Poignant Transit

Since my return to the scholastic world, I have been frequenting the local public transit. This has many advantages. It eliminates the concern for traffic issues along my commute, I can occasionally kick my feet back and relax, and I'm able to use the time to finish my numerous reading assignments. Aside from these benefits, my favorite part of commuting this way is the opportunities for observation.

I am endlessly fascinated by what I witness as I pass through each community along my nearly 90 minute ride. I never know what I am going to see. Sometimes it's educational, or inspiring. It can also be entertaining, perplexing, irritating, or downright appalling.

Lately, I've noticed a consistent theme of concerning issues. There's nearly always a troubled child and piss-poor parent combination. There's frequently some defiant and deviant teens who lack both volume control and personal filters. Then there's the ever-present drug addicts, the tired and worn-out working class, and the clueless retail shoppers.

Most people are buried in an electronic device; dead to the outside world. They barely notice the other people crowding the aisle and sharing their leg space. Blank stares and oblivious expressions abound while children beg for attention. I see toddlers repeatedly ask unanswered questions, indiscriminate youth climb over seats like a jungle gym, and  incredibly young-looking adolescents loudly discuss their illicit drug use and premature sex lives.

Add to that the hacking and wheezing homeless and the vacant and fatigued proletariat, and the scene becomes overwhelmingly depressing. The despair is magnified as they step around litter piles, bypass the displays of poverty, and ignore the various levels of suffering surrounding them en route to their destinations.

Maybe the season and the time of day are to blame. Overcast skies and short days can impact anyone's mood.  Whatever it is it's too much. I'm ready for the ride to be entertaining again.

I'm Really Funny, I Swear!

I was really excited about the post that I had scheduled for tomorrow. After deciding that my musings had recently taken a turn for the melancholy, I decided to go back to my more humorous self-deprecating roots. To do this, I prepared a funny little window into my psyche as I analyzed what I am like behind the wheel. I delved into my fondness for Car-eoke (it's exactly what it sounds like), and my neurotic over-compensation when driving past my home-town haunts.

If you don't understand what I'm getting at, that's alright. Just describing it now doesn't make any sense to me either, and I spent three days writing about it. All that's really important is that it was funny, I was proud of it, and I was excited to share it with the world (or the portion of it that actually reads my rants).

In fact, I almost decided to forgo my resolution to post a new entry every Monday, and let it slip early. But,I thought, what's the point in making resolutions if you aren't going to stick to them? That's when I decided to indulge my desire a little, by only reviewing it. I opened up the draft to edit it a final time, and in a series of three quick clicks accidentally deleted the entire thing.

My heart sank to the floor. Even still it hasn't entirely made it's way back up. A quick Google search has me believing that it may actually be trapped between my liver and spleen.

So, while I wait for my heart to unstick itself, I'm sitting on the couch kicking myself for being so impatient. Immediately after my epic blogging blooper I thought I'd try and rewrite it, but I'm clearly not in the mood. All I can think is how much I liked the other one, and how nothing will ever live up to it.

I'm sure that's an exaggeration, and I'll probably sit down and reattempt it some time soon. However, it's more than likely that this week's post is going to be another melancholy essay about the world because I've been sitting on a few of them. That being said, when it comes out tomorrow, please keep in mind that sometimes I'm light-hearted and funny. If you do that it will really help me out, because that's what I wanted this week's take-home message to be.

Casualties

“Now Woody, he’s been my pal for as long as I can remember. He’s brave, like a cowboy should be. And kind, and smart. But the thing that makes Woody special, is he’ll never give up on you… ever. He’ll be there for you, no matter what.”

Sometimes you need to shed things. You need to say goodbye. Push them away, and move on.

If you have a heart, you'll look back on the decision often. You'll wonder if it was right. You will think to yourself, was it necessary to leave that behind? Then you'll consider whether or not you should return to it. You will contemplate using your new found maturity to reincorporate it into your life. But, just the idea will seem insurmountable.

You have grown. You are a different person than you once were. The world is not stagnant. Your growth implies the same in others. Going back would not be a return to what once was, but a rebuilding of something new. However, this reconstruction would begin upon a foundation of past experiences and conflicting perspectives. This is tricky work.

Most of the time, you'll leave it alone. After all, there is a reason why things came to an end. You will think back fondly and long for the memories to be current. You'll regret the negative experiences, and the choices that led to them. Only in rare instances will you stumble upon it once more and honor the past by displaying it, unengaged, on a shelf somewhere. Mostly, you'll continue on becoming newer versions of yourself and leaving the rest behind.

"So long partner."

Breaking Away

Today is the day, she thought to herself. One way or another I'm going to learn how to ride that thing.

It didn't really seem possible. They had spent hours together repeating the same moves. Her saddled across this weird unstable structure, him running alongside with one hand on the seat post. They must have worn tracks in that two block stretch by the house going back and forth.

Back and forth. Over and over again.

She tried as hard as she could to learn this new skill, but it just didn't make any sense. How was it supposed to stay upright without those two extra wheels? Sure, every now and then he'd let go, and she would glide along for a foot or two, but then she fell over. Every time.

Oh, and she hated falling. Falling was the most painful reminder that you failed. That you can't do this. That you suck. Then, if that's not enough, sometimes you actually get hurt!

Well, that's it. She had made up her mind. She wasn't going to fall anymore. Not if I have anything to say about it.

So, this particular day they set out to do it. With a change of scenery in mind, she grabbed her bike, and he shouldered a pair of roller skates. They climbed the hill to the local elementary school. Quietly they cut a diagonal across the soccer fields. Then, there they were. This particular school had a small banked inline skating track. It seemed perfect for learning to ride your bike. Or so he told her.

They immediately got to work, going about the same motions they had repeated for the last few weeks. Only this time it was different. He was on skates, right beside her, and she...She wasn't falling as much.

Slowly, she began to glide further and further. Eventually she gained the confidence to pedal a few strokes. Before she even knew it, she could ride one whole stretch without veering to the grassy infield to tip over. Am I actually doing this? She thought.

Then came the rain. And this wasn't the type that creeps up on you; slowly trickling a few drops before the downpour. It was like a giant bully in the sky suddenly sped in on his black-cloudmobile and began pelting them, rapid-fire, with giant icy water balloons. They had to go, and fast.

He told her it would be faster if he left his skates on, and that she would have to ride the bike home. Downhill the whole way? She hadn't even mastered the banked corners of the track yet, but it had only been 60 seconds and they were already soaked to their cores. Her bones were getting cold.

She mounted the bike for the last time that day, and went back across the now marshy soccer fields.   

It's just like the straight part of the track. Only the ground is softer now, she told herself.

They passed through the opening in the fence, and that's where it began. The road was shiny with rainwater, and the hill seemed so much steeper atop her precarious little contraption. She looked to her right. He offered some encouragement; then snaked down the road like a professional.

Here it comes, she thought, the big one. She anticipated this fall would hurt worse than all the others, but her arms were cold, the bully in his dark cloud was hitting her so hard it made her skin sting, and her dad...Her dad was just ahead, gaining speed, and zig-zagging recklessly down the road. She had no choice but to keep up, and brace herself for the fail she knew was coming.

It was halfway down the second (and biggest) decline just after the plateau with the blind intersection that she began to realize it. She wasn't falling, and she wasn't going to. She was in control, and she could do this.

Dear Grad School,

Not to be overly dramatic or anything, but this semester may just kill me.

Hold on. Let me clarify by explaining that it feels like you are cutting away little pieces of me each time you outline another expectation or time commitment.

Well...can we be honest for a moment? Can we just do that? Be real with each other for one little sec? That's basically what you are doing.

You're asking me to apply myself in ways I never have. Which, of course, I will. And, since I am passionate about my purpose for doing this, and I am entirely committed to the end goal, I'm going to put everything I have into each of these tasks. But, do you really understand that? We're talking about all of me. Every last piece. It's all going to pour out of my body as I provide you with everything. But, you're not even going to stop are you? You will just keep on asking for more.

So, what else is left?! Not much. I hope you've sharpened your carving knife, because the only other thing I can think of is to provide you with bite sized chunks of myself. Would you like me to start with the vital organs, or would you prefer intact appendages? Better yet! Maybe you would just like to begin by dusting off that Hoover in your office and sucking out my soul. Whaddya think?

But first, at least give me this weekend. I'd like to take some personal time. I think I'll hunt for a nice burial plot, maybe prepare my own obituary. I mean, I think I owe that much to my loved ones. After all, they will be wondering where I went when I suddenly disappear into a monstrous stack of research papers and never ending To-Do lists. Because seriously that's how it looks like this whole thing is going to play out.

Anyway, since it looks like I won't have time for either in the coming months, I'm off to stock up on sleep and gorge myself on healthy food. If you decide to change your mind and go easy on me, you'll find me at the local coffee shop. Should the stress have rendered me unrecognizable, I'll be the haggard looking one huddled in the corner, rocking in the fetal position while murmuring incomprehensibly about gestalt theory, assessment inventories, and countertransference.

Resentfully Yours,

Mindy

Young "Love"

I met him at school. In the fifth grade. He sat on the other side of the room, but his piercingly bright eyes caught mine. He had freckles like me, and there was something about his quiet demeanor that drew me in. Only...I kept my distance.

In my mind, we were together all the time. We were closer than anyone has possibly ever been with another human being. In reality, I had no idea who he was. I'd never even heard his voice.

How does a 10 year old girl deal with this kind of fantasy? It's so logical. Obviously, she writes a note to the girl who sits in front of her, folds it up in an intricate pattern, hides it in the pencil sharpener that they share, and passes it forward.

My memory isn't strong enough to recall what the note said, but it must have been something like:

"♥ I think Brandon is the cutest boy in the whole world!!! Please don't tell anyone!!! If you do I'll just die!!!!♥" 

Roughly translated, according to the social structure of preadolescence girls, this meant: "please make sure everyone knows this so I don't actually have to do any of the work myself."

It worked like a charm. By the end of the day, my cheeks had taken on a deep shade of red that was beginning to seem permanent, but he knew about my feelings. I sat forward in my desk, back straight. I knew I was being watched, but I refused to give in. I had to pretend I was clueless. After school, my sharpener-sharing friend let me know she had also given him my phone number. I reacted as though I was mortified, but inside I was exhilarated.

Sometime later, I received a phone call. A mile between us, we sat together in silence. We held the phones to our ears, and relished in the perpetual quiet. Every few minutes one of us would briefly describe something that had just happened, but no actual conversation occurred. The call ended when one of our families explained it was meal time.

Just before hanging up he asked, "will you be my girlfriend?"
My response was a deeply profound, "I guess so."

You'd think this experience would have changed our relationship, but you'd be wrong. The rest of the school year went on like this. The two of us avoiding one another like the plague, pretending we were unaware that anything had happened. Our classmates teased us for being "boyfriend and girlfriend." Then we would go home, call one another on the phone, and sit together in awkward silence for hours. Occasional, innocent gifts and self-made cards on notebook paper were exchanged with flushed faces and a deliberate absence of eye contact. Mostly, nothing happened.

Then, one day, between long periods of quiet, he asked me to go to the movies with him. My mom drove me there with a friend. We sat next to one another in uncomfortable and forced poses attempting to convey nonchalance.  After the credits rolled, we said goodbye and ran towards our family cars.

Summer came and went, and we were 6th graders before we knew it. Our classes were on opposite ends of the new school. We never saw one another, but still the title remained. Our phone calls continued, though with decreasing frequency. It was becoming increasingly clear that I didn't know who this boy was. Like, at all. Never did.

All the same, he was my "boyfriend." We had decreed it, and so it must be.

Finally, one day I received a phone call. I sat on the floor in the dining room, doing my homework, listening to this complete stranger breathe. In the background, I heard one of his parents call him to dinner. He explained that he needed to go, but first he wanted to tell me something. My heart inexplicably skipped a beat.

"Okay?" I encouraged.
"Um..." he stalled. Then he took a big breath and quickly sputtered out, "I don't like you no more."
"Oh," I responded, somewhat bewildered. "Okay."

Then we hung up. I stared at the phone for a few minutes, confused. This was it. My first break-up, and I had been dumped. I should be sad, I thought to myself. Except, I wasn't. I was a little disappointed that I hadn't thought of it first, but mostly I was amused.

Slowly, I got to my feet, and walked into the kitchen where my mom was preparing dinner. I must have looked dazed, because she asked "what's up?"

"Brandon just broke up with me," I explained, trying to force tears, but failing.

My mom put down what was in her hands to ask how I felt about it.

I shook my head and told her, "he said: 'I don't like you no more!'"  I stopped to let out a quiet chuckle. Then I continued, "What a moron! He can't even string together a decent sentence!"

"THAT'S MY GIRL!" I hear my dad call from a nearby room.