Thursday, May 26, 2011
On Second Thought...
I think in hindsight that perhaps the second question in the last blog entry should be, "And what are you doing here?" Perhaps. As opposed to "And how did you get here?" Honestly, though, they are equally interesting questions...
Monday, May 23, 2011
Who are you? And how did you get here?
Last week, I gave my students the following question to address in their classroom journals: What activities do you love? Why? What activities do you loathe? Why? This afternoon, as I walked my dogs, I pondered how I might have answered this question had I been sitting in the position of one of my pupils. While I couldn't stop thinking of things I loved to do, I found thinking of activities I disliked slightly harder. This is, I realized, because we define ourselves more by what we love to do than by what we hate to do. It is also because we more often engage in those activities we love than in those we loathe. Upon this epiphany (however obvious it may seem), I was reminded of a quote by someone famous (whose name I should know but don't and could look up but won't -- not right now, anyway). It is simple: "We are what we repeatedly do." It goes on to talk about the fact that "excellence, then, is a habit" or something along those lines. What struck me, though, at this particular moment, was the concept that what we do really does define us -- the whole actions-speak-louder-than-words thing. Of course, before I go on, I have to stop here to list the things I, personally, love and loathe to do -- and to ask you to consider the things that you love and loathe to do -- those activities that help define you.
List of My Most Loved (and Most Frequently Engaged In) Activities:
1. Walking my dogs. I do this every day, at least twice a day. I love walking my dogs for several reasons. One of the most obvious is the fact that I love my dogs. Walking them is not only good for me, but is also good for them. I love to see how happy and animated they are on their walks -- sniffing everything, listening to everything, taking note of things I can't even sense, greeting every other pedestrian we meet with assumed affection and friendship. I feel like each time I take them on a walk, I am giving them a little adventure. I also love walking them because I love being outside. The three of us walk rain or shine, hot or cold, windy or calm, light or dark. We are all-weather walkers. We appreciate all seasons, all temperatures, all times of day. While they sniff and snort and trot on the ends of their leashes, I breathe in the fresh smell of spring or the cold air of winter. I listen to the birds chirping in the trees. I take note of the shadows of naked tree branches outlined in moonlight on the asphalt. I think about what lies ahead for me today, or reflect on what already happened. Another reason I love to walk my dogs is because it makes me feel more connected to my neighborhood. You can observe and notice so much more walking than you can driving. Because of my walks, I know what neighbors drive what cars, have what dogs, live in what houses, work what jobs, have what kids, love what sports teams. I can even tell you when some of them get up in the morning or leave for work each day. Walking gives me the luxury to notice these things and to meet these people. I just love when I am out and about and someone in the store or at the post office or at the restaurant recognizes me simply because she has seen me walking my dogs in the neighborhood.
2. Running. I used to hate running. I really thought it was just for people who thrived on physical pain. I simply could not understand why anyone would voluntarily submit herself to such grueling torture. Now, though, there are many reasons I run. One reason, I think, is actually because I used to hate it. I would never have expected myself to be a runner -- and I love contradicting expectations (this will be evident in much of the rest of my list). It makes me feel free, alive, strong, capable. It lets me sort out my day, sort out my thoughts, get away from the rest of the world for a bit. I prefer to run outside, so I can enjoy the weather, the breeze, the sun, the drizzle, the birds, my music, the feel of snowflakes melting on my skin, the sound of tennis shoes on pavement. It is a simple release. Running has also proven a great way for me to spiritual strides.
3. Writing. I don't get to write as much as I'd like to, but I do honestly love it. There is nothing like stringing together just the right combination of words so that they express just what you were feeling or thinking. A poet I read in high school compared it to the feeling a baseball player gets when he feels and hears the smack of the ball in his glove. (Actually, I remember thinking the poem as a whole was kind of crappy -- but that comparison has always stuck with me for its accuracy.) I write for just that instant -- that instant where the words become the true emotion -- or at least the truest form expressible in words.
4. Mountain Biking.
5. Going to Pony Pasture and/or the Beach. Who doesn't like this? I get to relax, be outside, read, write, sleep, swim, think, appreciate the beauty and grace and originality of nature.
6. Reading my students' journals. Of all the writing assignments I give my students, my favorite ones to read are their journal entries. Through their journal entries, I learn more about who they are, what they want, what they think, etc.
7. Doing things ahead of time. Case in point: I have already started my 2011 Christmas letter. I have already made the yearbook ladder for the 2012 yearbook. I have already made tentative lesson plans for the 2011-2012 school year. I have made meal plans for at least the next week -- sometimes I even know what's for dinner in two weeks. You see, I have always been relatively Type A, and of all the things I am sure my seventh grade science teacher attempted to teach me, this is what I remember the most (aside from drawing rotten fish meat infested with maggots to illustrate something having to do with the Scientific Method): Never ever put off until tomorrow what can be done today. If you find yourself with spare time today, start on any of tomorrow's activities that can reasonably be started today. I pretty much live my life by this philosophy. Sometimes I even make all my lunches for the week on Sunday night so that I won't have to worry about it Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday night.
8. Volunteering. I love the feeling of giving. "Freely ye have received, freely give." There is nothing more rewarding or fulfilling. Currently, I volunteer at the Richmond Animal League (RAL) every other Friday and I simply love it.
9. Shooting at the shooting range. Sometimes this terrifies me, but that is part of why I love to do it. In addition, it is an activity no one would peg me to like or be any good at (which often I am not; I am not very consistent in my talent for this sport). Plus, it is empowering.
10. Going to church. The sense of calm, guidance, protection, and confidence I gain from going to church to support my spirituality is priceless.
Of course there are many more activities, I like, but this is getting maybe a little long. Like I said last week, I am a wind bag. So, let us move on.
List of Activities I Don't Exactly Love:
1. Bathing my dogs. They hate it. I feel like they think I am punishing them every time I give them a bath. In addition, it makes a huge mess. Water, mud, and dog hair end up everywhere: the floor, the wall, the bathroom rug, my clothes, the towel. It's just an all-round not-fun activity, albeit somewhat amusing.
2. Riding rollercoasters. I can actually do this if the coaster isn't too tall -- but usually it is.
3. Cooking dinner. I don't exactly dislike this, but it's just a chore -- and I much prefer the eating to the cooking.
So, my question for you, as you know is this: What activities define you? Who are you?
Which brings me to my next query: How did you get here?
Earlier this week (maybe it was yesterday or the day before), I was waking my dogs when I glanced down at one of them and this notion -- hard to put into words but something like this -- occurred to me: Is that my dog? This question -- the answer to which seemed so logically to be yes -- was followed by a slew of others. Is this my neighborhood? Is that my house? Is this my life? I have had similar experiences before. Once, when I was 14, I was sweeping the lobby in the McDonald's where I worked when I was suddenly struck with the concept that I was, indeed, sweeping a lobby in a McDonald's -- that this really was me and my job and my life. I had to stop sweeping and momentarily lean on the broom to ponder the revelation. It is otherworldly really, out-of-body -- I would almost compare it to deja vu except it is almost the exact opposite notion. Instead of feeling shocked because I feel so strongly I have been here before, I find myself shocked that I am here at all. For a single moment, my own life seems to me novel -- like it belongs to someone else. It reminds me of that Talking Heads song (which, like the poem I mentioned before, I don't really like as a whole, though I can appreciate the sentiment it none-too-eloquently relates) -- "Once in a Lifetime." Something about how you might ask yourself how you got here and is that your beautiful wife and is that your big car or house.
I wish I had some smack-in-the-baseball-mitt conclusion for you today, but I don't. There are far too many directions I could go with a final moral or lesson or theme here. As it is, I have tried to fit too much into one blog entry. But perhaps I have given you some things to consider. Who are you? And how did you get here?
List of My Most Loved (and Most Frequently Engaged In) Activities:
1. Walking my dogs. I do this every day, at least twice a day. I love walking my dogs for several reasons. One of the most obvious is the fact that I love my dogs. Walking them is not only good for me, but is also good for them. I love to see how happy and animated they are on their walks -- sniffing everything, listening to everything, taking note of things I can't even sense, greeting every other pedestrian we meet with assumed affection and friendship. I feel like each time I take them on a walk, I am giving them a little adventure. I also love walking them because I love being outside. The three of us walk rain or shine, hot or cold, windy or calm, light or dark. We are all-weather walkers. We appreciate all seasons, all temperatures, all times of day. While they sniff and snort and trot on the ends of their leashes, I breathe in the fresh smell of spring or the cold air of winter. I listen to the birds chirping in the trees. I take note of the shadows of naked tree branches outlined in moonlight on the asphalt. I think about what lies ahead for me today, or reflect on what already happened. Another reason I love to walk my dogs is because it makes me feel more connected to my neighborhood. You can observe and notice so much more walking than you can driving. Because of my walks, I know what neighbors drive what cars, have what dogs, live in what houses, work what jobs, have what kids, love what sports teams. I can even tell you when some of them get up in the morning or leave for work each day. Walking gives me the luxury to notice these things and to meet these people. I just love when I am out and about and someone in the store or at the post office or at the restaurant recognizes me simply because she has seen me walking my dogs in the neighborhood.
2. Running. I used to hate running. I really thought it was just for people who thrived on physical pain. I simply could not understand why anyone would voluntarily submit herself to such grueling torture. Now, though, there are many reasons I run. One reason, I think, is actually because I used to hate it. I would never have expected myself to be a runner -- and I love contradicting expectations (this will be evident in much of the rest of my list). It makes me feel free, alive, strong, capable. It lets me sort out my day, sort out my thoughts, get away from the rest of the world for a bit. I prefer to run outside, so I can enjoy the weather, the breeze, the sun, the drizzle, the birds, my music, the feel of snowflakes melting on my skin, the sound of tennis shoes on pavement. It is a simple release. Running has also proven a great way for me to spiritual strides.
3. Writing. I don't get to write as much as I'd like to, but I do honestly love it. There is nothing like stringing together just the right combination of words so that they express just what you were feeling or thinking. A poet I read in high school compared it to the feeling a baseball player gets when he feels and hears the smack of the ball in his glove. (Actually, I remember thinking the poem as a whole was kind of crappy -- but that comparison has always stuck with me for its accuracy.) I write for just that instant -- that instant where the words become the true emotion -- or at least the truest form expressible in words.
4. Mountain Biking.
5. Going to Pony Pasture and/or the Beach. Who doesn't like this? I get to relax, be outside, read, write, sleep, swim, think, appreciate the beauty and grace and originality of nature.
6. Reading my students' journals. Of all the writing assignments I give my students, my favorite ones to read are their journal entries. Through their journal entries, I learn more about who they are, what they want, what they think, etc.
7. Doing things ahead of time. Case in point: I have already started my 2011 Christmas letter. I have already made the yearbook ladder for the 2012 yearbook. I have already made tentative lesson plans for the 2011-2012 school year. I have made meal plans for at least the next week -- sometimes I even know what's for dinner in two weeks. You see, I have always been relatively Type A, and of all the things I am sure my seventh grade science teacher attempted to teach me, this is what I remember the most (aside from drawing rotten fish meat infested with maggots to illustrate something having to do with the Scientific Method): Never ever put off until tomorrow what can be done today. If you find yourself with spare time today, start on any of tomorrow's activities that can reasonably be started today. I pretty much live my life by this philosophy. Sometimes I even make all my lunches for the week on Sunday night so that I won't have to worry about it Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday night.
8. Volunteering. I love the feeling of giving. "Freely ye have received, freely give." There is nothing more rewarding or fulfilling. Currently, I volunteer at the Richmond Animal League (RAL) every other Friday and I simply love it.
9. Shooting at the shooting range. Sometimes this terrifies me, but that is part of why I love to do it. In addition, it is an activity no one would peg me to like or be any good at (which often I am not; I am not very consistent in my talent for this sport). Plus, it is empowering.
10. Going to church. The sense of calm, guidance, protection, and confidence I gain from going to church to support my spirituality is priceless.
Of course there are many more activities, I like, but this is getting maybe a little long. Like I said last week, I am a wind bag. So, let us move on.
List of Activities I Don't Exactly Love:
1. Bathing my dogs. They hate it. I feel like they think I am punishing them every time I give them a bath. In addition, it makes a huge mess. Water, mud, and dog hair end up everywhere: the floor, the wall, the bathroom rug, my clothes, the towel. It's just an all-round not-fun activity, albeit somewhat amusing.
2. Riding rollercoasters. I can actually do this if the coaster isn't too tall -- but usually it is.
3. Cooking dinner. I don't exactly dislike this, but it's just a chore -- and I much prefer the eating to the cooking.
So, my question for you, as you know is this: What activities define you? Who are you?
Which brings me to my next query: How did you get here?
Earlier this week (maybe it was yesterday or the day before), I was waking my dogs when I glanced down at one of them and this notion -- hard to put into words but something like this -- occurred to me: Is that my dog? This question -- the answer to which seemed so logically to be yes -- was followed by a slew of others. Is this my neighborhood? Is that my house? Is this my life? I have had similar experiences before. Once, when I was 14, I was sweeping the lobby in the McDonald's where I worked when I was suddenly struck with the concept that I was, indeed, sweeping a lobby in a McDonald's -- that this really was me and my job and my life. I had to stop sweeping and momentarily lean on the broom to ponder the revelation. It is otherworldly really, out-of-body -- I would almost compare it to deja vu except it is almost the exact opposite notion. Instead of feeling shocked because I feel so strongly I have been here before, I find myself shocked that I am here at all. For a single moment, my own life seems to me novel -- like it belongs to someone else. It reminds me of that Talking Heads song (which, like the poem I mentioned before, I don't really like as a whole, though I can appreciate the sentiment it none-too-eloquently relates) -- "Once in a Lifetime." Something about how you might ask yourself how you got here and is that your beautiful wife and is that your big car or house.
I wish I had some smack-in-the-baseball-mitt conclusion for you today, but I don't. There are far too many directions I could go with a final moral or lesson or theme here. As it is, I have tried to fit too much into one blog entry. But perhaps I have given you some things to consider. Who are you? And how did you get here?
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Chance Encounter: My Last First Kiss
So, it's been a while.
Just two posts and I lost my mojo, as they say. This whole blog thing isn't the same as keeping a diary, which, I find is both easier and harder to write for the same reason -- no one will read it.
This afternoon and evening, I could not rest until I wrote something. Anything. I found myself wishing I didn't have to wait until June 3 for my next graduate course to begin. Found myself wishing someone would give me something to write about. So, Kara Eller, a fellow English teacher, did just that. "What's your most interesting accidental encounter? Go."
This, of course, is not an easy question to answer. After a momentary paralysis of memory, encounters I hadn't thought about in years surfaced for contemplation. There is the woman I met at the grocery store last Wednesday. Freshly widowed. On food stamps. Talked to me about everything because I was listening. There is the man I met (at the same grocery store) who remembered not only my face, but also my name, from a class we took together over a year ago.There was the war veteran (same grocery store... This is getting weird) sitting unassumingly on his little whirring electric grocery store wheelchair, perplexed by the self-checkout lanes. Other customers rushing around him. Not noticing. So busy. Too busy. Places to go, places to be. (I've already written an essay about him, though, so writing about him here would be cheating the assignment in a way.) There is my best friend. We were both lost when we met -- but I've written about that, too. I could talk about the girl I met at the river, whose husband my husband then met while buying and selling items on Craig's List. I could talk about the girl I met at the last race I ran, and how we always seem to be where we are most needed. But that is too fresh. Too recent. Haven't yet had adequate time to reflect on it.
So, here is where the real blog entry begins. Where I actually address the assignment Kara gave me. (I'm a windbag, aren't I? If you don't think so yet, just look at how long this entry is.)
Before you read this, consider it a rough draft and remember I churned it out in one sitting and already think it's crap in terms of writing -- but is probably good at least for some entertainment. I have spent so many years simplifying the story for the sake of telling it, that fleshing it out isn't as easy as I'd like.
"I have this manager at work, Amanda, who you would think was so cute," said my sister Anne one summer several years ago. "But he has a girlfriend."
I had a boyfriend. Didn't give it a second thought. Besides, single or not, this manager lived in Virginia and I was only here for the summer. In August, I'd be back in Michigan.
Several months, 32 credits, a first love and heartbreak later, and I was back in Virginia for spring break. The store where my sister still worked was having its spring sale. My mom offered to take me shopping. Not only would I receive the sale price, but I would also be able to take advantage of my sister's employee discount. So, to the mall we went.
I chatted with my sister. Spent some time in front of a mirror in the dressing room. Eventually settled on a couple pairs of pants and some shirts. Made my way to the disappointingly long lines at the checkout register. Disappointing, that is, until I happened to glance up and see the boy working the register. Red T-shirt. Tattoo peeking out from one sleeve. Skinny. Shaggy brown hair. I could wait. It would be my turn eventually, and I planned to take full advantage (I have no idea how; I just know I felt confident that this encounter would be a positive one).
But then it didn't happen.
I was just one person shy of my turn for his attention when a girl I had known from high school opened up the register next to his.
"I can take the next customer."
That was me.
She rang me up, we exchanged happy pleasantries and I was on my way. Didn't give it a second thought.
Until my sister came home. Then I remembered.
"Anne," I said, "who was that boy working the register?"
"In the red shirt? That's Matty. He's the one I told you about."
She had been right. I did think he was "so cute."
"He asked about you, too," she said.
And then the butterflies. The last time I had felt this -- well, giddy, really -- was right before I had fallen in love the first and (so far) last time (which was right before I got my heart broken the first time).
"Well, next time you work together, tell him I said -- hi." (Because I am that smooth.)
So, she did. And the next time she came home from work, she had this message for me:
"Matty says hi."
This went on for about a year. Sometimes, Anne would call me in Michigan to let me know Matty said hi. Sometimes, she would send e-mails on his behalf. When I went home for winter break, I went to "visit Anne at work," a convenient euphemism. Generally, she would tip me off as to what his schedule was and I would show up on the pretense of visiting her. Once, she even set up a mock shoe fitting to try to force us to actually talk to each other -- instead of using her as our middleman. Matty and I stood there in the shoe section, awkwardly looking at each other. I think we might've gotten as far as hi before one or the other of us got too uncomfortable and found a way out of the situation.
So, another several months of "Matty says hi/Amanda says hi" continued, like a long-distance game of peek-a-boo. Then, Matty got transferred. So, no more hellos. I shrugged it off, but was inwardly disappointed. I'd get over it.
I went home for the summer. This would be Anne's last summer at the store. She would be leaving for her first year of college soon. Her last day was set to be just a week or two before I would head back to Michigan for my last year of college.
She came home that day -- her last day -- smiling.
"Matty says hi," she said.
I looked at her, a little puzzled. Hadn't he switched stores? Hadn't we said our last hello? (Today it occurs to me -- we had always only said hi; never goodbye.)
"He called my store today. On my last day. He happened to call my store. I happened to be the one who answered. I told him he had to call you and I gave him your number. I told him he better call you fast, because you go back to school in two weeks."
I didn't expect him to call.
He called the next day.
We planned a date and I started to get nervous. This whole saying hi through Anne thing had been so nice and fun. What if an actual date ruined the sweetness of the simple hellos? What if it left a bad taste in our mouths and turned what would otherwise have been a sweet little memory into something to be forever repressed? Well, the plan was made, anyway. Too late now.
A few days later, I dressed myself in a pair of jeans I had bought the first day I saw Matty and T-shirt. Not too flashy. I didn't, after all, want to give him the idea that I needed to try to impress him.
My sister did not approve of my choice.
"Aren't you going out with Matty tonight?" she said.
"Yes."
"You want to borrow some clothes for me?"
I ended up in a short black skirt and a lacy black tank top. Before I left, Anne said,
"Matty would make a great brother-in-law." She's always been subtle. A few weeks after our first date she said, equally as subtly, "No pressure or anything, but if you marry Matty, it will make my life."
Matty and I met for dinner at a Mexican restaurant. He ate his first tomato (I'm serious; before our first date, Matty had never eaten a tomato). He dabbled his fork in guacamole and touched it to the tip of his tongue. He had never tried guacamole either. He liked neither the tomato nor the guacamole, but I guess he must've enjoyed me well enough, because when we stood up from dinner, he offered dessert. We found ourselves at the Cheesecake Bistro, where we ordered two over-sized desserts (cheesecake sundae and brownie sundae). We ate until we both thought we might barf, which is not desirable on a first (or any) date, and then I went home. The next time we saw each other, we shared our first kiss. I doubt either of us knew it in that moment, but that first kiss would be the last first kiss either of us would ever share with anyone. Just four months after our first date, at Maymont Park in Richmond, Matty proposed. Since then, I have dragged him all over the country and across the Atlantic Ocean. He likes to joke that I made him chase me all over the world before I stayed still long enough for a wedding. Now, both restaurants of our first date are closed. It used to make me sad. The first time we went to the Mexican restaurant was also the last time. But then it occurred to me: That's okay. That date was the first and last time I ate there, but that's appropriate. It was the dinner I ate at that restaurant that lead to my last first date and my last first kiss.
Just two posts and I lost my mojo, as they say. This whole blog thing isn't the same as keeping a diary, which, I find is both easier and harder to write for the same reason -- no one will read it.
This afternoon and evening, I could not rest until I wrote something. Anything. I found myself wishing I didn't have to wait until June 3 for my next graduate course to begin. Found myself wishing someone would give me something to write about. So, Kara Eller, a fellow English teacher, did just that. "What's your most interesting accidental encounter? Go."
This, of course, is not an easy question to answer. After a momentary paralysis of memory, encounters I hadn't thought about in years surfaced for contemplation. There is the woman I met at the grocery store last Wednesday. Freshly widowed. On food stamps. Talked to me about everything because I was listening. There is the man I met (at the same grocery store) who remembered not only my face, but also my name, from a class we took together over a year ago.There was the war veteran (same grocery store... This is getting weird) sitting unassumingly on his little whirring electric grocery store wheelchair, perplexed by the self-checkout lanes. Other customers rushing around him. Not noticing. So busy. Too busy. Places to go, places to be. (I've already written an essay about him, though, so writing about him here would be cheating the assignment in a way.) There is my best friend. We were both lost when we met -- but I've written about that, too. I could talk about the girl I met at the river, whose husband my husband then met while buying and selling items on Craig's List. I could talk about the girl I met at the last race I ran, and how we always seem to be where we are most needed. But that is too fresh. Too recent. Haven't yet had adequate time to reflect on it.
So, here is where the real blog entry begins. Where I actually address the assignment Kara gave me. (I'm a windbag, aren't I? If you don't think so yet, just look at how long this entry is.)
Before you read this, consider it a rough draft and remember I churned it out in one sitting and already think it's crap in terms of writing -- but is probably good at least for some entertainment. I have spent so many years simplifying the story for the sake of telling it, that fleshing it out isn't as easy as I'd like.
"I have this manager at work, Amanda, who you would think was so cute," said my sister Anne one summer several years ago. "But he has a girlfriend."
I had a boyfriend. Didn't give it a second thought. Besides, single or not, this manager lived in Virginia and I was only here for the summer. In August, I'd be back in Michigan.
Several months, 32 credits, a first love and heartbreak later, and I was back in Virginia for spring break. The store where my sister still worked was having its spring sale. My mom offered to take me shopping. Not only would I receive the sale price, but I would also be able to take advantage of my sister's employee discount. So, to the mall we went.
I chatted with my sister. Spent some time in front of a mirror in the dressing room. Eventually settled on a couple pairs of pants and some shirts. Made my way to the disappointingly long lines at the checkout register. Disappointing, that is, until I happened to glance up and see the boy working the register. Red T-shirt. Tattoo peeking out from one sleeve. Skinny. Shaggy brown hair. I could wait. It would be my turn eventually, and I planned to take full advantage (I have no idea how; I just know I felt confident that this encounter would be a positive one).
But then it didn't happen.
I was just one person shy of my turn for his attention when a girl I had known from high school opened up the register next to his.
"I can take the next customer."
That was me.
She rang me up, we exchanged happy pleasantries and I was on my way. Didn't give it a second thought.
Until my sister came home. Then I remembered.
"Anne," I said, "who was that boy working the register?"
"In the red shirt? That's Matty. He's the one I told you about."
She had been right. I did think he was "so cute."
"He asked about you, too," she said.
And then the butterflies. The last time I had felt this -- well, giddy, really -- was right before I had fallen in love the first and (so far) last time (which was right before I got my heart broken the first time).
"Well, next time you work together, tell him I said -- hi." (Because I am that smooth.)
So, she did. And the next time she came home from work, she had this message for me:
"Matty says hi."
This went on for about a year. Sometimes, Anne would call me in Michigan to let me know Matty said hi. Sometimes, she would send e-mails on his behalf. When I went home for winter break, I went to "visit Anne at work," a convenient euphemism. Generally, she would tip me off as to what his schedule was and I would show up on the pretense of visiting her. Once, she even set up a mock shoe fitting to try to force us to actually talk to each other -- instead of using her as our middleman. Matty and I stood there in the shoe section, awkwardly looking at each other. I think we might've gotten as far as hi before one or the other of us got too uncomfortable and found a way out of the situation.
So, another several months of "Matty says hi/Amanda says hi" continued, like a long-distance game of peek-a-boo. Then, Matty got transferred. So, no more hellos. I shrugged it off, but was inwardly disappointed. I'd get over it.
I went home for the summer. This would be Anne's last summer at the store. She would be leaving for her first year of college soon. Her last day was set to be just a week or two before I would head back to Michigan for my last year of college.
She came home that day -- her last day -- smiling.
"Matty says hi," she said.
I looked at her, a little puzzled. Hadn't he switched stores? Hadn't we said our last hello? (Today it occurs to me -- we had always only said hi; never goodbye.)
"He called my store today. On my last day. He happened to call my store. I happened to be the one who answered. I told him he had to call you and I gave him your number. I told him he better call you fast, because you go back to school in two weeks."
I didn't expect him to call.
He called the next day.
We planned a date and I started to get nervous. This whole saying hi through Anne thing had been so nice and fun. What if an actual date ruined the sweetness of the simple hellos? What if it left a bad taste in our mouths and turned what would otherwise have been a sweet little memory into something to be forever repressed? Well, the plan was made, anyway. Too late now.
A few days later, I dressed myself in a pair of jeans I had bought the first day I saw Matty and T-shirt. Not too flashy. I didn't, after all, want to give him the idea that I needed to try to impress him.
My sister did not approve of my choice.
"Aren't you going out with Matty tonight?" she said.
"Yes."
"You want to borrow some clothes for me?"
I ended up in a short black skirt and a lacy black tank top. Before I left, Anne said,
"Matty would make a great brother-in-law." She's always been subtle. A few weeks after our first date she said, equally as subtly, "No pressure or anything, but if you marry Matty, it will make my life."
Matty and I met for dinner at a Mexican restaurant. He ate his first tomato (I'm serious; before our first date, Matty had never eaten a tomato). He dabbled his fork in guacamole and touched it to the tip of his tongue. He had never tried guacamole either. He liked neither the tomato nor the guacamole, but I guess he must've enjoyed me well enough, because when we stood up from dinner, he offered dessert. We found ourselves at the Cheesecake Bistro, where we ordered two over-sized desserts (cheesecake sundae and brownie sundae). We ate until we both thought we might barf, which is not desirable on a first (or any) date, and then I went home. The next time we saw each other, we shared our first kiss. I doubt either of us knew it in that moment, but that first kiss would be the last first kiss either of us would ever share with anyone. Just four months after our first date, at Maymont Park in Richmond, Matty proposed. Since then, I have dragged him all over the country and across the Atlantic Ocean. He likes to joke that I made him chase me all over the world before I stayed still long enough for a wedding. Now, both restaurants of our first date are closed. It used to make me sad. The first time we went to the Mexican restaurant was also the last time. But then it occurred to me: That's okay. That date was the first and last time I ate there, but that's appropriate. It was the dinner I ate at that restaurant that lead to my last first date and my last first kiss.
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 Above Top: Matty and I on one of our first dates, August 2005.  |
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Thinking on My Way to Work
These are two lessons I have learned since beginning this blog: First, I am more private a person than I realized. Second, you can never tell your whole story – even if you did happen to want to. Not in a blog, not in a poem, not in an essay or a memoir. Each time we write, each time we speak, each time we introduce ourselves to someone new, we are employing only a portion of ourselves – a persona appropriate to the situation. Genuine, yes – hopefully. Entire? Whole? No. We cannot possibly be everything that we are at all times. Read any one of my dozens of essays, hundreds of poems, thousands of letters or e-mails – and you may, but more likely may not, be able to tell that they were indeed composed by the same individual. To be sure, there are certain elements and characteristics of my writing easily identified as “my style” – a love of the dash and of parentheses, a sparse use of dialogue, a distinct rhythm and variety of sentence structure. But the voice, the tone, are dependent on the piece. So, certainly, our full individuality cannot breathe within the confines of a single blog – however comprehensive. Nor can we fully convey ourselves on a Facebook page – regardless of how many thousands of pictures we post, how many hundreds of virtual friends we have, how many times a day we update our statuses to reflect each fleeting thought or circumstance.
We pick and choose which part of ourselves we portray for each venue in which we perform. Here, I am Professional. Here, I am Wife. Here, I am Daughter or Friend or Sister. And I will act accordingly, to the best of my understanding of the role. And each of us has a different understanding of what it means to be Wife, Father, Employee, Neighbor. Not one of us will interpret the role in the same way.
Just as we pick and choose which part of ourselves we will express for each circumstance we encounter, we have also, however unconsciously, adopted specific personas for each of our digital modes of expression. We have constructed a certain voice for the recording on our voicemail. I have recorded and re-recorded my voicemail message multiple times, each time listening intently to my own voice to decide whether I approve or disapprove of the way I sound – the impression I might give to anyone who calls (silly, really – most people that call me know me already, anyway), thus determining whether to save or re-record the message. Generally, I do this until I feel embarrassed for doing it and settle for the most recent recording – probably not too different from the original. Similarly, we have constructed a persona for our Facebook page or our MySpace page (I never got into MySpace). We decide which pictures to post – and which never to post. We try to portray ourselves as witty or intellectual or spiritual or deep or fun.
We have a perpetual need to express ourselves, to assert our individuality. We do it through bumper stickers, through flags waving from front porches, through hair-dos and clothing and T-shirts with messages scrawled across the fronts.
We hunger for recognition, attention, acknowledgement. I am interesting! we scream. I am different! I am here!
And yet – there is much we choose not to expose. Much we keep hidden. Even those who know us best don’t know it all. Some may know most – may know everything we are willing to reveal. But even the most extroverted among us has a quiet side, a peaceful side – a side just for herself. Who we are when we are alone – is that our most genuine self? I don’t know.
What I do know – what I think I know (because what do I know, really?) is this: None of us ever tells our whole story. I’m not sure anyone really wants to.
Even though that would be the perfect conclusion to this posting – I want to add one more thing. The people I love best to be around are the people who best know me – and somehow still want to be around me. Let me say this: The people who know me best are the people who love me best. And that’s a pretty amazing, comforting thing. They are my mom, my dad, my sisters and my brother. My husband and my best friends. They know the good parts of me – and they know most of the parts I would probably hide if I could. And they love me anyway. I do not have to put on a show. I do not have to decide which persona to put on. They love me no matter which one I am wearing.
And by the way, if the concept of creating personas and identities to present to the world interests you – go watch Catfish. And read some Vivian Gornick. Take a class on memoir or personal essay or creative nonfiction. Meet someone you first saw from afar. Look at the Facebook profile of someone you thought was respectable, and find out how she portrays herself on-line. Challenge your perception of someone. Challenge your first impression.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Paralysis: The Beginning
I've decided to start a blog. I don't know why. I don't know if I'll even keep up with it. But here I am, and here I go. The first entry. Will there be another one? In all honesty -- I have absolutely no idea. Will I provide you with any insight, any wisdom? Don't know that either. Don't really know how one starts a blog at all, to be honest, much less maintains it. I once read -- and in fact I have posted on the bulletin board in my classroom a quote pertaining to this -- that not knowing where to begin is a common form of paralysis and one should simply begin anywhere. Good advice. Let's begin.
I never really wanted to start a blog. I prefer my diary. I've been keeping one since third grade. I have several cardboard boxes full of them. But my sister is keeping a blog right now. She's doing it because she is doing something exciting: living in Germany and traveling around Europe. I guess I'm doing it because I have extra time on my hands tonight. A rarity. Maybe it will help me write. Maybe it will provide fodder for a future essay or story or poem. Any writing is good writing. The catch is, unlike my sister, I am not doing something exciting right now. I get up. I read a section of the Bible lesson. I walk my dogs. I go to work. I run. I walk my dogs. I cook dinner. I kiss my husband goodnight. Pleasant. Satisfying. Not exceptional. Not a reason to keep a blog necessarily. Still, perhaps it is the mundane nature of this blog that will make it appealing. We are, after all, just normal people with normal lives. Normal people are often the most surprising ones, though, aren't they? Everyone is spectacular. You just have to find out how.
Starting a blog is a funny thing. I now find myself wrestling with a fear I would not otherwise face: What if no one reads my blog? What if I write entry after entry to learn simply this: that I am uninteresting?
Are blogs supposed to be introspective, or should I use this space to tell a story? Does my blog need to have a unified focus, or can I randomly write at will and according to my wims? Does it matter? It is my blog. You can read it. Or not. But I guess in some way I hope you will.
Here is one good reason to keep a blog: Perhaps it will help prevent me from thinking in terms of my Facebook status. A blog is a place to say more than just a witty phrase, more than just a catchy quote. Don't get me wrong, that status is one of my favorite aspects of Facebook, but I did feel rather pathetic when, one day in December or January, I realized that multiple times a day, I gave thought to what my status should be -- that in some way, I cognized my actual status by what I could post on my Facebook status.
I have no good conclusion for this post. I suppose, though, that if I can begin anywhere, I can also end anywhere. Until next time, then. If there is one.
Amanda Sue*
I never really wanted to start a blog. I prefer my diary. I've been keeping one since third grade. I have several cardboard boxes full of them. But my sister is keeping a blog right now. She's doing it because she is doing something exciting: living in Germany and traveling around Europe. I guess I'm doing it because I have extra time on my hands tonight. A rarity. Maybe it will help me write. Maybe it will provide fodder for a future essay or story or poem. Any writing is good writing. The catch is, unlike my sister, I am not doing something exciting right now. I get up. I read a section of the Bible lesson. I walk my dogs. I go to work. I run. I walk my dogs. I cook dinner. I kiss my husband goodnight. Pleasant. Satisfying. Not exceptional. Not a reason to keep a blog necessarily. Still, perhaps it is the mundane nature of this blog that will make it appealing. We are, after all, just normal people with normal lives. Normal people are often the most surprising ones, though, aren't they? Everyone is spectacular. You just have to find out how.
Starting a blog is a funny thing. I now find myself wrestling with a fear I would not otherwise face: What if no one reads my blog? What if I write entry after entry to learn simply this: that I am uninteresting?
Are blogs supposed to be introspective, or should I use this space to tell a story? Does my blog need to have a unified focus, or can I randomly write at will and according to my wims? Does it matter? It is my blog. You can read it. Or not. But I guess in some way I hope you will.
Here is one good reason to keep a blog: Perhaps it will help prevent me from thinking in terms of my Facebook status. A blog is a place to say more than just a witty phrase, more than just a catchy quote. Don't get me wrong, that status is one of my favorite aspects of Facebook, but I did feel rather pathetic when, one day in December or January, I realized that multiple times a day, I gave thought to what my status should be -- that in some way, I cognized my actual status by what I could post on my Facebook status.
I have no good conclusion for this post. I suppose, though, that if I can begin anywhere, I can also end anywhere. Until next time, then. If there is one.
Amanda Sue*
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