a shut-down reference-to-my-boyfriend response, but it was a response. Why, you may ask? Well, situationally these events weren't much different, but he said, "Hey, come here and talk to me for a minute." That's...less intrusive. It seems more like I'm being offered an opportunity and less like I'm being reeled in on a line you've been casting all night. I felt like a person and not like a thing (you called me chocolate). I mean, granted, that other guy probably wouldn't have gotten anywhere either, but you could learn a thing or two from his approach. 
But really though, I would like you, and him, and other men who engage in this practice to sit down and think for a few minutes about "holleraing at" women. Because it just does not make sense to me that I'm expected to respond positively in any way to being halfway yelled at while I'm walking home. My advice: I can see myself hypothetically appreciating a line in a proper setting (aka not calling out to me while I'm walking down a street) and if it seems, Idk, sincere, like the guy is embarrassed about using the line because he thinks it's cheesy, instead of like hes been standing there all night calling out to every woman who walks past. I don't like when it seems practiced. Introducing yourself and saying you couldn't help but notice me from across the bar could be acceptable. Tell me your name. Don't call me baby when you don't even know mine. And don't yell at me.

This has been a public service announcement in the guise of a letter.

--Maya

It's the little things in life

I impulse bought the cutest umbrella I've ever seen in my life today. To quote the boyfriend, "If anything could make one look forward to rainy days, that would be it!" I just saw it in the window of a store as I was walking down the street and I had to have it. Sunflowers are my favorite kind of flower. They change your definition of what a flower is a little bit. They're like, overgrown and huge and should be awkward but somehow pull off being majestic. Sunflower seeds are delicious. They can't really be put in vases or shown on your kitchen table...they're meant for bigger things than that. If ever I have a front yard, you'd best believe there will be sunflowers in it, even if they grow to the point where I can't see out the windows. XD

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day Four: Letter to Something You Have that Belongs to Someone Else

Dear Hong Kong T-Shirt,

T accused me of thinking about your owner when I suggested this letter topic. She's not wrong--that's a 24/7 practice, haha--but there were other things I could have written to, I promise! But you win because you're his and that makes you special.
It's becoming clear to me that I will never know how I came to be in possession of you. Adorably sneaky little shirt, you wormed your way into my laundry basket during the last few days of school and knew me well enough to know I wouldn't fold my laundry after washing it but would rather bring home the contents of the basket as such, thus only discovering you after I lolligagged around the house for a few days and then decided I could be bothered with silly thins like unpacking. I guess that makes you a pretty smart shirt. I was also pleasantly surprised that, unlike his HS hoodie, you actually fit me. Well, I suppose it is the life goal of every t-shirt to be worn as much as possible, and if that was in fact your intention, then I must say well-played, because as soon as I discovered you and that you fit, I decided you were my new pajamas for the summer.
Now I make sure to only do my laundry during the day, so that you're available for sleeping in every night. I would pack you with me if I were to go on vacation. I know it's all in my mind, but feeling you on my skin, and knowing that you are his and that my body is where his body once was...you make me feel like he's not so far away. You give me that peaceful easy sleep he gives me. You feel...right, and I'm glad mysterious universal forces brought you to me. And evidently he thinks you look good on me, so everybody's happy.
I think the fact that you're a Hong Kong shirt is kind of funny: it shows so clearly to anyone who knows me that you do not belong to me, and to anyone who knows me well enough to have listened to me gush about the person you do belong to since February, it screams the name of the person you do belong to. The more I think about it, it becomes clearer that he might not be getting you back anytime soon...but even so, I don't think you will ever become mine in the way I've appropriated other people's belongings in the past. Nope, for however long I keep it, you'll be a little part of the adventure he's taking me on, a simple little thing that reminds me of him. (I wouldn't have it any other way.)

I'm glad you're here to help me through this distance thing. 

Love 爱 (<-- Look what your owner just taught me!),

Maya   

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day Three--Letter to Something You've Owned for More than 5 Years

Dear Silver Sparkly Rhinestone Pendant that S gave me for my 16th birthday,

(Which makes it 5 years, 4 months, and 17 days so yes this counts.) We've been through a lot together. I suppose I first have some apologies to make to you. You were once part of a set. There were matching earrings, but such fanciness was soon lost. (I noticed one's disappearance in the Oakcrest High School cafeteria, and after a few minutes of frantic searching I gave up and relegated the other to my doomed collection of mistmatched earrings.) You came on a specific chain, one that was dainty and innocent and cute. ...And I broke it. Long story short, I haven't always treated you with the utmost care. But, pendant, I want you to know that you have always had my love and my respect. I want you to remember the days when I didn't take you off for months at a time, even to sleep, even to shower. I want you to remember how I would only buy silver jewelry so that whatever else I wore could match you. And now that I have diversified, and other pendants share your chain...don't think I have lost any love for you. You and your giver will always hold a special place in my heart, even if I don't brandish that spot by dangling you between my breasts everyday. I promise you that regardless of whatever battles I'll have to fight to keep your company, I will never lose you. You mean too much to me.
It's almost eerie to me how closely my relationship with you, pendant, mirrors my relationship with the person who gave you to me. He had just lost his footing as the primary person in my life then, and of all the gifts I opened at my 16th birthday party, this was the only gift to make me gasp. It was the only gift I couldn't bear to be parted from; I remember lifting my hair to let him put you on me and giving him a hug that said I wanted to swallow him whole. And I wore you faithfully nearly every day for over two years, until J gave me a ring on a strand and asked me to replace it. I shouldn't have, but someone wanted me for the first time in a long time and I said yes. And after that short-lived...I still don't like saying mistake, but I'm at a loss for another word...I went back to wearing you almost daily until friends (aka my fashion police freshman year) asked why I never wore my other necklaces. Suddenly I felt silly wearing the same necklace every day, so I diversified. I shopped. I...changed. 
And as I changed, I felt my relationship with your giver change. We fought more and more. We stopped being honest with each other. We gave incredibly serious consideration to calling it quits forever...but we could never quite go through with it, and even when it seemed like we were I never hurt you, pendant. I never threw you away or even across the room. You just sat in my jewelry box, winking at me when the light hit you, and reminding me that what he and I have is a gem, and no matter how much it changes, gets strung from different chains or worn with varying regularity, it will always be one of my life's greatest treasures. It's no longer hard to take you off, pendant, like it was way back when, but putting you on always feels somehow right, like the weight of you and the way you fall is just perfect. You are comfortable, like a favorite sweater or a best friend. That will never change.

5 birthdays later you're both still right here with me. That's how I want it to always be.

Conversely to yesterday's message, I love everything you stand for,

Maya   

So the boyfriend gets +1000 awesome points today

because he introduced me to a new artist who is totally my style and I somehow was unaware of the existence of for the past three years. Usually only K does that. Ledisi:

 

The only thing that really scares me about living in this house all by myself

is that I have the most terrifying basement known to mankind. I went down there on my tour when I came to check the place out, and even the housemate who gave me the tour said she ONLY goes down there to do laundry or when a fuse goes out. If my memory serves me correctly and hasn't overly embellished to match my frightened state of being, there's like, sawdust on the floor and a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling and a very lonely washer and dryer sitting in the corner. Oh, how I wish my laundry basket wasn't full. 

If you don't get a post to something I've owned for more than five years later, you know the monsters got me. Please send a search and rescue party. Kthnx.

*gulp*

---------------

Update: No no no. I went down there, there is no sawdust, there is only one light, it's on the opposite side of the room from the washer and dryer. There's lots of graffiti on the wall like this was once a crazy party house. There's a door down there on the back wall and I had no idea where it went which frightened me (I have now realized it goes to the like, storm cellar slanted doors on the back of the house). There's a weird like, half wall I can't see what's on the other side of. There seem to be lots of abandoned clothes around the washer-dryer, which have I mentioned were shrouded in darkness because they're on the opposite side of the room from the single light? I couldn't bear to take a step out of the little pool of light into the semi-darkness of the rest of the room, so laundry will have to wait until a) I get a flashlight, b) one of my housemates is around, or c) I have some visitor like my brother or T who can go down with me and ensure that I'm not going to die some horrible death washing my jeans.  

 ----------------------------

Additional updates: So K told me to "man up" (there has to be a better way to say that to a woman, smh) and E laughed at my ridiculousness, so I decided to affirm my adulthood by going back down into the scary basement and trying this whole laundry thing again. And I went down and, lo and behold, discovered another light! Located conveniently directly above the washer and dryer. So my clothes are washing now, yay I have accomplished something today.

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day Two--Letter to an Inanimate Object You Hate

Dear Single-Sex Single-Stall Bathrooms,

Hate may be a strong word for how I feel about you, but it is not a warm happy feeling by any means. I am more...confused and perplexed by your very existence. And more frankly, I simply do not approve of you. To borrow a phrase my boyfriend uses for a Midwestern game called cornhole, I am against everything [you] stand for. 
Now I recognize that in multi-stall public restrooms, there are some people who don't like the idea of having a person of a different gender taking a piss in the stall next to them. Additionally, urinals really freak some girls out. (Not girls who'd wear this dress, evidently, but that's a whole 'nother story I can't even get into right now...) Some women claim safety concerns, which should never be trivialized (although I think there are better anti-rape measures than making people pee in different places, like saying, hey, men shouldn't rape, but again, I digress). I will never forget this scene from Boy Meets World (one of the greatest shows to ever be on television and I will FIGHT YOU if you disagree) in which Cory cannot handle the gender neutral showers in his dorm (jump to around 3 minutes in):

 

Though I do not sympathize with anyone who feels this way, I empathize with them and respect their opinions, so I have no major problem with sex-segregated restrooms in general. Though I will freely admit that I will go into a men's restroom to wash my hands or grab a paper towel if it's closer than the women's restroom, and if there is a line out the door to the women's room and free stalls in the men's, you know where I'll be. And in my personal experience, though I tend to dislike making generalizations, guys seem to be pretty chill when they find a girl in their bathroom. 

I do have a major problem, however, with you, sex-segregated single stall bathrooms. Don't pretend you don't know who I'm talking to: all you rooms with a toilet, a sink, a mirror, and a handicap rail. WHY DOES THERE NEED TO BE ONE FOR MEN AND ONE FOR WOMEN? YOU ARE IDENTICAL 6 FT. BY 6 FT. ROOMS. For argument's sake I have spent time inspecting you, and there are no differences. The only thing you accomplish is to not so subtly remind us that the world thinks there's some grand difference between men and women. I suppose you even more subtly tell us that there's not, because these rooms are exactly the same, but that might be too subtle for the masses to handle, so I'm raising my fists and shouting SEPARATE IS INHERENTLY INEQUAL! Pardon my French, but we all shit on the same toilet in our homes, why do we need separate ones out in the world? Don't even try to defend yourself by saying women need trash cans for their "feminine products" (I disapprove of that term, btw), because I'm sure men's bathrooms would be a lot cleaner if there were more trashcans in them. And in fancy single stall bathrooms both genders get fancy soaps and hand lotions (speaking from experience again), so don't try to talk your way out of it by being gender-normative. 

There is no reason for your existence, please eradicate yourself from my social world.

Good riddance,

Maya

While I'm pushing for this...

I DEMAND this.

2nd (Annual?) 30 Day Letter Challenge! Day One: Letter to a Dinosaur

So my best friend (whose blog can be found here) and I had so much fun with the 30 Day Letter Challenge we did last year that we decided to create our own and do it again this year! We had to get pretty creative for some of the days, since we did all the normal things last time around. Example A:

Dear Sue,


I have to admit, you're a pretty cool greeter at the Natural History Museum in Chicago. When I first walked in, I felt like I had stepped onto the set of Night at the Museum and half expected you to start wagging your tail. Then I got closer to the point where I was standing right up against the metal bars surrounding you, looking up in awe as you towered over me. In that instant, I remembered what it felt like being seven years old and fascinated by dinosaurs. I remembered my collection of figurines and the stuffed stegosaurus I got for Christmas that year that I slept with every night. It was like running into an old friend you haven't seen in a long time--you're suddenly transported back to an earlier time when you were a different person with different hopes and dreams and wants and needs. I was in awe again of the pure majesty you must have had in your day, Sue. And I was a little sad, because it's kind of a shame that you were once a bad-ass bitch at the top of the food chain, in total control, and now you're just an attraction for tourists like me to come take pictures of. But maybe that's not so sad, maybe it's just a testament to how awesome you, in fact, are: true greatness is permanent; even your bones are worthy of display and deserve respect. Hmm. I like that.


Admiringly,


Maya

I've got family on the brain.

Throughout the course of my time at Princeton, quite a few people have been confused, surprised, and possibly even appalled by the degree to which I don't really associate myself with my family. Their reactions have always just provoked a general wondering about how strange my family is, but it hasn't ever really bothered me until I realized last night that my boyfriend seems...displeased by this. My family is not really, nor to the best of my memory has it ever been, a cohesive unit of any sort. My friends are much more of a family in that regard than are the people who are related to me by blood or circumstance. "By blood or circumstance"--see, my family is comprised largely of people who I'm not actually related to by blood or marriage--people who are attached to other family members of mine by blood on the side that isn't related to me by blood. For example, there's a large group of people in Atlanta and the surrounding area that I used to be related to by marriage: my ex-stepfather (whom I abhor) and his family (they aren't all bad). I haven't seen them since I was nine, but I'm Facebook friends with some of them, and the real question here is at what point does someone stop being family? My ex-stepfather is not related to me. I like to pretend that he never was. Most of his family, I am skeptical of considering them to be my family. But his first son, who recently re-entered my life, has never and could never stop being my brother. 

Let me explain my family a little. My dad's side is the easiest because there are four of us. You think I'm kidding. I'm not. My dad was the only child of only children; my sister, my niece, and I are his only living relatives. My dad and I haven't lived in the same household since my mother left him (they were never married) when I was an infant. He lived in the area and I saw him once or twice a week until I was 9, when he moved to Detroit (and later to Florida) and we began a ritual of seeing each other once a year or so. When I was a kid my dad was my best friend, because the time I got to spend with him was my only reprieve from my home life. But as I got older, I began to resent him for moving halfway across the country and leaving me behind, and our relationship became further and further strained. Eventually we talked about this (he found a poem I'd written about this on an old blog) and things have been...gradually improving since then, but he still gets on my nerves sometimes. I love him to death, though, and I know he'll be there for me when I need him for as long as he can...that just doesn't really translate into us being able to carry out substantive conversations on a regular basis or me really feeling comfortable with him knowing the intimate details of my life. I'm not sure how much that will ever change. I have never really been able to shake the feeling that, try as he might, my father does not know me. He's never met the majority of my close friends, he missed all the little day-to-day bits and pieces of me growing up, and now those day to day details are mine, not my parents'. 

My half-sister and my half-niece on my dad's side live in California. They used to live in Maryland until about my sophomore year of high school, and I was closer to them then. I once semi-ran away from home to their house for a week over the summer, I think it was the summer before my freshman year of high school. I should explain that my half-sister is 41 and is less than two months younger than my mother. Her daughter is 18, only three years younger than me. But she's been __-going-on-40 her whole life, because my sister treats her more like a girlfriend than like a daughter. While they could serve as a neutral place in times of great need, I have never really felt comfortable around my sister and her daughter. I feel very...different from them. They're divas with long straight hair, they wear tiny designer clothes and my sister owns a BMW convertible, they live beyond their means, they are very very religious (like read the Bible together aloud before bed religious). I have always felt a need to be fake when I am with them. So my sister and I call each other on major holidays (I think the record length of time we've talked for is about 4 minutes) and she sends me pictures of milestones in my niece's life and we call that a relationship. My father wants very much for us to be more like sisters. I...as bad as this sounds, I love them, I just don't think I like them very much

So growing up in my house, I consistently lived with my mom and my younger half-brother and half-sister from her marriage to my now-ex-stepfather. I've never really thought about my brother and sister as half-s, but for clarification purposes now it's important. My mom got married when I was three, my sister was born when I was four, and my brother when I was five. I don't have a clear memory of the first time their father was violent towards me or my mother, all my memories of it seem like they were routine already, the shock factor wore off when I was very young. He left for the first time shortly after my brother was born. He came crawling back shortly after, and my mom took him back, promising herself that if he ever left again, she was done. When I was in fourth grade he was cheating on her and she threw him out of the house; he went to live with the woman he'd been cheating with. My mom lay crying on the kitchen floor the morning after he left and I turned off the scrambled eggs that were burning on the stove, called the school pretending to be her (using my best grown-up voice; remember, I was 9) and got us excused for the day, and sat with her stroking her hair as she was crying. She vowed that we were done with him, that we were going to start over and made lots of other wonderful-sounding promises/resolutions.They were separated for nearly a year, we moved to a better house in a better neighborhood and my mom established herself as an independent woman and I really thought the worst of it was over. And then he came knocking on our door one day and she took him back again. And at that point, for a really long time, I gave up on my mother. I didn't even respect her as a person. I hadn't realized how complicated these issues are, or been really aware of how much my mom was struggling on her own with the three of us. I'm so sorry I ever felt that way about her.

He left for the last time when I was in middle school. I can say nothing other than the fact that until recently, that was the greatest day of my life. That man was a tyrant, and I've finally gotten to the point where I can admit that he was abusive (rather than just hot-headed and violent). I'll never forget the following Christmas: he had promised my brother and sister that he was coming back (he moved to Georgia) for Christmas to see them, and then called on December 23rd to say something had come up and he wasn't going to be able to make it. I hope I never have to hate another human being like I hate him. By the end, my hatred of him was thinly veiled--nowadays I don't even try. But I fear that my openness about my feelings towards him drove the initial wedge between me and my siblings. That wedge got wider after he left, because I had to assume basic responsibility for them after school until my mom came home from work, and my brother and sister never believed my authority as caregiver was earned (possibly because they could tell I didn't want it). Regardless, beginning even when they were still married, because the way their shifts at the casino worked, one of them was home, cooked a meal, and went to sleep while the other worked and then they switched, I was the one who taught the kids to tie their shoes and write their names and get ready for school in the morning. I was the one who checked homework a lot of the time. The divide between us got greater as the two of them joined forces against me. And it got even worse as my mom started making more and more comparisons between them and me as I excelled in school and various clubs, etc. I would hate me too if my whole life all I'd been hearing is "Why can't you be more like Maya?"

It dawned on me recently that my brother and sister have grown up into being real people. In my head, I still think of them as my little brother and sister, like they're kids. But they're not. The problem is, I don't know who those people they've grown up into are. We've spent so long being at odds that we don't remember how to play nice. I try to hang out with them and my sister usually just shuts down (it's like pulling teeth to get her to hug me, but sometimes we can talk about boys or college or the SATs for a little while), and my brother and I try to do something together but inevitably end up fighting (usually just verbally now, it used to be very very physically). I feel like I lost my chance with them. I feel like we're going to grow up to be like my mom and her siblings--two of them live less than 15 minutes from us, but she only really sees them on holidays (if my aunt even wants to come downstairs for holiday dinner) or when she needs something fixed and calls my uncle over. She and my other uncle don't even call each other on their birthdays. 

I think I explained it once as I'm part of a family that actually flees to various corners of the country to get away from each other. It's not actually that drastic, I suppose, but we are very spread out, and fairly isolated in our spreadedness, if that makes sense. There are 8 people related to me by blood in the state of New Jersey. 1 in Florida. 2 in California. An unknown number in Kentucky because my mother's father (whom she has never met) had other children who live there (and presumably have children of their own). I have never and will never meet any of them. An unknown number in and around Savannah, GA where my family seems to have lived since we were slaves. My grandmother was the first to leave when she took a job with American Airlines in Philadelphia shortly after my mother was born, then moved to NJ when the casinos opened in Atlantic City. This seems to have caused a giant rift in the family: from what I can gather, my grandmother has four siblings and only ever speaks to one of them. 

My grandmother lives 15 minutes from me, and her youngest children, my mom's little brother and sister, as well as my uncle's 11 year old son all live in her house, but we don't see them often. I haven't seen my grandmother in months. I called her on Mother's Day. And I love my Nana--she's one of my favorite people in my whole family. But I would feel entirely strange calling her out of the blue, when there is no specific purpose. I go to her house for holiday dinners or random family dinners and when the adults sit at the table and talk politics/history/gossip, and the kids run downstairs to watch TV and play video games, I sit by myself in the living room and read. This has always been my position. Besides my rediscovered ex-step-BROTHER, there's no one my age in my family. My brother and sister are 16 and 17, but out of habit and circumstance, I suppose, they hang out with the younger kids downstairs. I'm a loner in my family. I've never really quite felt like I fit. It's the same feeling I used to get when my mom would shake her head at me and say, "You're your father's daughter" and I could tell it wasn't a compliment. 

Long story short, there is a long legacy of my family simply breaking itself apart. We're there for each other in times of need--I could write an equally long post about all the things we're done for each other when help was needed, but all that day-to-day lovey-dovey family-game-night eating-together kind of stuff? It's not us. The first time I can ever remember my mother saying she was proud of me was as she was hugging me goodbye on move-in day freshman year at Princeton. It made me cry because I'd been working for those words for as long as I could remember. Our relationship has gotten so much better since we've been in separate places; sometimes I marvel at the fact that I laugh and joke on the phone with my mom like we're friends, or that I told her about my first date with my boyfriend, or that she's finally stopped yelling at me about grades and why aren't I trying harder. But when we're close enough to be in each other's hair again, we remember how much our styles of existence really just clash, and the animosity begins again. I spend most of my time at home sitting on the couch in my living room, because my sister has claimed our room as entirely her own and I frankly do not feel welcome there. I try to convince them to play games or watch movies: my sister is unresponsive, my mother says "maybe later" or tries and falls asleep, and my brother leaves halfway through because we get into a fight. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome, right? 

I haven't seen the vast majority of my extended family in 7 years. That's a third of my life, and arguably the most important third. To a degree, they've become vague concepts in my head, shaped by the (usually bad) details I hear about their lives when the grown-ups are talking and shaking their heads. I'm sure I've become the same to them, the girl that goes to Princeton (and all the assumptions that come with that. Idk how true they are.) 

I think my family is why I'm not big on families. It's too easy to become a part of my family and too easy to lose that status. I am so sick of establishing familial connections to people and then having them snatched away--I will miss my mom's ex-boyfriend (who lived with us for 6 years and is arguably the closest thing to a normal father figure I have ever known) for the rest of my life. I may have gotten my brother back, but we'll never get the 7 years we'd lost each other for back. My family is transient. It changes so much I can't keep track of it. I don't even have my older sister's address. We're...not close. I recognize that it can be different, but I think my family was the first thing I ever learned to strive to be independent of, and I'm not sure I can ever shake that feeling. I don't know how being part of the kind of family that eats dinner together would feel: comforting or trapping? And I don't know if any changes I made could ever effect my family's overall structure. I suppose that's no reason not to try though, especially with the 8 of us in NJ. I should feel like I know my family.