And it was simultaneously great and really weird. It's like, she used to be one of my closest friends in the entire world. Like, spend all day together at school and after school (because we were in all the same clubs, usually as President and Vice President), then spend hours on the phone together when we got home best friends. Like we talked extensively about whether she should go on her first date with the guy she's now been dating for over six years best friends. Like knew all the sordid details of each other's complicated familial lives best friends.
And then we went away to college less than half an hour from one another and became people who saw each other maybe once during the school year and a few times in the summer, and we almost never talked in between seeing each other. When we hang out, we instantly click again and the conversation flows naturally and I feel all warm and snuggly inside, but those hang-out sessions are few and far between.
It's...strange when every time you hang out with a person that was once one of your closest friends, you're having a catch up session. Having catch-up sessions forces you to confront the idea that you've become "old friends" rather than "friends," that you do not, in fact, know what is up in one another's lives anymore. How do you get to that point with people? How does that happen? Now you're all grown up and different and facing all kinds of new issues than the kind you used to tackle together. You used to say "See ya tomorrow" nonchalantly, and now it's long hugs because you don't know where you'll see each other again.
Saying goodbye to your friends at the end of high school is one thing. You'll see each other again on breaks and in summers; you'll always be home for something. You live there. Saying goodbye to your college friends is another thing, especially at a place like Princeton. Our alumni tend to cluster in major cities (the two most major of which are within weekend-trip distance) and our Reunions are the biggest parties known to the hemisphere. I will see these people again.
Saying goodbye to your friends from home when you're moving away from home is a completely different thing. It's saying I'm never going to be home for this long ever again. It's saying, "If you're ever in DC...". It's making far-fetched plans to travel to Spain together at some point. It's saying, "I miss this," knowing we just have to keep on missing it. It's not saying, but knowing, that we could very well never see each other again. But like the other big goodbyes, it hopes against its own finality.
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
#thestruggleneverends
It only changes form.
There are 64 email threads under my "DC Housing" label in my Gmail account, and I send more email inquiries legitimately every day. And yet, I do not yet have a place to call home outside of the state of New Jersey. I took a trip to DC earlier this week to meet people and view places I had had positive email interactions with, hoping to come, see, and conquer the DC housing market in two days. The third of the five places I saw, I fell in love with nearly at first sight. It was all I could do not to gasp as I was given a tour of the apartment, and I could see myself becoming fast friends with the roommate. She was a Black girl with loose curly hair and awesome earrings who is a PoliSci major at Howard. COME ON NOW. Maybe I was overeager and scared her off. Maybe a friend of hers or the girl who is moving out got the room. I don't know. All I know is I had already started envisioning myself in that space and was feeling quite comfortable there when I got the email saying they'd decided to go with someone else. That email was quickly followed by one from a place I wasn't interested in, saying the same thing. My second choice place had had two rooms available, but the one that was in my price range and with my more favorable move-in date was accounted for already. It was like my whole trip had been for naught.
So I had a mini-breakdown and then reopened padmapper and craigslist and kept looking.I'm now waiting to hear back from two people in a lovely house who sound really nice about a room that's available July 1, and then will have to work out where to stay for my first week of work. I see a fairly expensive sublet for two weeks from June 15-30, or I could try to see if I could stay at a friend's parents' house or with one of my older sister's friends, or if my mom wouldn't absolutely freak out at the idea of me doing Airbnb for a week. There's a room available with this black girl in Arlington for $40/night that could be fabulous and maybe we could even be friends.
During the writing of this post, I was contacted to say that the other roommate in the July 1 place wants someone older. The search continues. My parents are both using the "everything happens for a reason" route to suggest that something better will come along. I have no choice but to believe them (or carry out a half-assed plan to just sleep in my private office and shower in the gym in my building). Someone will want to live with me. I'm a cool person, I promise! Lots of people like me. I make really good pancakes. I'd want to hang out with my roommates sometimes, do brunch or drinks or throw a party or something. I'm social but not cray. I'm a little older at heart than 22. Always have been. Someone will want to live with me.
I just hope it happens in the next six days, or I'll have to call work and admit defeat on my first deadline before I even start...
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| Sometimes my feelings can only accurately be expressed through meme generators. |
So I had a mini-breakdown and then reopened padmapper and craigslist and kept looking.
During the writing of this post, I was contacted to say that the other roommate in the July 1 place wants someone older. The search continues. My parents are both using the "everything happens for a reason" route to suggest that something better will come along. I have no choice but to believe them (or carry out a half-assed plan to just sleep in my private office and shower in the gym in my building). Someone will want to live with me. I'm a cool person, I promise! Lots of people like me. I make really good pancakes. I'd want to hang out with my roommates sometimes, do brunch or drinks or throw a party or something. I'm social but not cray. I'm a little older at heart than 22. Always have been. Someone will want to live with me.
I just hope it happens in the next six days, or I'll have to call work and admit defeat on my first deadline before I even start...
Sunday, May 27, 2012
I'm going to miss easy physicality with people.
I don't remember why this came up, but I clearly remember saying this during the wee-hours-of-the-morning drunken conversation KS, EY, and I had the night before last:
problemsawesomesauce), so I decided not to mention having also held MT and JD's hands that night or been in a cuddle/feel-up puddle with DS, SW, and RW the night before. When you're with a group of people that will get up and run around the house naked on a moment's notice, touching each other isn't always the biggest deal. But even when I'm not talking about PQCSS members or that kind of touching, it's still really easy to be physically affectionate with a lot of the people I'm (sometimes not even particularly) close to on this campus: for example, there are at least two guys in my eating club who I usually initiate interaction with by running my fingers through their hair and massaging their scalps. We used to get a small Asian female member who has since graduated to walk on our backs, and massage circles are still quite prevalent. It's not uncommon for people to sit on other people's laps for no particular reason; we're quite cuddly.
And I thrive on that. Granted, I don't have that kind of easy physicality with KS or EY, and they are the people I'm "closest" to overall on this campus, but there are few other people I call close friends that I would hesitate to put my arm around in daily life. ChoosingPancakes was entertained by the fact that my strongest love language on this quiz we both took was physical touch, because that was one of her weakest. I don't just mean sex or sexual-ish touches when I say I value physical touch as one of the strongest ways to show me you care about me. It can be little things, like hugs that feel like you mean it, or not feeling the need to jerk your knee away if it meets mine under a table or on a couch, or an arm around a shoulder for no reason at all. It's rubbing my back when you're comforting me while I'm crying. It's me being in your space/you being in mine not being a big deal. That's how friends should be, in my opinion, but I know that a lot of people have much stricter restrictions on even light physicality than I do and try to respect them (though that sort of goes out the window when I'm drunk, oops). For me, it can certainly also mean being able to do things like hold hands and snuggle in various degrees of undress and kiss in front of a room of cheering friends on a dare without it being a big deal, but again, I recognize and respect that most people have lines they draw in this arena.
What worries me, though, is when I get to wondering if I'll ever have this kind of easy physicality with a group of people ever again. I had it for a while in high school--one of my fondest memories from sophomore year will always be laying on the floor in PD's living room watching Pirates of the Caribbean with my head in the small of TJ's back and him telling me he would be my pillow anytime--and I have it here in this amazing community of 'Dranglers (who mean more to me than I may ever be able to express), but conceptualizations I have of the "real world" suggest that maybe it's something about youth and chosen communities, that grown folks don't do that. I feel like in some respects, adults revert to like middle school rules about what touching someone means, and it makes me sad.
Side note: Did I ever tell you how when I was holding PD's hand at an Applebees once to comfort her while she was telling me about a breakup and some dude came up to our able to ask if we were lesbians? I both appreciate the acceptance of this as a possibility by our unknown audience and am mad that two people interacting with each other physically must be presumed to be romantically involved.
If being okay with you touching me and vice versa is a quality of youth, then I want to stay young for as long as I can while I grow up. How do I find other people who want to stay young in the same way? I don't necessarily need people who will laugh at bad porn together on a giant television in the middle of the night or play shirtless ruits (though that would be AWESOME), but I want people who understand that the unequivocal best way to watch a movie is while snuggling, people who won't read anything more into me laying my head on their shoulder than I find your presence enjoyable. But I feel like that kind of easy physicality only comes from like, spending all your time together in intensely social subcultural spaces, and that seems difficult to recreate in the 9-5, separate addresses, lack of communal spaces world. I feel like if I want someone to replace the guys whose hair I like to fluff, I should get a pet. Sigh.
Growing up stinks. I want to change it. But this revolution can't just be personal...
"You know who I kissed twice last night? CB. You know who I'm not attracted to at all? CB."I also remember KS being confused by my shirtless snuggles with MT and my having kissed him the week before (#truthdarekissorcody #middleschooldrinkinggamenight #drangler
And I thrive on that. Granted, I don't have that kind of easy physicality with KS or EY, and they are the people I'm "closest" to overall on this campus, but there are few other people I call close friends that I would hesitate to put my arm around in daily life. ChoosingPancakes was entertained by the fact that my strongest love language on this quiz we both took was physical touch, because that was one of her weakest. I don't just mean sex or sexual-ish touches when I say I value physical touch as one of the strongest ways to show me you care about me. It can be little things, like hugs that feel like you mean it, or not feeling the need to jerk your knee away if it meets mine under a table or on a couch, or an arm around a shoulder for no reason at all. It's rubbing my back when you're comforting me while I'm crying. It's me being in your space/you being in mine not being a big deal. That's how friends should be, in my opinion, but I know that a lot of people have much stricter restrictions on even light physicality than I do and try to respect them (though that sort of goes out the window when I'm drunk, oops). For me, it can certainly also mean being able to do things like hold hands and snuggle in various degrees of undress and kiss in front of a room of cheering friends on a dare without it being a big deal, but again, I recognize and respect that most people have lines they draw in this arena.
What worries me, though, is when I get to wondering if I'll ever have this kind of easy physicality with a group of people ever again. I had it for a while in high school--one of my fondest memories from sophomore year will always be laying on the floor in PD's living room watching Pirates of the Caribbean with my head in the small of TJ's back and him telling me he would be my pillow anytime--and I have it here in this amazing community of 'Dranglers (who mean more to me than I may ever be able to express), but conceptualizations I have of the "real world" suggest that maybe it's something about youth and chosen communities, that grown folks don't do that. I feel like in some respects, adults revert to like middle school rules about what touching someone means, and it makes me sad.
Side note: Did I ever tell you how when I was holding PD's hand at an Applebees once to comfort her while she was telling me about a breakup and some dude came up to our able to ask if we were lesbians? I both appreciate the acceptance of this as a possibility by our unknown audience and am mad that two people interacting with each other physically must be presumed to be romantically involved.
If being okay with you touching me and vice versa is a quality of youth, then I want to stay young for as long as I can while I grow up. How do I find other people who want to stay young in the same way? I don't necessarily need people who will laugh at bad porn together on a giant television in the middle of the night or play shirtless ruits (though that would be AWESOME), but I want people who understand that the unequivocal best way to watch a movie is while snuggling, people who won't read anything more into me laying my head on their shoulder than I find your presence enjoyable. But I feel like that kind of easy physicality only comes from like, spending all your time together in intensely social subcultural spaces, and that seems difficult to recreate in the 9-5, separate addresses, lack of communal spaces world. I feel like if I want someone to replace the guys whose hair I like to fluff, I should get a pet. Sigh.
Growing up stinks. I want to change it. But this revolution can't just be personal...
Friday, May 18, 2012
Goal Number Next: To Not be Homeless
I graduate in 3 and a half weeks. I start working in DC in six and a half weeks. Thus, the only goal right now is to find a place to live (which certain professors evidently just don't care about when they assign 14-pg take-home exams to be done in 4 days over the last pre-holiday weekend of the month). But moving somewhere from out of town is more difficult than I'd previously imagined.
Struggle #1: Where do I want to live?
When I first started this search, my answer was just in the city limits, rather than in Maryland or Virginia. Then I realized that DC is, like any other city, made up of lots of little neighborhoods, and that some places were convenient for me to get to work and that others weren't. My older sister used to live in DC and so she's trying to give me input, but her opinion of the safety of various neighborhoods is like 9 years old. At this point, I think that I would most preferably like to live in the Atlas District, Shaw, Mt. Vernon, Ledroit Park, or on the Hill.
Struggle #2: How do I want to live?
Should I jump right into this independent living thing, or take it easy and get roommates to start? If I want to live by myself, should I be trying to do so in a studio or 1BR? I have an irrational opinion of studio apartments: they seem like it would be weird to have people over, even though they're basically the exact same thing as a dorm room. Maybe I just feel like any place I live when I am working a real job and making real money should be a considerable upgrade from dorm living. But trying to furnish a whole 1BR apartment straight out of college sounds like start-up costs I can't afford. And living alone in a new city sounds like I could be lonely. But on the other hand, it sounds like it might force me out to explore. But I had a roommate in Chicago and still felt encouraged to go out and explore, and sometimes had an exploring buddy. At this point, I've decided that I would prefer to move into a 3+ bedroom house or apartment with other young professionals, because having a group of people to introduce me to other people and hang out sounds awesome and only having to furnish my bedroom sounds cost-effective.
Struggle #3: Distance is a bitch
I think that this will always be true, regardless of the context in which we're discussing the bitchiness of distance. In this case, it's difficult to coordinate how to actually meet people and see places. I'm going to have to go to DC--probably next Monday-Wednesday--but that means spending money to get there and missing shifts at work in which I could be making more money. In-person viewing/meeting seems fairly necessary for any situation involving roommates, though. Then scheduling these meetings is extraordinarily difficult. Most people seem to be having open houses on weekends, and this damned take-home is preventing me from being able to be in DC right now. Next weekend is a holiday weekend, so a lot of people are going out of town and unavailable. This means I'll have to try to squeeze in all of my viewings over the course of two evenings (maybe an afternoon if someone has a non 9-5 work schedule) while navigating DC public transit for the first time, at least some of which will probably be after dark, as I'll have to wait for people to get off of work. This sounds like the opposite of fun. I'm not looking forward to it at all.
Struggle #4: People are ineffective writers/advertisers.
There are certain things you should include in an advertisement for a room in a house/apt with roommates. As a bare minimum, I would suggest these things: the size of the room, or what comfortably fits in it now if you haven't got a tape measurer or whatever; the age/gender breakdown of the other people living in the house; a short description of what these people are like; whether utilities are included in the rent; some amenities within walking distance. Occasionally people only have one or two of these five things. That, people looking for roommates, is simply not helpful to my life. I've legitimately resorted to language-profiling to figure out whether the person writing an ad is male or female, which makes me feel all gender essentialist-y and shitty.
Struggle #5: Every minute I spend doing schoolwork, leases are being signed and my potential for homelessness is rising.
Every time I click on a listing I had favorited to see that the posting was deleted by its author or it has expired from Padmapper's map, I get a little more scared. I legitimately don't understand how Princeton University expects me to function successfully in my post-graduate life if it won't give me a break to establish the means by which to function in the real world. I feel like I'm going to rush into something just for the sense of security it will bring, which is generally not a good look, no matter what aspect of your life it relates to. I have a couple of places lined up to look at, though. I'm hoping everything will work out. #wishmeluck
One thing that put a smile on my face today: someone emailed me back to let me know that while I sounded like a great addition to their house, they had already filled the room, but to let them know if I wound up in the area, as they were planning to have a barbeque sometime in June. Even if he didn't mean it, that was really nice of him. I like cities whose neighborhoods have that small-town come-over-for-a-bbq feel.
Struggle #1: Where do I want to live?
When I first started this search, my answer was just in the city limits, rather than in Maryland or Virginia. Then I realized that DC is, like any other city, made up of lots of little neighborhoods, and that some places were convenient for me to get to work and that others weren't. My older sister used to live in DC and so she's trying to give me input, but her opinion of the safety of various neighborhoods is like 9 years old. At this point, I think that I would most preferably like to live in the Atlas District, Shaw, Mt. Vernon, Ledroit Park, or on the Hill.
Struggle #2: How do I want to live?
Should I jump right into this independent living thing, or take it easy and get roommates to start? If I want to live by myself, should I be trying to do so in a studio or 1BR? I have an irrational opinion of studio apartments: they seem like it would be weird to have people over, even though they're basically the exact same thing as a dorm room. Maybe I just feel like any place I live when I am working a real job and making real money should be a considerable upgrade from dorm living. But trying to furnish a whole 1BR apartment straight out of college sounds like start-up costs I can't afford. And living alone in a new city sounds like I could be lonely. But on the other hand, it sounds like it might force me out to explore. But I had a roommate in Chicago and still felt encouraged to go out and explore, and sometimes had an exploring buddy. At this point, I've decided that I would prefer to move into a 3+ bedroom house or apartment with other young professionals, because having a group of people to introduce me to other people and hang out sounds awesome and only having to furnish my bedroom sounds cost-effective.
Struggle #3: Distance is a bitch
I think that this will always be true, regardless of the context in which we're discussing the bitchiness of distance. In this case, it's difficult to coordinate how to actually meet people and see places. I'm going to have to go to DC--probably next Monday-Wednesday--but that means spending money to get there and missing shifts at work in which I could be making more money. In-person viewing/meeting seems fairly necessary for any situation involving roommates, though. Then scheduling these meetings is extraordinarily difficult. Most people seem to be having open houses on weekends, and this damned take-home is preventing me from being able to be in DC right now. Next weekend is a holiday weekend, so a lot of people are going out of town and unavailable. This means I'll have to try to squeeze in all of my viewings over the course of two evenings (maybe an afternoon if someone has a non 9-5 work schedule) while navigating DC public transit for the first time, at least some of which will probably be after dark, as I'll have to wait for people to get off of work. This sounds like the opposite of fun. I'm not looking forward to it at all.
Struggle #4: People are ineffective writers/advertisers.
There are certain things you should include in an advertisement for a room in a house/apt with roommates. As a bare minimum, I would suggest these things: the size of the room, or what comfortably fits in it now if you haven't got a tape measurer or whatever; the age/gender breakdown of the other people living in the house; a short description of what these people are like; whether utilities are included in the rent; some amenities within walking distance. Occasionally people only have one or two of these five things. That, people looking for roommates, is simply not helpful to my life. I've legitimately resorted to language-profiling to figure out whether the person writing an ad is male or female, which makes me feel all gender essentialist-y and shitty.
Struggle #5: Every minute I spend doing schoolwork, leases are being signed and my potential for homelessness is rising.
Every time I click on a listing I had favorited to see that the posting was deleted by its author or it has expired from Padmapper's map, I get a little more scared. I legitimately don't understand how Princeton University expects me to function successfully in my post-graduate life if it won't give me a break to establish the means by which to function in the real world. I feel like I'm going to rush into something just for the sense of security it will bring, which is generally not a good look, no matter what aspect of your life it relates to. I have a couple of places lined up to look at, though. I'm hoping everything will work out. #wishmeluck
One thing that put a smile on my face today: someone emailed me back to let me know that while I sounded like a great addition to their house, they had already filled the room, but to let them know if I wound up in the area, as they were planning to have a barbeque sometime in June. Even if he didn't mean it, that was really nice of him. I like cities whose neighborhoods have that small-town come-over-for-a-bbq feel.
Friday, March 16, 2012
I swear Ryan O'Connoll lives in my head.
"I just don’t want to wake up one day and feel estranged from everyone. I don’t wake up one day and ask myself where everyone went."
--The man who doesn't know he's my internet BFFL, in this Thought Catalog post
This is one of the things that terrifies me the most about becoming an adult in the real world. My friends have jobs all over the country. Hell, someone really important to me is moving to fucking Thailand. It's hard enough to keep up with my friends on campus who aren't in my eating club--how will I stay in touch with friends who aren't in the same time zone? I can barely manage to coordinate times to eat with people who live on the same campus as me most of the time, and you're expecting me to transition easily into this new world where if I want to see my close friend who just got a great job in Ohio, I'm going to have to get on a PLANE? I don't know how to be ready for this.
Sometimes it seems to me like life is this grand process of gradually getting comfortable with a group of people until you feel like you can be yourself and everything is wonderful and then getting wrenched away from that group and having to start over somewhere else where people don't know you or get your references, then gradually finding and coming to love people there and being wrenched away again. Thinking like this makes me want to be a hermit. But even hypothetical future self-induced hermithood wouldn't keep me from feeling like I'm about to lose the best relationships I've ever had.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
A conversation with my little brother:
who is 16, after he learned my Twitter handle:
W: Your Twitter name is @SuchanAFROholic?!?
Me: Yeah...so it matches my blog.
W: You have a BLOG?! My sister is a ...blogger?
Me: Yup! It'll be my two year blogging anniversary next week!
W: *looks at me quizzically* You've changed a lot since you started wearing your hair like that. (By "like that" he means in its 3c/4a kinky-curly natural texture, rather than fighting losing battles with flat irons and humidity on the daily.)
Me: This is me. I just finally started letting it show.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
I Don't Understand: Friends who only miss you when you're gone
I have been close friends with one of my close friends from home since the 7th grade. He was actually my best friend from 8th grade until about my sophomore year of high school, which isn't the longest time, but was a critical juncture of my young adult life, if you will. Despite being one of the latest "childhood" friendships I formed, he has always been incredibly important to my life--even when we're fighting, even when we can't remember why we still try so hard to bridge the ever-widening gap between our lives--that's my boy, you know?
And all summer while I was in New Brunswick, he kept telling me how much he missed me and literally begging me to come home. I got some of the saddest Facebook wall posts of my life, and blasts from the past with songs we loved in the 8th grade, and every time I told him when I was coming back, he said it was too far away. I felt so bad that at times I legitimately wondered if I should take a day or two off of work and hitch a ride home with T when she went down to visit her family for two days each week. But I didn't, and so when I texted him to complain about packing and say how many hours it would be til I was home, I got a giant "Yayyyyyyyyyy!"
We went out with two of his friends that night, and I had the most delicious blueberry martini and fried cheesecake (which wasn't as good as he had claimed, but was still enjoyable). He came back to my house and hung out for a while, talking to my mom and my sister and feeling like he was part of my family again. Then he went home and...that was it. It's been two weeks since I've seen him, and I'm going back to school in less than a week. And I'm just a little confused as to what's going on.
Actually, that's a lie. I think I know what's going on. I don't think he actually misses ME very much. I think he misses the friendship we had between 8th grade and sophomore year, when we were two peas in a pod. I think he misses when things were simple and our lives weren't on such widely diverging paths. He's moving, and kept finding things from our early years together while he was packing, and I understand how he felt a little, because I kind of miss that friendship and simplicity too...but I would never want to go back to being the person I was then.
It's so hard to maintain friendships when personality differences that were bridgeable in adolescence become lifestyles that seem lightyears apart in adulthood. It's hard knowing that someone misses the idea of you and him, but is evidently dissatisfied by the reality of being together.
And all summer while I was in New Brunswick, he kept telling me how much he missed me and literally begging me to come home. I got some of the saddest Facebook wall posts of my life, and blasts from the past with songs we loved in the 8th grade, and every time I told him when I was coming back, he said it was too far away. I felt so bad that at times I legitimately wondered if I should take a day or two off of work and hitch a ride home with T when she went down to visit her family for two days each week. But I didn't, and so when I texted him to complain about packing and say how many hours it would be til I was home, I got a giant "Yayyyyyyyyyy!"
We went out with two of his friends that night, and I had the most delicious blueberry martini and fried cheesecake (which wasn't as good as he had claimed, but was still enjoyable). He came back to my house and hung out for a while, talking to my mom and my sister and feeling like he was part of my family again. Then he went home and...that was it. It's been two weeks since I've seen him, and I'm going back to school in less than a week. And I'm just a little confused as to what's going on.
Actually, that's a lie. I think I know what's going on. I don't think he actually misses ME very much. I think he misses the friendship we had between 8th grade and sophomore year, when we were two peas in a pod. I think he misses when things were simple and our lives weren't on such widely diverging paths. He's moving, and kept finding things from our early years together while he was packing, and I understand how he felt a little, because I kind of miss that friendship and simplicity too...but I would never want to go back to being the person I was then.
It's so hard to maintain friendships when personality differences that were bridgeable in adolescence become lifestyles that seem lightyears apart in adulthood. It's hard knowing that someone misses the idea of you and him, but is evidently dissatisfied by the reality of being together.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
I used to feel some kinda way
Another Thought Catalog-inspired post, with Ryan O'Connell as my muse.
I used to think I was a person who happened to be black, as opposed to a Black person. A person who happened to be female, as opposed to a woman. I used to be passive about the way I self-identified. I don't feel that way anymore.
I used to think I couldn't cook. Two independent summers have proved me wrong. I don't feel that way anymore. Also, landlords aren't necessarily scary and $200 in the bank can stretch further than you'd believe.
I used to blame myself for everything. When something went wrong in my life, I would assume that I had somehow triggered it, and that if I could just try a little harder to be a little bit more perfect, everything would fall neatly back into place. This attitude nearly ran me into the ground many a time in middle/high schools, and whenever it tries to rear its ugly head again, I try to shut it down quick, fast, and in a hurry.
I used to think being a kid was the WORST and growing up had to be the coolest thing ever. Being your own person, not having to listen to your mom all the time, getting to go where you want and do what you want and buy what you want. Being able to be in charge! I don't feel this way anymore. I certainly still enjoy all those aspects, but responsibilities can be a bitch and sometimes I miss the days when my biggest worry was whether my teacher would call on me in class.
I used to hate my mother. I thought of her as a crazy tyrant with ridiculous demands. I thought she was going to drive me crazy. I thought she was doing everything she was doing out of spite because she thought I'd ruined her life. I didn't see that she gave everything she could to give me the chance to make more of myself than she thought she had the power to make of herself. I didn't see the sacrifices she made or the holes I could have fallen into if she hadn't been so damned vigilant. I don't feel that way anymore [but I'm sometimes still scared of being a disappointment].
I used to not believe in love. I thought I'd seen enough relationships and marriages in my family fall to pieces, tearing people and families apart in the process, that I knew better than to fall. After I entrusted a boy I'd known my whole life with my heart when he asked for it, and he calmly gave it back to me a week later, saying he "wasn't the man I needed him to be yet," and then starting dating awhore girl-who-was-sexually-liberated-at-the-age-of-15 almost immediately, I cemented my belief that love was for fools and no one was worth the kind of pain I found myself wallowing in. I could like boys, sure. I could kiss them and touch them and be pleasured by them in lots of ways. Then along came someone who turned me from mouse to cat, and I fell in silly high school love--the infatuated, want-to-spend-all-my-free-time-with-him, this-is-the-first-time-I've-ever-been-part-of-something-bigger-than-me, I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-but-I-wanna-keep-doing-it kind of love--three years too late and found out the contempt I'd held for Valentine's Day, sappiness, and seemingly impossible scenes from love stories was just desire in disguise. Love did things to me that I didn't know were possible, including but not limited to making me realize that I crave stability more than anything else I have ever wanted.
I used to think my parents were invincible. But now my father has high blood pressure and diabetes, and my mother has kidney disease, and the worry there are not words large enough to express that has made its home in every nook and cranny of my body goes to show that I don't feel that way anymore.
I used to think 25 was ancient, but now that's less than 3 and a half years away and I can't understand how I ever thought I'd have my life together by then. This remains to be seen, but I'm unconvinced. I used to think adults had it all figured out. I know enough already to not feel that way anymore.
I used to be afraid to make mistakes. I used to live my life inside the lines, hoping to just get Thing X right and move on to Thing Y. I used to be afraid to stand up for myself or to really go against the grain at all. I used to be scared to stop doing things I didn't like. I used to be afraid to ask for help. I used to doubt myself and my abilities on the regular. I used to be afraid to LIVE, and thank a God I don't believe in that I don't feel that way anymore.
I also used to think I could do anything I set my mind to, and the sky was the limit, and all of my dreams were realizable. I used to think I could be a Superwoman and wear as many hats as I pleased. I used to think trees were meant for climbing and there's no point in going swimming if you're trying not to get your hair wet. I used to think pancakes sometimes made a great dinner, and libraries were man's greatest invention. And I hope to never live a day when I don't think those things anymore.
I used to think I was a person who happened to be black, as opposed to a Black person. A person who happened to be female, as opposed to a woman. I used to be passive about the way I self-identified. I don't feel that way anymore.
I used to think I couldn't cook. Two independent summers have proved me wrong. I don't feel that way anymore. Also, landlords aren't necessarily scary and $200 in the bank can stretch further than you'd believe.
I used to blame myself for everything. When something went wrong in my life, I would assume that I had somehow triggered it, and that if I could just try a little harder to be a little bit more perfect, everything would fall neatly back into place. This attitude nearly ran me into the ground many a time in middle/high schools, and whenever it tries to rear its ugly head again, I try to shut it down quick, fast, and in a hurry.
I used to think being a kid was the WORST and growing up had to be the coolest thing ever. Being your own person, not having to listen to your mom all the time, getting to go where you want and do what you want and buy what you want. Being able to be in charge! I don't feel this way anymore. I certainly still enjoy all those aspects, but responsibilities can be a bitch and sometimes I miss the days when my biggest worry was whether my teacher would call on me in class.
I used to hate my mother. I thought of her as a crazy tyrant with ridiculous demands. I thought she was going to drive me crazy. I thought she was doing everything she was doing out of spite because she thought I'd ruined her life. I didn't see that she gave everything she could to give me the chance to make more of myself than she thought she had the power to make of herself. I didn't see the sacrifices she made or the holes I could have fallen into if she hadn't been so damned vigilant. I don't feel that way anymore [but I'm sometimes still scared of being a disappointment].
I used to not believe in love. I thought I'd seen enough relationships and marriages in my family fall to pieces, tearing people and families apart in the process, that I knew better than to fall. After I entrusted a boy I'd known my whole life with my heart when he asked for it, and he calmly gave it back to me a week later, saying he "wasn't the man I needed him to be yet," and then starting dating a
I used to think my parents were invincible. But now my father has high blood pressure and diabetes, and my mother has kidney disease, and the worry there are not words large enough to express that has made its home in every nook and cranny of my body goes to show that I don't feel that way anymore.
I used to think 25 was ancient, but now that's less than 3 and a half years away and I can't understand how I ever thought I'd have my life together by then. This remains to be seen, but I'm unconvinced. I used to think adults had it all figured out. I know enough already to not feel that way anymore.
I used to be afraid to make mistakes. I used to live my life inside the lines, hoping to just get Thing X right and move on to Thing Y. I used to be afraid to stand up for myself or to really go against the grain at all. I used to be scared to stop doing things I didn't like. I used to be afraid to ask for help. I used to doubt myself and my abilities on the regular. I used to be afraid to LIVE, and thank a God I don't believe in that I don't feel that way anymore.
I also used to think I could do anything I set my mind to, and the sky was the limit, and all of my dreams were realizable. I used to think I could be a Superwoman and wear as many hats as I pleased. I used to think trees were meant for climbing and there's no point in going swimming if you're trying not to get your hair wet. I used to think pancakes sometimes made a great dinner, and libraries were man's greatest invention. And I hope to never live a day when I don't think those things anymore.
Friday, September 2, 2011
"The jig is up," my mother said.
"This time next year you'll be off starting your own life hopefully somewhere far away, and that means that it's time for you to start getting rid of your junk. All the stuff in you and your sister's room, in the basement--go through it, figure out what you want to keep, what's trash, what can go to Goodwill."
Translation: you don't live here anymore.
I've been saying that to myself for a while now, jokingly calling myself a houseguest when I go home, but evidently the time to make that a legitimate reality is fast approaching. My mother wants me to move out of her house.
I think this is the single most intimidating thing anyone has ever said to me. Nothing really says you're not a kid anymore like your mom wants her closet space back.
I'm claiming the GRE as an excuse to not start this project until the next time I'm home on break, but I'm already freaking out a little. I'm sure this is going to be a huge emotional rollercoaster, as I will literally be digging through the remains of my childhood and seeing most of it go out the door.
The clothes I don't wear anymore: First, I will let my sister rifle through them. We're basically the same size and she kind of considers anything I leave in the room while I'm at school to be her property anyway. My less over-the-top semi-formal/formal dresses that still fit, I will probably keep in hopes that owning such dresses will inspire me to have a life that involves cocktail parties, fancy dates, and ridiculous birthday outings. I've been meaning to sell the others on ebay for a while now. I have a very large collection of heels, most of which still fit, but are in varying degrees of wear. I will see which of these seem most like they need to be part of my adult life, and the rest will go in the Goodwill bags.
That may be the only clearly definable category. Other random stuff I'm expecting to find: old CDs that I might try to sell at the Princeton Record Exchange for a few bucks, a ridiculous number of books that I should mail in small amounts to my friend Krystal who is teaching English in Alabama somewhere and has an absolute dearth of material for her 7th graders, nick-knacks and souvenirs from places I went on school trips in elementary school, remnants from my Magick phase, old photographs, gifts given to me by friends I barely speak to anymore. A memory box to which I've lost the key. Broken jewelry and earrings that are missing their other halves.
What from that cornucopia of miscellany deserves salvaging? Is any of it worth bringing with me as I move forward into the rest of my life? If the remnants of the first 18 years of my life can be divided into trash bags and trash-bags-that-are-going-to-Goodwill, with the exception of two teddy bears, a couple of decorative pillows, and maybe a few pairs of shoes...where has the important stuff from my life gone? I know my mom isn't wrong when she calls it all "junk," but...it's the junk that made me. But when the junk that made you no longer defines you, you have to let it go, right?
The stuff that's in my dorm (okay, well right now is in various closets in my house waiting to go back to my dorm) is way more relevant to my last-year-of-undergrad self than anything in my bedroom is. That's scary, but it's the truth. I've grown up. It's time for that which I lay claim to to grow up too.
Translation: you don't live here anymore.
I've been saying that to myself for a while now, jokingly calling myself a houseguest when I go home, but evidently the time to make that a legitimate reality is fast approaching. My mother wants me to move out of her house.
I think this is the single most intimidating thing anyone has ever said to me. Nothing really says you're not a kid anymore like your mom wants her closet space back.
I'm claiming the GRE as an excuse to not start this project until the next time I'm home on break, but I'm already freaking out a little. I'm sure this is going to be a huge emotional rollercoaster, as I will literally be digging through the remains of my childhood and seeing most of it go out the door.
The clothes I don't wear anymore: First, I will let my sister rifle through them. We're basically the same size and she kind of considers anything I leave in the room while I'm at school to be her property anyway. My less over-the-top semi-formal/formal dresses that still fit, I will probably keep in hopes that owning such dresses will inspire me to have a life that involves cocktail parties, fancy dates, and ridiculous birthday outings. I've been meaning to sell the others on ebay for a while now. I have a very large collection of heels, most of which still fit, but are in varying degrees of wear. I will see which of these seem most like they need to be part of my adult life, and the rest will go in the Goodwill bags.
That may be the only clearly definable category. Other random stuff I'm expecting to find: old CDs that I might try to sell at the Princeton Record Exchange for a few bucks, a ridiculous number of books that I should mail in small amounts to my friend Krystal who is teaching English in Alabama somewhere and has an absolute dearth of material for her 7th graders, nick-knacks and souvenirs from places I went on school trips in elementary school, remnants from my Magick phase, old photographs, gifts given to me by friends I barely speak to anymore. A memory box to which I've lost the key. Broken jewelry and earrings that are missing their other halves.
What from that cornucopia of miscellany deserves salvaging? Is any of it worth bringing with me as I move forward into the rest of my life? If the remnants of the first 18 years of my life can be divided into trash bags and trash-bags-that-are-going-to-Goodwill, with the exception of two teddy bears, a couple of decorative pillows, and maybe a few pairs of shoes...where has the important stuff from my life gone? I know my mom isn't wrong when she calls it all "junk," but...it's the junk that made me. But when the junk that made you no longer defines you, you have to let it go, right?
The stuff that's in my dorm (okay, well right now is in various closets in my house waiting to go back to my dorm) is way more relevant to my last-year-of-undergrad self than anything in my bedroom is. That's scary, but it's the truth. I've grown up. It's time for that which I lay claim to to grow up too.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
"Sometimes all it takes is looking back to where you came from to be inspired about who you could be. You’re not a finished product, you have more work to do. And sure that’s hard but it’s hard to keep a soul from getting to its next stage." -- Leslie Pitterson, Clutch Magazine
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
A small bit of nostalgia:
I watched Larry Crowne on Sunday night, and I really liked it. I'd figured it was the kind of movie I would enjoy from the moment I saw the first preview. It reminded me a lot of the kind of movies my dad and I used to watch together--dramas, peeks into people's lives, stories that were only extraordinary in the fact that they were on the silver screen. This is his favorite genre, and by default of the fact that he's a huge movie buff and I was an impressionable child, it became mine as well. The entire time I was watching this movie, part of me wanted to be watching it with him. We used to see everything Julia Roberts made (Denzel too). This, in turn, reminded me of the years in high school where every single movie I saw in theaters, I saw with S. This, in turn, made me wonder if I will ever have a period of my life like this again, where my movie-partner is so comfortably predictable.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Finding the good in goodbye:
Before y'all start giving me hella side-eye, I want to explain that this doesn't just relate to becoming-less-recent events. This also relates to a certain old almost-relationship from high school that I find myself sometimes still wondering about, and to friendships that have died, and to every. single. time. I lay around longing for yesteryear "when things were simple and we could just be _________". Hell, when things were simple and we could just BE!
But the next time I want something I can never go back to, I will remember this:
But the next time I want something I can never go back to, I will remember this:
 |
| Reblogged from Too Good to be True |
Monday, August 1, 2011
My little babies are all grown up!!
My little brother and sister crossed an important threshold yesterday evening. They went to orientation at their very first jobs, becoming working people for the first time. They applied together off a tip from a mutual friend, got hired together, and soon they will each don versions of this hat:
and start making french fries or flipping burgers or taking people's orders or whatever it is they'll do.
This confirms it, ladies and gents, the kids aren't kids anymore. They are now full-fledged working teenagers who will have to start paying taxes and, if my mother is still my mother, buying their own clothes, lunches, etc. I've known that they were on the job hunt for a while, but I guess I didn't really expect anything to come of it. Maybe for my sister, she's older and more mature. But my brother, despite being sixteen, sometimes acts like he's still ten or so. [Then again, no matter how old we get, I suppose all of us still occasionally act like we're ten or so. Hence the whole saying, "Act your age, not your shoe size," right? Haha, I remember when I was in fourth grade, my age and my shoe size were the same number and I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. Anyway.] I suppose it's time to accept the fact that they're almost grown now.
It's really weird how people just keep getting older when you're not around them. Time just keeps passing and doesn't give a damn that you're missing it, you know? When I left for school, they were 13 and 14, just barely getting settled into being teenagers. My sister had been in high school for about two weeks. And now the fact that she's about to be a senior in high school freaks me out almost as much as the fact that I'm about to be a senior in college. Part of me wants to say she's not old enough to be a senior, just like part of me wants to say they're not old enough for jobs. But they are. They keep growing and developing without my guidance and have become full-grown people in my absence.
I try to be the voice of reason when they're doing stupid shit. I try to talk to them about things during the short bursts of time that I am home. But I have to accept that the era of me really directly influencing much in their daily lives is over. They are who they are. I'm not going to stop advising, but I am going to stop acting like they have to listen to me.
I think this job will be good for them, though, because they will have a BOSS. My little sister is prone to thinking she is the boss in every situation, because she's a bitch and she can be real violent. But now she will have someone she has to answer to; they both will. They will both have clearly delineated responsibilities and tasks that they will be punished if they don't complete well. They will have to work together and be a team without fussing and fighting. I'm hoping they'll even interact with some lifetime McDonalds employees like I interacted with lifetime Wawa employees and understand why I push them so hard in school. Anyway, I think having a job will simultaneously make them feel grown up and remind them that they are not, in fact, grown, and I think that combination is a good thing for them. I'll never forget the feeling of that first paycheck (they need bank accounts) and buying the first thing that I earned; I'm excited for them to have that. If they pull this off and stay working people, I'll be really proud.
I can't wait to go visit them at work when I get home and bug them. It's going to be great.
This confirms it, ladies and gents, the kids aren't kids anymore. They are now full-fledged working teenagers who will have to start paying taxes and, if my mother is still my mother, buying their own clothes, lunches, etc. I've known that they were on the job hunt for a while, but I guess I didn't really expect anything to come of it. Maybe for my sister, she's older and more mature. But my brother, despite being sixteen, sometimes acts like he's still ten or so. [Then again, no matter how old we get, I suppose all of us still occasionally act like we're ten or so. Hence the whole saying, "Act your age, not your shoe size," right? Haha, I remember when I was in fourth grade, my age and my shoe size were the same number and I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. Anyway.] I suppose it's time to accept the fact that they're almost grown now.
It's really weird how people just keep getting older when you're not around them. Time just keeps passing and doesn't give a damn that you're missing it, you know? When I left for school, they were 13 and 14, just barely getting settled into being teenagers. My sister had been in high school for about two weeks. And now the fact that she's about to be a senior in high school freaks me out almost as much as the fact that I'm about to be a senior in college. Part of me wants to say she's not old enough to be a senior, just like part of me wants to say they're not old enough for jobs. But they are. They keep growing and developing without my guidance and have become full-grown people in my absence.
I try to be the voice of reason when they're doing stupid shit. I try to talk to them about things during the short bursts of time that I am home. But I have to accept that the era of me really directly influencing much in their daily lives is over. They are who they are. I'm not going to stop advising, but I am going to stop acting like they have to listen to me.
I think this job will be good for them, though, because they will have a BOSS. My little sister is prone to thinking she is the boss in every situation, because she's a bitch and she can be real violent. But now she will have someone she has to answer to; they both will. They will both have clearly delineated responsibilities and tasks that they will be punished if they don't complete well. They will have to work together and be a team without fussing and fighting. I'm hoping they'll even interact with some lifetime McDonalds employees like I interacted with lifetime Wawa employees and understand why I push them so hard in school. Anyway, I think having a job will simultaneously make them feel grown up and remind them that they are not, in fact, grown, and I think that combination is a good thing for them. I'll never forget the feeling of that first paycheck (they need bank accounts) and buying the first thing that I earned; I'm excited for them to have that. If they pull this off and stay working people, I'll be really proud.
I can't wait to go visit them at work when I get home and bug them. It's going to be great.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Through Distance and Time...
When I told two of my co-workers that my best friend from middle school was coming to spend the weekend with me in New Brunswick, they were shocked that I still TALKED to such people, let alone arrange visits. I told them that we had never really lost touch, despite the fact that she moved away when we I was thirteen (she was still twelve. baby.) and we'd never lived in the same state since. Even as I was explaining this, I realized how downright weird it was. I don't talk to the overwhelming majority of even the people I graduated high school with--only about two on a semi-daily basis. There are more I'll have occasional catch-up convos with or hang out with while we're both home, but on the whole most of my once-best-friends and I have grown apart. 'Tis unfortunate, but that's life, man...and we can still hang out from time to time, so it's not the worst thing in the world.
But SP...it's different with her. She was whisked away out of my life before we had cell phones and regular internet access...we actually mailed letters back and forth for years. We tried to have hours-long conversations but 8 people live in her house, so tying up the landline for that long was nearly impossible. She didn't give up on me even when it looked like our trio could never reunite because T and I weren't speaking. Going to visit her the summer after our freshman year of high school was my first independent non-familial adventure. Enter facebook: she's someone I actually have regular communication with, not just a random status-like or whatnot. Through elaborate schemes of lying to our parents, she was with me the first time I ever got drunk, and when I found out that Greg and my mom broke up. And now she was here with me again this weekend. We combined childhood--water gun battles, swings, and sidewalk chalk--with grown up games--drinking Jenga, Dirty Minds, Uno with the added rules that you have to drink every time you draw a card--and like every other time, it was like no time had passed at all.
We're such different people from such different backgrounds. It would have been ridiculously easy for this friendship to fizzle out. But it never has, and it never will. We've been friends through the miles for wayyyy longer than we were ever close while we lived in the same town. And we're luckily not one of those multiperson friendships that can only function with the whole group; our trio has awesome reunions, yes, but SP and I and SP and T can each have separate awesome hang out sessions too. And the best part is, it has never felt like it has taken a lot of effort or like we're fighting against a world that tries to pull us apart...we don't get to see each other as much as we'd like, and we don't always talk super-regularly, but something right found us in the hallways of William Davies Middle School and we're never going to let it go.
You never know who's going to come into your life. You never know how they're going to change you by doing so. You never know if the person you rely on today will still be around the next time you need a shoulder to lean on. You can bulldoze your walls and let people in. You can share and trust and love all without quite knowing if the person you're sharing with and trusting and loving is giving as much to you as you are to them. Relationships of all kinds have as much power to hurt as they have to heal, and you never quite know which will do which to a larger extent. What I'm saying here is the strength of this friendship never ceases to surprise me. May you all have such ride-or-die chicks.
But SP...it's different with her. She was whisked away out of my life before we had cell phones and regular internet access...we actually mailed letters back and forth for years. We tried to have hours-long conversations but 8 people live in her house, so tying up the landline for that long was nearly impossible. She didn't give up on me even when it looked like our trio could never reunite because T and I weren't speaking. Going to visit her the summer after our freshman year of high school was my first independent non-familial adventure. Enter facebook: she's someone I actually have regular communication with, not just a random status-like or whatnot. Through elaborate schemes of lying to our parents, she was with me the first time I ever got drunk, and when I found out that Greg and my mom broke up. And now she was here with me again this weekend. We combined childhood--water gun battles, swings, and sidewalk chalk--with grown up games--drinking Jenga, Dirty Minds, Uno with the added rules that you have to drink every time you draw a card--and like every other time, it was like no time had passed at all.
We're such different people from such different backgrounds. It would have been ridiculously easy for this friendship to fizzle out. But it never has, and it never will. We've been friends through the miles for wayyyy longer than we were ever close while we lived in the same town. And we're luckily not one of those multiperson friendships that can only function with the whole group; our trio has awesome reunions, yes, but SP and I and SP and T can each have separate awesome hang out sessions too. And the best part is, it has never felt like it has taken a lot of effort or like we're fighting against a world that tries to pull us apart...we don't get to see each other as much as we'd like, and we don't always talk super-regularly, but something right found us in the hallways of William Davies Middle School and we're never going to let it go.
You never know who's going to come into your life. You never know how they're going to change you by doing so. You never know if the person you rely on today will still be around the next time you need a shoulder to lean on. You can bulldoze your walls and let people in. You can share and trust and love all without quite knowing if the person you're sharing with and trusting and loving is giving as much to you as you are to them. Relationships of all kinds have as much power to hurt as they have to heal, and you never quite know which will do which to a larger extent. What I'm saying here is the strength of this friendship never ceases to surprise me. May you all have such ride-or-die chicks.
Friday, July 15, 2011
2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 29--Letter to a Mythical Creature
Dear Kendra,
[Readers, before you go scouring the interwebz on a quest to find this Kendra of which I speak, relax. She doesn't exist on the internet. She exists only in the minds of me, S, and our other friend whom neither of us really speaks to anymore, M*****. She was a character in a book S and I spent most of 8th grade coming up with the storyline for.]
You were just a baby. The daughter of a mermaid and a sorcerer, you had powers the likes of which your world had never seen. A blank slate, you weren't inherently good or evil; you would end the battle once and for all, but whose side you were on depended on how you were raised. And so, under the cover of night, evil stole you from good's protected castle and whisked you away to a fortress dug deep inside a mountain in a long-forgotten range. A team of students was assembled to rescue you. They never made it.
I loved you so much. You and everything you stood for. Looking back now at how obsessed we were with you, your protectors/defenders, and the forces of evil who held you captive, I have to laugh. But it was all so real then. Your entire world was the greatest figment my imagination will ever know. Your parents' parents, we were the masterminds behind both the plot to steal you and the quest to get you back. We made every minor success and major pitfall along the way. The unexpected detours that threatened to be your would-be saviors' undoing were our doing. We spent hours on the phone and in the library with this every day, planning the most minute of details. Children in our world, we were the ultimate masters in yours. If the guy who wrote Eragon could do it when he was a young teenager, why couldn't we? [Oh how I miss the days when 'Why not?' was reason enough to do something. Though I suppose there's no reason it can't still be.]
Your story never ended though. Sometime around the beginning of high school I simply lost interest. I looked at the unfinished 68 page outline [yes we were that serious] and couldn't believe how naive we were. I had this cold hard world moment where I didn't think anyone else would ever take us or our story seriously and I gave up on you. And I hated myself for it, so I tried to make up some ridiculous story about how writing the outline was boring me and I wanted to spend some time writing actual chapters, but no matter how hard I tried to dedicate myself, I couldn't give you the attention and love and respect you deserved. I just wasn't into it anymore. Maybe it stemmed from not being as close to S once I wasn't seeing him every day, maybe my life just got in the way, maybe I just grew up...I told him I didn't like what I was writing and that I needed to pick up some better writing skills before I could keep going. That I was going to develop them in the Creative Writing class I was going to take sophomore year and then I would start back up again. I took the class...but I never started up again.
I lost all interest in fantasy [at least, the magic and dragons and quests kind of fantasy] at the same time that I gave up on you. I couldn't bring myself to have anything to do with the genre. I don't know which loss of feeling came first. It was so bad that I could barely even finish the last Harry Potter book--I had to know what happened, but I wanted nothing to do with wands and wizardry anymore. I couldn't. I don't know why, but I just couldn't. I couldn't take it seriously anymore.
I'm sorry. I wish I had done better by you. And now you're gone, extant only in our memories, because my mom threw away the computer everything that related to you was stored on without asking me if there was anything I needed on it. I just came back from Princeton one break and it was gone. You were gone. So I'm sorry I couldn't do right by you. And S, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth. I couldn't explain it then, and I still can't. Something in me disappeared and took you with it, Kendra. That's all I can say.
Maya
[Readers, before you go scouring the interwebz on a quest to find this Kendra of which I speak, relax. She doesn't exist on the internet. She exists only in the minds of me, S, and our other friend whom neither of us really speaks to anymore, M*****. She was a character in a book S and I spent most of 8th grade coming up with the storyline for.]
You were just a baby. The daughter of a mermaid and a sorcerer, you had powers the likes of which your world had never seen. A blank slate, you weren't inherently good or evil; you would end the battle once and for all, but whose side you were on depended on how you were raised. And so, under the cover of night, evil stole you from good's protected castle and whisked you away to a fortress dug deep inside a mountain in a long-forgotten range. A team of students was assembled to rescue you. They never made it.
I loved you so much. You and everything you stood for. Looking back now at how obsessed we were with you, your protectors/defenders, and the forces of evil who held you captive, I have to laugh. But it was all so real then. Your entire world was the greatest figment my imagination will ever know. Your parents' parents, we were the masterminds behind both the plot to steal you and the quest to get you back. We made every minor success and major pitfall along the way. The unexpected detours that threatened to be your would-be saviors' undoing were our doing. We spent hours on the phone and in the library with this every day, planning the most minute of details. Children in our world, we were the ultimate masters in yours. If the guy who wrote Eragon could do it when he was a young teenager, why couldn't we? [Oh how I miss the days when 'Why not?' was reason enough to do something. Though I suppose there's no reason it can't still be.]
Your story never ended though. Sometime around the beginning of high school I simply lost interest. I looked at the unfinished 68 page outline [yes we were that serious] and couldn't believe how naive we were. I had this cold hard world moment where I didn't think anyone else would ever take us or our story seriously and I gave up on you. And I hated myself for it, so I tried to make up some ridiculous story about how writing the outline was boring me and I wanted to spend some time writing actual chapters, but no matter how hard I tried to dedicate myself, I couldn't give you the attention and love and respect you deserved. I just wasn't into it anymore. Maybe it stemmed from not being as close to S once I wasn't seeing him every day, maybe my life just got in the way, maybe I just grew up...I told him I didn't like what I was writing and that I needed to pick up some better writing skills before I could keep going. That I was going to develop them in the Creative Writing class I was going to take sophomore year and then I would start back up again. I took the class...but I never started up again.
I lost all interest in fantasy [at least, the magic and dragons and quests kind of fantasy] at the same time that I gave up on you. I couldn't bring myself to have anything to do with the genre. I don't know which loss of feeling came first. It was so bad that I could barely even finish the last Harry Potter book--I had to know what happened, but I wanted nothing to do with wands and wizardry anymore. I couldn't. I don't know why, but I just couldn't. I couldn't take it seriously anymore.
I'm sorry. I wish I had done better by you. And now you're gone, extant only in our memories, because my mom threw away the computer everything that related to you was stored on without asking me if there was anything I needed on it. I just came back from Princeton one break and it was gone. You were gone. So I'm sorry I couldn't do right by you. And S, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth. I couldn't explain it then, and I still can't. Something in me disappeared and took you with it, Kendra. That's all I can say.
Maya
Friday, July 8, 2011
2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 22--Letter to a Feeling You Wish You Didn't Feel
Dear
I'm not suffering from you right now, but you come in and out of my life so regularly that as soon as I saw L's post, I knew today's letter had to be to you, because you are never a welcome presence in my life. It comforts me only slightly that I understand exactly where you come from:
Back when Amy Chau's memoir was released, lots of my Asian and non-Asian friends started joking around about whether their parents were Tigers (and not in the legacy-student sense of the word). These students, who for the most part play instruments, got amazing grades throughout their primary and secondary educations, and now go to one of the top universities in the world found it easy to joke about the effectiveness or benefits of Tiger-Motherhood, regardless of whether their own parents had been Tigers. My own mother was only a Tiger certain ways--appearances were everything, and one's hair had to be straight, neatly arranged, and one's clothes had to be ironed if one were going to go anywhere with her--most notoriously in terms of her standards for my academic success; I had to beg and plead for extra-curricular development, rather than be forced to practice my instrument for hours on end. All that open communication and "talking" rather than authoritative discipline that Annette Laureau talks about with wealthy parents' style of raising their children...yeah you can tell we were poor, because her word was law and the only appropriate response was "Yesma'am Mom". Praise was not common in my house--in my ex-stepfather's words: "Why should I reward you for acting like you're supposed to?"
Straight A's were mandatoryin my household for me according to my mother's rules from the very beginning. I didn't really even have to work at this until sixth grade math; Mrs. Franks hated us and constantly reminded us that we were idiots in comparison to the accelerated math class from the year before (don'tcha just love people who shouldn't be around children in their formative years and choose to become teachers?). I came home with my first ever B, and my mother was furious. I tried to explain that the class was hard, and I couldn't be perfect, and my then-stepfather beat me mercilessly. Buckle end of the belt. My failure (because anything less than perfection was failure) was unacceptable and would not be tolerated in this house. I would be perfect, or I would be punished. End of story.
When my mother and the abusive asshole finally separated for the last time, when I was in the 7th grade, I thought the worst of it was over. I was taller than my mom by that age, and though I had no doubt she could still beat me, I doubted that she would. And I was right: psychological torture was her weapon of choice.
Example A) My school district sent home interim report cards about halfway through each marking period, designed to let you and your parents know how you were doing in your classes so that improvements could be made if necessary before final grades came out. In the second marking period of the year when I was in 7th grade, my interim report card came home showing that I had a B in Art, with As in all my other classes. The comments said that I had incomplete work, which was not untrue--we had been working on an Indian-henna-practices-inspired scratch art piece, and in the vein of true Indian henna, my work was ornate and complex. It took considerably more time than my classmates' flowers and simple patterns, and I wasn't done yet, but wasn't going to compromise my project to finish on time; you can't rush art. [The piece later went on to be featured in the County Art Fair #I'mjustsayin] This explanation didn't come close to being acceptable to my mother though; she grounded me, said I was not going to perform in the band's Winter Concert which I had a 12-measure solo in, and took away my TV, computer privileges, books, and library card. I had to go in to school the next day and explain this to my band director, while I was sobbing and so ashamed that I couldn't look him in the eye. He told me he'd suspected things were bad at home, but never anything like this. He took it upon himself to speak with my art teacher, who reluctantly allowed me to take home the tools I needed to finish my project and then wrote a note to my mother saying that my grade was an A, which my mother reluctantly accepted and let me be in the concert.
Example B: 8th grade. My school had become so overcrowded that some genius (read: idiot) administrator decided to implement a one-way-hallway policy designed to facilitate faster commutes from one classroom to another between bells. Students caught going the wrong way in a one-way hallway were subject to detention. One day, I left my sneakers in the locker room after gym. I realized this as I was halfway down the one-way hallway on my way to Health class, and tried to turn around and go back, but a teacher yelled at me. I told him what had happened and he said to go to class and ask my Health teacher for a pass to go to the gym. I went to class and the Health teacher said I had to wait to the end of the period, and then he would write me a pass explaining why I would be late to my next class. Needless to say, by the end of that period, my sneakers were nowhere to be found. I went home and explained what had happened to my mother, and said I needed new sneakers--I'd only owned one pair. She told me I should have been more responsible, and that she wasn't going to buy me new sneakers. So, every day for the rest of the marking period, I was unprepared for gym class. I tried to participate when I could, but usually my teacher made me sit on the bleachers because I didn't have the right shoes. And come the end of the marking period, I got a C in gym, with the comments stating that I was unprepared. My mother screams at me for hours, grounds me for the entire next marking period (about 10 weeks), again stripping my room of everything but a bed and a dresser and taking away my computer and library privileges. I wasn't allowed to celebrate my 14th birthday--no cake, no party, no gifts. But at least she bought me a goddamn pair of sneakers.
Example C) Freshman year of high school, Geometry. Barely squeaked by with a 91, the lowest grade in the A-range. She told me it was unacceptable. Confused, I said, "But mom, it's an A. Look at the scale!" She said it wasn't a high enough A.
Example D) My senior year of high school, once I was already accepted to Princetonand had decided the rest of my high school career was meaningless, I wasn't doing too well in AP Calc II. I may have had a C at the interim-reporting time. My friends lamented having gotten their interims, and I was legitimately afraid to go home because I didn't know what my mother would do to me. I'd never had that kind of grade in an academic class before. I rummaged around the house until I found a spare mailbox key, prayed to a God I didn't believe in, and thanked my lucky stars when I found that she hadn't checked the mail the day before because my interim was still in the box. I very sneakily removed it, left everything else undisturbed, and destroyed all evidence of its existence. She never asked about it. I'll never tell.
One of the reasons Remember the Titans is one of my favorite movies (besides Denzel) is that the team overcomes every possible obstacle to actually achieve the supposed-to-be-impossible requirement of perfection. They gave me hope that even in the darkest moments, even when I was damned if I did and damned if I didn't, even when I wanted to run away or give in to her threats to send me to live with my father, I could take it. WILL. YOU. EVER. QUIT????? NO. WE WANT SOME MORE. WE WANT SOME MORE. WE WANT SOME MORE!!!!!! It was probably somewhere around this time of my life that I silently declared war against my mother. The time for trying to reason with her had long since passed, so I put my game face on and said Bring it, bitch. Every impossible standard she threw at me, I worked my ass off to reach. It damn near killed me, but I did it. I shattered everyone's expectations...even her own, I think. I hated her for it, every day for so many years of my life I hated her for it...but look where it got me. I can't say it didn't work.
And now, as I keep saying, I am a grown-ass woman. My mother no longer has that kind of control over me--I made sure of this as I worked to change the tone of our relationship once I went to college. She tried to give me shit about having a B in Spanish my first semester, and I made it clear that I wasn't having it. I guess having an above-average GPA at the (then-) number one institution in the country was enough for her, because the battles ceased.
At least, the ones with her did. The problem with being exposed to something so regularly for such a prolonged period of time, however, is that you unconsciously begin to internalize it. I have different standards than those she demanded that I meet, but I still hold myself to them as rigorously as she made me. I am still disappointed by B+s. I still over-involve myself and then drive myself damn-near-crazy trying to give my all to every single commitment I have. I still can't do anything halfway. I still can't leave my room/house for the day without checking the mirror. I don't like to call myself a control freak, but I panic when something happens in my life that I have no power over. Every time I stumble or misstep walking down this crazy path called life, I become an emotional wreck. My tiniest mistakes are blown into epic proportions in my head, and instead of looking at an obstacle and instantly thinking up ways to turn it into a stepping stone, I sit and cry and feel like my entire world has come crashing down around me. Every time something goes wrong, even something that I had no control over, you completely overtake me and leave me a crumbled tear-stained mess on a floor or in my bed. I always fall back on you, instantly looking for ways to blame myself, always wondering what's wrong with me that caused this to happen. A mistake temporarily ends me. It's so easy for me to ignore all my accomplishments and feel like a total and complete failure when something goes wrong, because though I'm now sure she didn't mean to, she made me feel like a collection of mistakes, rather than a human being who is allowed to err. I don't know how to limit myself, which is as much of a curse as it is a blessing. I cannot wage war against myself as I waged war against my mother, because my goal is to love me in every way that I can. That means getting her, and the way she presumably DOESN'T EVEN FEEL ANYMORE (and probably never felt), out of my head.
These are self-affirmations:
I am allowed to make mistakes. I cannot learn without them. The world will not end if I have to backtrack a little bit. Not every misstep is a failure. The sun will rise even if I don't have a small success to offer it. The pinnacle of perfection is simply being myself. That is the only end-goal I need.
Take your ass on home, atelophobia. You are not welcome here.
Respectfully not yours,
Maya
 | ||||
| Also reblogged from my friend L |
Back when Amy Chau's memoir was released, lots of my Asian and non-Asian friends started joking around about whether their parents were Tigers (and not in the legacy-student sense of the word). These students, who for the most part play instruments, got amazing grades throughout their primary and secondary educations, and now go to one of the top universities in the world found it easy to joke about the effectiveness or benefits of Tiger-Motherhood, regardless of whether their own parents had been Tigers. My own mother was only a Tiger certain ways--appearances were everything, and one's hair had to be straight, neatly arranged, and one's clothes had to be ironed if one were going to go anywhere with her--most notoriously in terms of her standards for my academic success; I had to beg and plead for extra-curricular development, rather than be forced to practice my instrument for hours on end. All that open communication and "talking" rather than authoritative discipline that Annette Laureau talks about with wealthy parents' style of raising their children...yeah you can tell we were poor, because her word was law and the only appropriate response was "Yes
Straight A's were mandatory
When my mother and the abusive asshole finally separated for the last time, when I was in the 7th grade, I thought the worst of it was over. I was taller than my mom by that age, and though I had no doubt she could still beat me, I doubted that she would. And I was right: psychological torture was her weapon of choice.
Example A) My school district sent home interim report cards about halfway through each marking period, designed to let you and your parents know how you were doing in your classes so that improvements could be made if necessary before final grades came out. In the second marking period of the year when I was in 7th grade, my interim report card came home showing that I had a B in Art, with As in all my other classes. The comments said that I had incomplete work, which was not untrue--we had been working on an Indian-henna-practices-inspired scratch art piece, and in the vein of true Indian henna, my work was ornate and complex. It took considerably more time than my classmates' flowers and simple patterns, and I wasn't done yet, but wasn't going to compromise my project to finish on time; you can't rush art. [The piece later went on to be featured in the County Art Fair #I'mjustsayin] This explanation didn't come close to being acceptable to my mother though; she grounded me, said I was not going to perform in the band's Winter Concert which I had a 12-measure solo in, and took away my TV, computer privileges, books, and library card. I had to go in to school the next day and explain this to my band director, while I was sobbing and so ashamed that I couldn't look him in the eye. He told me he'd suspected things were bad at home, but never anything like this. He took it upon himself to speak with my art teacher, who reluctantly allowed me to take home the tools I needed to finish my project and then wrote a note to my mother saying that my grade was an A, which my mother reluctantly accepted and let me be in the concert.
Example B: 8th grade. My school had become so overcrowded that some genius (read: idiot) administrator decided to implement a one-way-hallway policy designed to facilitate faster commutes from one classroom to another between bells. Students caught going the wrong way in a one-way hallway were subject to detention. One day, I left my sneakers in the locker room after gym. I realized this as I was halfway down the one-way hallway on my way to Health class, and tried to turn around and go back, but a teacher yelled at me. I told him what had happened and he said to go to class and ask my Health teacher for a pass to go to the gym. I went to class and the Health teacher said I had to wait to the end of the period, and then he would write me a pass explaining why I would be late to my next class. Needless to say, by the end of that period, my sneakers were nowhere to be found. I went home and explained what had happened to my mother, and said I needed new sneakers--I'd only owned one pair. She told me I should have been more responsible, and that she wasn't going to buy me new sneakers. So, every day for the rest of the marking period, I was unprepared for gym class. I tried to participate when I could, but usually my teacher made me sit on the bleachers because I didn't have the right shoes. And come the end of the marking period, I got a C in gym, with the comments stating that I was unprepared. My mother screams at me for hours, grounds me for the entire next marking period (about 10 weeks), again stripping my room of everything but a bed and a dresser and taking away my computer and library privileges. I wasn't allowed to celebrate my 14th birthday--no cake, no party, no gifts. But at least she bought me a goddamn pair of sneakers.
Example C) Freshman year of high school, Geometry. Barely squeaked by with a 91, the lowest grade in the A-range. She told me it was unacceptable. Confused, I said, "But mom, it's an A. Look at the scale!" She said it wasn't a high enough A.
Example D) My senior year of high school, once I was already accepted to Princeton
One of the reasons Remember the Titans is one of my favorite movies (besides Denzel) is that the team overcomes every possible obstacle to actually achieve the supposed-to-be-impossible requirement of perfection. They gave me hope that even in the darkest moments, even when I was damned if I did and damned if I didn't, even when I wanted to run away or give in to her threats to send me to live with my father, I could take it. WILL. YOU. EVER. QUIT????? NO. WE WANT SOME MORE. WE WANT SOME MORE. WE WANT SOME MORE!!!!!! It was probably somewhere around this time of my life that I silently declared war against my mother. The time for trying to reason with her had long since passed, so I put my game face on and said Bring it, bitch. Every impossible standard she threw at me, I worked my ass off to reach. It damn near killed me, but I did it. I shattered everyone's expectations...even her own, I think. I hated her for it, every day for so many years of my life I hated her for it...but look where it got me. I can't say it didn't work.
And now, as I keep saying, I am a grown-ass woman. My mother no longer has that kind of control over me--I made sure of this as I worked to change the tone of our relationship once I went to college. She tried to give me shit about having a B in Spanish my first semester, and I made it clear that I wasn't having it. I guess having an above-average GPA at the (then-) number one institution in the country was enough for her, because the battles ceased.
At least, the ones with her did. The problem with being exposed to something so regularly for such a prolonged period of time, however, is that you unconsciously begin to internalize it. I have different standards than those she demanded that I meet, but I still hold myself to them as rigorously as she made me. I am still disappointed by B+s. I still over-involve myself and then drive myself damn-near-crazy trying to give my all to every single commitment I have. I still can't do anything halfway. I still can't leave my room/house for the day without checking the mirror. I don't like to call myself a control freak, but I panic when something happens in my life that I have no power over. Every time I stumble or misstep walking down this crazy path called life, I become an emotional wreck. My tiniest mistakes are blown into epic proportions in my head, and instead of looking at an obstacle and instantly thinking up ways to turn it into a stepping stone, I sit and cry and feel like my entire world has come crashing down around me. Every time something goes wrong, even something that I had no control over, you completely overtake me and leave me a crumbled tear-stained mess on a floor or in my bed. I always fall back on you, instantly looking for ways to blame myself, always wondering what's wrong with me that caused this to happen. A mistake temporarily ends me. It's so easy for me to ignore all my accomplishments and feel like a total and complete failure when something goes wrong, because though I'm now sure she didn't mean to, she made me feel like a collection of mistakes, rather than a human being who is allowed to err. I don't know how to limit myself, which is as much of a curse as it is a blessing. I cannot wage war against myself as I waged war against my mother, because my goal is to love me in every way that I can. That means getting her, and the way she presumably DOESN'T EVEN FEEL ANYMORE (and probably never felt), out of my head.
These are self-affirmations:
I am allowed to make mistakes. I cannot learn without them. The world will not end if I have to backtrack a little bit. Not every misstep is a failure. The sun will rise even if I don't have a small success to offer it. The pinnacle of perfection is simply being myself. That is the only end-goal I need.
Take your ass on home, atelophobia. You are not welcome here.
Respectfully not yours,
Maya
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Grown-Folks' Business
A lot of my Atlantic City adventure yesterday with K, A, and I revolved around grown-folks and the concept of being/becoming one.
Like all trips to AC should, ours started with blowing lots of money hitting up sales at the Outlets. We went to H&M and G by Guess, then K wanted to check out the Gap, Ralph Lauren, [side note, I'm lolling at Oxford's attempts to get rid of the Oxford comma and WILL NEVER LET IT GO. NEVER.] and Nautica, then my aunt hooked us up at Banana Republic (the whole store was 50% off and we got 30% off on top of that!), and I am not embarrassed to admit that I went to Old Navy on the way back and got some good deals there too. But K had never been to the outlets before, so while we were walking around he kept asking me what kind of good stores they had. I told him to tell me where he usually shops and I can tell him if it was there or not, but he said he doesn't even know where he usually shops anymore. This led to a conversation about fashion styles growing, changing, and maturing as we get older. We are 21-year-old about-to-be-seniors at Princeton who are destined for big wonderful things in the very near future...is it time we started dressing towards that future? Is the era of the graphic tee coming to an end in our lives? Does it have to? This conversation reminded me of a post on one of my favorite blogs, Black Girl With Long Hair a couple weeks ago about "Buying Grown Woman Clothes". And I just don't know how I feel about this whole change I'm evidently supposed to be ready for. Clothes from the stores that K wanted to browse felt either unnatural to me or like they belonged to 10-years-from-now-Professor-Maya, not 21-year-old-student-Maya. One day when I have a real job in the real world (let's pretend academia is the real world for a second), I can buy a $40 shirt and a $52 skirt and not feel as though I've committed a crime against my wallet. Until then, however, I will do my best to stay under $20/article of clothing even if it means I replace things a lot. I'm not ready for a wardrobe that'll stay with me forever. But the question, I guess, is should I be? And if the answer is yes...do I care?
Then fast-forward to the show itself [which was phenomenal, see the previous post]. The first words out of K's mouth when we walked into the House of Blues were shock at how adult an environment the venue is. It's a standing room only, dark, interesting blend of Harlem-Renaissance-era and crazy-shit-from-the-70s black art on the walls, painted ceilings, three bars. It's the kind of place you dance during the show. This was a grown-folks' music hall, and he didn't feel old enough to be there. I said K, we are grown folks, and he said he felt like he was skipping school. The four of us were definitely some of the youngest people in the crowd. This was the kind of show people got dressed up for--onlyforthegrownandsexy dressed up, not slutted up--and I felt a little like I should have brought a dress to change into like originally planned. The DJ called out: "If you 25 plus make some noi-ise" and I swear we were the only people who didn't. [Side note: it was weird making noi-ise when the DJ called for single ladies too. K shot me a look like damn. What can I say? Fact: I'm not in any way happy about the reapplicability of this status to my life, but #Iwasjusttrynahaveagoodtime? I know what he meant though...it didn't feel right. Maybe I'll think twice next time.] What really made me feel young was the fact that drinks at the bar were RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE ($13 for a Long Island. $14 for a rum and coke. BITCH PUH-LEASE.) but people were getting them like they were free! A noted that the guys standing in front of us bought so many drinks that they spent more on alcohol than on tickets to the show, and evidently someday that will not be ridiculous to us. It was weird being surrounded by people in their 20s/30s/oldheads and realizing that a) you are actually a part of that first group of people, even if you don't feel like it, and what really struck me was b) we'll be doing things like this for the rest of our lives. Someday some other youngins will come in and see us and wonder if they're old enough to be here. I guess most of the people in our range of this generation were at the Rick Ross concert...we have a grownandsexy musical taste. Going back to the day's earlier thoughts, I loved looking at the range of styles sported by the women around me and wondering who I'll grow up to be. In semi-related news, never in Jersey have I been surround by so many naturalistas! I guess it takes some grownandsexy funky eclecticism along the lines of Erykah Badu's amazing voice to bring us out of the woodwork.
Anyway, I'm pondering this: I can accurately say that I feel like an adult most of the time, especially more recently as I've done all sorts of adult things for the first time (note to self: I have a utilities bill to pay), and I can say I'm a grown-ass woman, but last night I felt like I was around ACTUAL grown-ass women and thus wondered if I'm really there. I wonder if that wondering ever goes away. My mom says even she doesn't feel like a grown-up sometimes...
Like all trips to AC should, ours started with blowing lots of money hitting up sales at the Outlets. We went to H&M and G by Guess, then K wanted to check out the Gap, Ralph Lauren, [side note, I'm lolling at Oxford's attempts to get rid of the Oxford comma and WILL NEVER LET IT GO. NEVER.] and Nautica, then my aunt hooked us up at Banana Republic (the whole store was 50% off and we got 30% off on top of that!), and I am not embarrassed to admit that I went to Old Navy on the way back and got some good deals there too. But K had never been to the outlets before, so while we were walking around he kept asking me what kind of good stores they had. I told him to tell me where he usually shops and I can tell him if it was there or not, but he said he doesn't even know where he usually shops anymore. This led to a conversation about fashion styles growing, changing, and maturing as we get older. We are 21-year-old about-to-be-seniors at Princeton who are destined for big wonderful things in the very near future...is it time we started dressing towards that future? Is the era of the graphic tee coming to an end in our lives? Does it have to? This conversation reminded me of a post on one of my favorite blogs, Black Girl With Long Hair a couple weeks ago about "Buying Grown Woman Clothes". And I just don't know how I feel about this whole change I'm evidently supposed to be ready for. Clothes from the stores that K wanted to browse felt either unnatural to me or like they belonged to 10-years-from-now-Professor-Maya, not 21-year-old-student-Maya. One day when I have a real job in the real world (let's pretend academia is the real world for a second), I can buy a $40 shirt and a $52 skirt and not feel as though I've committed a crime against my wallet. Until then, however, I will do my best to stay under $20/article of clothing even if it means I replace things a lot. I'm not ready for a wardrobe that'll stay with me forever. But the question, I guess, is should I be? And if the answer is yes...do I care?
Then fast-forward to the show itself [which was phenomenal, see the previous post]. The first words out of K's mouth when we walked into the House of Blues were shock at how adult an environment the venue is. It's a standing room only, dark, interesting blend of Harlem-Renaissance-era and crazy-shit-from-the-70s black art on the walls, painted ceilings, three bars. It's the kind of place you dance during the show. This was a grown-folks' music hall, and he didn't feel old enough to be there. I said K, we are grown folks, and he said he felt like he was skipping school. The four of us were definitely some of the youngest people in the crowd. This was the kind of show people got dressed up for--onlyforthegrownandsexy dressed up, not slutted up--and I felt a little like I should have brought a dress to change into like originally planned. The DJ called out: "If you 25 plus make some noi-ise" and I swear we were the only people who didn't. [Side note: it was weird making noi-ise when the DJ called for single ladies too. K shot me a look like damn. What can I say? Fact: I'm not in any way happy about the reapplicability of this status to my life, but #Iwasjusttrynahaveagoodtime? I know what he meant though...it didn't feel right. Maybe I'll think twice next time.] What really made me feel young was the fact that drinks at the bar were RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE ($13 for a Long Island. $14 for a rum and coke. BITCH PUH-LEASE.) but people were getting them like they were free! A noted that the guys standing in front of us bought so many drinks that they spent more on alcohol than on tickets to the show, and evidently someday that will not be ridiculous to us. It was weird being surrounded by people in their 20s/30s/oldheads and realizing that a) you are actually a part of that first group of people, even if you don't feel like it, and what really struck me was b) we'll be doing things like this for the rest of our lives. Someday some other youngins will come in and see us and wonder if they're old enough to be here. I guess most of the people in our range of this generation were at the Rick Ross concert...we have a grownandsexy musical taste. Going back to the day's earlier thoughts, I loved looking at the range of styles sported by the women around me and wondering who I'll grow up to be. In semi-related news, never in Jersey have I been surround by so many naturalistas! I guess it takes some grownandsexy funky eclecticism along the lines of Erykah Badu's amazing voice to bring us out of the woodwork.
Anyway, I'm pondering this: I can accurately say that I feel like an adult most of the time, especially more recently as I've done all sorts of adult things for the first time (note to self: I have a utilities bill to pay), and I can say I'm a grown-ass woman, but last night I felt like I was around ACTUAL grown-ass women and thus wondered if I'm really there. I wonder if that wondering ever goes away. My mom says even she doesn't feel like a grown-up sometimes...
Friday, July 1, 2011
Look Out, World!
So I had a random idea when Skyping with KO last week, and then I mentioned said random idea when on the phone with my mom the other day, who seemed generally supportive. Then last night while I was "work"ing I found myself perusing the interwebs in search of the closest DMV (which is evidently called the Motor Vehicle Commission now) location to my house in NB and/or to campus, and evidently it's not bus-able [which is ironic, imo], but nonetheless I will find a way to get there, because (drumroll please):
I'm gonna get mylearner's examination permit!!! (That's evidently what it's called when you're a first-time driver aged 21+.)
Fuckyeah stayin on that grown-ass woman game. If I can live by myself in a house, pay rent, pay bills, commute to work, be getting ready to graduate, and try my hand at grown woman things like falling in love, I should be able to drive myself places. My little sister is learning to drive before I am, and that's just not cute. So I'ma get on that. I have to retake my written test because my passing score expired a little over three years ago...[and I just don't remember any of that shit anyway]. So let's add that to the list of things I'm studying for this summer, in addition to thesis and perhaps the GRE. Furthering the modes of independence=I'm excited!
I'm gonna get my
Fuckyeah stayin on that grown-ass woman game. If I can live by myself in a house, pay rent, pay bills, commute to work, be getting ready to graduate, and try my hand at grown woman things like falling in love, I should be able to drive myself places. My little sister is learning to drive before I am, and that's just not cute. So I'ma get on that. I have to retake my written test because my passing score expired a little over three years ago...[and I just don't remember any of that shit anyway]. So let's add that to the list of things I'm studying for this summer, in addition to thesis and perhaps the GRE. Furthering the modes of independence=I'm excited!
Friday, June 24, 2011
2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge--Day 12: Letter to a Sibling You Didn't Write to Last Time
Dear Kids A and W,
First off, I'm sorry I still think of you as kids. At 16 and 17, going into your junior and senior years in high school in September, you're not anymore. I remember when I was that age, soooo many of my daily struggles were to be treated like I was a real person, and so I promise you that I'm going to do my best to remember to treat you like real people, because you're not children anymore. That doesn't mean I won't still try to give you advice or check in on you--that's a siblings thing for life. I am always going to care about you (even if we go weeks without speaking sometimes), and I'm never going to stop acting on that caring--that's a promise (please don't see it as a threat), but I will try to be less patronizing/seeming like I'm on a high horse.
Now, I'm going to be honest: I'm worried about you. I have this vague sense of danger whenever I think about you, like something is on the verge of or in the process of going horribly wrong. Part of that worry I can address to you both simultaneously: college is right around the corner, you guys. I know college is the last thing you guys like to listen to me talk about because I raised the bar to this ridiculously high level, but fact: I don't give a fuck if you guys don't go to schools like Princeton. Neither does anyone else in our family. I am an exception, we all know that. I don't care if school isn't your thing like school is my thing. I don't care if you don't want to go to graduate school. I don't care if you want to major in something that will turn directly into a job and then do that for the rest of your life. I just need you to understand that you have to go to college to make it in this world. Hell, in this economy, even going to college can't secure anything, but you're damn sure not going to get anywhere without it. And, another fact, just in case you somehow weren't aware, our family does not have the money to pay for you to go to college. If you don't qualify for scholarships, you're going to be either a) unable to afford school at all and wind up at community college, b) in debt up to your eyeballs for the rest of ever, or c) some unfortunate combination of both. I don't want to see that happen to you, but you are the only people in any position to prevent that, and I need you to see that. I don't know what's going to happen to you if you don't see that. It terrifies me. You both seem to be so oblivious to this process and the fact that you're running out of time, and that scares me.
Okay, now for the separate parts: A, I'm entirely uncomfortable with this boyfriend of yours and the fact that our mother doesn't know about him. I'm entirely uncomfortable with the fact that he wakes you up out of your slumber to talk on the phone at damn near three in the morning. I'm vaguely uncomfortable with the fact that he's up then--what has he been doing? Mostly, I just want to meet him, or at the very least for our mother to meet him. I feel like you're hiding him and this relationship and that worries me to my core. I also want you to know, however, that I've thought long and hard about this, and I'm not going to rat you out. But I'm not ratting you out on one condition: I want you to know that you can come to me and talk to me about things, things that have to deal with him or anything. You seem to think I'm prudish and boring sometimes, but I have more experience with these sorts of things than you'd probably expect. I don't want you to feel like you're alone in our family. I remember those days.
W, I want to know what's going on with you and school. Well, okay, school is actually probably a symptom of a larger issue and not the issue itself. What's the issue itself? My mind instantly jumps to these hoodlum friends of yours. I hate saying that, but it's true. The vast majority of them are just no damn good. Whether or not you recognize that is not the issue I want to dwell on right now, though...what I want to dwell on is the fact that you don't have to be just like them to be their friends. If their friendship iscontingent on your conformity just based on you being the same as them, then you can do better than that. I remember when you liked school. I remember when you came home with the star-studded report cards and A was the one I had to worry about. But W, you FAILED a marking period in Honors Biology. Brought an F home to our mother's house. I don't know what I believe less, that you did this or that our mother barely punished you for it (in comparison to the punishments I used to get). But again, I don't think the root issue here is that her standards have softened since I left the house; a) they were near-impossibly high to begin with and meeting them stressed me out every second of the day for 10ish years, but more importantly b) there again seems to be something larger here. I want you to talk to me, I want to know what's wrong. I don't want to call this acting out, but it's a significant change and I want to know what is causing it.
Back together again: I've had enough of this you-two-against-me shit. We've been playing that game for about 14 years, it's time to do something new. Especially now that you're not a united force anymore regarding anything else. I would like us to try to have conversations like adults. I would like us to try to not let the smallest things blow up into the biggest arguments. It has recently come to my attention that other people, normal people, people I know and love and am convinced aren't crazy, are friends with their siblings. I would like to give this a try.
But I guess first that would require feeling like I could ever, in a million years, say any of this to either of you. I don't think there's much hurt I could do to our relationships by trying, though...we barely interact when we're not in the same physical space anyway. So, #declaration: I'm going to try. Maybe I'll start small, maybe I won't say it all at once, but I'm going to call you and try to talk. Please do me a favor and try to listen.
This is all to say I love you,
Big Sis
First off, I'm sorry I still think of you as kids. At 16 and 17, going into your junior and senior years in high school in September, you're not anymore. I remember when I was that age, soooo many of my daily struggles were to be treated like I was a real person, and so I promise you that I'm going to do my best to remember to treat you like real people, because you're not children anymore. That doesn't mean I won't still try to give you advice or check in on you--that's a siblings thing for life. I am always going to care about you (even if we go weeks without speaking sometimes), and I'm never going to stop acting on that caring--that's a promise (please don't see it as a threat), but I will try to be less patronizing/seeming like I'm on a high horse.
Now, I'm going to be honest: I'm worried about you. I have this vague sense of danger whenever I think about you, like something is on the verge of or in the process of going horribly wrong. Part of that worry I can address to you both simultaneously: college is right around the corner, you guys. I know college is the last thing you guys like to listen to me talk about because I raised the bar to this ridiculously high level, but fact: I don't give a fuck if you guys don't go to schools like Princeton. Neither does anyone else in our family. I am an exception, we all know that. I don't care if school isn't your thing like school is my thing. I don't care if you don't want to go to graduate school. I don't care if you want to major in something that will turn directly into a job and then do that for the rest of your life. I just need you to understand that you have to go to college to make it in this world. Hell, in this economy, even going to college can't secure anything, but you're damn sure not going to get anywhere without it. And, another fact, just in case you somehow weren't aware, our family does not have the money to pay for you to go to college. If you don't qualify for scholarships, you're going to be either a) unable to afford school at all and wind up at community college, b) in debt up to your eyeballs for the rest of ever, or c) some unfortunate combination of both. I don't want to see that happen to you, but you are the only people in any position to prevent that, and I need you to see that. I don't know what's going to happen to you if you don't see that. It terrifies me. You both seem to be so oblivious to this process and the fact that you're running out of time, and that scares me.
Okay, now for the separate parts: A, I'm entirely uncomfortable with this boyfriend of yours and the fact that our mother doesn't know about him. I'm entirely uncomfortable with the fact that he wakes you up out of your slumber to talk on the phone at damn near three in the morning. I'm vaguely uncomfortable with the fact that he's up then--what has he been doing? Mostly, I just want to meet him, or at the very least for our mother to meet him. I feel like you're hiding him and this relationship and that worries me to my core. I also want you to know, however, that I've thought long and hard about this, and I'm not going to rat you out. But I'm not ratting you out on one condition: I want you to know that you can come to me and talk to me about things, things that have to deal with him or anything. You seem to think I'm prudish and boring sometimes, but I have more experience with these sorts of things than you'd probably expect. I don't want you to feel like you're alone in our family. I remember those days.
W, I want to know what's going on with you and school. Well, okay, school is actually probably a symptom of a larger issue and not the issue itself. What's the issue itself? My mind instantly jumps to these hoodlum friends of yours. I hate saying that, but it's true. The vast majority of them are just no damn good. Whether or not you recognize that is not the issue I want to dwell on right now, though...what I want to dwell on is the fact that you don't have to be just like them to be their friends. If their friendship is
Back together again: I've had enough of this you-two-against-me shit. We've been playing that game for about 14 years, it's time to do something new. Especially now that you're not a united force anymore regarding anything else. I would like us to try to have conversations like adults. I would like us to try to not let the smallest things blow up into the biggest arguments. It has recently come to my attention that other people, normal people, people I know and love and am convinced aren't crazy, are friends with their siblings. I would like to give this a try.
But I guess first that would require feeling like I could ever, in a million years, say any of this to either of you. I don't think there's much hurt I could do to our relationships by trying, though...we barely interact when we're not in the same physical space anyway. So, #declaration: I'm going to try. Maybe I'll start small, maybe I won't say it all at once, but I'm going to call you and try to talk. Please do me a favor and try to listen.
This is all to say I love you,
Big Sis
Saturday, June 11, 2011
I'm beginning to realize that "independence" is a myth.
One of the things I pride myself on is being independent, most particularly in the form of being financially independent of my parents, and emotional independence in the idea that I am able to pick up the pieces and put my life back together by myself when it falls apart, even if I usually have awesome people to help me out. My biggest goal for this point in my life is to be, like, a self-sustaining individual, no matter what kind of partnership or arrangement I find myself in. On top of all that, I really really really don't like asking for help. It's a problem I'm actively working on, and I have gotten myself to the point where I realize that I can delegate things to other members of a group without compromising my self-respect, but not to the point where I am comfortable asking my parents for financial help again. It makes me feel like a failure.
My parents disagree. My dad goes into his, "Maya, your whole life you've never asked me for anything. Finding out what you want for Christmas or your birthday is like pulling teeth. When I was a kid, I always had my hand out asking for this thing or the other thing [...] take this, and if you need more just ask." My mom says "I understand [your need to feel independent], but everyone needs help sometimes. I still have to ask for help sometimes. And this year I managed to put some money away for summer emergencies, so if you need help, just ask." It's strange how, as I get older and begin to start forging my way in the world, my parents somehow seem to be more there for me than ever before. Or maybe I've just begun to appreciate their efforts more.
But right now I'm struggling to figure out a way to even show my dad that I appreciate him this Father's Day, because I have $54.26 in the bank to last me until payday, which is not next Wednesday, as I was led to believe, but the Wednesday after. Which presents ALL SORTS of issues because it means I'll only get my paycheck for my first week of work before the end of the month, on on the first my rent is due and I need to buy my new train pass, and even if I could somehow not buy groceries for the rest of the month (false), my paycheck for one week of work only covers about half of those expenses. BUT my proposal for summer funding from my fellowship was approved on Monday, and should take approximately three weeks, which means $2732.69 will theoretically be direct-deposited into my bank account by the 27th and I'll be fine for the first/ever.
Theoretically. Hopefully. But what if it's not? I recognize that I can go to my parents if I have to, and they are thankfully right now in a position where they can be of some assistance, but y'all know as well as I do that that's definitely the exception to the general rule. It's just dawning on me that like, independent individuals are still totally dependent on stupid pay schedules and slow offices to get us through life's daily trials and tribulations. Maybe independence isn't a goal I should be trying to meet, rather, I should just try to manage my interdependences in the best possible way.
My parents disagree. My dad goes into his, "Maya, your whole life you've never asked me for anything. Finding out what you want for Christmas or your birthday is like pulling teeth. When I was a kid, I always had my hand out asking for this thing or the other thing [...] take this, and if you need more just ask." My mom says "I understand [your need to feel independent], but everyone needs help sometimes. I still have to ask for help sometimes. And this year I managed to put some money away for summer emergencies, so if you need help, just ask." It's strange how, as I get older and begin to start forging my way in the world, my parents somehow seem to be more there for me than ever before. Or maybe I've just begun to appreciate their efforts more.
But right now I'm struggling to figure out a way to even show my dad that I appreciate him this Father's Day, because I have $54.26 in the bank to last me until payday, which is not next Wednesday, as I was led to believe, but the Wednesday after. Which presents ALL SORTS of issues because it means I'll only get my paycheck for my first week of work before the end of the month, on on the first my rent is due and I need to buy my new train pass, and even if I could somehow not buy groceries for the rest of the month (false), my paycheck for one week of work only covers about half of those expenses. BUT my proposal for summer funding from my fellowship was approved on Monday, and should take approximately three weeks, which means $2732.69 will theoretically be direct-deposited into my bank account by the 27th and I'll be fine for the first/ever.
Theoretically. Hopefully. But what if it's not? I recognize that I can go to my parents if I have to, and they are thankfully right now in a position where they can be of some assistance, but y'all know as well as I do that that's definitely the exception to the general rule. It's just dawning on me that like, independent individuals are still totally dependent on stupid pay schedules and slow offices to get us through life's daily trials and tribulations. Maybe independence isn't a goal I should be trying to meet, rather, I should just try to manage my interdependences in the best possible way.
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