Please at least skim these essays before class Thursday
And as you read these, or skim them, be thinking about:
- What is the beginning, middle and end?
- What is the story?
- What is the action?
- What is being shown to me, the reader? And what is being told?
Think about structure and details and showing vs. telling.
Jen Amunategui
Narrative Feature Writing
Todd Frankel
11 February 2014
Personal Style Essay
Part 1
My
father was a classic car enthusiast. My entire childhood, he owned a pick-up
truck from the 50s or 60s. When I turned 16, I got a 1963 Ford Fairlane. When
my brother turn 16, two years later, he got a 1969 Ford Fairlane. While not too
many people have heard of the Ford Fairlane, near our house, in the town where
I grew up, there did, in fact, live a man know as “The Fairlane Man.”
For
a year after receiving my birthday gift, I drove my Fairlane around. It ran
well enough, but the body needed work. Some of the floorboards were worn
through and you could see the road fly by beneath you. Much of both rear
fenders around the tires was rusted away. Its once gleaming chromo bumpers
erupted with rust, and it was a ghastly two-toned combination of grey and pink
primers. Eventually, my dad and I took it off the road and set to work
restoring it. That’s when I met “The Fairlane Man.” Whenever we ran into a snag
in finding parts, many of which were ordered off the internet from California,
my dad sent me to “The Fairlane Man.” When you pulled up to his house, all you
could see for acres were abandoned cars, all Fairlanes, in various stages of
dilapidation and neglect. If we needed a hard to find part, our best chance was
this guy, the collector and preservationist of a car model long forgotten.
With
my dad, in our yard in the summer and in his massive, two-bay work shed in the
winter, we torn apart and put back together. We scraped and sanded. We touched
everything but the engine and transmission. When finished, she was a sleek hue
called Regal Blue Metallic and the refinished chrome bumpers required
sunglasses if you stared directly at them. I proudly drove her around town
until I left home for college.
Part 2
It
took a lot of convincing, but finally I was allowed to drive the Fairlane the
900 miles from home to college. My father was adamant that I take it slow and
easy. Used to making the trip in one exhausting 16 hour day, I disregarded his
advice as the know-it-all teenager that I was. I would not stop for the night.
I was sure she could make it. And, she almost did. We got close, just about two
hours until our destination, when trouble started. As long as I was going fast
and steady, everything was fine. But when I pulled off for gas, somewhere in
Indiana, west of Indianapolis, she wouldn’t shift gears when I tried to
accelerate back onto the highway. By the time I had to give up and pull over, I
was way too far from the exit to walk back, and the billboard that illuminated
the deserted patch of highway that became my resting place that night told me I
was miles away from the next exit.
I
panicked. I mean, I freaked out. I was 19-years-old. A female. Alone. At
midnight. With no cell phone. In the cold. In the middle of nowhere. For the
first time in my life, I really thought I might die. I screamed and cried. I
banged on the steering wheel. I hyperventilated a little bit. I was terrified.
This hysteria last about 15 or 20 minutes. Then my brain cleared up, and the
adventure began.
First
I sat hopefully in my car and tried to flash my lights at the semi-trucks
whooshing past, in an effort to catch their attention so someone would stop to
help me. The Fairlane was too old for hazard lights, so I made pretend Morse
code patterns, flicking off and on the lights. I don’t know what I thought I
was doing, but it did not last long, as the battery in the car soon died. If it
wasn’t for that huge, brightly-lit billboard, I would have been alone and cold
and in complete darkness. Next, I surveyed my surroundings. It was, as is much
of Indiana west of Indianapolis, farmland. Very rural farmland. But I was sure
that I had seen a house, maybe a mile back on my side of the highway. I was not
dressed to be walking around in the cold weather, so I rummaged around in my
luggage for more layers of clothing. Prepared as best as I could be with what I
had, I left the car and headed back the way I had come.
When
I reached the road that crossed over the highway and led to the farmhouse I had
seen, I found a barbed wire fence between the highway and the hill that would
lead to the road. In my skirt, I had no option but to figure out how to climb
over it. So I did. Then I climbed up the hill of the overpass. I walked about
another half of a mile down to the house. By this time, it was about 2 a.m.
There was an outside light on at the house. I knocked and knocked, but I never
heard a sound come from inside. I had no choice but to go back. I walked back
down the road. Carefully slid down the hill. Climbed back over the barbed wire
fence and started walking back down the side of the highway to the Fairlane.
About
halfway there, again, my life flashed before my eyes. If ever there was a stereotypical,
kidknapper/rapist/bad, bad person type of van, it was that van that pulled over
and stopped just ahead of me. I really thought I was going to die for sure. I
kept walking because, honestly, at this point, what was I going to do? I almost
cried with relief, when the door opened and there was a very nice man and his
teenage son. They were painters, up early to go start their day’s work. They
let me use their cellphone to call AAA and get a tow truck to come get me. They
couldn’t stay, and I didn’t really need them to, since I figured, not too much
else could go wrong.
I
made it back to the car. The battery was dead, so there was no heat, but it did
offer me shelter from the wind, and I could pretend to feel secure with the
doors locked. Just as I dozed off, there was a knock on the window. Hours after
breaking down, a police officer had arrived to make sure I was ok. I sent him
on his way, saying a tow truck would be there soon. It did arrive shortly
thereafter, and I was whisked away to the hotel advertised on my companion, the
constantly glowing billboard. At the hotel, I called my parents’ house and
found the line busy -- they’d accidentally left the phone off the hook. At 4:30
in the morning, I gave up the fight and finally lay my head to rest on the
cheap pillow of the cheap motel. Tomorrow would come, was already here in fact,
and tomorrow I knew, having survived that night, that I could face whatever may
come.
**************
Jameson LeavellNarrative 344Todd FrankelPersonal EssayThat One Time When I Scared a SharkBetween my sophomore and junior year of high school, I went to day camp for twoweeks. At different points during those two weeks I threw a coconut at a shark, I kissed apretty girl that I had just met, and I narrowly escaped an attack by a barracuda.In my youth, I was essentially a water mammal. I was not particularly adept atrunning, jumping, swinging a bat, throwing a ball, rollerblading, or climbing a rope ingym class; but I could swim like a freakin’ fish. I excelled in competitive swimming,water polo, and handstands in the shallow-end. It should come as no surprise then, thatmy childhood dream was to be become a marine biologist. As a young adult, I had thechance to attend a summer program at prestigious marine animal research center inSarasota, Florida. So off I flew to stay with my grandparents who lived near the facility.Mote Marine Laboratory is a world-renowned marine research center thatspecializes in shark research. It features a public aquarium and programs that advancethe science and conservation of the oceans. Serious Professionals view working orstudying at Mote as a true privilege, a privilege that was completely lost on the twodozen 16-year-old boys and girls that descended on the facility, bringing with them apetri dish of hormones, acne and fart jokes.Our first week was very boring. It turns out marine biology is science, and moretime is spent reading giant books that have giant words in them than driving roboticsubmersibles or training dolphins to give you a high-five. We drew diagrams of thevascular systems of sea stars and dissected sea cucumbers and generally looked out thewindow of the classroom at the sea while Serious Professionals imparted wisdom of thesea unto us.As boring as this was, I was Midwestern high school kid in Florida without hisparents, so I was basically on vacation. Naturally, the first thing I did was meet Cara(pronounced like a four-wheeled vehicle not like a Care Bear), a pretty local girl withlong blond hair with an exotic sounding name. We were basically inseparable for twosolid weeks, as all high school summer flings require.The second week of the program really cranked up the awesome meter. Theteeming lot of us loud and obnoxious almost-adults crammed into vans and drove sixhours to Pigeon Key, a tiny 5-acre spec of land just south of Marathon, Florida. I don’tbelieve any of us shut up the entire trip and, somehow, we made it across 100 miles ofAlligator Alley without the Serious Professionals leaving us to die in the FloridaEverglades.In the Keys, we didn’t draw one diagram or read one book. We lived in ramshacklebunkhouses that didn’t have air conditioning. We cooked out and star-gazed. We swamwith parrot fish and cuttlefish and starfish. We rode on boats and studied tube worms. Isaw a brain coral that was easily the size of my living room. I kissed Cara in a secludedspot under a palm tree, and I threw a coconut at a shark.Pigeon Key has a rich history, many of the buildings remain from the days whenan overseas railroad was built to Key West. It is located off the old Seven Mile Bridge, andone time Hollywood came and blew up a section of that bridge up while filming an actionscene for the film True Lies. It was from this bridge that a group of us spied a nurse sharkswimming lazily through the crystal clear water. Like a true scientist in training, Iprocured a coconut and heaved it fifteen yards out to sea towards the animal, just to seewhat would happen. Despite my previously mentioned lack of skill throwing objects withaccuracy, the coconut landed with a huge sploosh about five feet from the shark.Obviously surprised, the shark zipped away from the sound, but after we had a shortmillisecond to chuckle and feel proud of ourselves that shark completely reverseddirection and ripped that coconut to pieces.This gruesome observation, and the similarities between a coconut and a humanhead, might have popped into my mind the next morning as we lept from the boat withour snorkel gear on, but I don’t remember. We were diving on Sombrero Reef, one of thebest diving spots in the Keys, which features a large natural coral formation of an arch.My diving buddy Cara (inseparable, remember?) and I swam around the aforementionedgiant brain coral that was easily as big as my living room, trying to understand howspineless animals no bigger than a few millimeters could actually join together and formsomething so large. We eventually decided to just be amazed by it, and moved on to thearch.To swim through the arch, one must dive down about 15 or 20 feet. This is noproblem for a SCUBA diver, but is a decent challenge for a swimmer with only a mask,fins and snorkel. When I finally made it under the arch after a few tries, my lungs werescreaming. Nevertheless, I stopped to take in the moment. After all, you never know whenyou’ll have the chance to do it again.Barracudas are terrifying fish. They have huge, razor sharp teeth like a piranha.They can grow up to six feet long and can swim up to 30 miles per hour. Their scales area silver, shiny color that is easy to spot in dark places, such as underneath a coralformation shaped like an arch. These stats raced through my oxygen-starved brain as Iscreamed to the surface. If my swim coach had been there, he would have brought abarracuda to practice every day. I never swam so fast before that day, and never againafter.I later learned that barracudas are generally not aggressive towards humans, andoften are curious of divers, following them just out of sight. During those weeks I alsolearned to not sneak up on a shark, that tiny microorganisms can build big things if theywork together, that kissing girls is terrifying in a good way, and that stumbling on avery large scary fish is terrifying in a not-so-fun way.**********************Pavarotti and my Grandmother
Opera is
dramatic. And that’s what I’ve always
liked about it. Heartache and sorrow.
Loving and longing. Unthinkable twists and turns. Infidelity, trickery, thievery, murder and
more... Stories too scandalous to be true – or are they?
I started to like
opera as a young person. It wasn’t that
I simply heard an opera and was hooked.
It was the gradual process of events and experiences which befell upon
me by pure luck.
Perhaps it all started
by the sound of my grandmother singing arias in the kitchen, in proper operatic
style. Of course, she also sang church
hymns and Happy Birthday like this too.
She was a nervous woman with a tremble in her voice, but she was a
soprano and somehow managed to sing with conviction, which made her singing
memorable.
Or perhaps it came
from seeing Luciano Pavarotti in 1985.
In a word – I was awestruck.
Hearing his signature Nessum Dorma is perhaps one of my most favorite
sounds in the world. Such intensity.
Such emotion. Such clarity. Still to
this day, I can identify his voice from all others – any time, any place. Or maybe my love of opera and classical music
came from watching cartoons. One of my favorites was “What’s Opera Doc?” where
Elmer Fudd hunts Bugs Bunny. Lighting
crashes! Elmur Fudd spots and
gasps, “Wabbit Twacks!” And starts singing “Kill da wabbit. Kill da wabbit”, which the melody is from Die
Valkyries, a part of Wagner’s famous Ring Cycle operas. Bugs Bunny, of course,
outsmarts Elmer Fudd by dressing up as beautiful Brunhilde in a dress, complete
with a blond braided wig and Viking helmet riding a white horse sidesaddle.
Yeah, Bugs Bunny
was definitely involved. And certainly
Pavarotti and my grandmother. Either way,
I enjoyed opera as a kid and continue to enjoy as an adult.
But
more important, the Metropolitan Opera in New York was involved. My opera life can be classified as opera
before the Met and opera after the Met. And yes, The Met changed my life.
Before
my first visit to The Met, my opera life was incomplete. As a kid, I always gravitated toward
classical music and opera – but mostly from a distance of recordings, piano
lessons and sporadic classical music concerts.
In high school, I asked my mother to take me to the Phantom of the Opera
– although that was technically a musical, not an opera. As an adult, I subscribed to the Seattle
Symphony and the Saint Louis Symphony Orchestra and attended untold numbers of
concerts. Many of which, were HALF the
performance of an opera – it’s just the music.
Over the years, I’ve seen and heard enough to get my feet wet, and had
always dreamed of seeing an opera at the Met.
The
best way to explain how the Met changed my life, is to tell you about my first
visit. My best friend’s birthday is on
December 18th and mine is on December 31st. We have often joked that our birthdays were
never appropriately celebrated because they fall a week before and a week after
Christmas and kind of just get shuffled into the holidays. Here’s your combo gift. Have a nice day. We joke, but really, we are always looking
for a reason to get together and with our 40th birthday approaching
– we decided to get serious – so we got tickets to the Metropolitan Opera’s New
Year’s Eve Gala. They were performing
Die Fledermaus – which is german for ‘the bat’.
This is a popular opera for New Year’s Eve because it is about a secret
New Year’s Eve party that takes place in 1799 and the invitation is in the
shape of a bat
My
trips to New York are always the same. They
start with a yellow cab from LaGuardia Airport to my friend’s apartment in
Harlem – on West 125th Street at 5th Ave. We stay up all night talking until the sun
comes up. We sleep until whenever. Hit the Starbucks on 125th and
Lenox. Spend the day shopping and
goofing off. Each trip includes the
mandatory culinary feasts to Katz Deli on the lower east side for a Pastrami on
Rye (where the fake orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally was filmed. And each
trip we get tickets to some big event. But I digress…
As
we stand in the slow-moving line at Marshalls, we wonder what time it is. Neither
of us wears a watch and both of our iPhones are dead. A person in line overhears us and says, it’s
4:30. Holy shit – we need to run home, shower, change, grab a cab and get to
the opera before 6:00. It’s 4:30 on New Year’s Eve and we’re standing in line to
buy some Marshall’s crap. This is
typical. I jump in the shower, with no
time to wash my hair. Mitra is trying on
different dresses—neither of us sure of what to wear. Good lord, those tickets were $310 with a
mandatory $75 “contribution”. And that’s
each ticket! Oh, the anxiety is
mounting.
We
hurry outside to start trucking it back to the apartment – 9 blocks away on
foot. It’s getting dark outside. We rush into the house, throw our shit down
and frantically hurry to get ready. By
the time we get dressed, the apartment looks like a hurricane hit it, with hair
curlers, stockings, clothes and god only knows what else thrown all about. But we’re out the door and it’s 5:20. No time to take the train. A gypsy cab rolls up, and Mitra doesn’t even
make eye contact to the car stopped beside her.
She’s looking 10 cars behind saying we don’t have time for gypsy cab
games tonight. We’ll wait for a yellow
cab. Soon enough, a yellow cab pulls up
and she says, “Columbus circle and step on it.”
Enough said, the cabbie takes off and we’re finally back on track.
Sitting
in the back of the cab, trying to finish putting on our makeup, but realizing
there is no point because there is no light or mirror and frankly, the cabbie
is driving a little wrecklessly. More
than a time or two he almost hit someone or someone almost hit us. He flashed his lights and honked his horn to
signal his dissatisfaction to the other drivers. He was a nervous wreck. So were we.
Time is ticking. Mitra is trying
to turn off the sound of the backseat TV and is instructing the cabbie to turn
it off.
Finally,
we make it. We pay the cabbie and run
across Lincoln Center as fast as we can while wearing high heels. This is the first time I’ve seen the Met in
person, and it’s everything I ever imagined.
It’s enormous. There is a
gorgeous illuminated fountain in the middle of the courtyard. In the center of the building, there is a
big, bright, bold Christmas tree lit with every color imaginable and it’s at
least 2 stories tall.
As
soon as we walk in, I am amazed by the number of people. I’ve never seen so many women wearing
full-length fur coats. It’s as if it was
part of the dress code. Glad I brought
my faux fur. Trying to navigate the
crowd, we spot a Security Guard that is standing by the velvet ropes saying
Pick up tickets here. They don’t even
want ID. Hmm, trusting folks they are.
As we turn around, we are ushered to go toward ticket taker. Show starts in five minutes – no late
seating, the usher calls out in his NYC accent.
Simple. Distinct. Forceful. A
little harsher than required, but we don’t have time to mince words.
The
Met is famous for it’s red carpet, curvy staircases, brass accents and crystal
chandeliers in the lobby, which are referred to as sputnik. We also pass by the famous Chegall painting
called the Triumph of Music – which is ENORMOUS. It’s 30x36 and I’m pretty sure it’s bigger
than most NYC apartments and it’s hanging on the wall.
We
rush into our seats and before we know it the opera house lights dim and the
chandeliers are raised to the ceiling – which is a magical moment. The seats have a birds eye view of the
orchestra pit. The orchestra starts
playing music and I’m instantly amazed by the sound of the superior
acoustics. Unbelievable sound quality. Suddenly, the heavy, red velvet curtains are
raised revealing a gorgeous stage. I’m
pretty sure I gasped. I leaned over to
Mitra and whispering, it’s so beautiful.
One
thing that truly amazes me about the Metropolitan Opera is the amount of talent
in the room on any given night. When
you think of each performer – both in the orchestra pit, as well as on stage –
each one has at least 10-20 years performance experience and are the best in
the business. Not to mention the
hundreds of people behind the stage, staging people, lighting, costume, makeup,
etc… The operating cost of running this opera is one million dollars a
day. Each performer that graces the
stage will forever more be billed as affiliated with the Metropolitan
Opera. It’s the most important opera stage
in the world. To be surrounded by
world-class talent – it’s an amazing feeling to be sitting here for the sake of
entertainment. Couldn’t help but wonder, how lucky are we?
Before
the Met, I liked opera. After the Met, I
loved opera. The wonderful thing about
opera is that over time you can develop a deep appreciation for the art. The music. The singing. The staging. The
costuming. Starting with one, the sounds
of Pavarotti and my grandmother, I grew to appreciate the talent and artistry
behind opera. And before Mitra and I
were even out of the door of the Metropolitan Opera, we decided to make plans
to come back next year.
**********************Amanda
Barbeau
I needed to get away. I didn't know why I had made any decision in
my life. It seemed like all of my
choices had been a fulfillment of someone else's expectations. But not what I wanted. My parents, who had ideas about how things
should or shouldn't be done. My older
sister, who did everything in life first and therefore everything in life
right. My friends, who seemed to have an
image of me that strangely felt like someone else. And then there was Mark, who I may or may not
have been in love with. I just didn't
know. And I needed to get away.
Harlaxton College is small school
for study-abroad students about two hours north of London by train. Really it's an 18th century baroque manor,
nestled in the quiet countryside of Lincolnshire, surrounded by green fields,
Italian gardens, and a swan lake. The
manor had been converted into a college and dorm space. I spent a semester of my junior year there.
My parents didn't like me going to
college two hours away from home, much less across the Atlantic. Mollie didn't go away to college. Mollie did everything right. My friends were excited for me, but apprehensive
at the same time. "You don't know
anyone in England," they said.
"Won't that be weird?"
But I thought it was perfect. I was
20 years old at the time, and I wasn't a law-breaking, beer-drinking kind of girl.
But what if I wanted to be? I was
in England because I wanted to do something on purpose.
It's strange at first, starting over
in a new place. Nobody knows you. You can re-invent yourself. You can be that really cool person who wears
flannel and doesn't shampoo their hair.
Or you can be the kind of person who spills their opinions in every
conversation, because you don't know these people. You're not concerned about what they think or
if they love you or if they'll continue to pay for your college after this
semester.
Every morning at Harlaxton, I woke
up in my servants-quarters-turned-dorm-room, and had breakfast in the refectory. I ate gummy porridge every morning for four
months. Some days I mixed in honey, or
jelly, or syrup, or peanut butter.
Anything to make it taste less like glue. After breakfast, I wound my way through a
maze of elaborate state rooms to arrive in the great hall for a British history
lecture. Then Shakespeare in the morning
room. Then homework in the
conservatory.
In the evenings I walked to the
nearest pub with friends. Every pub in
England is named after an animal and an adjective that should never describe
that animal. The Red Dog. The Elusive Camel. On this night I was at the Blue Goose. "I don't know how to order wine," I
said honestly. "Does anyone have
any suggestions?"
My friend Matt ordered me a glass of
blush wine. "You'll like it,"
he said. "It's liquid
candy." And it was. I decided I liked liquid candy.
I suppose I wasn't all that
different in England. But I could be if
I chose to be. I went to parties. I met a lot of people. I danced and laughed at myself while doing
it. I rode a bike. I took the bus. I joined choir, which was strange for
me. I was trying new things.
At the Blue Goose, we spent a lot of
time figuring out train routes and bus schedules, castles to visit, wine to
taste. My friend Elizabeth and I were
planning a trip to Ireland. We wanted to
see how much we could experience with as little money as possible. Elizabeth was a bar tender from San
Diego. She had the word "sin"
tattooed in red flames on the back of her neck, beneath her shaggy, boyish hair
cut. She was the best person in the world
to take a hobo trip to Ireland with.
After buying my plane ticket, I
emailed our trip plans to my mom, with limited details, of course. I didn't communicate with people at home very
often. I occasionally emailed my
mom. I didn't talk to my dad, but that
was normal. I didn't want to answer
their questions. Didn't want to
disappoint.
I only brought to Ireland a backpack
full of apples, crackers, half a loaf of bread, and about five layers of
clothes that I wore on my back. And
toothpaste.
We showed up in Cork, Ireland,
without any set plans. We just
walked. And saw. And listened.
Every house in Ireland is painted a different color from its
neighbor. Whole rows of bright red,
yellow, and turquoise. When asked why,
an Irishman told me, "It's so that when we're stumbling home drunk, we
know which house is ours." What brilliant
reasoning, I thought. And instantly my
mom was shaming me in my head, like a tiny angel on my shoulder.
The next day we took a bus to the
ancient village of Blarney. The drive
was long and the landscape peaceful. We
passed field after field in twenty shades of green, stream after stream and
sheep after sheep, with an occasional stone house and a brightly-painted door.
Elizabeth fell asleep while I
pretended to do homework. I had a lot of
time to reflect on my life and what it was and what I wanted it to be. There was a counselor at Harlaxton. I visited her one evening. Her office was situated in the bowels of the
manor, down a dark, stone corridor in the basement. I think it was for the sake of
confidentiality, but the dungeon vibe didn't really add to the counseling
experience.
I had never talked to a counselor
before, so I wasn't sure what to expect.
But I was trying not to worry about those things anymore. Despite the dark and mysterious office
arrangements, she was a very pleasant woman, in a Mrs. Potts sort of way. Her name was Barbara.
After politely declining a cup of
tea, I told Barbara that I was having
trouble becoming my own person while still maintaining meaningful relationships
with people around me. In England it was
easy, but at home it was different.
She nodded her head, lips pursed,
eyes closed, and asked me to sit on the floor.
I hesitated but obeyed. She
handed me a basket full of small rocks.
"Which rock is you?" She asked. I tried not to roll my eyes too noticeably as
I selected a rock and set it on the floor.
"Now choose a rock for each person in your life, and set them on
the floor in relation to your rock."
I pulled a handful of rocks from the
basket, shaking them in my hand like dice.
"These are my sisters and my mom," I said, and I put them
close to my rock. "This one is my
dad." I looked around the room for
a minute and then decided to put that rock on the floor behind me. I set out a few other rocks that represented
some close friends. Then I slowly pulled
one last rock from the basket.
"This is Mark," I said, with no other explanation of who that
was. I more or less tossed it onto the
ground because I wasn't sure where it should go.
"Good," Barbara
cooed. "Now, I'd like you to
rearrange the rocks to where you'd like them to be."
Oh boy, I thought. This is hard.
I moved my mom a little further away, my friends a little closer. I brought my dad back into view, but still at
a comfortable distance. Then I picked up
the Mark rock, not sure where to place it.
"This one is still in limbo," I explained.
"There's not a right or a wrong
answer," Barbara said, a little too forcefully. "Just set it down where you want it." She made it seem so simple. Like that's all it took. After a few more moments, I placed the rock
closest to mine. And let out a
breath. Looking at the arrangement of
gravel in front of me, I felt like a decision had been made.
And some new priorities set.
Elizabeth and I stayed at a youth
hostel, conveniently located above a rousing, Irish bar. One night in Ireland, after a few pints of Guinness
and another bottle of something or other, I told Elizabeth about Barbara and
the rocks. She tossed her straggly hair
back with intoxicated laughter. Embarrassed,
I asked her what her plans were in life, what she really wanted. It turns out she had dreams of teaching
autistic children how to ride horseback.
Also, she admitted to having her own unresolved romantic issues back in
the states.
For a brief moment we considered the
possibility of staying in Ireland, working at the hostel, and leaving some
questions left unanswered. But that is
exactly how I made decisions before I came to England. Not now.
I was sad to leave England. I felt like I owed her something, like I
wished I could give her a hug somehow. I
was coming home to all the people who knew me, but didn't really. I felt like a bigger person.
My roommate, Emily, was planning on
picking me up from the airport. I called
to give her some directions while I tried to fetch my luggage from the baggage
carousel. "There's someone here who
wants to talk to you," she said. I
assumed it was our third roommate. But
it wasn't.
"Hi, Amanda." There was no mistaking his deep voice, and I
could even hear his smile over the phone and the miles and the months that he
hadn't heard from me. How do you tell
someone you've seen their face in every crowd from Salisbury to Durham, that
you thought of them at the top of the Eiffel tower, that you wished they were
there in Wales, that they would have really enjoyed Stratford, that you didn't
buy them a present, because you weren't sure what it would mean to them.
"Hi, Mark." I said.
When I finally arrived at home, I
showed up in a very European style dress, complete with fishnet tights. I may have purposely scared my mom. And I purposely hugged my dad. Because those were things they weren't
expecting. But it didn't matter because I
wanted to do them, and I did them on purpose.
*************
KayI remember that Saturday afternoon as if it was yesterday, okay, maybe a few days ago. The placement in the family living room of the portable card table cluttered with my notes and books for a social studies assignment, and the chair next to it on which I sat. My mother lying on the couch reading (NO ONE in my family has ever read for pleasure sitting up. It's very efficient really: you can go from reading to dozing without moving any body parts besides eyelids. Come to think of it though, we've all been bathroom readers and that's done sitting up). I was working on an assignment comparing the historical reasons behind current differences in U.S. versus Soviet forms of government.
I know it was afternoon because my mother had the radio tuned to the Saturday afternoon live broadcast of the Metropolitan Opera. Before that day I had never really paid any attention to opera. The one that week was Carmen, your typical melodramatic story of unrequited love ending in a young tragic death. And that rainy autumn afternoon, working on my paper with Carmen playing in the background, I fell in love with both opera and history. Yes, I was 14 and nerdy, and proceeding to become nerdier still, particularly with my interest in opera (I did have the good sense not to share with my friends my love affair with dead composers).
My love of opera dimmed slightly over time. Much of even standard repertoire contains little beautiful, "hummable" music, and that senseless emoting got tiring. After all, what's the point in all that shrieking , for God's sake?! I do still have my favorites, and every once in awhile add a new one I hear, but more importantly my passion for history never waned. It only continued to grow year by year, kept me grounded even when I flunked second semester chemistry in college (day dreaming about my boyfriend was more important than chemicals and equations). I was never able to make a commitment to focus in on a particular geographical area and/or time - I wanted to learn about it all. I did eventually find a solution for that dilemma by pursuing a master's in social work. And I still narrow in on a particular area to read about in history, only to get dragged in another direction a few months later, wanting to understand how it all connects together.******** The Awaking
It was the spring of 2008; everyone was focused on the
presidential election. African American communities were on fire with the hopes
of having the first black president in the history of the United States. That
is everyone but Latasha Brown. She was full of questions and facts of the past.
As she shook her head laughing, “Daddy
these people or going to die from a lack of knowledge. Samuel Tilden was the
first black president. They just took it from him in 1876.”The
question arose “Who is this woman.” She seems as if she is crazy to some, but
just the girl next door to others. However when you talk to people who know
her, you would think that she was the “Mosses” of the hood. The children are
drawn to her and her elders respect her as if she was born with some type of
divine wisdom. “The truth is that I care about people.” She said with a bright
smile and eyes to go with it. “I realized that I was supposed to help people
along the way throughout my life; it was those very people who helped me to
realize that.”Watching
her float around the room meeting and greeting people it seemed as if everyone
knew her name and as if she was trained for this special moment. Never missing
a beat while working the room it seemed as if she was not attached to just one
person; she is attached to each and every one of us in her own way. The atmosphere of
the room was filled with positive energy and that energy fueled Latasha as the
night went on. It was a night of celebration for honor students and students
who have made a positive impact on the surrounding communities. Even as the
crowd of students started to settle down at their tables with their families
and friends, Latasha was still shaking hands with those who greeted her. By the
time she made it to her own table the program had begun.“The
young lady whom I have the pleasure to introduce to you all to you all tonight
is very independent, inspirational woman who motivates others to continue with
their own education. Those who know her will tell you that she is very
outspoken, brutally honest, full of passion, and great at what she do.” Said
Larry Shelton a student at Saint Louis Community College.The
very first award of the evening was present to Latasha. She was one of three
“Emerging Leaders” of Saint Louis Community College and of her community. That
was only the first of sixteen awards that she would receive throughout night.
The nature in which she carried herself was of a superstar in the making.
However it would not be how she carried herself that would take everyone by
surprise. It would be the hope and the gentleness of her words as she told her
story about coming to community college.“Thank
you all for all of the support that you have given me tonight and along the
path getting here.” She said as she looked out to her peers, teachers, and
family. “It was not easy for me when I entered the doors of Forest Park. I was
one of those people with a vision but I did not want to go through all of the
motions needed to make that vision come alive. With no education under my built
I knew that my chances of helping my community were one in a million.”So
at the age of twenty-seven, Latasha enrolled into college without a GED and
with more ambition than ten politicians running for the president. “I was
afraid I did not know what to expect. There was no self doubt on my shoulders I
just did not know what was to come.” She went on to say. As she explains her
story she used simple but power words. Never looking down at the sheet of paper
that she brought with her. She told a story of a trouble teenage mother who had
bloomed into a powerful force for the people.Telling
us of her hardships she stood as if she did not carry any shame of her past. A
past filled with abuse of herself and her own lack of knowledge that she
carried. “All of us sitting in this room tonight have had our own great
awaking. My awaking happened the night before I enrolled as I sat in my room
watching the local news. I just did not want to be one of those people who
received their fifth teen minutes of fame because of their wrong doings or
death. It was as if the television was showing me the ill side of my future if
I did not change my thought pattern and some of the company that I was keeping
during that time period of my life. I just knew that I wanted more than what I
was told I could get out of life.”Latasha
grew up in the family court system due to her own behavior. Her mother Denise Brown
expressed with joy, “That child of mine is just a free spirit with a kind
heart. I just could not get her to listen to me. If she wanted to do something,
she was going to figure out how to do it regardless of the trouble she would
have to face after the fact. None of that matters now. I am proud of her. She
just had to find her own way.”As
I glanced around the room I notice how others were completely focused on
Latasha. This focus did not come to her because she was speaking with honesty
and from her heart. The focus was there from the moment Latasha entered the
room because she had gained the respect of her peers and of the college
officials. Aementa Washington stated “My first thought of Latasha Brown, was of
a black woman that had a point to make to the world without a reason. However,
as I have grown to learn and understand this talented and gifted young lady. I
am proud that I know her, for she is the essence of what we as women aspire our
daughters to become. Strong, talented, organized, inspirational, and most of
all dedicated to her purpose.”What
is Latasha purpose? “My purpose in life is to help others find true justice. As
people sometimes we are blind to the injustices of society. We can only cure
our communities of these injustices if we come together as one.” As she spoke
these words warmth came over me that I have never felt before. As if I had the
new hope for the people or as Latasha would say “A new hope for the lost.”Latasha’s
life path has caused her to want to help those who claim that there is no way
out of the system once you get in. She is a product of the system and she has
shown not only herself that change from within is possible, but she has shown
her friends, and family that it can happen to any of us. Latasha ended her
speech with a known quote from Gandhi.
“You must be the change; that you wish to see in the world.” ************Joelle Hahn
Todd Frankel
Narrative Feature Writing
9 February 2014Circle of Life
“Whoa! That was a big one!”
My dad was not in
the room when neither my siblings, nor I, were born. While he was presumably banished to the
waiting room, shooting the shit with other men-in-waiting, my mom’s veins were
pulsating with the once-popular “twilight” drug – a momentary mindfuck to whisk
laboring mothers away to fantasyland while hospital staff bruised and battered the
mothers’ bodies in an attempt to push their babies out for them.
But my dad was
present this time. It was now his
daughter lying perfectly still in the “birthing suite”, which was truthfully
nothing more than a sterile hospital room with stereotypical pink and blue
wallpaper slapped on the wall. As if one
needed a reminder of while they were there in the first place - oh good, the
wallpaper. Whew! I had almost forgotten
why I was lying here in such agonizing pain.
As I tried to apply
my own hypnotic “twilight drug” to my labor pains, my dad sat in the chair next
to me, giving me a play-by-play of everything the monitor was feeding him. As if I couldn’t feel the San Andreas Fault
shifting my insides with every fucking contraction. The excitement in my dad’s voice followed the
lines on the monitor – both increasing as the day, and my labor pains,
progressed. “Wow! Did you feel that
one?!” Fuck.
It was my choice to experience childbirth without any
drugs. The decision was a culmination of
my mother’s horror stories, the desire to fully experience childbirth and the
aspiration to not have my child experience the world for the first time hopped
up on drugs. Oh, and catheters. I am scared to death of catheters. Numb from the waist down? No thanks. I’ll go ahead and walk and pee on my own, if
you don’t mind.
Although it’s not like urinating occurs often while in
labor. You’re not relaxing beachside
with a beer. You’re not hanging out
enjoying your favorite beverages while in labor. Ice chips.
That’s what you get. Ice chips. It’s
all you get. It’s one of those dirty
little secrets women keep to themselves after they have given birth. They certainly tell you about the pain (as if
they experience any with body-numbing drugs).
They certainly tell you how beautiful their babies were when they were
born (as if a baby-sized Dennis Rodman is attractive). But you don’t actually get to eat or
drink. For, like, days. Or however long it takes for you to give
birth. In my case, eons. Or so it seemed.
I was already a week overdue when my grandmother passed
away. It was December 25th - Christmas
day; also my birthday. The day before
she died, we had went Christmas shopping – a yearly tradition where she would
take me shopping for my birthday and to lunch on Christmas Eve. Never mind that this year I was 9,000 months
pregnant and bigger than a Buick – the old ones, the ones in which you and 10
of your friends could gather around a bonfire.
My grandmother said walking around would initiate labor. She was increasingly anxious to see her
great-grandchild born. Perhaps it was
intuition.
It didn’t initiate labor and she didn’t get to see her
great-grandchild born. On Christmas morning,
when my grandmother did not answer my aunt’s numerous calls to her, she asked
her son, then a medical resident, to go with her to check on her mother. There she was, lying peacefully in her bed. No pulse.
No previous illnesses. No warning
signs she would not be with us on Christmas day, or see her third
great-grandchild come into the world.
Not able to stand on my feet very long at her wake, I sat
most of it out – my ankles resembling Mylar balloons, though not as fun. I would have been happy had they picked me up
and gently, secretly floated me out of there.
I missed her already. I sat and
stared at my beautiful, Irish-descended, red-headed grandmother – Josephine
Chase. It was just like her to go out
with a bang; no future Christmases ever to be celebrated again without thoughts
turning to her. My labor induction
postponed to attend her funeral.
Dinner was enjoyed by everyone but me following her
funeral. Doctor’s orders. I was to go straight to the hospital for my
labor to be induced immediately following the gathering at my uncle’s church. My doctor knew the baby was already large,
and was not getting any smaller in the 10 days following my due date. On December 29th my child’s father
and I left the dining room of the church and headed to the hospital. My parents trailing not far behind.
Little did my mom and dad know they would be there a while. Twelve hours in and my labor still wasn’t
progressing. Eighteen hours –
nothing. These are the stories you tell
your children when they’re teenagers and they piss you off. Did you know I was so sick I had to have intravenous
fluids pumped in my veins to keep me alive for the first three months of my
pregnancy with you? Did you know I was in labor for 400 days while you were obliviously
vacationing in my womb?
Things did eventually progress at hour twenty-one when
someone had the bright idea to break my water (exit my dad). Within a half hour, I was told to start
pushing. Waiting an extra 10 days to
induce an already large baby was probably not be best idea anyone has had. At hour twenty-four he finally arrived,
accompanied by the nurse’s enthusiastic commentary: “That baby is at least 9 pounds!” I glanced
at the scale where my baby lay crying – 10 lbs. 8 oz. My newborn kindergartner. Joseph Chase was born on a cold winter
afternoon – five days after his namesake was found in her bed. His birth immediately followed by:
“Joelle, you have to get up and walk. You have to empty your bladder now.” Fuck.
No comments:
Post a Comment