Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Floating in the Dark, Temporary Scars

Clearly, I'm not always full of sunshine and rainbows about my move back east.

But Boston has one thing.


Nearly every night when I walk home in the oppressive dark, I look up.

And there, beyond the tree-lined edges of my view, are stars.

After almost two years without, stars are a welcome presence.  I've missed my friend Orion, and Cassiopeia's regal throne.  I see the chained Andromeda, and I feel free.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

More than a Feeling

When Taylor and I were preparing to come to Boston, it was with the giddy excitement of children waiting for Christmas.  Look at all those brick buildings!  Look at how palpable the history is!  Look at the leaves, the seasons, the air, that crisp East Coast feeling we've created from books and songs and movies!

When we got to Boston, that blown-glass image shattered fairly quickly.  The apartment full of light and hope wasn't ready for us when we got there, and instead we were greeted with paint cans and drop cloths and an infestation of crickets.  We slept on an air mattress, dying in the heat, lost and confused in a city that was much further from our dream than we had realized.

That was two months ago, and while we've gotten our bearings a little, it's come at a cost.  The autumnal spirit here is as beautiful as we imagined, but we can't enjoy it.  School started quickly and fiercely, and my life has become a long line of T rides to the COM building and back to the little house in the suburbs, removed from the bustling, shining city of promise.  Taylor's life I can only imagine, after spending a month in a ridiculously oppressive work environment, and now returned to long, empty days in a long, empty apartment.

There are days where I love Boston.  Where I look at my "Why I Like it Here" list and feel calm, remembering the large rocks at my T station, the smushed, Irish-looking faces of Southies on the street, the bookstores and cobblestones and abundance of graveyards Downtown and in Cambridge, the trees that create tunnels of orange and red.

But far more often are the days when I think I won't ever stop hating myself for bringing us here.

Education is a terribly selfish thing.  When I was doing my undergrad, I used my selfishness like a badge of honor.  I would look at all those poor little engaged girls I knew with pity.  They were squandering a prime opportunity in their life. When else would you have an excuse to just be concerned with yourself?  When else can a person be wholly self-absorbed in their own learning and growth?

When I decided to go back to school, it was after I'd gotten married and had halfway tried on a career for size.  It seemed like the time to do this.  I had always wanted a masters, I felt like I had to give this writing thing a try, and it was now or never.  Taylor was more supportive than I could imagine, pushing me to make this decision for me and for me alone, assuring me that he would follow me anywhere and that our family would flourish wherever I chose to go.

I don't think he knew what that was implying.  I don't think either of us did.

He couldn't have seen the gut-wrenching loneliness that would occur.  While we knew moving was hard--the first time we moved to Seattle almost destroyed us--I think we thought we had grown.  We had each other now.  We knew how to work as a team.  We had qualifications and life would happen quickly.   Ha.  How naive.

Instead, I found myself regressing into the selfishness of schooling.  This grad school experience was a chance to redeem myself as a student.  It was a chance to finally push myself, to stop being lazy and see what happens when I exhaust all my potential.  Even though I'm studenting better than ever, the extreme soul-crushing guilt that I inflict upon myself when I don't live up to the impossible standard I'm aiming for is incredibly destructive.  It leads to a weariness and disappointment I couldn't have foreseen. And while I'm concentrating on how to school better, I can't ignore the fact that the house is in disarray, that I'm cooking dinner less, that I'm not being as caring and tender with Taylor's emotional needs.

Which makes me feel even worse.  Thinking about what I've done to Taylor.  I can't help but think about what life would be like if we stayed in Seattle.  Seattle, the gloomy, wonderful jewel of a city that we idiotically couldn't get away from fast enough.  If we were in Seattle right now, I would be teaching.  And I would probably be loving it.  If we were in Seattle, Taylor would have a job.  He'd be able to practice, he'd have spent the past two months making money and ticking off licensure hours, each week coming closer to the dream he's harbored.

Instead, I took us away from financial and job security, and dragged us across the country, to a place that might be breaking us.  That's a whole ton of guilt to be living with.  The dream of Boston has shattered, and now I'm wondering how to make the pieces fit together again.

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Raging Writers

I am an incredibly spiteful person.  This might come as a shock (or not), but I'm stubborn.  Blame the Scot in me.

Thanks to this stubbornness, I've rage begun books several times.  I read The Fountainhead in high school just to beat one of my friends.  I knew full well that I hated the World According to Ayn Rand, but my friend Jeff was a true believer in Randism.  I read the book, finished it before him, and delighted in not only ruining plot points but also in ripping apart their flawed logic.

So yes.  I'm the most kind and benevolent person ever, obviously.

In college, I had to read Persuasion not once, but twice.  The first time I was still young and trying to do well in school.  The second time I had to read it because it was the only book we read all semester.  Really.  I've said it before, but I'll say it again--Persuasion is neither weighty nor interesting enough to study for four months straight.

Clearly, I'm no stranger to the unwilling reading.  I've had the experience of reading through sweat and willpower, forcing my way through a book despite repeated throwings of it across the room (aside from the mentioned offenders, Paradise and Herland can join this club).  But last night, for the first time I can remember, I rage quit a book.  I got through the first forty pages, I overlooked several instances of concern, but after a while it was just not worth my time.  So, officially entering the Not Worth My Brain Space arena, I present Hillary Jordan and her novel, When She Woke.




This book violated several of my cardinal sins.  It was unoriginal.  The writing was eye-gougingly awful.  She had no faith in her readers to make connections.  And it's dystopian, anti-religious themes were handled so overtly that they made a mockery of the genre.

When She Woke reads like a futuristic The Scarlet Letter.  Instead of having a baby out of wedlock, Hannah Pryce has an abortion.  In doing such, she commits the crimes of murder and premarital sex, actions that are among the highest of misdemeanors in a world where church and state have become synonymous.  Her punishment is having her skin dyed red, marking her as an abortionist murderer in an intolerant religious community.  She struggles to adjust to her new life, all the while pining after the married father of her child, pastor Aiden Dale.

First off, I do love a nice literary homage.  But I do not love being bludgeoned with a reference.  Doesn't Hannah Pryce look and sound a lot like Hester Prynne?  And Aiden Dale...hmm, that couldn't be a nod to Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, now could it?  Listen.  I'm all for being inspired by another work, and I'm all for wanting to pay tribute to it.  But there comes a point where laziness comes into play, and if a writer is so overtly naming characters and building situations around another novel, at some point they lose control  over their own writing.  The characters aren't theirs, and so the power the writer has over them is limited, making the text feel false and forced.

And a story that is limited by another work gets tedious.  Jordan was doomed from the start.  But it's as if she knew that she couldn't write a nuanced work, so she just threw up her hands and went for the most overt and simplistic storytelling possible.  Why let a reader guess character motivation when it can be bludgeoned over their head?  And let's not stop when the reader's soul is bleeding from the lack of subtlety.  Subtlety is hard.  It's so much easier to spell out actions and thoughts 20-40 times a page.  Besides, readers won't catch on to the depth of the story and how inspired it is unless there are quotes from Hawthorne and multiple references to how unwavering and judgmental the society is.

Which brings us to the religious commentary in the novel.  Even though I am a Christian, I am (gasp!) perfectly OK reading novels that criticize Christian society.  I'm a complete dystopian junkie, and that genre often uses a conservative, overly vigilant religious government as the instigator for loss of freedom.  And I get it.  On some level, I even agree with that ruling.  It's a gentle balance believing in a greater power and wanting to share it, versus believing in one chosen path and thinking that everyone, whether believer or not, needs to walk that way.  The prevalence of judgment is a danger when religion's focus goes from worship to the need to force standards on the populace.  And I believe that type of behavior isn't inherent in religion, but is a distinctly human trait.  People are fallible.  We are weak.  And in my mind, the best dystopian books point out those features.  The desire of man to want power.  Whether humanity is born good, or if goodness is a conscious choice.  The focus on the nature of man, not the nature of God, makes for a more interesting story.

And that is where When She Woke loses me.  The big bad is not a person, but is the Christian institution.  Jordan writes like a spurned lover, the book acting as a reactionary diatribe against religion as a whole.  I kept waiting for it to gain some shades of gray, waiting for the overblown preacher man to appear and take on the questionable (but enthralling) shades of religious fascism.  But no.  There was no hint towards nuance in the character of man.  It was the constant criticism of faith.  A constant stream of insistence that belief in God equals disdain for mankind and hatred in your heart.  Because clearly, the number one commandment is to hate without question and destroy all opposition.  Naturally.

Jordan's narrow focus was offensive, not just for me as a Christian but mostly for me as a writer.  As a lover of the written word and the power of story.  As someone capable of intelligence and discernment.  Critical thinking and examination doesn't mean one-note writing.  It means exploring possibilities, settling into the cracks and crannies of thought and human conscious.  The fact that When She Woke ignores sophistication in favor of freight train storytelling angered me.  The message was insulting, the writing was insufferable, and I can see no value in indulging the book further.

Across the room and into the reject pile it goes.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

But Seriously, This Week

This Onion article* has it right.  This week is yet another time where my country has been put through the wringer.  Boston, my future town, in fear and upheaval.  A city-wide lockdown.  Rumors flying around, unsubstantiated claims.  Talking to twenty sixth-graders about current events has proven the existence of mob mentality, has been the face of the vulture media, desperate to feed on the flesh of sensationalism.  Might sound like overkill, but the amount of enjoyment these kids get out of telling a story that their uncle told them where this dark-skinned, accented guy was seen walking on rooftops and was taken into custody, well.  That kind of makes me ill.

And it's not just the kids.  It's the journalism this morning, the masses of people hankering for sound clips from estranged uncles and random classmates, touting high school students (who willingly say that they didn't know the suspects well!) as "friends of the suspects."  Networks bringing in terrorism experts--experts who, to their credit, have been trying to diffuse any shocking Al Qaeda and jihadist claims--just so that they can dedicate hours to discussing this intense Islamic plot.  It's more than depressing, it's frustrating.

Add that on top of events like the explosion at Waco, and the failure of the Senate to vote on gun control (not so much a because of the legislation not passing [even though come on], but because it exhibited the extent of our corrupt government, especially when you factor in quotes like this one from Richard Feldman), and you could say my faith in this nation has been shaken.  Suddenly, this world isn't a complex sphere full of sorrow and happiness, it's just a straight up scary place.

So yeah.  I spent most of this week feeling sad, and then indescribably angry, and now I'm just exhausted.

Just like the first article said, this week is done.  I'm done.

As a collective, can we agree to sit on the couch, cry, and watch happy videos until the world goes away?

Sounds good to me.

*Incredibly strong language.  Be ye warned, sensitive souls.  But if you like, the Onion has rocked it with their coverage this week.  Find all the Boston articles HERE.

Monday, April 15, 2013

Golden Years

If this isn't in your head right now, you are fired.

My birthday is coming up.  Not just any birthday.  My GOLDEN birthday.  The one where I turn 24 on the 24th.  And maybe it's the youngest child in me, but I'm excited for it.  I love occasion.  I completely relish feeling special.  Maybe that's childish, and maybe it shows a lack of humility, but dang-it-all, it's my birthday! If not now, when?  When else is there an excuse for circumstance and pomp?  Especially on this, the one and only Golden Birthday!

So, just in case you feel inclined to celebrate in the joy with me, here are some things to spark gift-giving inspiration.  I'll just leave this here:

This took me a while, and I'm inordinately proud of it.  I should take a class to be artsy and design-y.


2- The City of Owls and Night of the Owls, by Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo

3- The Revolution was Televised, by Alan Sepinwall

4- RKives, by Rilo Kiley

5- Hands of Glory, by Andrew Bird

6- YOU.  I don't care if it's letters, cards, Facebook messages, carrier pigeons, whatever-it-is, I want to hear from you.  Since moving to Seattle I've learned to value friendships on a deeper level.  And I'm trying to be a better friend, and to show those people that I care.  Because guess what?  I know a ton of incredible people.  And often, I miss them (by the way, those people? It's you. It's definitely you).  I've carved out a great little niche here in Seattle, and I'm optimistic for Boston, but that doesn't mean I sometimes ache with all the missing of my gangs, roomies, crews and pals.  My homies, if you will.  With everything going on right now, and today in particular, I just want to hold you close, hold those magical connections near and dear.  And while these books and musics have been bouncing around in my head for a while, what would really make my Golden Birthday super golden is hearing from the people I love. 

So. 7101 Roosevelt Way NE, #206.  Seattle, WA 98115.

Nine days and counting.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Trying my Heart Out

Yesterday, the official School Spelling Bee was held in my classroom.  All three participants were there.

Clearly, it was thrilling.

Afterwards, I sat and watched the third place girl with the shiny eyes and the quivering lip. A nine year old at a school desk, body shaking with the pressure of holding back sobs.  Elementary life is awful.  To a child, life is black and white.  How can they understand losing not because they were bad, but just because someone else was better?  To them, it's only interpreted as one thing: ultimate failure.

One co-worker went up to her. Instead of sympathetic hugs and empty words of "you did great!," this teacher offered a firm handshake and some wise words:

If we don't try, then we don't know what we can do.

Never trying is as tempting option. No criticism.  No defeat.  No disappointment.

But there's the other side of the coin. No admiration.  No victory.  No success.

My own decision to try has led me here:

There might be tea in that harbor!*
*note: that is not "Boston Harbor."  There is no tea.  Don't be ridiculous. 

Behold.  As of this August, that dreamscape of history and culture will be my home.  And this lovely institution will be my new alma mater:

Boston University, baby!

It's exhilarating.  It's terrifying.  I'm gearing myself up for the greatest failures, criticisms, and embarrassments I've ever had.    But I'm also ready to work harder, be more passionate, and experience the fruition of my dreams more than I imagined possible.  It's all going to happen.

In preparing for the world of Boston, I've started making a Boston movie playlist, something I can chip away at over the summer months.  It's surprising how many Boston-set movies revolve around crime and despair.  Is there something in the water?  Does the Revolution-inspired air of freedom encourage people to flout societal laws?  I mean, I know that I'm planning on joining the Irish mob and causing some mayhem once I get there, but I didn't think that was the norm.  I just thought Boston was full of preppy Harvard types and tweed-clad intellectuals.

"Happy" Boston Movies
Fever Pitch
Legally Blonde
Ted

"Depressing, Gritty, often Crime-related" Boston Movies
The Departed
The Social Network
The Town
Boondock Saints
Gone Baby Gone
Mystic River
Shutter Island

Does my quest to watch Boston movies mean I'm relegating myself to a summer of drama?  Or are there quality offerings that make the city sparkle?  You know, other than things like 1776, because I seriously cannot handle any more Revolutionary War songs.  Leave our Founding Fathers and their vocal chords alone.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

My Kind of Valentine

Behold, the fruits of my morning's labors:



To you, dear blog world, with all the sincere love I can muster.