I am thinking about writing about seeing bands play at small venues and what goes on for the setting up, or with the band before the show actually takes place. I want to tie it in with how I appreciate the show more knowing that there is a lot of effort taking place behind the scenes, and a lot of nervousness, tension, excitement and so on that the band goes through to make sure their audience is satisfied enough to come back and see them again. I can interview a number of people from my town because we are like Band Town, USA. or i can interview some people at the venues about what its like to work for places like that and what goes on that people never really know about...
For my nature piece I want to write about going to West Hudson Park in my town and how it has changed over the years and the ducks that occupy the pond during the summer and the wild animals that occupy it during the nights and cold winters... at least this is what i'm thinking for now.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Driving with Dad
My head is spinning and my stomach is turning. “Can you lower the window, please?” I shout to the front of the car from the back of the Mazda minivan. Motion sickness is not fun, especially from the back seat of a van with three other screaming kids and an angry father. I put my head in my hands and try not to throw up. Life from the backseat is not a life lived, it’s a life tortured.
It’s the summer before my freshman year of college and I just got my license. School starts in 2 months and I still don’t have a car to get there. Public transportation conflicts with my motion sickness, busses, trains, planes, everything makes me want to puke.
Two blocks from my house there is a little red car with a for sale sign in the window. My father notices it and takes down the number and information. He liked the car, I personally could care less. At that time I didn’t think I would ever care what the car I drive in looks like, I just want to have that freedom to drive- period.
“The car is for sale, the guy wants $800 for it but I could probably talk him down to 7.” My father thinks he’s a master bargainer. “Its red, it’s a 1994, or is it 95? I don’t know. Mazda, they’re good cars. It’s in good condition. The guy said it has new tires, I think. There’s 139,000 miles on it. But for that price it will just get you from A to B.” I stare at my father as he continues talking about some piece of crap around the corner that I have still yet to see. “Oh! It’s also stick shift so I’ll teach you to drive it.” I look at him blankly. He walks away I mumble a sarcastic “wonderful” and he turns around. “Let me know if you want to buy it so I can call the guy.”
I had money left over from my graduation party a few weeks prior. I could just about afford the car with some extra cash in the bank to maintain a decent balance. If I bought the car I wouldn’t need to make monthly payments and the insurance estimated to be $600 a year. The car and the insurance were both pathetic.
We test drove the car. We meaning my father. I sat in the backseat. He wanted to make sure the car could handle some sharp turns and a little rough driving. I wanted to puke. The guy selling the car was really nice. The car was in pretty good condition for the age. There wasn’t a CD player but then again I don’t have very many CD’s and tapes are cheaper anyway. I went for the bumpy ride squished in the backseat of a two door Mazda MX3. I liked the car, but I didn’t want to learn to drive it. Not with my father at least.
My father has never had much patience. He was never good at helping with homework or listening to any of us tell a pointless story. If you can’t hit the highlight of a story in under three minutes, you lost him. My brother Ryan has always been a story teller, I think that’s why my father can’t stand him. He would start a story, tell you the whole background, the names of everyone involved including pointless characters and then proceed to include what each person had on their feet before he got to the conclusion, if their even was one. “Not right now” is something Ryan heard often.
When I was 6 my father took Ryan and me horseback riding. Ryan was 4. The man said not to put both of us on the horse at the same time. The saddle could only hold one child at a time. My dad knows more than the horse handler, so he put us both on. When the horse got irritated enough, he threw me off the back. I cried. My dad said, “What do you do when you get thrown off a horse?” I said “cry?” He said, “No. You get back on and keep riding.” I didn’t want to keep riding. I wanted to keep crying, but he knew what was best, so the horseback riding continued until our time was up.
“So you want to go for your first driving lesson?” My dad asks as I sit in front of the computer. I personally would rather continue chatting with my friends and looking up song lyrics than go driving anywhere with him. “Sure Dad. Let’s go.” I reply, trying to seem interested so I don’t get in trouble.
He jumps in the drivers seat and I in the passenger seat. This is the only time in my life I would rather be in the back trying not to throw up. Instead I’m in the front trying not to cry because I know what will happen when I don’t catch on quickly.
I never closely watched someone drive a stick shift before, never mind thought about driving one. Now I have to learn- and fast. He shows me how to start the car. “Press the clutch down, turn the key. Check to make sure the gears are in neutral. Then let go of the clutch to let the car warm up.” He’s talking and I’m trying to listen. Gears? Neutral? What is he talking about? I thought you turned the key and drove away. Now there’s changing and pressing different pedals and gears. Why are there three pedals? Stop, go and what? I begin to panic, but quietly. I cannot show my fear! Not to my father at least. If I can hold in the crying until I’m with Mom, I’m safe. Mom will never yell at you for crying. Only dad’s do that.
So my driving lesson from the passenger seat continues. He drives, I look out the window. My father glances over at me, “What are you looking out the window for?! Watch my feet! You can’t learn if you don’t watch!” So I divert my attention back to his feet. Press this one, let go to press that one on and on. He catches me looking out the window again. This time he pulls over and says, “Go ahead, you drive now.” I think great, now I’m in trouble. Maybe if his shoes were nicer it would have been easier to watch, but they weren’t so I just couldn’t pay attention.
He turned the car off and we switch seats. I only learned how to drive a few months ago and didn’t have much practice on an automatic, this was going to be impossible. I sit in the seat and adjust it to what I think feels right. He grows impatient. I look over at him and he’s fidgeting. “Ok. So how do I do this?” I ask.
“Well ya know if you were paying attention instead of looking out the damn window you would know!” he tells me. My throat tenses and I know that from this point on, things only get harder. I try not to cry yet. There really is no reason to cry except that I’d rather be sitting at the computer doing nothing than here with him. He tells me again how to start the car. My first lesson left me dizzy and nauseous. I stalled out more than I drove. I couldn’t believe how hard it was to drive stick. I also couldn’t figure out why anyone in their right mind would want to do all that work when there’s automatic cars in the world!
The next few lessons didn’t end as well. I usually came in from driving crying, and sometimes even left for the driving lesson crying. Once I finally got the hang of stop and go we moved on to harder things like hills. How hard could a hill really be? Well, much harder than I thought. I had no idea that a stick shift car would continue to roll backwards if you didn’t catch the first gear right. So backwards I rolled.
When I was finally good enough to drive on my own I took my car to work. I was still a little shaky on hills but never really drove anywhere that had serious hills. So I took my car to work, the other side of town, downhill. I left work, nervous because I knew that I would have to go up hills to get home. Well, I was definitely right to be nervous because I got stuck on the first hill I turned up. I called my dad crying. “I’m stuck on this hill and the stupid car stalled and I don’t know how I’m going to get home, I turned it on and it started rolling back! The E break isn’t even helping! Dad, where are you?!”
My dad came to get me. He pulled up in a truck behind my car and stayed on the phone with me. “Start the car, put it in first.” He began to coach me. “Stay calm, stop your crying! Just put it in first and gas it.” I did what he said and redlined the car all the way up the hill in first. I didn’t drive up that hill again for a very long time.
I kept the Mazda for over a year and then was given some money from a family member. I used it to put a down payment on a new car. I bought a Scion TC. It is a stick shift. I love the car, and I love knowing how to drive a stick. Despite how hard the lessons were with my father I still enjoy driving stick since I actually figured it out. Now I’ve been driving for a while and Ryan is soon to get his license. I asked him if he wanted to learn how to drive a stick shift. He said, “Yeah, can you teach me?” I laughed because I knew exactly what he was thinking. I had been there just two years ago. I felt the same dread of driving with Dad as he does now. I told him I would but I know my father will ultimately be the one to teach him. I don’t have much patience anyway.
The freedom I have from getting my license alone is beyond rewarding. Being able to drive a stick is even better. A lot of my friends have asked me to teach them, but secretly I don’t think I ever will because I like having a skill that they don’t, even if it’s one that was painfully acquired and dreaded at first.
I am glad that I no longer have to sit in the back seat and yell to the person driving to roll the windows down so I don’t puke. I am glad that my father took the time to teach me how to drive. I just wish that it could have been a more pleasant experience. But then again, maybe if he didn’t push me to do it, I never would have even learned. But I will never tell him that I appreciate it, I am far too stubborn for that.
It’s the summer before my freshman year of college and I just got my license. School starts in 2 months and I still don’t have a car to get there. Public transportation conflicts with my motion sickness, busses, trains, planes, everything makes me want to puke.
Two blocks from my house there is a little red car with a for sale sign in the window. My father notices it and takes down the number and information. He liked the car, I personally could care less. At that time I didn’t think I would ever care what the car I drive in looks like, I just want to have that freedom to drive- period.
“The car is for sale, the guy wants $800 for it but I could probably talk him down to 7.” My father thinks he’s a master bargainer. “Its red, it’s a 1994, or is it 95? I don’t know. Mazda, they’re good cars. It’s in good condition. The guy said it has new tires, I think. There’s 139,000 miles on it. But for that price it will just get you from A to B.” I stare at my father as he continues talking about some piece of crap around the corner that I have still yet to see. “Oh! It’s also stick shift so I’ll teach you to drive it.” I look at him blankly. He walks away I mumble a sarcastic “wonderful” and he turns around. “Let me know if you want to buy it so I can call the guy.”
I had money left over from my graduation party a few weeks prior. I could just about afford the car with some extra cash in the bank to maintain a decent balance. If I bought the car I wouldn’t need to make monthly payments and the insurance estimated to be $600 a year. The car and the insurance were both pathetic.
We test drove the car. We meaning my father. I sat in the backseat. He wanted to make sure the car could handle some sharp turns and a little rough driving. I wanted to puke. The guy selling the car was really nice. The car was in pretty good condition for the age. There wasn’t a CD player but then again I don’t have very many CD’s and tapes are cheaper anyway. I went for the bumpy ride squished in the backseat of a two door Mazda MX3. I liked the car, but I didn’t want to learn to drive it. Not with my father at least.
My father has never had much patience. He was never good at helping with homework or listening to any of us tell a pointless story. If you can’t hit the highlight of a story in under three minutes, you lost him. My brother Ryan has always been a story teller, I think that’s why my father can’t stand him. He would start a story, tell you the whole background, the names of everyone involved including pointless characters and then proceed to include what each person had on their feet before he got to the conclusion, if their even was one. “Not right now” is something Ryan heard often.
When I was 6 my father took Ryan and me horseback riding. Ryan was 4. The man said not to put both of us on the horse at the same time. The saddle could only hold one child at a time. My dad knows more than the horse handler, so he put us both on. When the horse got irritated enough, he threw me off the back. I cried. My dad said, “What do you do when you get thrown off a horse?” I said “cry?” He said, “No. You get back on and keep riding.” I didn’t want to keep riding. I wanted to keep crying, but he knew what was best, so the horseback riding continued until our time was up.
“So you want to go for your first driving lesson?” My dad asks as I sit in front of the computer. I personally would rather continue chatting with my friends and looking up song lyrics than go driving anywhere with him. “Sure Dad. Let’s go.” I reply, trying to seem interested so I don’t get in trouble.
He jumps in the drivers seat and I in the passenger seat. This is the only time in my life I would rather be in the back trying not to throw up. Instead I’m in the front trying not to cry because I know what will happen when I don’t catch on quickly.
I never closely watched someone drive a stick shift before, never mind thought about driving one. Now I have to learn- and fast. He shows me how to start the car. “Press the clutch down, turn the key. Check to make sure the gears are in neutral. Then let go of the clutch to let the car warm up.” He’s talking and I’m trying to listen. Gears? Neutral? What is he talking about? I thought you turned the key and drove away. Now there’s changing and pressing different pedals and gears. Why are there three pedals? Stop, go and what? I begin to panic, but quietly. I cannot show my fear! Not to my father at least. If I can hold in the crying until I’m with Mom, I’m safe. Mom will never yell at you for crying. Only dad’s do that.
So my driving lesson from the passenger seat continues. He drives, I look out the window. My father glances over at me, “What are you looking out the window for?! Watch my feet! You can’t learn if you don’t watch!” So I divert my attention back to his feet. Press this one, let go to press that one on and on. He catches me looking out the window again. This time he pulls over and says, “Go ahead, you drive now.” I think great, now I’m in trouble. Maybe if his shoes were nicer it would have been easier to watch, but they weren’t so I just couldn’t pay attention.
He turned the car off and we switch seats. I only learned how to drive a few months ago and didn’t have much practice on an automatic, this was going to be impossible. I sit in the seat and adjust it to what I think feels right. He grows impatient. I look over at him and he’s fidgeting. “Ok. So how do I do this?” I ask.
“Well ya know if you were paying attention instead of looking out the damn window you would know!” he tells me. My throat tenses and I know that from this point on, things only get harder. I try not to cry yet. There really is no reason to cry except that I’d rather be sitting at the computer doing nothing than here with him. He tells me again how to start the car. My first lesson left me dizzy and nauseous. I stalled out more than I drove. I couldn’t believe how hard it was to drive stick. I also couldn’t figure out why anyone in their right mind would want to do all that work when there’s automatic cars in the world!
The next few lessons didn’t end as well. I usually came in from driving crying, and sometimes even left for the driving lesson crying. Once I finally got the hang of stop and go we moved on to harder things like hills. How hard could a hill really be? Well, much harder than I thought. I had no idea that a stick shift car would continue to roll backwards if you didn’t catch the first gear right. So backwards I rolled.
When I was finally good enough to drive on my own I took my car to work. I was still a little shaky on hills but never really drove anywhere that had serious hills. So I took my car to work, the other side of town, downhill. I left work, nervous because I knew that I would have to go up hills to get home. Well, I was definitely right to be nervous because I got stuck on the first hill I turned up. I called my dad crying. “I’m stuck on this hill and the stupid car stalled and I don’t know how I’m going to get home, I turned it on and it started rolling back! The E break isn’t even helping! Dad, where are you?!”
My dad came to get me. He pulled up in a truck behind my car and stayed on the phone with me. “Start the car, put it in first.” He began to coach me. “Stay calm, stop your crying! Just put it in first and gas it.” I did what he said and redlined the car all the way up the hill in first. I didn’t drive up that hill again for a very long time.
I kept the Mazda for over a year and then was given some money from a family member. I used it to put a down payment on a new car. I bought a Scion TC. It is a stick shift. I love the car, and I love knowing how to drive a stick. Despite how hard the lessons were with my father I still enjoy driving stick since I actually figured it out. Now I’ve been driving for a while and Ryan is soon to get his license. I asked him if he wanted to learn how to drive a stick shift. He said, “Yeah, can you teach me?” I laughed because I knew exactly what he was thinking. I had been there just two years ago. I felt the same dread of driving with Dad as he does now. I told him I would but I know my father will ultimately be the one to teach him. I don’t have much patience anyway.
The freedom I have from getting my license alone is beyond rewarding. Being able to drive a stick is even better. A lot of my friends have asked me to teach them, but secretly I don’t think I ever will because I like having a skill that they don’t, even if it’s one that was painfully acquired and dreaded at first.
I am glad that I no longer have to sit in the back seat and yell to the person driving to roll the windows down so I don’t puke. I am glad that my father took the time to teach me how to drive. I just wish that it could have been a more pleasant experience. But then again, maybe if he didn’t push me to do it, I never would have even learned. But I will never tell him that I appreciate it, I am far too stubborn for that.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Resonse to discussion of Frey
I feel that Frey wrote his story for the pure purpose of having it published and to make some money. It is unfortunate that Frey published his work as non fiction instead of the fiction story it really is. An author should take into consideration that readers are affected by what they are taking in. Frey talked about certain topics that could really give vulnerable readers the wrong ideas on being an alcoholic or drug addict and not needing any real help to kick the habit. He also gives readers a false idea of what it is like to be in prison, a breezy three months of reading that goes by like free time. Authors have the responsibility to take readers and their real lives into consideration. Someone reading this story may be severely affected by what they take out of it and it could give them false hope for similar situations that may be happening in their life.
"Truth" can be something that actually happened, or the way you honestly remember something happening. Truth is not something you know is far from the reality of a situation. Since people have different perspectives it is hard for an author to determine how someone reading the work will take it in. An author cannot account for EVERYones perspective, some topics just wont appeal to some people and that’s fine. Crossing lines is difficult in writing, because there aren’t many boundaries. To me, a writer crossing a boundary would be something along the lines of a rapist trying to write to a female based audience with a sympathetic tone. Other than that, writing should not have a lot of limitations. I also don’t think that the category of the story really matters to everyone, mostly just very easily influenced readers. If a story is good and it keeps the reader turning pages then it has served its purpose to entertain and intrigue people, unless it’s specifically written as a do it yourself or self help book.
I think that rounding corners is necessary to keep a story interesting. Just because all the events led up to the ultimate outcome doesn’t mean that they will carry the reader through the story easily. Sometimes exaggerating or making things up helps for the entertainment purposes. Changing names is necessary in some cases also because it is not up to the author to decide what people will know about real characters and what they won’t know. Since writing is biased on the authors’ part, depicting a real life person in a story will be unfair even if they are portrayed as a saint. Changing names just helps keep the characters real lives private. Sometimes making composite characters can be a good thing depending on the part they play. As long as the writer isn’t combining two different people or events to create the main part of the story, then small alterations are pretty harmless.
"Truth" can be something that actually happened, or the way you honestly remember something happening. Truth is not something you know is far from the reality of a situation. Since people have different perspectives it is hard for an author to determine how someone reading the work will take it in. An author cannot account for EVERYones perspective, some topics just wont appeal to some people and that’s fine. Crossing lines is difficult in writing, because there aren’t many boundaries. To me, a writer crossing a boundary would be something along the lines of a rapist trying to write to a female based audience with a sympathetic tone. Other than that, writing should not have a lot of limitations. I also don’t think that the category of the story really matters to everyone, mostly just very easily influenced readers. If a story is good and it keeps the reader turning pages then it has served its purpose to entertain and intrigue people, unless it’s specifically written as a do it yourself or self help book.
I think that rounding corners is necessary to keep a story interesting. Just because all the events led up to the ultimate outcome doesn’t mean that they will carry the reader through the story easily. Sometimes exaggerating or making things up helps for the entertainment purposes. Changing names is necessary in some cases also because it is not up to the author to decide what people will know about real characters and what they won’t know. Since writing is biased on the authors’ part, depicting a real life person in a story will be unfair even if they are portrayed as a saint. Changing names just helps keep the characters real lives private. Sometimes making composite characters can be a good thing depending on the part they play. As long as the writer isn’t combining two different people or events to create the main part of the story, then small alterations are pretty harmless.
Monday, February 5, 2007
unfinished draft...
Losing Carter
It's early in the morning, well, 9:00 am, as early as I'll ever be up and outside my house. I jump in my car. I push down on the clutch and turn the key. I check to make sure the gears are in neutral. I wait for the car to warm up and channel through the stations. Nothing good on; so I will stick with one station and wait it out. I hope that something good comes on soon.
I pull away leaving my rarity of a good parking spot open for someone else to acquire for the next few minutes, hours, days, whatever. Finally, a song comes on that I love. I crank the radio up. I push the gas a little harder. Nothing can touch me now; there is nothing else but me, the car, the song, the road. I drive faster, I turn quicker, my heart beats with the song and everything is perfect. At that moment, nothing else matters. Where I'm going, where I'm coming from, who I will see when I get there, what I will hear or say are all not important to me at this time. Just me, the car, the song, the road. That is what matters right now. I pull up to my destination. Park. The song ends, I get out of the car. Music no longer fills my car, my heart, or my mind. The sounds of real life and its everyday movement come back to me and I lose all feeling of carelessness, invincibility and genuine happiness.
To me, that is a realization. Life is not always your favorite song blasting out of your car stereo. Life is stepping out of the car into the real world and letting go of the feelings inside you wish you could have all day- everyday; feelings that no one will hurt you, nothing can bother you, life is good.
In high school my best friend, Julie, and I would rush to her house after school. Plop our books on the floor and pick out a CD that best fit our mood. No matter what kind of day we had, there was always a CD to make it better. Family problems? Pantera will fix that. Boyfriend problems? How about Faith No More. Want to feel depressed? Type O Negative is the answer. Want to be goofy? How about some oldies. We danced when we wanted to be happy, we moped when we wanted to be lazy, we laid with our feet at opposite ends of each others bodies when we wanted to stair at the ceiling and ponder life's questions like; why are my parents so annoying? If a concert were coming up, we would listen to that band for weeks prior to the show. This was life. These were important things to us. Death only existed in the movies. Real problems were having to be home by 11 when everyone else could stay out past 12. Watching another best friend go through the hardest thing a person could possibly ever do was not in my plans, anywhere for the rest of my life.
It's July 20, 2006. It's warm, not hot. I bought a white button-up shirt and black dress pants. I cannot remember what I wore on my feet. I am nervous. I do not know what to expect. I have never been to a funeral like this before. The only funeral I had ever been to was actually 5 months before and that was for my great grandmother. We knew she was dying. There was no way around it. That is what happens. People grow old, get sick, suffer a little, and die. This was unreal. This was not an old person. This was not someone who had lived a fulfilling life with family and friends that cared. Only 6 out of 30 people at the funeral had actually met the deceased. I was not one of those six.
My best friend Alicia is nervous. She plays with her hair, pulls on her hands, walks around talking to people in front of the church, watching the cars drive by, pull up, park. She tries to socialize with her family and her husband's family. I watch her. I watch the cars. I watch the two families mingle with each other knowing that most of them had never heard of each other never mind spoken to each other before this day. I wait. She introduces me to her mother. She is not what I had pictured. She is an extraordinarily short woman, thin legs, slightly heavier on the top, but not overweight. She smokes like a chimney. Her boney fingers keep reaching into her pack and lighting up a new, long cigarette. Her teeth are paying for her habit, as is her hair, nails and skin. However, I am not here to criticize my best friends mother. Despite the fact that this woman, and practically everyone but those six specific people and myself, had not been a steady part of Alicia¡¯s life until 18 days ago, I am not here to criticize. I am here for moral support. I am here to learn about reality and I do not realize it yet.
The funeral directors black Chrysler pulls up. Everyone gets quiet. In the back seat is the casket, about 2 and half, 3 feet long. Tiny. Caskets should not be that small, life is so much bigger than that. Alicia's uncle opens the back door, reaches in and pulls the casket out. One person lifting a casket? That is not the way a funeral is supposed to go. A hearse should have arrived. The back should have been opened and it should have taken four people to carry the casket out because inside lies a grown person, old enough to die, old enough to have lived, not an infant. This is not the way things are supposed to happen.
I remember when Alicia told me that something was wrong. The doctors realized in an ultrasound that a valve in the baby's heart was not developed. She cried, I listened. Babies do not die, she should not worry. When he is born, they will know what to do and he will be ok. That is how I thought life was supposed to be. Instead, Carter was born on July 2, 2006, the same day my then boyfriend and I decided to buy a puppy that would lead to great financial problems and a whole lot of aggravation. I could not tell you how much he weighed or how long he was. I asked, I knew, but I do not know anymore. I do not remember. Carter went through four surgeries on his heart. From the time he was born until the time he died, there was nothing but sad phone calls and waiting. I was in New Jersey , they were in Virginia being pregnant, worrying and going into labor. I was in New Jersey ; they were heading to Washington D.C. where a specialist would work on Carter. I was in New Jersey , they were on their way to New Jersey to plan a funeral. All this in 18 short days. Eighteen days is not enough time to make any serious life altering decisions such as what do I want do for the rest of my life? Should I ask my girlfriend or boyfriend to marry me? Do I want to have kids? Should I ever get married? Life altering questions with life altering answers that vary from person to person. These questions take a LIFEtime to be answered. In eighteen days, my life, and the lives of everyone that was involved would be changed directly or indirectly.
The mass was in a church five blocks from my house. I was baptized, made my communion and confirmation there. My parents got married there. I am not religious. I do not know where I stand in religion. I have struggle with this for years, nothing has changed and I am still at a standstill on the subject. This occurrence did not push me closer to God, if He exists, that is for damn sure.
It's early in the morning, well, 9:00 am, as early as I'll ever be up and outside my house. I jump in my car. I push down on the clutch and turn the key. I check to make sure the gears are in neutral. I wait for the car to warm up and channel through the stations. Nothing good on; so I will stick with one station and wait it out. I hope that something good comes on soon.
I pull away leaving my rarity of a good parking spot open for someone else to acquire for the next few minutes, hours, days, whatever. Finally, a song comes on that I love. I crank the radio up. I push the gas a little harder. Nothing can touch me now; there is nothing else but me, the car, the song, the road. I drive faster, I turn quicker, my heart beats with the song and everything is perfect. At that moment, nothing else matters. Where I'm going, where I'm coming from, who I will see when I get there, what I will hear or say are all not important to me at this time. Just me, the car, the song, the road. That is what matters right now. I pull up to my destination. Park. The song ends, I get out of the car. Music no longer fills my car, my heart, or my mind. The sounds of real life and its everyday movement come back to me and I lose all feeling of carelessness, invincibility and genuine happiness.
To me, that is a realization. Life is not always your favorite song blasting out of your car stereo. Life is stepping out of the car into the real world and letting go of the feelings inside you wish you could have all day- everyday; feelings that no one will hurt you, nothing can bother you, life is good.
In high school my best friend, Julie, and I would rush to her house after school. Plop our books on the floor and pick out a CD that best fit our mood. No matter what kind of day we had, there was always a CD to make it better. Family problems? Pantera will fix that. Boyfriend problems? How about Faith No More. Want to feel depressed? Type O Negative is the answer. Want to be goofy? How about some oldies. We danced when we wanted to be happy, we moped when we wanted to be lazy, we laid with our feet at opposite ends of each others bodies when we wanted to stair at the ceiling and ponder life's questions like; why are my parents so annoying? If a concert were coming up, we would listen to that band for weeks prior to the show. This was life. These were important things to us. Death only existed in the movies. Real problems were having to be home by 11 when everyone else could stay out past 12. Watching another best friend go through the hardest thing a person could possibly ever do was not in my plans, anywhere for the rest of my life.
It's July 20, 2006. It's warm, not hot. I bought a white button-up shirt and black dress pants. I cannot remember what I wore on my feet. I am nervous. I do not know what to expect. I have never been to a funeral like this before. The only funeral I had ever been to was actually 5 months before and that was for my great grandmother. We knew she was dying. There was no way around it. That is what happens. People grow old, get sick, suffer a little, and die. This was unreal. This was not an old person. This was not someone who had lived a fulfilling life with family and friends that cared. Only 6 out of 30 people at the funeral had actually met the deceased. I was not one of those six.
My best friend Alicia is nervous. She plays with her hair, pulls on her hands, walks around talking to people in front of the church, watching the cars drive by, pull up, park. She tries to socialize with her family and her husband's family. I watch her. I watch the cars. I watch the two families mingle with each other knowing that most of them had never heard of each other never mind spoken to each other before this day. I wait. She introduces me to her mother. She is not what I had pictured. She is an extraordinarily short woman, thin legs, slightly heavier on the top, but not overweight. She smokes like a chimney. Her boney fingers keep reaching into her pack and lighting up a new, long cigarette. Her teeth are paying for her habit, as is her hair, nails and skin. However, I am not here to criticize my best friends mother. Despite the fact that this woman, and practically everyone but those six specific people and myself, had not been a steady part of Alicia¡¯s life until 18 days ago, I am not here to criticize. I am here for moral support. I am here to learn about reality and I do not realize it yet.
The funeral directors black Chrysler pulls up. Everyone gets quiet. In the back seat is the casket, about 2 and half, 3 feet long. Tiny. Caskets should not be that small, life is so much bigger than that. Alicia's uncle opens the back door, reaches in and pulls the casket out. One person lifting a casket? That is not the way a funeral is supposed to go. A hearse should have arrived. The back should have been opened and it should have taken four people to carry the casket out because inside lies a grown person, old enough to die, old enough to have lived, not an infant. This is not the way things are supposed to happen.
I remember when Alicia told me that something was wrong. The doctors realized in an ultrasound that a valve in the baby's heart was not developed. She cried, I listened. Babies do not die, she should not worry. When he is born, they will know what to do and he will be ok. That is how I thought life was supposed to be. Instead, Carter was born on July 2, 2006, the same day my then boyfriend and I decided to buy a puppy that would lead to great financial problems and a whole lot of aggravation. I could not tell you how much he weighed or how long he was. I asked, I knew, but I do not know anymore. I do not remember. Carter went through four surgeries on his heart. From the time he was born until the time he died, there was nothing but sad phone calls and waiting. I was in New Jersey , they were in Virginia being pregnant, worrying and going into labor. I was in New Jersey ; they were heading to Washington D.C. where a specialist would work on Carter. I was in New Jersey , they were on their way to New Jersey to plan a funeral. All this in 18 short days. Eighteen days is not enough time to make any serious life altering decisions such as what do I want do for the rest of my life? Should I ask my girlfriend or boyfriend to marry me? Do I want to have kids? Should I ever get married? Life altering questions with life altering answers that vary from person to person. These questions take a LIFEtime to be answered. In eighteen days, my life, and the lives of everyone that was involved would be changed directly or indirectly.
The mass was in a church five blocks from my house. I was baptized, made my communion and confirmation there. My parents got married there. I am not religious. I do not know where I stand in religion. I have struggle with this for years, nothing has changed and I am still at a standstill on the subject. This occurrence did not push me closer to God, if He exists, that is for damn sure.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Personal Essay-Memoir
Personal Essay- A story or paper on a topic that means something to you, not necessarily something life altering or dramatic, just something that has a personal meaning that you may have come to fully understand or are still trying to figure out. A story about your life, your past, your present, your thoughts on something meaningful to you.
Memoir- A memory, what you felt when it happened, how you feel now, what it has to do with your life now, what it had to do with your life then, comparison to other times in life or situations in life. The past.
Memoir- A memory, what you felt when it happened, how you feel now, what it has to do with your life now, what it had to do with your life then, comparison to other times in life or situations in life. The past.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Brainstorming
Listing, free writing, clustering for personal essay. What do I have to say? How should I say it?
Something Personal I May Want to Write About...
Topics- Getting a license, learning to drive a stick shift, my first relationship and the dramatic ending, moving out of my parents house, moving back into my parents house, buying a puppy, living with my boyfriend and our hyper puppy, starting college, commuting out of town for the first time, losing Carter.
Losing Carter/ losing faith- what do I have to say?
Hardest part of life is death.
Reality is unfortunate.
Questions that will never be answered are painful but necessary.
Death becomes a reality check for life.
I don’t think I could have made it through had he been mine.
Does Death help Life to eliminate the weak from the strong?
How to discuss Carter?
Start with the funeral. Move back to Alicia in HS. Come back to the casket being pulled out of the car. Move back to the abortion, the miscarriage, the pregnancy that lasted, the phone call that things aren’t good, the crying, the pain, the fear, the excitement, the loss. Questions with no answers. Question God, Question Life, Question Everything. Cry. Try to move on. Haven’t got there yet. Sad because it happened or sad because that is the biggest part of life? -DEATH.
Loving Lola-what do I have to say?
Excitement can deceive the responsibility of taking on a puppy.
Give up or work harder? When she jumped should we have given up or tried to help her?
Test of patience.
Test of time.
Financial situations.
Driving with Dad- What do I have to say?
Should I learn how to teach from how my parents have taught me?
Patience has been severely limited in my life with my father.
Learning out of interest would have been easier than learning out of fear.
Pressure makes a difference.
What started as a chore became an interest, thanks to Dad? No.
Something Personal I May Want to Write About...
Topics- Getting a license, learning to drive a stick shift, my first relationship and the dramatic ending, moving out of my parents house, moving back into my parents house, buying a puppy, living with my boyfriend and our hyper puppy, starting college, commuting out of town for the first time, losing Carter.
Losing Carter/ losing faith- what do I have to say?
Hardest part of life is death.
Reality is unfortunate.
Questions that will never be answered are painful but necessary.
Death becomes a reality check for life.
I don’t think I could have made it through had he been mine.
Does Death help Life to eliminate the weak from the strong?
How to discuss Carter?
Start with the funeral. Move back to Alicia in HS. Come back to the casket being pulled out of the car. Move back to the abortion, the miscarriage, the pregnancy that lasted, the phone call that things aren’t good, the crying, the pain, the fear, the excitement, the loss. Questions with no answers. Question God, Question Life, Question Everything. Cry. Try to move on. Haven’t got there yet. Sad because it happened or sad because that is the biggest part of life? -DEATH.
Loving Lola-what do I have to say?
Excitement can deceive the responsibility of taking on a puppy.
Give up or work harder? When she jumped should we have given up or tried to help her?
Test of patience.
Test of time.
Financial situations.
Driving with Dad- What do I have to say?
Should I learn how to teach from how my parents have taught me?
Patience has been severely limited in my life with my father.
Learning out of interest would have been easier than learning out of fear.
Pressure makes a difference.
What started as a chore became an interest, thanks to Dad? No.
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