Lessons from a Bathroom Attendant

“But, we have this treasure in jars of clay … We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

2 Corinthians 4:7-9

The most populous city in the United States, New York City, hosts some of the most diverse and interesting people. I never imagined I would be living there. But, I am happy I did. You thank God for putting certain people in your life. I thank God for Joe.

I had traveled half way around the world and delved in exotic cultures where incense burned in reverence for Buddhist gods; vibrant tapestries and ornate light fixtures adorned vendors’ booths in bazaars; men sat around low couches smoking shisha from hookahs where grey velvet strands of smoke would move through the air like a belly dancer in slow motion and its smooth, cool smells of various fruits like melon and apple enveloped the senses like opiates to the soul; and where chickpeas, lebneh, baba ganoush and other creamy dishes laid across large platters with beveled edges.

Despite all the worldly exposure I received from my travels, I realized how uncultured I was when I stepped outside of my apartment and into the streets of New York City for the first time. No amount of traveling or schooling could prepare anyone for a place like the City. It is a world within this world and there is no other place that mirrors its fast-paced, secular culture.

Babel

The city is a place where millions of people traverse through the streets and underground tunnels. A rich excess of languages, cultures and lifestyles resonate throughout its boroughs. People wear all kinds of attires and styles. Some carry briefcases and some carry guitars. Some wear suits while others wear graphic t-shirts and tattoos. Like high school, the city is segregated by cliques. To fit in, you must find your niche. If people of the world were to rebuild the Tower of Babel, New York City is where they would break ground.

Everyone who lives in the city is an émigré from somewhere whether it be a train ride from Jersey or a 15-hour flight from New Delhi. Like Mecca, New York City is a holy place where dreamers make the pilgrimage to fulfill aspirations. Actors, models, musicians and dancers in waiting are bartenders and waiters serving food and drinks. The goal? To pay rent just so they can act, model, perform and dance on the side.

Wall Street suits work around the clock chasing money, fortune and status. Fashion designers, writers and artists set their portfolios aside to fetch coffee, run errands and answer phones so that they can get past the security level where their iconic job lies. As for the rest, they migrate so as to have a better and freer life for themselves and their families. These are the taxi drivers, 24-hour bodega owners, street cleaners and other blue-collar workers. Among these subtle dreamers is Joe Williams.

Sodom and Gomorrah

The night I lost my virginity to the city I met Joe. It was a Thursday night and my boyfriend at the time was in town visiting me. We were watching a movie when Barrett received a phone call around 11 p.m. It was his cousin. Gage, the actor-performer-model-designer, wanted us to meet him. We changed clothes and hailed a taxi without a clue as to what we were about to encounter.

We stepped out of the cab and faced the backs of 50 people crowding a warehouse door where three large bouncers stood guard by a red velvet rope. Standing about 6 feet 4 inches tall, wearing jeans strategically tucked into brown leather boots, a black button down dress shirt, a thin red tie, a black leather gun-holster and a fedora, was Gage. He motioned for us to approach the rope, where unlike Moses, this sea of people was less than willing to part for us. We eventually made our way to the entrance.

As it turned out, we were entering one of the city’s most exclusive nightclubs known as The Box. Reminiscent of an old Hammerstein ballroom, the New Orleans-style theatre with a Persian staircase, a velvet-curtained balcony and extravagant chandeliers, hosts an array of performances. Each night there are three shows where circus acts, human oddities, European thespians and burlesque ballerinas seduce the audience. Each act—an aphrodisiac—attracts thousands to witness the carnal performances.

Inside, Euro-techno beats reverberated. As the curtains spread, people dressed as Darth Vadors were revealed. The beat changed and the Darth Vadors stripped off their capes, unveiling topless women wearing strap-on dildos who then gyrated in erotic motions. I had never seen anything like it.

Downstairs in the women’s lounge, there were cushioned benches in each stall and slanted footrests mounting the walls. Like the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, The Box was a place for the aroused to indulge in wanton pleasures. Once I heard moaning coming from one of the stalls, I ran out as if I was running from brimstone and fire. I retreated to the men’s room where an older gentleman dressed in a white dress shirt and black suit welcomed me. He was the bathroom attendant, Joe.

And There Was Light

“How good it is!” he said, with a tempo like you’d hear from a jazz musician in a 1920s cabaret. Lined across a table was an arrangement of candy, lotion, cigarettes and other complementary items. There was a tip jar, but I noticed only a few dollars in it. A man stepped out of a stall to wash his hands. The attendant handed the man a paper towel, but was shown no gratitude. Perhaps because I had a bit too much to drink, I spoke my mind toward this man’s lack of manners. The bathroom attendant chuckled and said, “If lovin’ you is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.” We exchanged handshakes and began to converse. I was there for over an hour. Joe was his name.

Juxtaposed with The Box, the contrast between the upstairs’ affairs and that of Joe’s presence was profound. I started frequenting The Box, not because of the infamous shows, but to see Joe. I don’t remember our initial conversations. I just remember the feeling I had when I would leave each morning. He was a kind man who always smiled. His expressions, like lyrics to a song, were simple, yet profound.

I moved to the City in fall 2008. It was a sultry season for dreamers where fear and cynicism seemed to be in vogue as the economic recession thickened. But that wasn’t Joe’s style. As I lost confidence in my ability to find a good job, he said, “If ya don’t swing the bat, ya can’t hit the ball, and that’s a fact!” Like always, he punctuated his words of encouragement with an expression, making me smile.

People from all over would stand in line for hours hoping for the chance to enter Pandora’s Box and its mysterious wonders. Yet, I chose to spend my time downstairs with Joe. Our time together reminded me of my father.

Because the city, “the city that never sleeps,” is in perpetual motion, its inhabitants never hear bedtime stories, stories that uplift and give inspiration for the next day’s arrival. But, I did. Every visit with Joe was like the times my father and I would sit on the back porch talking about life, love and family.

My father, a simple man, was a good-ole boy who came from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. He is grounded in a belief system centered on personal responsibility, respect for others and reverence for a higher power. To him, there are blessings as well as tribulations throughout life and making excuses or pitying oneself for the latter is outrageous. He is the logic in my life that redirects me when I begin to falter. I relish in the moments I have with him, but because of his work, I rarely get to see him. In New York, Joe helped fill that void.

Jars of Clay

I often tried to get Joe to tell me about him, but he was always reluctant to dispel personal stories. He was guarded. But, after some time he began to open up. What I discovered about Joe further bolstered my respect for him.

I asked Joe where he grew up. “Alabama,” he replied. As a Southerner, I was excited to discover something we shared. He didn’t share the same sentiment. Born in the 1940s, Joe witnessed and experienced racial discrimination. The civil liberties we know today were nonexistent in the Old South for African Americans. Challenging the status quo with ideas of equal rights often met with violence; lynchings were prevalent and the police, whom were supposed to be the guardians of the law, were feared.

He told me of his children and where he lived. I asked about his wife, but he never elaborated. I would invite him and his wife to my apartment for dinner, but he always declined. After some time, he mustered the strength to tell me she had left him because of his alcoholism. I was dumb-founded.

From the time spent with Joe, I would never have guessed his story. He had struggled with addiction and lost his wife in the process. As a result, he became homeless. On the streets, he was arrested and jailed. His story seemed like fiction. He was a recovering alcoholic who used to be homeless, yet he worked every night in a club where alcohol and drugs were pervasive.

His strength astounded me. He never explained how he ascended from the darkness, but he showed me something one day, a constant reminder of where he had been—his arrest record. He had been carrying it since the day he was released.

My eyes filled with tears. Joe put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Hey now, it’s all good. How good it is!”

Overworked, underappreciated, and alone, Joe remained positive. I never heard him complain or act afflicted. He lived with a confidence that no trial or tribulation could destroy you. I, too, believe that because of Joe.

After living in the City for a year, life’s compass directed me back to the South. I tried to keep in touch with Joe, but as time and distance grew, our conversations faded. I called to wish him a merry Christmas last year. We’ve not been in touch since.

Perhaps we’ll meet again in a dark bathroom lounge. But if not, I hope he remains well and that I, too, can instill hope in someone like Joe did for me. After all, like Joe said, “You don’t have to be a Rockafella to help a fella.”

The Story of Five Points' Mayor

We move through our days usually unaware of the moment when we cross paths with an individual that will prove to be a paramount figure in our lives. Perhaps it is cliché to say, but genuine friendships come in the most rare of forms. James ‘Stump’ Johnson was one of these people that unsuspectingly touched people.

To those that didn’t know him, he was just another poor black man with a loud personality, which to some was attributed to a drug addiction. However, he was more than that. He had his problems, but his charisma, wisdom, and appreciation for friendships far outweighed the ills he suffered. The degree of his impact was made evident after his passing last month when the Five Points community and others demonstrated an outpour of affection at his funeral and the fundraiser that was put on at Pavlov’s bar to help cover the expenses. To one man in particular, Ricky Mollohan, owner of Mr. Friendly’s, Cellar on Greene and Solstice, Stump was a friend, adviser, co-worker and family.

You knew Stump had entered the room when a loud and raspy “Allllriiighhhhttt” was heard. Stump was a “walking SNL skit,” Mollohan said. Almost all of his expressions, more like idiosyncrasies, could make anyone chuckle. Often, expressions of bewilderment and surprise painted the faces that had the chance to hear one his comments. During the late hours down at Pavlov’s, Stump would love to touch the kneecaps of girls he knew. It was a harmless act of affection. When people would ask him why he liked kneecaps so much, he’d quip, “cause you’re half way there!” To say the least, Stump entertained. It just came naturally to him. At Mr. Friendly’s and Cellar, when customers would get up to leave, he’d call out loudly, “Come again, bring a friend,” with great animation. Stump, who could go anywhere and fit in, became known as the ‘Mayor of Five Points’. Notoriously riding up on his bike, everyone recognized him and looked forward to being around him. In the four years that I knew him from working at Salty Nut Café, I don’t think that there was a single time that he didn’t bear a hearty smile, like one would if they hadn’t a problem in the world. But the truth was he did have problems.

James was a man that never had it easy, yet chose to live a life without excuses. Abandoned by his mother at the age of 2 in 1955, James grew up in Marion with his uncle, aunt and his father’s mother, Peggy Edwards. There, he attended Marion High School. Everyday after school, James would work in the fields and collect rent money from his grandmother’s tenants. However, he always took a little bit of time for himself.

Everyday, when he’d finish work, he’d head to the ‘Honey Hole’ to get a drink. The ‘Honey Hole’, which it was referred, was a street with a few houses where a couple of bootleggers sold liquor. It became the ‘Stump Hole’, because it was his spot. James began being called ‘Stump’ from the way he walked. He was a small man, only stood about 5 feet tall. But you wouldn’t think it with how he stomped the ground with every step he took.

James took care of the people he loved in an unburdened manner. He was compassionate. When his grandmother became ill, she was his priority. He would leave work and school everyday to make sure she was taken care of. James always had an innate desire to connect with people.

After she passed away, James moved to New Jersey to seek out his estranged mother. During those two years, he reconnected with her and discovered that he had a half-brother. However, it was also during this time that James became exposed to more than just liquor. It didn’t take long before James realized that the drugs had infiltrated his life. It became too much and decided to move back to Marion to escape the toxic environment.

In 1985, James and his friend Frances moved to Columbia. The people he initially met were poor and mostly vagabonds. They told him that he could make good money from panhandling from bar hoppers in Five Points, but he didn’t feel right about it. Instead, he worked and found housing in basements of friends’ homes. He was a maintenance man at the Howard Johnson off Interstate 26, near Piney Grove Road. Later, he ran errands for an auto repair shop. But the last 15 years of his life was spent working in Five Points for various bars. This is when James met Mollohan, who was working at Salty Nut Café.

For a while, James lived in the outside bar of Pavlov’s. During the day, he’d work at Mr. Friendly’s doing inventory and repairs around the restaurant. At night, he’d help close Pavlov’s, cleaning the bar and its bathrooms, re-stocking beer and other small duties. He worked hard, but he always got his night cap.

Sadly, James was set up in a system where he was bound to fail. He was poor - all of his life, but he made the most of it. He couldn’t afford housing, so health insurance was an outrageous luxury. He had diabetes, migraines, hearing loss, a massive ulcer and other illnesses. He couldn’t afford a bottle of aspirin – so when he was in pain, it was easier and cheaper to get high. The drugs would help numb the pain. However, the corrosive effects of his addiction and lack of medical treatment would surface later and cost him greatly.

James paid a price for his problems. He was often approached by police and taken to jail for drug possession. For his second arrest, James was walking up to Mr. Friendly’s for work, which was unbelievable to the officer, who proceeded to search him. After that, Mollohan started making James carry around his W-4 form for proof that he was employed. “Yeah, he was a drug addict, but he was walking to work. What was he going to do?” Mollohan said.

When Pavlov’s became managed by new ownership in 2008, Stump was made to leave his ‘home’. Mollohan, who had bought into Mr. Friendly’s upon his graduation from USC in 1999, offered him a place to live above the restaurant on Greene Street. He didn’t feel an obligation to help Stump, but rather a natural instinct to help out family in need. Mollohan knew that Stump's presence at his high-end restaurants and wine bars would stir remarks, but he knew that it didn’t matter.

He was a carpenter, electrician, and handyman. Laying bathroom tiles, repairing toilets and other plumbing needs, he liked to fix things. Alongside his responsibilities of making repairs and keeping up inventory, he was given the position, “Director of Transportation”. He was in charge of carrying boxes of wine out to people’s cars from the restaurant. He liked to make people happy and he was good at it.

Few people realized how smart he was, which always worked to his advantage when he’d challenge people to a game of chess. Most often, Stump was the victor. Mollohan said that James would watch the History channel all the time and would love for people to engage him in conversations about what he’d seen on the program. “He was incredibly wise,” Mollohan said.

Over the last 10 years, Sundays were Mollohan and Stump's day together. Stump would come over to Mollohan and his wife, Erica Tyner Mollohan’s house. They did their laundry, ate lunch, and ran errands. At places like Lowe’s, people would look at the two of them strangely. Mollohan would simply say, “Just takin’ Dad out for the day.” That’s how they came to see each other, like father and son.

Mollohan said that there were only two people in his life that he really cared to listen to – his grandfather and Stump. During Mollohan’s wedding rehearsal dinner, Stump gave a toast. The profound adoration that the two of them shared was evident.

The end was approaching for Stump and Mollohan could see it. After he was released from jail the third time, Stump began taking classes on Two Notch Road to help get sober. It seemed like Stump could sense that his time was coming, and he didn’t want anything to interfere in spending time with the people he loved.

Stump became more pursuant in contacting his family back in Marion. His uncle, W.T. Edwards, said that Stump began calling more often and would talk for long periods of time. His friend Frances, who had moved back to Marion after a few years living in Columbia, said that she got a call from him right before his birthday on Feb. 6. That was the last time she spoke to him before he died.

“He could never get caught up; his break was here [Mr. Friendly’s],” Mollohan expressed. As we spoke, he told me how people always commended him for his graciousness for giving Stump a place to live, speaking to him like he was doing something truly great. He looked to me and said, “I don’t feel like I did anything remarkable, he was my friend.”

“The only thing that I regret was not taking him to the doctor. I wish I had taken him to the doctor.”

After Stump died, Mollohan and others went to Stump's room to clean out his things to give to his family. They came across a box, which contained years’ worth of memorabilia that he had collected. There was a ticket stub from the Falcons – Saints football game he attended with Mollohan and others; napkins with short notes written to him; and the program from former Pavlov’s owner, Mark King’s wedding in Kiawah. Stump kept everything. Mollohan said that he wanted to remember everyone and everything in his life. He was always appreciative of those who cared for him. He often spoke affirmations of his gratitude to Mollohan, “You know, Boss Man, I appreciate everything you do for me, I really do.”

Stump had his problems. He wasn’t a saint. But the lessons he taught – they were humble yet profound. Mollohan, who described himself as “somewhat jaded in a sense” said that, “Stump made me tolerable around here [the restaurants].” During times when he was frustrated with employees or other work-related annoyances, Stump would remind him of the simple things. Stump would tell him not to be bothered because the person wasn’t worth the pain, or he’d say, “No, Boss Man, he’s one of the good ones.” With a twitch of a smile and seriousness in his eyes, Mollohan said:

“What Stump did – was he brought everyone down to ground level. He was a reminder of how we have it good.”

His death was felt by everyone that knew him. I must say, Five Points is not the same without him. I find myself sometimes looking around the parking lot of Salty Nut and Pavlov’s waiting for him to ride down the hill on his bike. His presence was undeniable and now with his absence – it is even more apparent.

Shades of Green

Fashion Outbreak: Shades Deepen from Chartreuse to Jade

Each morning I leave my Manhattan apartment knowing that I am about to escape the city’s noise and become unencumbered from its steady commotion. As I step onto the Brooklyn bound L train, I begin my journey to a place I’ve come to view as a haven. Once we depart from the First Avenue station, we begin to traverse through the East River and the train transforms into a portal. I emerge from underground and I am able to let go and exhale. I don’t know if there is actually a difference in the quality of air, but since taking on this internship within the green market, the air just seems so much cleaner.

I am transitioning into a more conscious individual, I must painfully admit that I fit the stereotype of being brand-crazed and overindulgent with my Coca- Colas and McDonald’s. I rarely recycle unless mandated and I usually keep the water running when I am brushing my teeth. During the winter, the heat must always be on and during summer, air-conditioning is on full blast. Needless to say, my awareness of the impact I create from my everyday “needs” has always been lacking.

The term “organic” was always a strange and foreign concept to me. I always thought that “going green” was something created by a bunch of overzealous tree-hugging hippies who never shaved. Their movement was merely an attempt to magnify what really takes place on this planet in order to scare people into changing the way they live their lives. I am embarrassed to be admitting this. However, what is worse than possessing this ignorance is the fact that I was reluctant to learn about it when I was given an opportunity.

When I moved to New York City, my roommate began working at an organic clothing boutique. I didn’t even know what that really entailed. I just figured that its target market were people with dreadlocks and Birkenstocks. In addition, I had another friend who was waiting tables at an organic café. I felt as though organic food was a concept of taking good food and removing all the good taste from it for the purpose of making it healthier. I had no interest in any of it. Little did I know that it wouldn’t be long before my eyes would open and I too would see that there was a reason why people were gravitating toward this eco-friendly development.

With the economy being less than hospitable, I became desperate for any kind of work. When my roommate forwarded an email to me, describing that one of the boutique’s vendors needed an intern, I immediately responded with great fervor. Despite the fact I couldn’t care less about the Green market, I felt that this would be a good opportunity to infiltrate into the fashion world. I was grateful and excited when I learned that I was accepted. I was neither aware of what exactly I would be doing nor did I realize how greatly it would influence my perspective.

The job was in Brooklyn and I would be working for the organic designer and business owner, Kee Edwards. At first, I was disappointed that I wasn’t going to be working for a designer such as Missoni or Burberry. Having studied fashion at various institutes, I ignorantly viewed fashion that was worthy of acclaim only in terms of Haute Couture with designers like Christian Dior or Ready-To-Wear designers such as Tracy Reese. If Anna Wintour didn’t publish it in Vogue or Mario Testino didn’t photograph it, I did not see it as luxurious or prestigious. However, the respect and admiration that I would soon cultivate for Edwards and her business would quickly surpass that of those designers I studied in school.

Each morning as I enter the studio, I am immediately attacked by Mooca’s excitement while Franz basks by the window without a care for my arrival. These are Edwards’ cat and dog. This is something I’ve become accustomed to as well as look forward to each morning. The studio is an open space that is enveloped by natural light. Like molecules that become aroused and begin to accelerate from heat, creative energy is stimulated and circulates throughout the space as the sun directs its rays upon us. The past two months have been an enlightening experience. My vision has been affected and everything around me seems to grow deeper in shades of green.

Along with her dog and cat, Edwards welcomes me each morning as she sits by her desk. We speak for a short moment and update each other on anything new going on. I’m given a few assignments that need to be completed and I make my way to my workspace. I know that it won’t be long before Heather will be joining us. Heather Heron is Edwards’ sister company and is based in Los Angeles. Like sisters that were separated at birth, the two of them seem to always be in sync. They have this innate ability to complement one another. Everyday, they communicate through iChat to discuss new ideas for the company. As I listen to Edwards converse, it becomes evident of how passionate and determined she is to see her business thrive.

Having grown up in Florence, South Carolina as the daughter of a tobacco farmer, Edwards developed a great appreciation for the land and the relationship between man and nature. After going to Paris to study fashion, she moved to New York to continue her education at FIT. It was there in New York where she began to work in the fashion industry. Escaping from the city’s skyline, Edwards and her husband moved to Miami, where she spent time enjoying and learning about plants. It became apparent that what was instilled in her as a child was awakened as she delved into a career as an urban green consultant back in New York. She aimed to bring green into people’s homes by creating stylish environments such as rooftop gardens. Overtime, Edwards began to explore other ways in which a green lifestyle could be expressed.

With her knowledge in fashion as well her dedication to environmentalism, Edwards began to look toward design in apparel. It was only natural that her desire to incorporate her passion for ecological responsibility and fashion would ripen into the beautiful line, Loup Charmant, which is created from pure organic cotton.

Having no prior knowledge of what organic meant, I had to inquire. I was fearful of her expression upon asking this question. However, she answered me without judgment. She simply replied that there are no pesticides or any other type of chemical used while growing the cotton. I thought to myself, what a simple concept. Why is it not used more often with cotton and other fibers? As time went on, I slowly became more aware of how simple and easy it is incorporate “green” into a number of things with just a little bit of conscious effort.

As Edwards and I spent more time together, we began to build a rapport with one another. Although she was my boss, I viewed her as a guide and an authority in a plethora of areas. She intrigued me. Like a younger sister looking to her elder, I felt as though I was constantly asking her questions about numerous things. I think I mostly asked about her life and the city. However, I distinctly remember one question pertaining to her line.

Her first collection, the PURE collection, is entirely white. Upon asking why she chose to only remain white, it was evident that the creative vision of the designer emerged through Edwards’ speech. She eloquently described how she viewed her first collection as a blank canvas in which she could build from. The garments, delicate in nature, are virginal and pure. As she spoke, I became inspired. I feel as though it is a reflection of all things at its origin. At the time of creation, where oceans separated and lands formed, the soil was fertile and produced pure vegetation. In the same way, with each new emergence of human life, we are welcomed into this world unadulterated. We are untouched and without scars.

Loup Charmant is French and is translated as The Charming Wolf. Edwards describes the spirit of the wolf as “stunningly beautiful, fierce protector, and loving guide”. Working alongside Edwards, I soon realized that she herself encapsulates Loup
Charmant. The free-spirited Edwards has a mystique about herself. Her presence is profound yet subtle. Her allure draws individuals with curiosity and anticipation. She brazenly takes on challenges and remains committed to her mission to bolster the movement of eco-friendly luxury goods. Her ability to transpire beauty through responsible and conscious means is galvanizing the shift of image pertaining to the green and organic market.

At the end of each day when the sun’s light begins to dissipate from the room, I gather my things, say my goodbyes, and make my way back to city and all its congestion. As I leave, my thoughts are consumed not with dinner or what I will do when I get home, but with what new things I will learn when I return. I never would have imagined that I would be involved in a movement such as this, nor would I have guessed that I would come to truly enjoy it.

As the green market expands, people are becoming more aware of the effects that their everyday lifestyles create. With people like Edwards, this movement is evolving into a more attractive choice. I am proud to be given an opportunity to help propel this motion. Individuals like Edwards are nurturing this infectious outbreak, which restores as it spreads. It is not a fad that will temporarily influence the masses. It is a trend, which I believe, will prevail for decades to come and will soon dominate the runways.

Universal Smile

“Chalo, Chalo, Chalo!” the girls yelled over and over again. They looked at me and directed me to say the same. I was astonished. I just reached Mumbai and had no idea as to where I was or where I could begin to find my way. As I sat outside the airport smoking a cigarette, contemplating my next move as to where to find my guesthouse, these two girls approached me. They were English and looking for a free smoke. The next thing I know, I am sharing a rickshaw with them through the slums of Mumbai to the train station. 

As we stood in line to get tickets, I felt tugging at my tee shirt. I looked down to see a young boy and girl. The boy had crusty mucus coming from his eyes and nose. They patted at their stomachs and then placed their hands by their mouths. That first moment before I could calculate the situation, I was dumbfounded that there were children before me begging for money. Then, like monkeys, they were grabbing at me and jumping around making noises. This is when the girls began to yell at the kids and told me to follow them closely and quickly to avoid the children. The boy and girl ran after me anyway. As I stood there waiting for the train to arrive I attempted to ignore the kids, but it was too difficult to not feel sorrow. It was obvious that they could not communicate through verbal language but rather gestures. I thought to myself, where is their mother? Why is she not here with them and why are they relying on me to provide them with food and money? This was something I knew nothing of. I was in awe.

I studied years prior in Italy and often witnessed gypsies and other types of beggars. They were mostly old, wrinkled, and covered with the street’s grime. They usually stole rather than begged. In America, old black men would rally the sidewalks and convenient stores, waiting for the perfect, sympathetic, naïve individual that would buy into their fantastic story of betrayal and illness that the government left them. Ultimately, they would scavenge enough money to buy them a quick fix whether it be crack or alcohol. This situation, young children with raggedly clothes, was something I was unfamiliar with and quite frankly disturbed. As the train approached, men hung out of the cars. They were all packed in like sardines. I feared the discomfort that I too would share. However, I was able to get on the train and left the children behind.

Once we got in the train car there was plenty of space. I noticed how the only people in the car were all women. At first I thought this was a coincidence but then I was informed that it was an example of how men and women remain segregated outside the home. The car looked like a prison cell. There were metal handles that swung from the ceiling as the car moved forward and bars that covered the small openings of windows.

A couple days passed and with that time, I became accustomed and unconcerned when other children came to me. It is sad that I was able to become so annoyed that quickly. I was unsympathetic and indifferent. I feel as though I wanted to transition as an experienced traveler rather than a gullible tourist. Therefore, I kept my eyes focused away from the women and children lying on the streets with blankets and no food. I felt as though I was accustomed to the everyday routine of the Indians. I made sure that I was dressed appropriately with my shoulders and legs covered. I remained quiet and unseen, and made every effort to blend in. However, despite my efforts, I stood out. No camouflage could shield me from the glares I received walking down the sidewalk. At first I thought it was because I was not dressed in traditional sarongs and other colorful dress pieces that the women wore. I also thought that it was because I had blonde hair and blue eyes that could not deter the looks I received. Then I realized. While my appearance was a factor, it was something greater. I was a woman. A woman, walking down the same street as all the other men in coats and ties, I was not in my place.

My desire was to be a phantom in their presence. To be there, yet unnoticed. It was my own ignorance to believe I could just reside in the blurred landscape where I could partake in their motion. When I began to travel, my desire was to go and see. I wanted to witness different cultures without being exposed. How was I to capture the vivid reality of their unique culture and lives when an alien stands amidst their own view? No genuine moment can cultivate when it is exposed to an unfamiliar subject. At least, that is what I thought.

I walked all day. And all day, men and boys stared at me. They seemed curious when they smiled and perplexed when they glared. At the end of the day, I walked to a restaurant to get a bite to eat. As I walked back to my hotel from a terribly disappointing dinner, I was once again faced with the undeniable truth of poverty. A young girl no older than seven or eight ran after me. Overly consumed with my own thoughts, I dismissed her. As I walked, she followed alongside me. I made no gesture that I was going to give her anything. Once I reached the hotel, I stopped by the gate to pull out a cigarette to smoke. She stopped in hopes it was to give her something. I sat down against the railing and she proceeded to walk on. Once she left, I felt remorse. I watched her as she walked away. I wanted another chance, another instance where I could change my actions and do something for her. To my surprise, she reached a tree and then turned back. She lingered for a moment and then made eye contact with me. I motioned for her to come back. She sat down next to me with anticipation and curiosity. I asked her what her name was but she quickly responded with a look of confusion. I realized she spoke no English. I did not have a clue how to speak to her, so I pulled out my journal and began to draw. I drew a flower and then gave her the pen. She then drew a flower. I sketched a drawing of her and then she tried to draw a picture of me. I looked at her as she smiled. It seemed as if it was the first time she felt like a child and could relish in a moment of mere innocence.

It was not long before men came to a halt and stood around us as she and I laughed together. It was like they had never seen something like it before. These men were just like the men earlier that day. They were dressed in their coats and ties but yet they just glared and kept moving. These men all stopped and watched in amazement. I made eye contact with one of the men. We smiled at each other and then he proceeded on his way. Soon the young girl signaled that she needed to leave as if she needed to make her quota for the day. I smiled. As she got up to leave I pulled out some money. I have no idea how much it was worth, but the look on her face made me feel as if I had just given a million dollars.

This was a day that remains with me. Although I don’t remember what she looks like, I hold onto that smile. I know that that moment in time was not significant in the way that her life would change, but perhaps she will remember the day when a stranger asked her draw a picture with her for no reason at all. Despite my efforts, I realized that I couldn’t just intrude into their lives without any notice. I would always be that strange foreign girl. But that was what made the difference. This world is full of unlikely friendships that help bridge the gap between cultures. For this reason, I can’t help but wonder if she will hold onto my smile, as I hold onto hers.

 

 

Dreams In Motion

As I look out my window, I watch people walking. They move in couples, solo, silent, or loud. They each have a destination, either to the metro, to the grocery store, pharmacy, or to the bar. Rarely do I wonder where or why these individuals migrate. But recently, I look down and think to myself, what is their dream? Everyone has some sort of aspiration and motivation for life. We each have a purpose and although these passions sometimes become neglected, each one of us has this idea or dream. Whether they are cultivated or abandoned, we each have one.

Our hope in this lifetime is to make the most of it and to surmount to our greatest potential. My hope is to extend my limitations and to broaden my coasts. I don’t feel as though I entered into this world with any great advantage, nor do I feel that I stand out in any greater than mere mediocrity with anything I have ever done. I never finished first or best. I am just average. A friend of mine once said that she felt I would become a wild success. That was five years ago at our high school graduation. Five years later, I wonder what she would say to me now.

Inspiration is the catalyst for change in this world. It is what propels us into desire and yearning for accomplishing something we believe is greater than ourselves. Right now, we live in a time where change is greatly needed. I need it. I am a self-proclaimed writer and currently find myself in a period of drought. I am trying to recapture the writer I once was. I need a muse. 

Drift

    Descent is the downward movement of self. It is thick and dark. All security is stripped away. All that is left is bare and exposed like the flesh of Adam and Eve upon their betrayal. As the inner body spirals downward a labyrinth of darkness, it is scorched. It becomes burned and scarred by the flames of disappointment, tragedy, and envy. Despair deepens. At its core, its heart, the night appears. It is when the sun sets and the light dissipates. It is the macabre existence where hope seems to have drowned in an abyss that is so deep it is beyond reach. The body’s eyes can open but its vision is blinded with the thick, inescapable black tar that consumes the night and envelopes the soul.

            You are submerged in the messy depths of descent and have made no attempt to struggle for air. You are in a state of paralysis and you just allow yourself to wallow in its directionless muck. What has happened to you that you’ve become so blasé? Life has jaded you.

            I saw you stumble. Blood ran down your wrists from the cuts but you acted as if you didn’t feel a thing. You kept moving. The pain you felt was like any other feeling. No more tears. Your eyes are in a drought and all natural human instincts to grieve have been depleted. They are now extinct. You don’t feel good or bad. You just don’t feel. Your senses have deadened and it is the numbness that keeps you alive.

            I saw you hate yourself. You have accepted all the lies that the world and everyone you have ever encountered have told you. It is all but an aberration, but to you, it is your reality. You only know and believe in this twisted perception. You are not good enough. You think he is disgusted. Your tongue tastes of cigarette smoke and your lips are rough. You are under his heavy body. You are inside his matter. You think that maybe your existence will be substantiated. He doesn’t even know your name. You are just a pit stop. Strange men enter you and fill your empty space with their dirty, unclean, pent up frustrations. He passes through you without strain because you are not held together strong enough to prevent yourself from being penetrated. You hate yourself.  

            You’re free falling, deeper and thicker into the heart of darkness. The singing Christians describe a god and his son who will save you. You believe this god is there but you cannot see him. You think that you are too dirty for God’s hands to touch. Not even God can pick up your broken pieces. The shards of glass are in too deep. You are without hope. You think that you are not worthy of any mercy and no light can ever penetrate through the depths of your night.

            You cannot stop moving. Never ceasing. There is never an idle moment out of fear of what will happen if you bring yourself to a halt. The men, the drugs, the lies, they are your fuel that generate your idea of existence. How do you not recognize that what is nourishing you is in fact your enemy. You are punishing yourself relentlessly. There is no slowing down. You cannot step off your moving train. It is moving too fast. You are dancing out of control.

            You have become so accustomed to this life. You’ve normalized the abnormal in which you have delved. Your eyes have adjusted to the night. You think that you are breathing in and out of your body but it is only nonexistence that fills your lungs. Void. Your thoughts are choppy, with no structure. They are fragmented, floating, dispersed. There is no direction. You know of no direction and are in need of a compass.

            You drift. You’ve set up camp in your own flesh but you do not inhabit it. I look for you, but you are no longer there. It is just an empty vessel. You gave yourself away a long time ago. Where have you gone? You can no longer distinguish among things such as time. Noon is the same as 4 a.m. There is nothing that is clearly defined. It is all blurred together, but you are indifferent and do not care.

            Descent. It is all around you. You have enfolded yourself in its brutality and coldness thinking that it is your security. You remain in its vast darkness. You are still drifting alone. No feelings. No importance. No worthiness. You have bared this. Your language cannot be translated and you are still alone. In your dark eyes the heart of the night lies. And you continue to drift. 

The Lovely Ugly - 4.15.03

A glass of water sits on my bedside table. As I go to take a sip, I notice particles of dust resting on the water’s surface. I think to myself how the dust that I see before me are only a few of millions of other particles floating in my room and entering my body as I breathe in each breath. Hairs in the bathroom. Dark. They find refuge on the shower walls, the floor, the counter, and the drains. They are snakes; slivering around as the water from the shower head runs over them. Crumpled items of clothing clutter the space in my room and I feel suffocated. The shadows that are with us and go without our notice. They lurch behind us; following our every move. They are our spies. On a beautiful and sunny day, scowling faces from squinted eyes roam the earth. When the beams of intense sunlight cascade down on us, we are forced to look away from its beauty and instead, our ugly expressions fill the landscape. His sweet and genuine smile that he made toward me for the first time in months created longing deep within me. A capsule that held my past emotions toward him broke open and my heart ached. I had no real remembrance of what it had been like until that crescent shaped smile and sincerity of the eyes directed its view toward me. And now, I recognize the absence of his name on my caller-ID. Trying to write with a completely dulled pencil and hearing the scraping of wood against the paper; going to take a refreshing sip of Coca-Cola from a Styrofoam cup and realizing there is only ice; and listening to a favorite song that turns out to be scratched and skips every other lyric invites disappointment into my soul. Receiving three legal size envelopes in the same day. Those strong and heart-wrenching words, “We regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you acceptance at this time.” The feeling of inadequacy. You’re not good enough. You have to pay the consequences of your biggest growing experiences of your life. Your hard work did you no good. The inescapable morning chills and its uncomfortable feeling while it seems that everyone else around me is content and warm. The glare of contempt from Wesley who four months ago was my best friend; catching glimpses of his online conversations with my younger sister and witnessing his infatuation with her grow while I sit back and feel the deterioration of our relationship uncoil. Nickels, pennies, crumbs, and hairs find shelter in the space between the console and seat of my car; dried, sticky Coke spots on its interior paneling; how the grunginess fills its space. The frustration I feel from this year. The ambition, will-power, motivation, and drive toward success and new experiences seem to have been worthless and moot; How I saw myself as being transparent this year, allowing myself to slip up and show the world all my short-comings. Instead, all of the world viewed me as a hypocrite; The coldness of my feet, despite the warmth of my surroundings and the rest of my body; Throbbing from this headache hovers over my eyelids and consume my attention; The next step in my life: college- freedom, independence, excitement, new experiences, new faces; or will it be nothing more than solitude, anxiety, confusion, and fear? Will I be unable to meet people and develop relationships that are equivalent to the true friendships I have already found? How is it that I have found such ugliness in these things? These are the things that I should allow to pass me by. It’s the river that carries me. Why do I keep hold of these rocks and place my attention toward them? 

Cultivation

“Writing is the axe that breaks the frozen sea within us.” Franz Kafka

We must cultivate our thoughts and feelings by extracting them from our minds and painting them onto paper. When we neglect to do so they become enslaved, chained and fettered in the barred cages of our minds. And after some time they begin to disintegrate and are soon forgotten until something of similarity crosses our vision’s path and awaken those deserted constructions of thought. 

Standing Alone

Through out my entire life I have always known that there is something distinctly different about myself. I am not referring to cute quirks. I mean that there has always been something about me that is quite eccentric. I have never fit in no matter where I would go. Growing up, I would strive to be just like the rest but something within me fought what was considered normal. Beginning with preschool it seemed impossible to make friends. I went to school in my smocked dresses and bows just like all the other girls. I had sun-kissed blonde hair and sweet blue eyes. From the exterior it seemed as though I would do just fine in an environment where every other girl was just like me. However, I always remained an outcast. Every memory I retain from my childhood has always been from a reclusive distance. The perspective from which I watched was always on the outside looking in. But looking back I feel as though if I had the chance to be apart of the scene that I was so accustomed to viewing I do not think that I would have done it. I think I would have rebelled. Like an immune system that fights off infections, I feel as though my inner self would have deflected any sort of normality in my life.

           

            I was six years old. It was one of my favorite kinds of days. We got to take turns to paint in the classroom. I loved any sort of activity pertaining to creating something. I think this is a characteristic my mother passed on to me. She is an amazing artist. Growing up I would sit beside her and watch with attentive eyes every stroke she would make. Whether it be with a pencil or paintbrush, I always sat in awe over the beauty that would slowly reveal itself with every stroke. When it came for my turn to stand in front of the large white paper I became filled with excitement. Perhaps the beauty that came from my mother’s hand would replicate itself onto my own canvas. My brush submerged itself in colors of teals, pinks, and purples. There was no concrete picture. I just allowed the brush to move in its own direction. I gave it permission to be free. Just like my mother, I was creating something of beauty and perfection and I was proud. But there was something missing. An intricate part of the painting had not evolved from my own movements. There needed to be something chaotic and without control. I immersed the color soaked bristles into a pool of water and with quick circular movements a spiraling funnel appeared. Taking the brush out, the small hurricane within the glass walls began to slow and then fade away. The brush knew what needed to be added. It found its way toward the container that had not been touched by any of the other kids. It dug its way into the thick tar-like blackness. I took my small fingers and began to flick its bristles. Large and small black dots splattered across the paper. They were finding their own place. I soon felt the hands of Mrs. Logan on my shoulders. She leaned over me and with a soft but firm voice conveyed that painting is not to be done in such a way. I waited for her to walk away before I started going at it again. I took the brush and again flicked the paint all over the paper. I made blunt slashes in the air so that the paint would jump from the brush onto the paper. Dashes and lines were made all over. Swirls and loops created themselves. More and more. I could see the energy from within me transfer onto the painting. It was alive and crazed. There was no direction and free. It had been liberated. I quickly felt those familiar hands once again on my shoulders but with a tighter grip. The brush was taken from my hand and placed in the jar with the rest. The same voice from before said my time was up and it was someone else’s turn.

            After each painting dried they were hung up in the classroom. As I was looking at all of them I realized that mine was the only one that stood alone. It was at the end of the row. No other picture was like mine. All the others had people, animals, and houses painted. Mine was different. But yet I liked mine the most. Once again, I found myself standing apart from all the others. My painting was like me. It stood on the outside and was looking in at all the others. It didn’t belong inside with all the others because it had broken all the rules. It was not orderly, clean, or proper. But regardless, it was content standing there alone.

 

 

 

 

Senses

The senses are the body’s means of communication with the rest of the world. While we are able to grasp and understand our surroundings by using these methods we often times we opt to be disconnected. We travel through our lives in disarray and confusion. We do not comprehend but yet do not ask questions and when we do, we do not search for the answers in the appropriate way; we are only able for the most part to see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. These are our bodies’ tools. They must be exploited in such a way that we can be in touch with our surroundings while unveiling the obscure beauty that lies before us.

Designating time to really take notice what my body already senses is an essential task. Today I will do just that. As I step out into Via del Giglio I can taste my morning’s breath. It is thick like a paste and has extended across my tongue. The cool crisp air tickles the grass like hairs on my arms and the chill spreads over my entire body. I can see ahead the glowing street where the sun has struck the earth and I yearn for its imminent warmth. I have anticipation like a race to be won and as I reach the finish line, I am struck with its sudden burst of warmth. Relieved and now calm my eyes wander down and are fixed upon a small Asian man crouched down under the protection of a vendor’s tarp. I wonder what it is that he is doing. He is unseen to many but yet he can see all. At that same moment a small dog, whose coat was probably once white but now shows grey from the aged cobblestones’ dirt, quickly trots across my path. Annoyed with the congestion in the street, he purposefully takes an alternate less busy route so that he can tend to his errands for the day. I begin to walk. Small chains dangle from a cart like dancers whose hips sway from left to right. A tray of what it seems like fifty wrist watches are aligned like a grid. I wonder, are they stopped? Like a Polaroid picture that captures one distinct moment in one’s life, have the hands on each face brought time to a standstill? Or do they in fact tell the time synonymously and in sync? Do their small batteries like human hearts beat harmoniously? Each watch is distinct in color, pattern, texture, size, and shape. Like people, their personalities too are unique. I reach a breaking point in the market and stop. My next place for probing is the grand market.

As I float through the vast labyrinth I find myself traveling without any direction. As I pass by each sector I feel as though I am immersed in an abyss where small treasures are hidden in its uncharted waters. As I delve deeper I come across a small eating area with its red painted floor and short green metal stools for sitting. They are slices of zucchini floating in tomato sauce. With this new discovery a sensation emerges, causing a crescent shaped grin to form across my face. The radio plays with its melody of conversations blurred and shoes pit-pattering across the hard concrete floor. My thoughts are interrupted as I realize I have fallen behind. I look ahead and a congregation of men whose faces are painted with smiles have their eyes set on me. It is as if they had been anxiously waiting for my own vision to become aligned with theirs. The moment has become a muted musical show. Awkwardness arouses inside of me and then transforms into a slight giddiness. I feel like a girl of eight years old again. As I quickly scurry through their eyes’ path, large plump vivacious colored grapes throw themselves at me. Although my eyes have become captivated with their seemingly desirous allure, my mouth only yearns for the explosion of taste that only cantaloupes can provide.

Subtly the feeling of hunger arose, in the same subtle manner in which it departed after my last meal and I need distraction so that I no longer fixate on my aching stomach. As I pivot my body I see only bags of multi-colored pasta hanging from hooks. I am reminded of childhood and visits to the grocery store with my mother. Down each aisle an array of cheap toys packaged in bags would hang above the shelves. I miss her. I have an inexplicable need for her right now. Again, I want distraction from my own thoughts in order to shun the sadness that I feel surfacing. I set my eyes on a large wooden Pinocchio doll. With his nose stretched out I wonder to myself how many lies has he told?

The time had come to depart from my explored territory. As I step out into the open street I am once again penetrated with the Aurora’s sweet touch. As I walk, her affectionate emission of warmth follows me. I keep falling behind despite my efforts to remain connected with the group. I can’t help but feel burdensome. However, right before I allow guilt to infiltrate I look down on Lorenzo’s steps and see a fat pigeon resting in the sun. She sits alone while all the other pigeons desperately rummage through the cracks in each stone for some speck of food. I cannot help but feel envy. I want to be the squatting pigeon. While all the others around her are too pre-occupied with the duties and responsibilities of the day, she sits there without a care and seems to be just absorbing the moment in which she rests. This is an instance of True beauty that is inviting us to communicate with it.

Henry David Thoreau eloquently declares that in order to be alive, one must be awake. I believe that he means for our every working sense to be utilized. When we converse with the world around us with our sight, touch, taste, feel, and smell the everyday becomes elevated. Objects in their most simplistic form evolve in the beholder’s eye as a priceless jewel. It is beauty unveiled and becomes exquisite. I have experienced that if I remain in conversation with my world around me my soul becomes enveloped in its richness. For as long as the sun travels across its domed path I can taste its sweet elixir of life. 

My God

It has been six days since I received this assignment. It should be something that I would be over zealous to write about, yet I find myself indulging in every other activity around me but this.

My god? Who is my god? I know Him so well, but like a long distance relationship, I find myself straying and becoming more and more estranged from him. I have become an adulteress to the one individual who has been a constant in my life - the one who has always remained faithful. Why do I continue to do this?

I find myself in despair and without hope; and, when I reach the hollow point of complete desperation, he reaches down to help me with my ascent back to the light. I reach a zenith where I can see clearly and can feel his constant presence. However, with every time I begin to allow my curious eyes to drift in descending directions, and as time slowly passes by the one whom has saved me from myself loses my once constant adoration, my eyes are no longer the only ones wandering.

The rest of my body follows. I navigate away from my sun. And like the day’s clock, I travel toward the night’s direction. I wait until I reach the thick sinister darkness before I allow him to pull me back up again. It is a perpetual cycle.

With tear-stained cheeks, I stand alone watching my friends form a circle. Connected to one another with their clasped palms, they begin to pray. I am dumbfounded by the idiocy of the moment. To whom are they praying? Did they not just witness what I, too, saw? There was no god in that act. No love, only hatred.

The feeling I have is rich with anger. A flashback of the past nine months presents itself before me in the forefront of my mind. With each event that inflicted its malevolent effect upon me, I sought out whom I thought was god. But, unlike my friends in their circle, I never felt His tender hand holding mine.

I was only fifteen. How could one possibly anticipate the bitter, harsh reality of death, destruction, loss of control and isolation at such a young and impressionable age?

Before then, I had no friends. God was my best friend. Growing up in a household where faith was never centered upon, I had to explore and discover for myself what I believed existed beyond the earth’s terrain. I found my answer.

He was not a religion. He was my father, my god and my friend. I confided in him, spoke with him, cried to him and laughed with him. We had an intimate relationship. It wasn’t until my sophomore year in high school that I realized that my faith in him could be broken.

It was a Friday night. The football game was over and it was time to drink. The pattern of downing beers did not come to a cessation until it was too late. Having no licenses to drive just the powerful feeling of invincibility took control of the wheel.

Six friends jumped into the car. With the street wet from the earlier rain, speeds of 58 m.p.h. and the driver yelling, “your lives are in my hands," the young driver’s words became truth. Losing control, the car crashed, and those six kids became five.

His name was Barrett. His prolonged death spread elapsed over three days. And, in those three days, I was held captive in my agonizing grief. There are no words to articulate the pain that was felt. None. I remember each moment of that sunny September day. It was a nice, warm day. But yet, my numb body could not feel its beauty. I wanted to be alone, but when I broke free from the rest of the grieving individuals, I felt as though I was suffocating from isolation. I pleaded to God for comfort and relief from my anguish, but he never came. I was alone. At the time, a boy for the first time in my life cared for me. He thought I was pretty and he offered me the comfort of his arms. Because I felt as though God was neglecting me, I turned to Paul. I was vulnerable and broken. My virgin lips were embraced by his, and the sensation that spread across my body was enough to keep me captivated for what it seemed a lifetime. However, it came to a shattering end when a phone call was made and the realization that he had no intentions of being with me was made clear. Again, I was alone and the deep inexplicable pain came over me. It lied deep within me. I needed it to be released. I searched for a way. It was found. I took the knife and slowly began to cut at my skin. It was not working. I made quicker slashes across my wrists and the pain that I felt became soothing. I did not have to focus my attention on my inner pain any longer. The blood that emerged from within me gave me pleasure. I forced myself to stop only out of fear of my mother finding out. She would make me get help. That was the last thing that I wanted.

Reality from then on was too much. It was unsympathetic and severe. I soon found another avenue to venture upon to escape the everyday. Alcohol became my refuge and haven. Its mysterious substance was able to blur the sharp edges of my harsh reality that I faced. I soon became fearful of sobriety and I was out of control. In my seemingly constant state of drunkenness, there is little that I can recall. The only memories I retained were of wild and desperate pursuits of this magical potion and then the screaming attacks that would later emerge from within me. Despite my efforts to drown the inner pain, it still managed to surface. I was directionless.

Everything was in disarray. My relationships with family, friends and teachers were no longer functioning properly. I had no aspirations, motivations or hope in anyone. Everyone was bound to fail me just as God had. But, I continued to drift along.

February came and I decided to take up snowboarding. It was late in the evening and being a novice at the sport, I was left behind by my friends on the slopes. Approaching a sharp turn, I used my inchoate carving skills to pivot. It was too much. I went over the edge and found myself wrapped around the trunk of a tree. I lied there. It wasn’t until I attempted to ascend back up to the course that I felt the screaming sharp pain in my side. My hip was broken. I did not know what to do. The closing time was imminent. I yelled for help but my screams were muffled by the snow blowers. I threw my hat and gloves upward to receive attention, but they were only snagged by the tree’s arms above. I, then, reached into my pocket for my phone. I dialed for help but the battery died. I could only cry. They were not tears of pain but of abandonment. How could god do this to me?

Once more, I petitioned to him for his aid, his comfort and his guidance. But, neither of which were offered. At that profound moment, I lost everything. I no longer believed and was without faith. I, then, thought of my final and desperate solution: I would remove my clothing so I could die from the cold while sleeping. But, some odd and strange sliver of hope encouraged me to keep trying. I disabled my snowboard, and using my one good leg, maneuvered downward through the woods in route of the next course. My progress was inhibited by a bush. Its tangled branches that resembled barbed wire were impenetrable. From there I began to scream my final pleas. I was heard. And, after more than an hour, I was found.

My wounds healed, but my heart and soul did not. The greatest tragedy I faced was being abandoned and forgotten by the one I needed most. God was never there for me. For so many years I was deceived into trusting and believing in his passionate love for me. I finally came to realize that it had all been a façade. There was no way that my god would have ever permitted my heart to be repeatedly ripped and torn open. I had been severed from my innocence; and, I was now a cynic. I was jaded from all that I had seen and witnessed. I was tired of it all.

With a tear-stained face, I watch those around me, still with faith, pray. I am filled with resentment and begin to scream. I expel my anger out into the open. I release my suppressed emotions to the god I deep down hope will still be there. And in my rage, I am abruptly awakened.

There was no concrete, miraculous event that took place. I had gone for so long without any type of response from him. But, at that moment, I could hear his voice. That in itself demonstrated how he was, in fact, there for me. In that moment, I could feel him. It was as though I finally broke into the wave of communication. He heard my cries and began to speak to me. In all my trials and tribulations, it was not him who had abandoned me. It was me. He conveyed to me this: although I yearned for his compassion, I did not seek him out. He gave expression to everything I needed to hear from months before. With each trial, I was ignorant to the fact that god was there. I was in need of testing. I needed to grow and mature and the only way to do that would be to learn and experience. He allowed these things to happen so that I would grow. He was there to help guide me through it all, but I was oblivious. His words gave confirmation to the fact that my faith in our relationship was genuine and real. As I sat there, I began to see the light again and was renewed with hope. It would be a long time before I would be complete again, but it would come. I was rejuvenated with faith once more.

From then on, I became aware of my relationship with him. It is a two-way street. The need I have for him is like the oxygen I breathe. I cannot live without him. Otherwise, I fall into despair. I have been dealt unfavorable situations since then, but I was aware with each one that he is there when I need him. However, I must seek him out. But, like all relationships I have, I fall short of maintaining a constant communication. That is where I am now. I have lost sight of him and am wandering the streets blindly until the night approaches me. Though I know the outcome of my curious eyes, I still stray. However, what is distinct from then and now is the fact that I know he is faithful. Even when I choose my own route without his guidance, I always find my way back. Time and time again, my blinded eyes regain their sight. He is undeniable. At a time, I doubted him. Now, I no longer question because he has proven himself to me more times than I deserve. Like a father who cannot cast away his own child regardless of how many times he disobeys, my god has a relentless love for me that continuously pursues after my heart. He is not my religion. He is my everything.

Olivia

Everyone has an inner critic. It is constantly on the prowl, lurching in the deep dark shadows waiting for a moment to execute its assault. In different situations, it changes form. We have the capability to erect a wall that from a distance seems strong and unshakable, but in all actuality it is a mere optical illusion. Upon approaching it however, it becomes apparent that our wall was in fact a mirage. The fortress that once served as a haven dissipates and a sinister internal hurricane is visible. My inner critic is a strong woman and is never at rest. She churns and plots at rapid speeds and viciously awaits the appropriate moment to whisper her sweet lies into my ears. Why is it that inner criticism is prevalent throughout all of humanity but yet the individual is deceived into thinking that they are the only ones who are weak and scared?

She is with me always but only surfaces in the moments when my vulnerability has aroused. She is my turmoil who twists and manipulates. Her name is Olivia. She is whom I was supposed to be. Ever since I was a small girl I’ve known that my intended name was to be Ashley Olivia but became Ashley Elizabeth because of fears my mother had about naming me Olivia. My name is so common, typical, and unoriginal. It is sometimes hard to disassociate myself from the association it embodies. If my identity had rested in the name Olivia, perhaps it would have better reflected my life and personality. She is the mysterious individual whom I will never know yet will always wonder about.

Why do I care so much about her? Why is it that I will transform my attitudes and behaviors to suit differing situations and people? Why am I exuberant and confident with certain people and in turn shy away from others? I can on the one hand be incredibly open, forthright and without boundaries, yet other times I find myself more closed than a sealed vault. I can be terrified and intimidated so easily but with others out-going and have not a care in the world as of what kind of impression I make. I think that I classify people and if I feel that they are above me, I become critical and shut them out so that they do not have an opportunity to denounce me. It is as though I fear rejection and so I set up a protective fortress to avoid being hurt. It eats away at me despite my efforts. I begin to analyze how I am viewed from my reclusive distance. Some days I make the decision to sit alone and not interact, while other days go sit with others and allow words to actually flow from my mouth. It is erratic and strange and mostly confusing.

I am thrown back to her origin now and again. I am seven years old, I am without friends, and there are a group of four boys that thoroughly enjoy terrorizing me on a regular basis. They are bullies. They laugh at my clothing and whatever else they can think of to give them pleasure. My mother dresses me everyday and doesn’t allow me to ever pick out what I want to wear. I fear with every new day what pain will be inflicted upon me. I wear a pair of shoes with the Velcro straps but I know how to tie my own shoes. They don’t believe me though. A chant rings in my head, “you can’t even tie your shoes, you cant even tie your shoes.” It is a chorus I am familiar with; it was the mantra of my formative years,  and they’ve found another thing to torment me about.  I am horrified. After a while I begin to pack an extra set of clothes in my book-bag. The moment I enter into the classroom I go straight to the bathroom and change. I can prove to them that I am just like everybody else. I am no different.

I then flash forward a few years. I am of age now, or that is how I perceive middle school to be. I dedicate so much of my time and effort into impressing people. There are those select girls whom I would die to just be recognized by. They are so beautiful, tall, and popular. Immaculate. I am envious. Unlike what it seems <> the rest of the middle school population of girls, I am the only one to not have boobs, hips, pimples, or friends. I am the scrawniest child. Though I am not friends with any of these girls, I tag along and follow their every move. I have slumber parties on the weekends and provide all sorts of entertainment for these girls. Instead they come and run all over me, using me for all that I have. I am a loner. I pray to God that I will get my period soon and I have yet to experience that moment of initiation. I yearn for acceptance. I need to be acknowledged. Instead, the boys continue to make fun of me and laugh at how small I am. I am just a little girl in their eyes. They want Sarah Dickson, Laura Ball, and Jessie Snider. They want women. For my thirteenth birthday, I invite all of these girls to go bowling and then spend the night afterwards. I catch word that their guy friends are plotting to sabotage my small shard of glory. I just want to be validated.

More memories of my young life coarse through my mind, I am fifteen now. One boy sees me. He thinks I am pretty. My friend has just died and he is the one that consoles me and protects me from the profound pain that pangs so sharply. It is a prevailing pain that lashes out unsympathetically. My virgin lips intertwine with his. I am locked in a whirlwind of emotions. I am obsessed. He becomes my refuge. I have no faith in God, only him. A call is made and it is explained to me that I was but an object for the moment. Everything inside of me shatters. I am not enough for him. I am insufficient. The pain beats on. She is inside of me. I want her out. I need a release. A knife becomes my exit. Slashing. Slashing. My insides are flowing outwardly yet she remains.

Years pass, I am now a young woman. I have breasts and hips. They are barely visible but yet very much there. I receive recognition from both guys and girls. But Olivia still saunters in the deep hollow vessel of my body. Now, she must take different avenues to achieve her purpose. But no matter how many times the calendar pages flip, her tactics and methods advance and become updated with the times in order to keep up with my every changing way.

I am easily intimidated and frightened. She knows this. She is the one who has conjured these deceptive feelings inside of me so that I see them as truth. I feel inadequate. Lacking. I feel submissive and incompetent. She basks in her triumph over me. She uses these insecurities as a breeding ground. She mans the field and prepares for the harvest of undeveloped and inchoate fears. I am not pretty enough, not smart enough, not witty enough, and just not cool enough. I allow them to eat at me. I sense the wildness inside of me but it is masked by reluctance and inhibitions. This mask serves to tame the undomesticated, raw, and aggressive sensuality that rests within me. She is a magician and inside her cavernous bag of tricks lie a plethora of new and unforeseen deviant powers.

Now I have found someone for whom I experience inexplicable and boundless emotions that stretch beyond the ocean’s tides. He loves me yet fears me at the same time. I for a time understood why he feared intimacy and vulnerability but now I only ache knowing that he remains still apprehensive. It is as though he cannot trust me. I have not done enough to prove myself worthy of his love. I am insufficient. I begin to think of my past relationships and how I was again not enough for those to remain alive. Like a plague, the pain I feel is slow and relentless. I know that there is nothing wrong with me, yet I am beginning to allow myself to believe that there is. I am without hope.

I am twenty as is she. She will continue to be with me just as she was with yesterday’s tomorrow. And she will sit and watch with amusement as I breathlessly sprint away from her. I am but a hamster on a wheel. 

Captivating

Paris. It is the city of lights. However, its meaning surpasses those of any other city’s and has come to symbolize something of great significance, beauty. This architecturally refined city embodies elegance and sophistication. Beyond its rich culture and history, Paris is the quintessence of love, fashion, and beauty. Residing in this nostalgic city is Le Tour d’Eiffel, which was constructed in 1889. It is the object, which the world’s eyes and hearts have become fixated upon. As the sun’s light dissipates and the night approaches, the moon and stars are not the only ones to illuminate the city’s landscape. A new star is born with each night’s arrival. Le Tour d’Eiffel shines bright and it is no longer the North Star for whom others look toward for direction. And upon each complete rotation of the clock’s hands, the lustrous monument expels even greater amounts of light as it twinkles.

Crossing oceans, people from all over the world gravitate toward its beauty. Each having aspirations of capturing a single defined moment in time in which they may experience what this monument has come to represent. But how and why did this particular monument come to symbolize what it does? Looking closely during the day it is but a grey steel structure. It is industrial. While the sun still resides with us, we pass it by sometimes without notice. It is plain and unadorned. However, as Aurora makes her descent along her domed shaped path and night takes it entrance, our eyes become fixated upon its exquisiteness. But the question still remains. What is the reason for this attraction? It is perhaps because this monument represents something more than just an emotion or feeling. Le Tour d'Eiffel is in fact a woman. She embodies beauty, which is purposed to be unveiled. And with the absence of light she captivates the world with her own.

Since the beginning of time woman has made her mark in this world as being irreplaceable and a symbol of beauty. When God created this world it was not completed with Adam, but rather it was Eve who was the finishing touch to His masterpiece. Regardless of fact or fiction, the story remains the same. The world was incomplete without her. She is the crescendo and the crown of creation. When we look at art it is the woman’s body that is often depicted. Our eyes are our body’s tool that communicates with our minds. And it is when our eyes’ vision becomes aligned with the sight of a woman that we associate beauty.

It is her innate nature to be desirous and adored for her splendor. With great anticipation she waits for her beauty to be revealed and recognized. Walking down the street during the daylight hours she is modestly dressed and plain. She still retains her essence of beauty but it is more difficult to see from the exterior. Dressed with light makeup or none at all she is often overseen. It not until the day’s end that she makes her transformation. The light has faded and its absence is daunting. There is a need for vision and it is a woman’s glow that illuminates the world. A metamorphosis takes place. Entering a room she becomes the focal point. She is the centerpiece. She holds her audience captive as she makes her debut into the night. With her makeup elegantly painted, her jewels gently dangling, and her long dress draping over her body it is her arresting beauty that brings time to a standstill.

A woman's body is a canvas for which an astonishing and immaculate piece of artwork is to be created. It is she that is the origin of fashion. Her body inspires striking creativity and innovation in attempt to take something of perfection and extend its limits. Fashion transpires interior beauty and makes it tangeable. With different fibers  and fabrics, colors, texture, silhouette, and drape,  existing beauty is accentuated by complementing her natural features and color. The birth of any creation requires inspiration and enthusiasm. The power of a woman's body is spellbounding. It evokes passion, awe, and great reverence. It is only appropriate that this emblematic monument take on the form of a woman considering the establishment of fashion premiered in Paris. She is the world's first model. With her noble and dignified poise, she majestically stands for the rest of the world to see and to witness her grandeur.

 

 

Translation

With each day’s passing we have this hope that one will grow closer to an understanding of his or herself. Over these past four months I have come to realize how the different aspects of my life fit together and form as a working unit. I have always been able to pin point a few defining characteristics about myself but never could grasp how they could intertwine to make a whole. My faith is my foundation and reason for existence. It is at the core of who I am but how does that come into play with all the other characteristics I possess? I am an individual that thrives off of social activity. I have a passion for exuberance and interaction with others. However, on the other hand I can be very timid and reclusive. I will retract and choose to be distant. I was confused as to how they interconnected. What I have come to understand is that my faith remains at the base of my being and the characteristics and attributes that I have are the instruments, which are carried out to demonstrate the heart of my beliefs.

Stepping away from the comfortable territory from which I am familiar with has allowed me to broaden my scope and better grasp the world around me. It stretches me in ways that are difficult to articulate. With reckless abandonment and daring boldness one’s life is permitted to intertwine with another. You are made vulnerable. With your life laid out in the open it is accessible and capable of being molded, transformed, and influenced. Like clay on a potter’s wheel, one’s life is shaped according to the hands of the potter.

Having the awareness that there is something within me that keeps me on the outside looking in, I have embraced that characteristic as a quality. Instead of attempting to struggle through the walls that seem present, I now choose to wander away from the small world within and explore outwardly. Residing in a foreign country has generously given me opportunities to do just this. As I play back the days in my mind I realize that the persons who I have spent the majority of my time and really connected with were not those of my own nationality or similar background. Rather, images of those not at all familiar to myself flash before my mind.

I can see more clearly now than before. Back home I was always attempting to be a part of a group that I felt was glamorous and wonderful, or normal and secure. Instead, those whom I was able to easily with no effort at all relate to were those that differed from me greatly. They were individuals that were considered ‘nobodies’ growing up. However, those are the people I regard as truly unique and wonderfully original. They each have a genuine quality to them that I revere highly. The same exploratory quality that I have had all my life with people I have encountered at one point or another has carried overseas with me. Instead of spending my time with American students that are here, I choose to go off alone. I wander the different streets and take in my surroundings. At times I sit down to take it in and find myself engaged in a conversation with a complete stranger. There is no relation between us. As we launch into conversation our lives begin to translate and there are few barriers between us despite our differences. There is a restaurant that I always attend regularly. Alone, I go and sit at the bar. The young bartender speaks no English and I speak little Italian. Between her working and me eating, we find it difficult to communicate but yet we both try earnestly. And as the hands on the clock pivot, we reach a point where we are speaking the same language even though no words of understanding have come from either of our mouths. Nadir, he is an older Israeli man. He owns the Internet café that I seem to now inhabit. He has become like a father to me. Our differences are what intrigue me and challenge me. We are never on the same page but we both understand that about our relationship. We argue and bicker, laugh and joke. When I become upset he is the one I find myself gravitating toward and he protects me with his guardian arms. What saddens me is that he has no faith or hope in this world. He only believes in what he sees and according to him, he sees nothing at all. Yet despite the scars that have jaded him over the span of his life, I still see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He has his crazy stories of his past and shares with me the insane ideas he concocts in his mind. We are nothing alike and yet I have come to love him dearly. The care that we both have for one another is again unspoken but it is understood. Ellie is from Ecuador and has lived here for fifteen years. The first few nights inhabiting this foreign land I found myself walking into her life and she walking into mine. She works at Eby’s, a Latino bar. Immediately I knew that she would be someone very special to me. Being over zealous and anxious to learn the Italian language, I asked her tutor me with my premature knowledge of the words and pronunciation. After class at night I would walk to Eby’s with the intentions of seeing her. Sitting down I would pull out my notebook and share with her what I had learned. She is not a woman that neither is overly talkative nor shows great excitement. She has a timid soul and a humble smile. I do not know if she is aware that I see this in her. But I do and because of her hospitality I feel encouragement. I feel as though that she is the one that subconsciously pushes me to strive harder in understanding Italian. When I go about my days and encounter new people and new things, she is the one whom I think of first and become anxious to share with her. The thought of leaving this place in which I have become accustomed to upsets me greatly, but even more so knowing that I will not have the opportunities to see and share with these individuals causes sincere sadness to swell within me.

The impressions that have been made in my life are by individuals that I would have never anticipated even encountering. With Christianity being the well from which I implore truth, I believe that I am, “the salt of the earth, light of the world.” This I see as instructions to spread myself outwardly rather than remain clustered in an environment where the individuals and culture are homogenous to myself. If salt were to clump together, the taste would be bitter and would not accentuate the taste of anything like it is intended to do. With each encounter I have had, I have exchanged a part of myself with another. At some kind of level, our lives have translated and some form of love has been emitted.

Being immersed in diversity permits barriers of misunderstanding and lack of comprehension to begin to come down and opens the channel of communication. In 1 Thessalonians it is said, “We loved you so much that we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our lives as well because you had become so dear to us.” This powerful statement greatly moves me. It is one thing for a person to share their understanding of a belief. But for someone to sacrifice his or her own time that could be dedicated elsewhere and instead given it to an individual is significant. You are with open arms giving yourself away. As I look back at the experiences I have had with the people here, I feel as though I have unknowingly shared a part of myself. The part of me that keeps me on the exterior I once perceived as detrimental and inhibiting. But in all truth it has in fact been more beneficial than I could ever really know. Instead of continuing to relentlessly pursue after the acceptance of a group that seem pleasing to the mind and eye, I have come to terms with my outward position in life. Now there is a desire within me to embrace those that are on the outside with me.

As the next couple weeks selfishly creep forward and I prepare to make my way back the world I once knew, I can now bring back with me a better understanding of myself and the way in which it all comes together. Like a body with many ligaments and parts, each aspect of my inner being has a purpose and works together to sustain life, my life.