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 Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland ** Image ID #1701066 Unavailable **   |
| This weekend I'm planning to attend my reunion. It has been 20 years since I walked across that great green lawn and accepted my diploma with over five hundred of my fellow classmates. This morning in honor of the upcoming event, I changed my profle picture. The girl in that picture has major bangs and virtually no clue about the world she was about to plunge into headfirst. For me high school was more about preparation than fun with my free time spent in labs and building extra curricular activities like High School Aquanauts and Independent Studies with Mr. T that would fill out my college applications. Looking back, I think I was some kind of science nerd-hybrid who divided my attentions between Project O and third floor of Main Building and running around with my boyfriend doing too much stuff that we weren't supposed to. I never joined a team sport and did not belong to any traditional clubs or organizations. Still, I managed to attend both my Junior and Senior proms and a dinner dance here and there. I cheered from the stands for track meets and football games. I went to the drama club's production of the Crucible. I shopped in the student store and ate lunches on front lawn. I took creative writing class with Wally Lamb in the basement of Cranston. I hung out with Tammy Winter under the great tree. I was thrilled to drive my Toyota camry to school myself and park on Joseph Perkins. I even managed to duck out on Senior Cut day with a bunch of friends. We went to Scarborough Beach and I don't think my stomach stopped flip-flopping until we crossed over into Rhode Island. I raced to classes between bells and tried to devise fool-proof ways to avoid changing for gym. I once fell down the stairs in Main building, baked poached pears for Mr. Heffernan's world history class and did a stint as lab assistant for Mr. Bacshoutta which drove my boyfriend crazy. I funneled into pep rallies with the rest of the school. I participated, but my eyes were always on the horizon...my feet always ready to bolt when the time came. Just a few weeks after graduation, I would be off to Australia and New Zealand as a science delegate for People to People, and beyond that I thought, the rest of the world. The irony now is that 20 years and what often feels like two lifetimes later, I live barely a stone's throw from NFA. I have gone around the world to settle down in the one place I could not wait to leave behind. I take my daughter walking on campus and I marvel at how much it has changed. It seems that the place has always been in a constant state of evolution and something more, it is really beautiful. I'm not sure I ever stopped to appreciate the cherry blossoms with their plump pink petals or the alternating roses lining the athletic field or the aged and stoic appeal of the rose colored bricks of Slater. Back then, I wore the red and white colors with pride but I'm not sure I ever really appreciated the place or how the diverse student body, challenging faculty and sprawling campus prepared me for college and adventures beyond. I'm looking forward to seeing faces who, while they may not all be familiar, they are part of those years, part of that experience. It will be nice to take a night to reconnect and remember when life possessed a sweet and innocent simplicity. The recent forum posts from former classmates leaves me wistfully wishing I had paid just a little bit more attention to other things, spent just a little bit more time living in the moment than I did back then. Here's to hoping that 20 years is just long enough to catch up on fun. |
| Elson woke as if from a bad dream, sudden and violently, the thinnest sheen of sweat covering her delicate features. She rose up in the darkness on shaking legs and stumbled across the unfamiliar terrain of the rented room to the tiny bathroom. She snapped on the light, squinted with the sudden glare and deliberately did not look at her reflection in the grimy mirror. She tore the paper top off a glass and filled it from the tap, not bothering to wait until the water ran cold. She tilted the glass to her lips and noticed the small, italic P embossed into the bottom. She also noticed, too late, the tiny black hair stuck to the glass. She dropped the glass and gagged with revulsion. Elson had an almost visceral aversion to hair, body hair especially. She took great pains to keep her entire body free of the offending matter, religiously shaving and waxing all but her slender eyebrows. She even kept the hair on her head cropped to a brief, almost mannish pixie cut that she dyed the brightest shade of platinum blond money could buy. Her phone was charging next to the sink. She looked at the luminous screen and read the time as 3:40am. It would still be dark outside she realized and was consumed with the sudden and powerful need to run. Elson pulled ratty tee-shirt over her sports bra, pulled on a pair of biker shorts and laced up her sneakers. She pulled open the door to the motel parking lot. The humid air smelled like an aquarium, an odor Elson found revolted her almost as much as the errant hair had. She started off across the nearly deserted lot, drawing comfort from the solid thumping of her feet on the pavement. After a few moments, she felt her body slip into a perfect rhythm. Elson’s body was her temple, a tight and compact collection of muscles that she sculpted by a near compulsive routine of running and hot yoga. In her youth she had surrendered it to untold abuses and had spent most of her adult life regaining the natural force and power she had been born with. She was small but fierce. Her slight silhouette, soft mouth and blue eyes did nothing to convey the warrior confined within. A long-ago boyfriend had once jokingly compared her to a comic book character called “Tank Girl”. Elson had been flattered by the parallels he had drawn between her and the spirited heroine who piloted across a post-apocalyptic world in a great green tank. There had been a time when she had shared that character’s quick wit and good nature but those qualities had become casualties of her evolution, an evolution that had that strengthened her resolve and sealed off the great voids of pain in her soul but had also stripped her of her vulnerability and mirth. Elson’s feet pounded against pavement down desolate streets where the houses all stood in the same state of neglect, worn out and overgrown. She passed one after another, dark houses set in uneven rows; their unkempt yards littered with refuse and junk, barely indistinguishable from one another behind their low chain link fences. Street after street, it was the same story, low-income living in the armpit of Middle America. Elson’s stomach tightened with tension as she neared the trailer park. The whole reason she had chosen that fleabag motel with the sub-par cleaning standards was its proximity to this place. The battered blue sign out front read, “Paradise Park”, framed with a flashing neon flamingo that blinked a sickly shade of pink in the still gloom of morning. Beyond the sign were six rows of ramshackle trailers loosely connected by a series of gravel footpaths and a broken main road. Elson slowed her pace. One of those trailers would hold the individual who had become the very center of her world for the last several weeks. A vile and wretched waste of human space, David Cedars, career-criminal and child rapist. Elson had tracked him down and had journeyed here with the sole intention of killing him. Elson had no personal connection to this man. She did not know the toddler he had raped but the spirit of that broken child had called to her, had found a space in her soul and snuggled down, clinging to the part of her that was still mercifully human. The child had come to her at night, as had so many others, and whispered in her ear, speaking those terrible truths in a voice spiked with anguish and pain. All those tortured children with whom she shared a kindred spirit, a history soaked in shame and pain, had spoken to her. Their voices had become the haunted mantra she had used to evolve from a victim into an instrument of perfect rage. |
 Sometimes my morning commute is much more…this morning it was magically transformed into a royal shuttle for one very fashionable little princess. One of the benefits of having older female cousins is that they will occasionally weed through their old toys and deliver bags of these gently and sometimes not so gently used playthings to their eager little cousin. These discarded items become instant treasures to Jaden, even more enticing then new toys because they were used by those older girls she adores and emulates. This weekend’s haul yielded a tiny Minnie mouse magnet, angel bear, a bag of Barbie dolls and a Tinkerbell cell phone. Jaden was delighted but when Desi pulled out the plastic yellow and pink princess crown, my daughter’s whole face lit up. She wore that crown, paired with purple sunglasses and strings of multicolored beads, all through dinner and the hours that followed. She would have worn it to bed if I let her. As it was, I had to coax and bribe her to take it all off for her shower. This morning, she retrieved the ensemble and waited patiently by the door in full-on princess gear, complete with that tiny Tinkerbell cellphone dangling from one wrist. Apparently when you are a princess, you just never know who may call you on your way to daycare. My husband and I shared amused looks and stifled our giggles as we loaded her into the car, knowing that Jaden felt every bit as fabulous as she thought she looked. What kind of parents would we be to break her precious princess bubble? There is often a fine line between looking sensational and looking ridiculous but for a child, no such boundary should ever exist. Sometimes life hands you moments that are so pure and magical they make up for all the bad and insipid ones we have to deal with. This morning, watching my daughter in the rearview mirror, smiling and singing along to her tunes, looking every bit like she belonged on a Mardi Gras float…. was one of those moments. The chronic stomach pains I’d been struggling with and the busy stream of thoughts and concerns in my head just melted away and it was just me and my princess in the rearview. Every time I ventured a glance at Jaden my heart felt as if it would explode with pride and joy. I refused to let her wear the ensemble into school only because I feared she’d loose one or more of the important elements in amongst the detritus of the busy classroom. I promised her it would be safe with me and that she could put it all on again as soon as I picked her up today. She relented but insisted on taking the Tinkerbell cell phone with her. After all Princesses are very popular people and as noted earlier, you never really can tell who may call you…. |
| This morning on my commute in I was listening to NPR as I sometimes do until I cross over the bridge and my New York-based am news station kicks in clearer. NPR has a feature on Fridays that I have become rather fond of called, StoryCorps. This is an admirable attempt to collect a varied oral history of people, places and events around the country. The story this morning, recorded by a man named Will Smith, left me very touched and in possession of a whole new respect for what makes a good father. Will Smith, now an older man recently diagnosed with an serious illness, recalled the time when he went away to school at Bowdain College in Maine with his 18-month old daughter Olivia in tow. A single father, he spoke about the challenges of studying, working and carrying for his child. He took at night time job cleaning so he could bring his daughter along, often hiding her in closets to avoid detection. He talked about living in fear of his tiny roommate being discovered and of losing 27 pounds during those years from stress and because he often only had enough money to feed Olivia. He and his daughter laughed as he described coming back to the dorm after class to find his fellow basketball teammates, some of Olivia's first babysitters, chasing around an active toddler. His daughter asked him if he was ever embarrassed by her, by being a young father, to which he emphatically replied "no, never". He told his daughter about the many, many times he would leave his books to look over her sleeping and it was the only thing that kept him going, kept driving him forward. At his college graduation, the university called both Will and Olivia's names. As he carried his daughter up to get his diploma his fellow classmates and teachers all rose from their chairs, giving him a much deserved standing ovation. At the end of recording, both the man and his daughter exchanged words of love and appreciation in voices that trembled with emotion. There are remarkable men, and then there are remarkable fathers. This man, Will Smith, is an wonderful example of the love and self-sacrifice some fathers regularly make to raise their children. I wish stories like his were as well-known as some of the more media-primed tales we get exposed to on a daily basis. While not all of fatherhood involves such challenges as Will Smith's did, even those fathers who live their lives simply being there for their children can still be the biggest heroes. So, to that brave Dad in the mall who squeezed himself into that totally unflattering rubber Batman costume, just to walk around the mall holding hands with his little boy "Robin" on Halloween...I salute you. To my husband, who has manage to convince our daughter that she is indeed a Princess, the most beautiful and perfect one in the whole world....thank you from the bottom of her mommy's heart. And lastly to my own Dad, who has raised a daughter who knows she has her father's unwavering and unconditional love and support no matter what...You are my hero and I love you. Happy Father's Day |
| My grandfather fought in WWII. By the time I was a teenager, we had only ever heard one or two stories from his time in the service. He never spoke about those years even though we always suspected they featured predominately in the landscape of his life. He would have his old war buddies over or meet them at the local Mcdonalds. On those rare occasions when I would tag along or get roped into delivering a tray of ice tea to the picnic table in the back yard, the conversation always stalled in my presence. The animated banter simply dropped off until I'd retreated to a safer distance. I was in high school when an old boyfriend, a history buff and military collector, convinced my Grandfather to do a video-tapped interview on the war for a project. It was only then that my grandfather opened up about his years in the service and his feelings about a war that took such a devastating toll on his generation. I remember now how he had looked uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed, sitting side by side with Roland, his best friend and fellow veteran. My boyfriend Alan had some scripted questions about specific events and dates but the most revealing answers came when the men were prompted to simply talk about their most memorable moments and feelings. My Grandfather spoke quietly, sometimes becoming emotional especially as he described being marched through a town where buildings and homes were on fire. A woman had run out into the street, her body engulfed in flames, and fallen practically at his feet. His eyes teared up as he described being ordered to "keep going, not to pay her any mind." My Grandfather seemed to stare a few moments into the space in front of him, swallowing and shaking his head slightly, lost in that memory. The two men spent about an hour swapping stories that were representative of the best and worst of human nature. They spoke about camaraderie and of forging friendships and bonds that extended beyond the trenches, evidenced by the way they often finished each others thoughts or smiled fondly at memories of fellow soldiers and inside jokes. They spoke of the brutality of war, the corruption of their youth in battles fought on foreign soil for causes that at times, they had felt remarkable removed from. The most tragic revelation was realizing while the war had ended, it had left them and hundreds of thousands like them, forever marked and wounded in a way that would never heal. Suddenly my grandfather's midnight dreaming and ranting seemed to have a root cause. I discovered a new well of patience and understanding for a man that could so often be grumpy, aloof and very difficult. Only a few years later, my grandfather took his own life, with the very same weapon he had shouldered as a young infantry shoulder. The revealing and intimate portrait preserved on that videotape seemed to go at least part of the way toward explaining his tragic final action. Memorial Day is a time to remember and to honor the sacrifices men and woman have made over and over again to protect our precious freedoms. I appreciate all our veterans but I have a special connection to those WWII veterans who are disappearing rapidly from our population. I see my grandfather in every aging veteran selling paper poppies outside the supermarket. I always stop. I make sure to thank them after they hand me my poppy flower. I note their shaking hands, their military dress hats and medals worn proudly despite the obvious age and wear. These were once the same young men who may have fought side by side with my grandfather. They may have had the same dreams. They may suffer the same kinds of nightmares. They certainly share the same pride and devotion to country and they deserve to be remembered, this day and all others. |
| I knew there was a special bond between Jaden and her Nene, quite possible since the moment my mother-in-law first held my little blue-eyed baby in her arms. The long months between her visits have done nothing to diminish that bond, in fact the two of them always pick up seemingly right where they left off before. They communicate in a combination of elementary Turkish and English limited to one or two word phrases. They sing and dance and play...endlessly. Just about everything Jaden says or does evokes a barrage of cooing and kissing from her Grandmother which she accepts pretty graciously to my ceaseless amazement. I've even seen Jaden bestow more than one or two extra kisses at bedtime. Even on the mornings when Jaden heads off the school, a stop in her Nene's room before she leaves, has become part of both of their routines. Their relationship is simple, structured only by unconditional love and mutual adoration. Last night I was watching them play together, a silly follow-the-leader type game. Jaden was mirroring my mother-in-law's marching legs and pumping arms, that was, until her Grandmother tripped and came tumbling down to the ground. Not missing a beat, Jaden threw herself down alongside her Grandmother in an exaggerated swan dive that was so dramatic that giggles instantly turned into raucous laughter. The two of them sat side by side in the driveway, their feet spayed out in front of them, their heads thrown back and bodies shaking with belly laughs...looking every bit for the moment like two crazies. It was a beautiful sight. Grandmothers are special. They are pre-programmed to see the very best in us and they encourage and celebrate those things in every single way, in every moment of our lives. I have the most amazing Grandmother myself, she has been my kindred spirit, my best friend, my surrogate Mom. I can honestly say I am in part the person I am today because of the miraculous ways she loves me. I watch Jaden with her Nene and I am so grateful she will have the same opportunity to grow up with a grandmother who loves and cherishes her without limits. |
| Jaden has taken up singing lately. Granted, it is only three or four lines to the same song but coupled with some well-time head bobbing and clapping, it is absolutely delightful. On the rare occasions, she forgets she is naturally bashful and will start to sing "Wheel on the Bus" from the seat of the shopping cart or while strolling beside me in the mall, her pigtails bouncing and her hands clapping. I know there is no way my little girl can know this, but her impromptu performances have been like a miracle salve on my wounded spirit these last few weeks. Jaden is singing because she feels happy which in turn, makes me feel like I must be doing something right. It means that even though some days it is a real challenge for me to feel hopeful and positive, I have still managed to impart those sentiments onto her. At a time in my life when I am not feeling secure, I have managed to make her feel safe. Even in this time when I struggle to find things I like about myself, my little girl feels loved and treasured. When Jaden sings, it reassures me, it refocuses me, it lifts me up. My daughter's little melodies make all the difference to me these days. |
| My morning review of the news wires via the internet reveal a cache of the insipid headlines...from "something mysterious punching holes in Saturn's rings" to "the 10 most beautiful women" and yet another senseless story about Kim and Kayne. Really? How can I assume any of this fodder affects me personally. Maybe I am just giving in to my increasing foul mood, but most of it seems like a colossal waste of space. I'm far too concerned about getting through to next month financially and mentally to care about cosmic mysterious or the love and lifestyles of the rich and famous. I've actually resorted to listening to public radio which, apart from the hours of tedious droning on, at least provides the occasional story with some cultural or social relevance far enough out of the mainstream to be entertaining. There is just so much noise in my life right now, an ever deafening soundtrack to accompany my growing disillusionment and frustration levels. At some point, I really fear that I might suddenly scream, "Fuck it" at the top of my lungs and just uproot the family for a destination unknown, the only requirement being that it be a locale as far away from this one as humanly possible...and palm trees, there would have to be palm trees. |
| On this, the day of my fourth wedding anniversary, I take a moment to reflect on some of the sweetest moments of my life with him. There are of course, all the big ones...our first date, kiss, the "I do's", the birth of our baby girl. Then there are the memories I don't often have the cause or the luxury to recall as often. I was looking over my the banner picture on my facebook page, I'd recently replaced it with a wedding picture in honor of the date, and I remembered one of those rare and tiny moments, the kind that make the whole world go still around you, just for a few precious seconds. I had been in a rush of preparation the day of my wedding, shuttled from brunch, to the salon and to the bridal dressing rooms in a whorl of happy activity. Finally, standing arm and arm with my Dad waiting for my turn to walk down the aisle, things suddenly just stopped. I could feel every breath like a painful rattle in my chest. Only moments ago I had stood in front of the floor length mirror with my grandmother, amazed at the woman I saw glazing back at me. My dress was more perfect than even I had hoped. I looked every bit as lovely and glamorous as I felt. I was about to change my life, take one of the most promising and positive steps forward after so many years with a good man that I was crazy in love with. I was happy. I was eager. I was ready. Then, a few minutes later after watching my bridesmaids all disappear beyond those doors, I had that moment. The air went still around me. I lost connection to all sound and touch. I was gripped by this sudden numbness, overcome with the tremendous fear that despair was about to consume me, to pull me back from this place of hope and healing that I had found. The panic rose up inside me, blocking every sensation, every rational thought. Then, my Dad squeezed my arm. He looked at me and I saw that he was fighting back tears. Perhaps he was also thinking of how far I had come to stand at this place with him, and of all the goodness and light that waited for me now on the other side of that door. Neither one of us spoke, afraid I think to open the floodgates. We just took a deep breath and moved forward together. The white doors flew open revealing a room filled with the smiling faces of friends and family. Each step I took drove the doubt and the fear back, each step delivered me closer to my new life with my new love. If there was any trace of panic left in me it evaporated the moment I laid eyes on my new husband, standing there with wet eyes, looking as if he had been waiting his whole life for me. |
| These days I dream so often of palm trees that I am surprised I don't see them lining my driveway when I wake up. It is not that I have the burning desire to move to a tropical location, its more the hope that if we were to move even nine or ten hours farther South, it would change our lives for the better. Perhaps. I supposed it is the romantic in me that dreams about starting over in a new place, of the excitement of forging a new life as a family in a new town, new state, new climate. The romantic that dreams of stepping away from the old challenges, struggles and limitations..of putting space between us and all that feels broken and used up. I'm not sure what is wrong exactly, I just know that something feels like it is. My stomach hurts, almost constantly. I dread my morning commute like I dread a visit to the dentist. I can't shake the feeling I could do more, I could be more. I could do better for my family. |
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