When you grow up in a town of 24,ooo people, it is not at all surprising to have known your high school friends since childhood. What is surprising, however, is successfully holding onto those friends as the distance between you grows to span a world full of over 6 billion people.
I may have been one of the eight luckiest high school students the world has ever known - at least as far as friends are concerned. I followed a couple of girls from my 2nd block class to the lunchroom on the first day of ninth grade, and the rest is history. As it turned out, I already knew everyone at that table (or who would eventually come to that table) from past lives, but we needed the perfect storm of timing and circumstance to make the group gel. Over the next four years, hardly a day would go by for any of us without seeing at least one member of our lunch crew - we took most of the same classes, participated in the same activities (we were evenly split between debaters and dramatists, which was nearly always the cause of any fights we had), and spent more than a significant portion of our free time together. Movie nights were nearly a weekly (sometimes bi-weekly, tri-weekly...) occurrence, every birthday and holiday was celebrated, and even if we were just playing on a swingset or driving in (very small) circles around town abusing our stereo systems and our voices, life was great when we were together.
Since all eight of us are hilarious, brilliant, attractive (humble), and extraordinarily ambitious over-achievers, we began to realize that what we had in high school could not last forever. We all had dreams that necessarily extended past the city limits of our little town, and one by one, we chose our distant destinations: Brookings, Fargo, St. Peter, Lincoln, Lawrence, and three different sections of Washington, DC. Like all high school friends do, we promised to keep in touch and to stay friends forever, but then things got weird: we actually did. I can only speak for myself at this point in the story, but I know that in the sitcom of my life, although the cast is continually growing, these people are my co-stars. They are my extended family, my eventual wedding party, and my first call/email/text when things go wrong.
The visits get fewer and farther between as the years go by and responsibilities pile up and we continue to spread out on a now international scale, but nothing else seems to change. When we do get the chance to be together, we pick up right where we left off - knowing a person for fifteen years will allow for that, I suppose. This week, three of us got one of those opportunities. For a precious 37 hours, Adrienne got to play hostess and welcomed us into her home, which of course, already felt like our home. We had an amazing time, took some truly ridiculous pictures (look for those on Facebook soon), and took care of each other mentally, emotionally, and physically - the way only the best of friends can. So, thanks go to Addy for planning a fabulous day, and thanks go to Kiki (teehee) for his infinite patience for things that are girly. This is for you guys (and our absent friends) - I love you all. :)
Homecoming
Senses awaken, each in turn: coffee brewing, laughter trickling in;
this morning immediately seems less painful than most.
Yawn, stretch; bare feet meet a warm floor.
Round the corner to greet grinning faces with a sleepy smile.
Squeeze in tight to share space and time, cozy like an old Beatles LP.
Settle into giggles and snorts between comfortable silences,
memories tossed about like Frisbees on an early summer afternoon;
no performance to consider - we can just be.
Prepare for the day, accomplish routines and tasks -
dishwasher full, contacts in, did you find your phone?
Domesticity is false and fleeting, but no less comforting.
Grab shoes, keys, and each other as we walk out the door.
May 28, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
...aaaaaaand, we're back!
I just finished writing 36* pages of reflections and explanations and justifications… and I’m exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally, “spiritually, ecumenically, grammatically…” (Name that movie!) and so on.
As I struggled to find new words to say the same things in seemingly different ways and made tenuous connections between what actually happened and what some far-removed executive body envisions as “ideal,” I found that my growing fear and aggravation had nothing to do with the impending deadlines. Despite the massive amounts of work and the absence of a social life, my internship gave me a great gift that I am now terrified of losing: I’ve been reminded of how much I truly love to read, love to write, and love to be smart with other smart people. These things had nearly been beaten out of me by years of reading drivel (“academic” drivel, but drivel just the same), writing hundreds of pages of b.s. that could be summed up in about five sentences, and being forced into artificial discussions with disinterested interlocutors. I still identified myself as a reader and a writer, but I wasn’t bringing the goods anymore. This spring, LHS happily re-awakened the beast, but the last two weeks threatened to shoot it with horse tranquilizers as the familiar headache slid back into place like the lid of a roll-top desk.
The work was torturous. Each sentence felt more painful than the one before; I had to stop and rest for a few minutes after each mental contraction as if I was giving birth, but to someone else’s child. There is nothing of me in those lines, and yet I feel empty. The page count grew, and I could feel the numbness and apathy creeping back into my writing as the newly-resuscitated joy seeped away. Books that had unrelentingly captivated my attention just a week before remained nearby, but their pages held little comfort as my eyes strained and my mind failed to focus. I wondered if this experience might once again bury my creativity and curiosity under the weight of a bureaucratic academia, but even in the darkest hours at the library, there were moments – moments where a happy turn of phrase was woven in amongst the tedium, or half an idea for a poetic line was scribbled on scratch paper before it was lost in the fray.
Now it is done. Now it can be summer. My first – perhaps of many – in Lawrence. I plan to take a few days, or maybe a week, to recuperate from my battle with the printed word; movies and TV shows will be watched, an apartment will be cleaned, and celebrations will be had. But as I settle into new, less strenuous routines, I expect myself to come back to those books left unfinished and to come back here often to read and write and exercise my smarts. Right after I catch up on LOST.
*Yeah, I didn’t fix it when Word 2007 set my margins at 1.25” and I might have spent more time intently looking for adjectives and adverbs just lengthy enough to bump each paragraph to one more line than the time it would have taken to develop one more original idea, but it can’t be argued that I just completed a ridiculous task. Let’s just say that the next time I write something the approximate length of a thesis, it had better be far more interesting and I had better take more than two weeks to do it.
As I struggled to find new words to say the same things in seemingly different ways and made tenuous connections between what actually happened and what some far-removed executive body envisions as “ideal,” I found that my growing fear and aggravation had nothing to do with the impending deadlines. Despite the massive amounts of work and the absence of a social life, my internship gave me a great gift that I am now terrified of losing: I’ve been reminded of how much I truly love to read, love to write, and love to be smart with other smart people. These things had nearly been beaten out of me by years of reading drivel (“academic” drivel, but drivel just the same), writing hundreds of pages of b.s. that could be summed up in about five sentences, and being forced into artificial discussions with disinterested interlocutors. I still identified myself as a reader and a writer, but I wasn’t bringing the goods anymore. This spring, LHS happily re-awakened the beast, but the last two weeks threatened to shoot it with horse tranquilizers as the familiar headache slid back into place like the lid of a roll-top desk.
The work was torturous. Each sentence felt more painful than the one before; I had to stop and rest for a few minutes after each mental contraction as if I was giving birth, but to someone else’s child. There is nothing of me in those lines, and yet I feel empty. The page count grew, and I could feel the numbness and apathy creeping back into my writing as the newly-resuscitated joy seeped away. Books that had unrelentingly captivated my attention just a week before remained nearby, but their pages held little comfort as my eyes strained and my mind failed to focus. I wondered if this experience might once again bury my creativity and curiosity under the weight of a bureaucratic academia, but even in the darkest hours at the library, there were moments – moments where a happy turn of phrase was woven in amongst the tedium, or half an idea for a poetic line was scribbled on scratch paper before it was lost in the fray.
Now it is done. Now it can be summer. My first – perhaps of many – in Lawrence. I plan to take a few days, or maybe a week, to recuperate from my battle with the printed word; movies and TV shows will be watched, an apartment will be cleaned, and celebrations will be had. But as I settle into new, less strenuous routines, I expect myself to come back to those books left unfinished and to come back here often to read and write and exercise my smarts. Right after I catch up on LOST.
*Yeah, I didn’t fix it when Word 2007 set my margins at 1.25” and I might have spent more time intently looking for adjectives and adverbs just lengthy enough to bump each paragraph to one more line than the time it would have taken to develop one more original idea, but it can’t be argued that I just completed a ridiculous task. Let’s just say that the next time I write something the approximate length of a thesis, it had better be far more interesting and I had better take more than two weeks to do it.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Repeat Track
I don’t know how driving has so quickly become a form of therapy for me – I’ve been doing it for less than a year. Somehow, I went for 22 years without any desire to get behind the wheel; this seemed rational at the time, but I no longer understand. I suppose I was driven by the fear and intimidation bred by avoidance. Nowadays, I rely on the point in each day where I slide into the familiar grooves of leather, adjust the windows and vents to bathe in the proper mixture of fresh and manufactured air, and find just the right track (be it via radio, disc, or auxiliary) to free something within me as I fly over hills and careen around corners.
I abused my beloved car pretty badly this evening after an atrocious shift at work. I slammed the pedal to the floor at every green light and onramp – 6000 rpm borders on the red zone. 64 maxes out the stereo volume and the subwoofer dangerously shakes the rear windshield – I half expected it to shatter like my sanity as I screamed angsty lyrics with the window down, unseasonably frigid air rushing through my hair and lungs. Thankfully, Maria spent her formative years in the tender care of a nun, so she’ll have no choice but to forgive me, especially when I take her for a spa day at Crown Toyota next weekend.
This is the first, very rough draft – please suggest changes. I’ll appreciate them in the morning.
“the scene ends badly, as you might imagine
in a cavalcade of anger and fear”
- The Mountain Goats, "This Year"
Relief
floats
like a balloon,
nowhere to go but up -
swelling,
seemingly invincible,
but always so fleeting and fragile.
A sideways look, an ill-placed word…
the outside pressure overwhelms again and
collapses back to a more natural state.
Tension wrinkles what once was smooth;
anger tingles just beneath the surface.
Goosebumps rise as
pores tighten to keep it all inside.
Minute hand delivers on its promise -
leather and plastic absorb the curses
as rhythms of the road and
rhyming rants
coalesce -
building toward
release.
May 7th, 2010 (edits May 9th, 2010)
I abused my beloved car pretty badly this evening after an atrocious shift at work. I slammed the pedal to the floor at every green light and onramp – 6000 rpm borders on the red zone. 64 maxes out the stereo volume and the subwoofer dangerously shakes the rear windshield – I half expected it to shatter like my sanity as I screamed angsty lyrics with the window down, unseasonably frigid air rushing through my hair and lungs. Thankfully, Maria spent her formative years in the tender care of a nun, so she’ll have no choice but to forgive me, especially when I take her for a spa day at Crown Toyota next weekend.
This is the first, very rough draft – please suggest changes. I’ll appreciate them in the morning.
“the scene ends badly, as you might imagine
in a cavalcade of anger and fear”
- The Mountain Goats, "This Year"
Relief
floats
like a balloon,
nowhere to go but up -
swelling,
seemingly invincible,
but always so fleeting and fragile.
A sideways look, an ill-placed word…
the outside pressure overwhelms again and
collapses back to a more natural state.
Tension wrinkles what once was smooth;
anger tingles just beneath the surface.
Goosebumps rise as
pores tighten to keep it all inside.
Minute hand delivers on its promise -
leather and plastic absorb the curses
as rhythms of the road and
rhyming rants
coalesce -
building toward
release.
May 7th, 2010 (edits May 9th, 2010)
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Re-public
As we discussed the general awesomeness of the infamous Jon Harrison scissor-kick picture over coffee and Pink Box baked goods at the generally awesome LHS Focus Film Festival this afternoon, the idea of making things from our pasts public again was humorously pitched – and I’ve decided to take a break and have some fun with it in the form of a quickie photo essay.
Last year in Methods class, we started the semester by telling the story of our “literacy history,” so I had my mom scan and send me these pictures, which I will now "re-public" here. They are also the only truly good pictures of me in existence, I believe; sometime after this, I transformed into the least photogenic person on the planet (don’t ask about the “Kid Rock face” pictures).
8 months - Dang, that's a cute baby! And no, this wasn't posed - I really did pretend/attempt to read, and I really did lay around holding the books with my feet. The weirdness started early, folks.
1 year-ish - This one has nothing to do with reading, it's just ridiculously adorable (except the Mizzou hat... I was obviously being brainwashed at the time). We refer to this time period as the "Cindy-Lou Who" years.
Just shy of 2 years - I've got my parents to thank for my frequent and early exposure to the wonderful world of words. More than just about anything from my childhood, I remember the books. I remember the library. I remember being read to and loving it. My mom remembers me reciting the alphabet at 15 months, recognizing new words at the grocery store at 2 years, reading the pool rules off the wall at 3 years, and reading Charlotte's Web to her (without seeing it before) at 4 years. I don't know exactly how it happened, but I literally cannot remember what it feels like to not be able to read. Thanks, Mom.
5 years - Once an English teacher... always an English teacher. My stuffed animals knew their Dr. Seuss backwards and forwards, let me tell you.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Blue Moon rising
You’re not here.
You’re not going to be here.
I knew that coming in, really.
You’re not the kind of guy
a girl like me
would meet in a place like this.
You’re waiting
in some laundromat
or grocery store
or maybe a coffee shop,
although we both know
that’s a little pretentious.
“Tonight’s gonna be a good night,”
we chant in unison with the canned legumes –
but those words taste bitter in my mouth.
Hold on –
is that you hiding behind those emo bangs?
Nope, false alarm again.
Wait out the buzz amongst the masquerade –
silently begging sluggish metabolism to wake up.
Car keys rustle impatiently within a purse’s depths.
My better judgment begrudgingly takes the keys from others;
well-earned rest is delayed a few hours more
as I seek sober refuge scribbling verse in a bathroom stall.
May 1, 2010
Suggestions are welcome as always - it still feels pretty rough to me, but so did last night, haha.
You’re not going to be here.
I knew that coming in, really.
You’re not the kind of guy
a girl like me
would meet in a place like this.
You’re waiting
in some laundromat
or grocery store
or maybe a coffee shop,
although we both know
that’s a little pretentious.
“Tonight’s gonna be a good night,”
we chant in unison with the canned legumes –
but those words taste bitter in my mouth.
Hold on –
is that you hiding behind those emo bangs?
Nope, false alarm again.
Wait out the buzz amongst the masquerade –
silently begging sluggish metabolism to wake up.
Car keys rustle impatiently within a purse’s depths.
My better judgment begrudgingly takes the keys from others;
well-earned rest is delayed a few hours more
as I seek sober refuge scribbling verse in a bathroom stall.
May 1, 2010
Suggestions are welcome as always - it still feels pretty rough to me, but so did last night, haha.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Excuse me, can you direct me from Venus to Mars?
I've gotta be honest. When I finally got the official notice about my spring internship placement last October, I was a little freaked out. Not about the location - I had known for a long time that I would be at LHS because of my ESL practicum. No, it was a different proper noun that initially set off alarms in my head:
"William"
Wait... my new cooperating teacher is a guy?!? I looked at Katie (my first cooperating teacher) with an expression of mild panic. She and I had gotten along so *fabulously* well, and it was because we had so much in common! Working together was a breeze because we liked the same music, squee'd about Glee while we planned lessons, and talked about all sorts of girly things whenever we wanted. For two months, we were BFF, and life was great. While I hadn't imagined that the spring could ever be exactly the same, I hadn't really considered the possibility of working with someone so fundamentally different from myself.
As I tend to do, I worried. For 3 months. I worried when emails went unanswered ("Oh no, he's an old guy who's computer illiterate!"). I worried when I did get an email and it didn't answer all of my neurotic questions ("Oh no, he's a disorganized slob!"). I worried about having things to talk about. I worried about how to work femininity into a man's environment. I worried about differences in classroom management and interacting with staff. I worried about having to put on my shiksa feminista pants and hold my own in some sort of Good Old Boys' club.
I worry a lot.
And as is usually the case, I didn't need to. From the very first time my high heels crossed the threshold, I have felt nothing but comfortable in room 231 and with all those who inhabit/frequently visit that space. As it turns out, William isn't old, computer illiterate, or a complete disorganized slob. Bill's just a busy guy who is a lot more laid-back than I am. (Therefore, he knows when to ignore my neuroses, which has actually been a blessing.) He's the polar opposite of Katie, yet we somehow still have just as much in common. I've been reminded of my loves for indie/folk music, reading great literature/poetry, and most importantly, writing.
Sure, there were awkward moments and issues with students who couldn't appropriately navigate the differences between a male and female teacher, and not every day was perfect, but I've loved the whole thing, and it's going to be difficult for me to not be a girly mess on Friday. And as for the Good Old Boys... there have been plenty of occasions on which I have been the only one present without a y-chromosome to my name, but those fears were unfounded as well. At a time in my life when I needed good male role models more than I even realized, the men of the LHS English department swooped to my rescue, made me feel welcome, and reminded me what it's all about.
So, as a somewhat cheesy but entirely heartfelt token of my appreciation, here is my parting gift:
(Blogger doesn't allow me to channel my inner e.e. cummings, so wherever you see a list, imagine it tabbed out and looking like stairs.)
Real Men
(for Bill, Jeff, Jon, and Mike)
It’s easy for a girl to lose sight of what a real man is;
images of Disney princes with kingdoms by the sea
and boyishly handsome TV stars with lovesick eyes
are incongruent with the
cold,
self-absorbed, and
immature game players she’s exposed to daily,
and they all seem artificial.
But Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.
Real Men talk about books.
Not just because they have to for their jobs,
or because they want to impress other guys
or themselves
or women.
No, Real Men talk about books because they need to…
because Real Men are poets.
Their insight and clever word play
makes you feel smarter (never dumber) for listening and reading.
No poetry is excluded from their anthologies:
music, film, and television are cherished friends.
Keeping company with the likes of Berryman, Whitman, Zimmerman, and Hoffman,
Real Men are brilliant.
Chivalry is not dead!
Real Men hold doors open
and practice “ladies first.”
But unlike those fake tools, their simple kindnesses
make you feel valued,
not weak or inferior or insulted.
No, Real Men are graceful and genuine with their manners.
Real Men boast of vanquishing an entire fleet
of cholesterol-laden sandwiches,
but they aren’t ashamed to admit
the inherent humor and stupidity of such a quest,
and their assertive posturing is confined to lunchtime conversation.
Real Men have no use or abuse for foolish pride.
Real Men can be “squishy.”
Whether it’s the sexy lead singer, the mysterious poetess,
or the patient wives in their own homes,
Real Men aren’t afraid to be rendered vulnerable
by a strong woman from time to time.
Real Men do not wear masks of hard indifference.
They are passionate about
their work,
their art,
and justice therein.
Societal standards of detached “manliness” don’t restrain them:
confident in their own skins, they care for their
friends,
wives,
children,
students,
and even student teachers.
Real Men inspire hope –
hope for the Real Girl looking for her Real Boy.
She can keep searching now,
knowing her quest is not in vain, because
Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.
April 22, 2010
"William"
Wait... my new cooperating teacher is a guy?!? I looked at Katie (my first cooperating teacher) with an expression of mild panic. She and I had gotten along so *fabulously* well, and it was because we had so much in common! Working together was a breeze because we liked the same music, squee'd about Glee while we planned lessons, and talked about all sorts of girly things whenever we wanted. For two months, we were BFF, and life was great. While I hadn't imagined that the spring could ever be exactly the same, I hadn't really considered the possibility of working with someone so fundamentally different from myself.
As I tend to do, I worried. For 3 months. I worried when emails went unanswered ("Oh no, he's an old guy who's computer illiterate!"). I worried when I did get an email and it didn't answer all of my neurotic questions ("Oh no, he's a disorganized slob!"). I worried about having things to talk about. I worried about how to work femininity into a man's environment. I worried about differences in classroom management and interacting with staff. I worried about having to put on my shiksa feminista pants and hold my own in some sort of Good Old Boys' club.
I worry a lot.
And as is usually the case, I didn't need to. From the very first time my high heels crossed the threshold, I have felt nothing but comfortable in room 231 and with all those who inhabit/frequently visit that space. As it turns out, William isn't old, computer illiterate, or a complete disorganized slob. Bill's just a busy guy who is a lot more laid-back than I am. (Therefore, he knows when to ignore my neuroses, which has actually been a blessing.) He's the polar opposite of Katie, yet we somehow still have just as much in common. I've been reminded of my loves for indie/folk music, reading great literature/poetry, and most importantly, writing.
Sure, there were awkward moments and issues with students who couldn't appropriately navigate the differences between a male and female teacher, and not every day was perfect, but I've loved the whole thing, and it's going to be difficult for me to not be a girly mess on Friday. And as for the Good Old Boys... there have been plenty of occasions on which I have been the only one present without a y-chromosome to my name, but those fears were unfounded as well. At a time in my life when I needed good male role models more than I even realized, the men of the LHS English department swooped to my rescue, made me feel welcome, and reminded me what it's all about.
So, as a somewhat cheesy but entirely heartfelt token of my appreciation, here is my parting gift:
(Blogger doesn't allow me to channel my inner e.e. cummings, so wherever you see a list, imagine it tabbed out and looking like stairs.)
Real Men
(for Bill, Jeff, Jon, and Mike)
It’s easy for a girl to lose sight of what a real man is;
images of Disney princes with kingdoms by the sea
and boyishly handsome TV stars with lovesick eyes
are incongruent with the
cold,
self-absorbed, and
immature game players she’s exposed to daily,
and they all seem artificial.
But Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.
Real Men talk about books.
Not just because they have to for their jobs,
or because they want to impress other guys
or themselves
or women.
No, Real Men talk about books because they need to…
because Real Men are poets.
Their insight and clever word play
makes you feel smarter (never dumber) for listening and reading.
No poetry is excluded from their anthologies:
music, film, and television are cherished friends.
Keeping company with the likes of Berryman, Whitman, Zimmerman, and Hoffman,
Real Men are brilliant.
Chivalry is not dead!
Real Men hold doors open
and practice “ladies first.”
But unlike those fake tools, their simple kindnesses
make you feel valued,
not weak or inferior or insulted.
No, Real Men are graceful and genuine with their manners.
Real Men boast of vanquishing an entire fleet
of cholesterol-laden sandwiches,
but they aren’t ashamed to admit
the inherent humor and stupidity of such a quest,
and their assertive posturing is confined to lunchtime conversation.
Real Men have no use or abuse for foolish pride.
Real Men can be “squishy.”
Whether it’s the sexy lead singer, the mysterious poetess,
or the patient wives in their own homes,
Real Men aren’t afraid to be rendered vulnerable
by a strong woman from time to time.
Real Men do not wear masks of hard indifference.
They are passionate about
their work,
their art,
and justice therein.
Societal standards of detached “manliness” don’t restrain them:
confident in their own skins, they care for their
friends,
wives,
children,
students,
and even student teachers.
Real Men inspire hope –
hope for the Real Girl looking for her Real Boy.
She can keep searching now,
knowing her quest is not in vain, because
Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.
April 22, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
In Memoriam
I recently heard myself described as a ball of "glowing light... but solid," which is so amazingly awesome but made more sense when spoken out loud and accompanied by a fantastic gesture/facial expression combo, but anyway... for my first four months in Lawrence, that light was more like Tinkerbell when nobody believes in her: fading away and all the kids are supposed to clap to bring her back.
I was nearly unrecognizable that first semester.
I was quiet. Unnaturally so. I don't remember laughing much at all, and if I made any friends that semester, I don't remember who they were or what we did (No illegal substances were involved, either... I just wasn't there.). I've always had introverted tendencies, but not like this. I stayed in my dorm room a lot, praying every second of every evening that my roommate would stay out all night getting wasted and grinding up on questionable men instead of bringing them back to our room while she passed out on the communal bathroom floor. I threw myself into my overloaded schedule (6 courses, 2 had extra discussion sessions, plus marching band and my new job at the library), kept myself purposefully busy at all times, and relied on my iPod and the final season of The West Wing to shut out the world. I was so miserable, a blizzard literally had to chase me back to Kansas after Thanksgiving or I never would have left my bed, and by the time winter break arrived, I was seriously considering a transfer to Northern State University back in Aberdeen.
It would be easy to brush this off and assume it was typical homesick behavior for a college freshman living 584 miles away from home for the first time, especially when said freshman was deposited in a 12x14 box alongside the greatest waste of human life she'd met until that point... but that doesn't tell the whole story.
On August 12th, 2005, my debate partner from senior year was killed in an alcohol-related single car accident near Richmond Lake just outside Aberdeen. He was 17; just weeks away from his 18th birthday and the start of his senior year.
Matt was a special kid, so indulge me in telling a few stories. He was a great storyteller - whether he was rehashing the events of an intense round or reading the embarassing confessions from the latest Cosmopolitan out loud, the attention of the entire bus was captivated. In that last wonderful year, Matt was the comic relief and heart of our team. Sure, he could be infuriating (like the time he put an entry slip covered in obscenities into a *clear* raffle box at a Taco John's in Minnesota and got himself - and therefore, me - suspended from debate tournaments for two weeks), but by and large, he made everyone laugh, even our opponents.
He was constantly a mess. It took me until January to decipher his handwriting reliably, his hair was always unkempt, and his frequently neglected glasses were woefully crooked. He only had two modes of fashion: suit and tie for debate, sweatpants for everything else. (You can understand my surprise when Matt came out and became my first openly gay friend.) He took ceramics for his fine arts requirement his junior year, and on the last day of the quarter we each got to choose one of his pitifully deformed projects to take off his hands. The guys made cracks about using them for target practice, but I still have mine - it holds quarters for laundry in all its misshapen, unevenly polka-dotted glory. Another piece still survives in the debate room: the "Pomo Pot." Matt had painstakingly painted the names of postmodern thinkers (Foucalt, Heidegger, etc.) onto the sides of what looked like a caveman's cereal bowl as a form of protest for being forced to waste his time on ceramics when he could be researching.
Matt lived and breathed for debate. He saved my ass in rounds more times than I can count, and he dreamt of being a national circuit debater, despite being confined to a non-circuit team and a partner who obviously cared more about Oratory than Policy. He loved the strategy of it all: during prep time or while we waited for judges to show up, he would predict the winners on every schedule, overanalyze each match-up to determine whether the tab room was using straight, random, or high-low pairings, and doodle lists of circuit tournaments (or the richest people in the world according to Forbes - he had the list memorized).
Thankfully for me, Matt loved Extemp as much as he loved debate, so we struck up a deal that made our partnership work: we knew we both had better chances to qualify separately in our I.E.s than together in debate, so we worked hard to keep him improving, and we had a lot of fun along the way knowing that we could both go to Philly and he could grab a ride to nationals in debate the next year. So there were crazy rounds where Matt convinced me to kick our entire Affirmative case and go for the kritik just to piss off our coach, rounds where timers flew through the air when his piece of crap timer (which I now own and still curse at regularly) would give out and just beep incessantly, and rounds where he wore my glasses for entire speeches because he refused to wear his own and we had the same prescription. He used the word "extrapolate" too much and was always trying to convince the judges to "buy" his impacts, and in turn, I abused "conducive" and was always certain that my flawless analysis on Topicality should win the round every time. We had successes as well as a good deal of failures, but for every weekend of failure, Matt just let it roll off him and gave me a big bear hug to let me know that everything would be ok, although it must have been torture for him to watch other members of our team bring in armloads of Policy trophies.
I won't lie and say that he was my best friend in the world, or even that we were particularly close beyond the unique relationship formed by working in close proximity to each other. We took care of each other, learned to read each other's minds, and made the best of a partnership formed by outside forces. (For those of you who need a reference point - the student teacher/cooperating teacher relationship is the closest thing I've experienced since.) Now, I like to think we would have stayed in touch despite the fact that we seldom socialized outside debate-related activities, and we knew relatively little about each other's personal lives. But at the time (and to this day), Matt's death affected me in a way that no one, including myself, could have predicted. I think this is partly because his age and the circumstances of his death made it heartbreakingly tragic, but also because it was the first time anyone I actually knew had died.
Combine this with my inability to return home to attend the funeral or to simply grieve with my debate family, and that lack of closure (I've still never even visited his gravesite - something I plan to change this summer) explains it all. August 12th was the day I arrived at KU, so as soon as I got my phone charger back from Grandma's on the evening of the 13th, the semester was already doomed. Who wants to be friends with that quiet girl who's always gone for band and when she is here she looks like she's been crying all the time, and she seems to be having some kind of existential crisis? Freak.
As they tend to do, things got better. I decided to give KU one more try with a new roommate and a more cohesive schedule that spring, and boy am I glad I did. It hasn't all been easy; friends and roommates have come and gone, but I wouldn't change a thing from the past four and a half years. I've learned a lot about myself and about other people, and this year alone has been worth every bit of the crap that preceded it.
I'm ready to move on to new and exciting things now, but I think I needed to do this - to write this - before I truly could; a bookend, if you will. So if you're still with me, thanks for reading this novella, please stay just a bit longer for the poem I've been wrestling with over the last week, and thanks for providing an audience for what I should have done to cope with this years ago.
Richmond Road Farewell
I.
Under a clear, bright, South Dakota sun
minivans purge themselves of their heavy burdens.
After ten long days filled with longer hours,
a team navigates the awkward transition
from ever-present family (for better and for worse)
to scattered individuals
for the last time.
The moment has a weight felt but denied by everyone present.
A well-known hug and a stubbled cheek stand out amongst the others -
“take care of yourself.” A final command
from one partner to another –
a particular pleasantry never to be spoken again out of superstition and anger.
II.
Cell phone charger forgotten in the excitement of a new beginning,
voicemail overflows silently as a Kansas dorm room is filled, territory bargained for.
Listen to messages before the third Wal-Mart run
-hurry, rehearsal starts early tomorrow!
Familiar voices sound foreign,
weighted by distance and a guarded, ominous secret,
too monumental to be revealed via recording.
Heart simultaneously pounds and sinks as I hit ‘call’ and stare at the door.
News of an accident is cautiously conveyed.
This brand-new tiled floor is uneven – glad it’s not on my side.
The truth – my depression less than 24 hours old – erases innocence.
III.
Acceptance is a lesson learned alone,
dictated by distance.
Not all farewells are tragic. I know this. I’ve remembered this.
But each one carries for me a subtle, unconscious reminder.
Every time a dear friend walks away, I am compelled to gently assert –
imploring the powers that be to let it be true:
“I’ll see you soon.”
I’ll see you tomorrow… Monday… next weekend… in June…a month from the day after tomorrow’s yesterday… it doesn’t really matter when, but I will specify.
Because I will see you soon.
April 23rd, 2010
From left to right, top to bottom: Nisha, Shana, Tessa, Brenna, Molly, Paul, Me, Tyler, Matt, Chris
April 2005
I was nearly unrecognizable that first semester.
I was quiet. Unnaturally so. I don't remember laughing much at all, and if I made any friends that semester, I don't remember who they were or what we did (No illegal substances were involved, either... I just wasn't there.). I've always had introverted tendencies, but not like this. I stayed in my dorm room a lot, praying every second of every evening that my roommate would stay out all night getting wasted and grinding up on questionable men instead of bringing them back to our room while she passed out on the communal bathroom floor. I threw myself into my overloaded schedule (6 courses, 2 had extra discussion sessions, plus marching band and my new job at the library), kept myself purposefully busy at all times, and relied on my iPod and the final season of The West Wing to shut out the world. I was so miserable, a blizzard literally had to chase me back to Kansas after Thanksgiving or I never would have left my bed, and by the time winter break arrived, I was seriously considering a transfer to Northern State University back in Aberdeen.
It would be easy to brush this off and assume it was typical homesick behavior for a college freshman living 584 miles away from home for the first time, especially when said freshman was deposited in a 12x14 box alongside the greatest waste of human life she'd met until that point... but that doesn't tell the whole story.
On August 12th, 2005, my debate partner from senior year was killed in an alcohol-related single car accident near Richmond Lake just outside Aberdeen. He was 17; just weeks away from his 18th birthday and the start of his senior year.
Matt was a special kid, so indulge me in telling a few stories. He was a great storyteller - whether he was rehashing the events of an intense round or reading the embarassing confessions from the latest Cosmopolitan out loud, the attention of the entire bus was captivated. In that last wonderful year, Matt was the comic relief and heart of our team. Sure, he could be infuriating (like the time he put an entry slip covered in obscenities into a *clear* raffle box at a Taco John's in Minnesota and got himself - and therefore, me - suspended from debate tournaments for two weeks), but by and large, he made everyone laugh, even our opponents.
He was constantly a mess. It took me until January to decipher his handwriting reliably, his hair was always unkempt, and his frequently neglected glasses were woefully crooked. He only had two modes of fashion: suit and tie for debate, sweatpants for everything else. (You can understand my surprise when Matt came out and became my first openly gay friend.) He took ceramics for his fine arts requirement his junior year, and on the last day of the quarter we each got to choose one of his pitifully deformed projects to take off his hands. The guys made cracks about using them for target practice, but I still have mine - it holds quarters for laundry in all its misshapen, unevenly polka-dotted glory. Another piece still survives in the debate room: the "Pomo Pot." Matt had painstakingly painted the names of postmodern thinkers (Foucalt, Heidegger, etc.) onto the sides of what looked like a caveman's cereal bowl as a form of protest for being forced to waste his time on ceramics when he could be researching.
Matt lived and breathed for debate. He saved my ass in rounds more times than I can count, and he dreamt of being a national circuit debater, despite being confined to a non-circuit team and a partner who obviously cared more about Oratory than Policy. He loved the strategy of it all: during prep time or while we waited for judges to show up, he would predict the winners on every schedule, overanalyze each match-up to determine whether the tab room was using straight, random, or high-low pairings, and doodle lists of circuit tournaments (or the richest people in the world according to Forbes - he had the list memorized).
Thankfully for me, Matt loved Extemp as much as he loved debate, so we struck up a deal that made our partnership work: we knew we both had better chances to qualify separately in our I.E.s than together in debate, so we worked hard to keep him improving, and we had a lot of fun along the way knowing that we could both go to Philly and he could grab a ride to nationals in debate the next year. So there were crazy rounds where Matt convinced me to kick our entire Affirmative case and go for the kritik just to piss off our coach, rounds where timers flew through the air when his piece of crap timer (which I now own and still curse at regularly) would give out and just beep incessantly, and rounds where he wore my glasses for entire speeches because he refused to wear his own and we had the same prescription. He used the word "extrapolate" too much and was always trying to convince the judges to "buy" his impacts, and in turn, I abused "conducive" and was always certain that my flawless analysis on Topicality should win the round every time. We had successes as well as a good deal of failures, but for every weekend of failure, Matt just let it roll off him and gave me a big bear hug to let me know that everything would be ok, although it must have been torture for him to watch other members of our team bring in armloads of Policy trophies.
I won't lie and say that he was my best friend in the world, or even that we were particularly close beyond the unique relationship formed by working in close proximity to each other. We took care of each other, learned to read each other's minds, and made the best of a partnership formed by outside forces. (For those of you who need a reference point - the student teacher/cooperating teacher relationship is the closest thing I've experienced since.) Now, I like to think we would have stayed in touch despite the fact that we seldom socialized outside debate-related activities, and we knew relatively little about each other's personal lives. But at the time (and to this day), Matt's death affected me in a way that no one, including myself, could have predicted. I think this is partly because his age and the circumstances of his death made it heartbreakingly tragic, but also because it was the first time anyone I actually knew had died.
Combine this with my inability to return home to attend the funeral or to simply grieve with my debate family, and that lack of closure (I've still never even visited his gravesite - something I plan to change this summer) explains it all. August 12th was the day I arrived at KU, so as soon as I got my phone charger back from Grandma's on the evening of the 13th, the semester was already doomed. Who wants to be friends with that quiet girl who's always gone for band and when she is here she looks like she's been crying all the time, and she seems to be having some kind of existential crisis? Freak.
As they tend to do, things got better. I decided to give KU one more try with a new roommate and a more cohesive schedule that spring, and boy am I glad I did. It hasn't all been easy; friends and roommates have come and gone, but I wouldn't change a thing from the past four and a half years. I've learned a lot about myself and about other people, and this year alone has been worth every bit of the crap that preceded it.
I'm ready to move on to new and exciting things now, but I think I needed to do this - to write this - before I truly could; a bookend, if you will. So if you're still with me, thanks for reading this novella, please stay just a bit longer for the poem I've been wrestling with over the last week, and thanks for providing an audience for what I should have done to cope with this years ago.
Richmond Road Farewell
I.
Under a clear, bright, South Dakota sun
minivans purge themselves of their heavy burdens.
After ten long days filled with longer hours,
a team navigates the awkward transition
from ever-present family (for better and for worse)
to scattered individuals
for the last time.
The moment has a weight felt but denied by everyone present.
A well-known hug and a stubbled cheek stand out amongst the others -
“take care of yourself.” A final command
from one partner to another –
a particular pleasantry never to be spoken again out of superstition and anger.
II.
Cell phone charger forgotten in the excitement of a new beginning,
voicemail overflows silently as a Kansas dorm room is filled, territory bargained for.
Listen to messages before the third Wal-Mart run
-hurry, rehearsal starts early tomorrow!
Familiar voices sound foreign,
weighted by distance and a guarded, ominous secret,
too monumental to be revealed via recording.
Heart simultaneously pounds and sinks as I hit ‘call’ and stare at the door.
News of an accident is cautiously conveyed.
This brand-new tiled floor is uneven – glad it’s not on my side.
The truth – my depression less than 24 hours old – erases innocence.
III.
Acceptance is a lesson learned alone,
dictated by distance.
Not all farewells are tragic. I know this. I’ve remembered this.
But each one carries for me a subtle, unconscious reminder.
Every time a dear friend walks away, I am compelled to gently assert –
imploring the powers that be to let it be true:
“I’ll see you soon.”
I’ll see you tomorrow… Monday… next weekend… in June…a month from the day after tomorrow’s yesterday… it doesn’t really matter when, but I will specify.
Because I will see you soon.
April 23rd, 2010
From left to right, top to bottom: Nisha, Shana, Tessa, Brenna, Molly, Paul, Me, Tyler, Matt, Chris
April 2005
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