Words of Wisdom

This was a writing prompt I was given a couple weeks ago and it was pretty fun to write:) 

"Write a letter to a seventh grader that is becoming an eighth grader with advice about what to expect, what to do, and what not to do."

Dear Seventh Grade Me,

Don’t take that dare to wear a tiara during your History Presentation.  Or if you must take the dare find a way to relate it to your topic.  Don’t worry though, the detention is probably worth the laughter in the end. 

I'm not really sure what to say about this picture except "YIKES"

Do take the opportunity to do higher math and don’t worry about how it affects your grade.  It is as important to understand numbers as it is to understand words.  

Enjoy ska and punk while you can.  It will be a somewhat guilty pleasure later in life so get to every concert you can.

Work harder at soccer.  Try to understand the sport, not just get through practice.  Seriously, you have a chance to be really good.  Watch professionals.  

Focus more on singing than on the trumpet.   

Get over the fact that you did not get the princess part in the play but were forced to be the evil stepsister.  You are not in fact, going to go into acting as a career. Besides the prince and the princess holding hands will be priceless blackmail material soon.  

Spend more time with A.  In 3 years she’ll get pregnant and have a baby.  You’ll lose touch and then she’ll get cancer.  One morning you’ll get the call that she died.  You probably won’t be able to change the way things happen but at least enjoy the time you can before she’s gone.  Same for L and E.  They all die young and you’ll miss them more than you expect.  

Have fun, these are some of the sweetest years of your life.  Learn Mrs. Wright’s memory verses and learn to conjugate latin verbs but don’t let a dead language kill your joy.  

Be yourself!  You turn out pretty well and believe it or not you do get married.  And to someone you never could have dreamed up... not to mention the 2 adorable kids you get to raise.  

See you on the flip side,

 30 year old me

On mourning the confidence of youth. By Elsbeth Cather Currier

It is very fitting that this piece will appear on KD’s blog.  We grew up together and she someone who I feel so fortunate to be able call one of my oldest and best childhood friends.

Friends since 1990...so many memories!

On mourning the confidence of youth.

Anyone close to me recently knows that turning thirty last year was a serious struggle.  It just came up so quickly.  Obviously aging is unavoidable but these milestone birthdays hit you hard with the reality that it is actually happening to you.  For some reason, I just thought it wouldn’t actually happen.  A large portion of this is due to the fact that I am not at all where I expected to be in life at this age so turning thirty literally didn’t make sense.  When you’re young and naïve, you assume by thirty, you will have everything together.  I’m sure most people beyond this age will confirm that this is rarely the case.  However most people for whom this milestone age is still far off, I’m sure they have the same beliefs I did.  Another thing that didn’t help the situation is that I spend a good amount of time each week with teenagers.  I am so blessed to have them in my life and can’t imagine what my life would without them.  However, when you talk to a student whose birthday is close to yours and ask, “How old are you turning?” And her response is, “15…so half of you.” It will make you feel like the most ancient human being to walk the planet.  

My first time volunteering with the Element high school youth group at Discovery Church was daunting to say the least.  I didn’t imagine I would care so much about what a group of teenagers who I had never even met thought of me.  Since it had been quite some time since I could call myself a teenager, I had taken recent portrayals of teens in the media as reality and was terrified that they would think I was so old and so not cool.  It didn’t take long for me to remember what being a teenager was like and that they were far more concerned with their peers and the daily drama that comes along with being a teenager than with whether I was “cool” or not.  I had forgotten the beautiful awkwardness of youth and was quickly reminded of that after a short time working with them.  As I got to know them better, I would see parts of my younger self in them which made helped connect us but at the same time it made me sad that those qualities had been lost over the years.  

My kids are honestly the most incredible people I have ever met.  They do often remind me of myself at their age but I never did and will never be able to hold a candle to them.  They have so much passion for everything in their lives.  I forgot about the fierce loyalty of teenage friendship.  I forgot about the excitement of realizing the person you want to be and having no fear about moving toward becoming that person.  I forgot what it is like to have your whole life in front of you. I forgot about big dreams.  But what I forgot about most and what seems most lost to me is the bravery of youth.  I am amazed daily by these teenagers; the lives they lead and the desires of their hearts.  When you are just beginning on life’s journey, you really have nothing to lose.  My kids dream the big dreams.  They haven’t felt the sting of one’s dreams being dashed.  They haven’t felt the pain of it “being too late” for anything.  They don’t compare their station in life with their peers. I wished that I had been like them.

Then one day, I realized it.  I had been just like them.  All theses quality’s that I admire so much in them, I had had.  I had big dreams. I had no fear.  I had confidence.  These students are far more confident in themselves and what they can bring to the world than I am now at 30 years old.  I never expected to look back on my teen years and wish for the confidence I had then.  We’re told at that age that things will be better when you’re older.  We’re told that people will be nicer.  We’re told that you’ll have control of your own life and destiny.  In most cases, these are complete lies.  And realizing that makes for a difficult jolt into adult reality.  

Upon the discovery of the loss of my youth and everything that went with it, I honestly went through a time of true mourning.  As much as I wish to go back to the person I was at 17, I know that I cannot.  I look back fondly at that girl but I have to let her go.  This is very difficult and honestly sad.  However, I know that finding the pieces of that girl that are still alive in me and pairing them with the experiences of my twenties  will yield a person capable of being brave again,  a person capable of hoping again,  a person capable of dreaming big again.  I feel so fortunate to call my kids, my friends.  They have inspired me to revive the parts of my younger self that gave me confidence and hope.    So to everyone, in this same stage, do not despair.   Take the time to mourn the loss of the confidence of youth but then search inside yourself and find the pieces that have survived the difficult realities of young adulthood.  Revive them and be brave again!  Lastly, I highly recommend spending time with teenagers in your community.  They will teach you so much more then could ever even try to teach them while also keeping you young.  I don’t even have words to express the impact my kids have had on my life and how much I love them.

Riding the T

Here is a story I wrote back in grad school.  It's a slice of life from when I used to ride the T (subway/trolley) 3-4 hours a day to get to work and school.  It made me smile when I found it.

In the past year, I have spent an obscene number of hours on the T.  My most modest estimates put me at about 300 hours.  Sometimes it feels as if my permanent state has become a moderate twinge of motion sickness and a dull headache.

I’ve noticed many things over the months.  I’ve compared the faux leather seats of the orange line to their upholstered cousins on the red line.  I’ve noticed the metal handholds riveted to the crossbars and juxtaposed them with the plastic version, hanging more leisurely.  I’ve made mental notes on the narks riding the train, rating the “service” of the MBTA and the plethora of middle aged transvestites.  I’ve grieved for the homeless circulating from car to car fabricating stories to evoke just 5 more cents.

But today, I noted the walls and the floor of the T.  I have obviously stared at them unaware hours before, trying to avoid any unwanted eye contact.  But today I noticed them.  I noticed the plastic tack paper imitating wood that someone had adhered to the walls of the orange line.  I also paid close attention to the rust brick swirl of the linoleum floor.  Linoleum? I thought, like my kitchen?  How odd.  I assume that the pattern and color of the drab flooring was created with the same intention as dorm room carpeting- something that cloaks a nasty mess as unobtrusively as possible.  And to that end, the flooring of the T works pretty well.  The gum, lollypop sticks, and remnants of spilled soda blend pretty well. Perhaps too well.  

I remember riding the green line last year, and a woman kept throwing up.  Over and over she tossed the contents of her inners until there was only dark green bile splashing against the floor.  What struck me was that no one reacted.  Myself included.  Everyone needed to get to work, or get home, or get somewhere and so they set their face like flint and tried to ignore the sludge spreading across the floor.  

A solitary mother finally reacted.  She was getting off at Harvard Ave. She’d been out getting groceries. As she got up to leave she pulled her leeks from their plastic sheath and stuck them, naked, into her cloth “Please Recycle” bag.  She proceeded to hand the clear veggie bag to the poor girl, who could only nod before convulsing again into dry heaves. 

After a while, no one was on the train.  It was just me, riding the B-line to the end.  The heaving lady had even exited and I was left alone with the inanimate amoeba of bile.  I was shocked at how easy it would be for someone to enter the train unawares, and step into this nasty mess.  It had become part of the dingy flooring.  Only the smell betrayed its presence.

The train reached the end and I felt that I had to inform someone.  I walked to the front and tugged on the conductor’s sleeve. “Excuse me,” How did I say this politely?  “I think a woman back there vomited on the floor.”  All decorum had to be scrapped as the man indicated he did not speak English.  I was reduced to awkward reenactments of the scene and finally just led him to the mush.  “Oh” he said and shrugged.  It seemed normal enough to him.  Health hazards were all in a day’s work I guess.  So, he nodded a dismissal and I walked away.

Candlelight and Silence

This is a day for remembering.  I always forget first thing in the morning, and then it hits me.  

12 years ago I had completely forgotten too.  I had forgotten what it meant to be vulnerable.  

I was sitting in a narrow classroom, completely absorbed in myself, chatting about something I will never remember.  Suddenly, Mrs. H burst in.  Her face was awash with panic.  Since panicking wasn’t completely unusual for her it took a while for the reality to set in. 

My immediate reaction was to disconnect my heart from my head as best I could. I focused on walking, breathing, noticing details.  

We all gathered in the cafeteria to talk, to pray.  My body felt heavy, my stomach would not let me forget my emotions all together. Nothing we did felt right. I was angry that I didn't know what to do in the face of all this death and uncertainty.  

Our neighborhood held a vigil that night.  We lit candles and sat on the front stoop. Many people walked the neighborhood with candles in hand.  Some stopped to talk, but much of the time was silent.  More silent than ever with no planes roaring across the sky, not a single one.  In the candlelight and silence I didn’t feel angry at all.  I felt grateful to be alive. It was enough to simply be in that moment. 

It is strange now because most of my students were toddlers when 9/11 happened.  Their memories are filtered through their parents or guardians.  Every year, I feel somewhat sorry for those who do not remember at all.  I’m not sure why, but I feel as if they missed a moment of history that was real and that was pivotal.  Each year I remember what it means to be vulnerable and that sometimes simply being in a particular place and time will change your life.  It is beyond our control. 

What do you remember?  The start of a World War? The JFK shooting? The Berlin Wall coming down?  

*As for the future, I would very much like to dedicate Wednesdays to guest posts.  So many of you have art, music, writing that have enriched my life.  If you are willing to share it on this blog, please, let me know... I can't wait to hear from you.