Sunday, June 12, 2011
It Makes My Heart Strong
Published in the June 2011 Issue of Underwired Magazine
Unlike Oprah, I did not have a farewell season, a farewell two weeks or even a farewell day when I was “let go” from my last job. It was with a company that I had been with for almost 10 years, grown-up with and considered family. This was a company that sent my mother an orchid while she was in the hospital during her second cancer, had encouraged me to go to Guatemala twice to build with Habitat and had helped me through the death of two close friends and former employees. They taught me how to manage and run a successful and busy store, negotiate my position within a company and build business and social relationships. So it was quite a blow when a fateful string of events lead me to be put in a position where one of the co-owners of the company confronted and yelled at me in front of customers and co-workers. My reaction was controlled and silent but interpreted as cold and unfriendly. Although I would not change anything about the events leading up to the incident, nor the incident itself, it still resulted in me being forced out of the company.
This was undeniably the one and only pushed-out-of-the-nest moment of my life. The patriarch of my formidable work experience and I had a classic adolescent-versus-parent style altercation. I’m not exactly sure what role I played in this analogy but I do know that I lost. I lost my job and I was devastated. I cried for two days and hardly slept. I lamented my story over and over again and tried to stop thinking about the customers and possibly even co-workers, who I would probably never see again.
Then I started my new job.
That same week I started working at Americana Community Center as an ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher – a position that I had been trying to obtain for the better part of a year. After the fog of being fired from one job and starting another had lifted, I quickly realized the big puddle of luck I had slipped and fallen into. The opportunity to teach immigrants and refugees exposed a vast range of attributes that my previous job did not. It also made me realize the absence of several stresses that I had no sense of being substantial strains in my daily life until they were no longer present. For example, I no longer had nightmares about endless lines of customers, cringed when the phone rang or feared who I might run into on my shift. Within a week of teaching I started to feel my body ease and settle into what would become a new sense of normalcy.
On an average week day I now wake-up around 6AM to exercise (on a good day), eat breakfast with my husband and make sure that my lesson plans are prepared for my 9AM class. This is a dramatic change compared to my 10-minute out-the-door timeline that I utilized for my previous job. Now, instead of saying “good morning” to a multitude of groggy-faced customers coming in to get their regular coffee, I share morning greetings with my students from South Sudan, Burma, Somalia, Burundi, Iraq and Vietnam. Where my previous job brought a comfortable and predictable routine, my students bring quite the opposite – challenging questions, learning barriers that must be breached and cultural differences that cause them to frequently laugh at me for reasons that I cannot figure. My students bring with them their past: war torn nations, natal countries that they can no longer call home and stories of refugee camps that often offered faulty shelter and little support but are still missed. And with this, even more learning challenges and thus, more teaching challenges. Needless to say, all the lesson planning and activity preparation in the world cannot guarantee a successful class session. Where my previous job depended on if I smiled, made good drinks, got along with my co-workers and cleaned well; my new job requires, and offers, so much more.
While talking to a student from South Sudan after class one evening I asked him, “Do the memories of your home make it hard to come to class?” He looked at me puzzled. I continued, “When you think about the past, does it make you sad? Does it make it hard to get up in the morning? To go to work? To come to class?” He understood and began to shake his head, “No, because it makes my heart strong. I go to work. I got to school. I learn English. I tell other people to go to school.” Attempting to hold back tears of admiration I respond, “You think about the future.” He nods his head yes as we share a moment. And this is only one moment, among many in the past 3 months, which have made me feel so privileged. I sit next to my students, these strong individuals from all around the world, and I get to share this space with them. I get to meet them, hear their stories and share their lives. They tell me that I am important, that I am a good teacher. They pray for me. They are eager to learn English and fuse their past lives with their new future. And I am eager to help them.
Although my previous job urged their employees to feel a sense of wonder in their everyday work it was always something difficult for me to buy into. But now at Americana, working as an ESL teacher, I get it. I understand that feeling that I was supposed to have all this time. And it makes me thankful to have been fired from my last job in such a tumultuous way. Because after all, it makes my heart strong.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
For Love of Dogs
My finance, Justin, and I went camping this past weekend. We went to The Land Between the Lakes a gigantic park located in Southwestern Kentucky that dips its tail down into Tennessee. It was as relaxing as any weekend vacation could be. We swam, hiked, lounged, and ate exceptionally good food for being cooked outside. As I sat one morning drinking my camp coffee and reading my book, I could look to my right and only see the beautiful lake and surrounding forest. To my left - lake and forest. And then at my feet were our three dogs.
Our three-dog, mismatched collection. Our motley crew of dogs. All three of which found us. We didn't find them. Not one of our dogs was planned. We didn't seek-out dog ownership like most people do. Like our friends who spent weeks scouring shelters or studying breeds or chose to go through the process of adopting retired greyhounds. Not us. No, all of our dogs found us.
Our oldest one adopted me back in 2001 when I was with my first serious boyfriend. A friend called to tell us that a puppy had wondered on to her mom's property and she thought the dog might be part coyote. My ex-boyfriend, being a big fan of wolves, jumped at the idea of owning a dog that was part coyote. Me, being a big fan of responsibility, immediately began lecturing him about how we couldn't afford a dog and how I wasn't going to be the one to take care of it. And then, of course, I met her. Anna. I knew her name intuitively. And there was further no hesitation of the fact that she was part coyote. Anna burrows dens, howls at sirens like no other kind of dog, and is able to catch flies with uncanny accuracy. I've done a lot of research on coyotes since I met Anna and I must admit that at times I have been afraid that she may be the real deal. That she is in no way diluted with dog blood but is in fact full coyote. When I catch myself worrying about this frightening possibility all I have to do is look over at Anna, who is often by my side, see her squared dog snout and remind myself that no matter what she is my dog soul-mate.
For how much I am Anna's person, Justin is tens times that for Bojangles. I often say that they should wear broken heart "Best Friend" necklaces and that Bojangles should have an "I LOVE Justin" t-shirt. Justin met Bojangles while a friend had possession of the dog during a post-abusive transitional phase. Justin had stopped by for a visit and on his way home decided that he had to have Bojangles. He got home, called his friend, and directly went back to retrieve his new friend. They were immediately inseparable. If Bojangles had his druthers he would cuddled on top of Justin 20 hours out of every day. Bojangles is also the leader of the pack. Because he is an Australian Shepherd he feels the need to keep everyone in line including the two other dogs, house visitors, and sometimes even us. He often wanders around with a melancholy look on his face unless you mention the word "W-A-L-K", throw a ball, or if Justin comes home. The latter often being the highlight of his day and the moment in which I realize that Bojangles was just biding his time with my company.
Every crew has to have its wise guy. Its scrappy little loud mouth. Its Joe Pesci of the group. And ours' is no different. Sprite is part Jack Russel part asshole. She is a small cuddly dog that has a mouth that could probably eat your face. She is your cliche 12lb. dog that thinks she 50ft. tall. Sprite was found alone one winter night in a park. A park that Justin and his then-finance were checking out to see if they wanted to have their then-future wedding. They didn't chose that park for their wedding location but they did keep Sprite. I give Sprite a hard time but she's sweet and goofy and her main goal in life is to stay warm. Kind of like me. Kind of exactly like me. Sprite spent a brief stint with Justin's now ex-wife but found her way back to Justin and Bojangles.
These dogs have melded together to become our family. They are the embodied hodgepodge of both of our pasts and our lives before Justin and I were "us". They represent ex's, old experiences, and times in which it was only us and them and no one else. These dogs are relics of our past lives. But they have adapted. Endured. Left us and come back. And now as Justin and I plan our future together I know that the truth is that life won't always be this easy. There will be times harder than we can even yet imagine. But we can stand strong. If we get lost along the way we'll find our way back together. And this is what these dogs have taught me. That love can be solid, unwavering, and sincere. That love can exist without bias. That it can be forgiving. And that it can last a lifetime.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Why DIY?
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This was an essay that I wrote for a small magazine back in December that was rejected. Throughout the existence of this blog I hope to share many pieces with you which have been rejected. Enjoy.
It’s Christmas Eve. I’m nine. My brothers are eleven and seven. I excitedly hand them both their presents from beneath the tree and smile in anticipation as they simultaneously rip them open. Is it a GI-Joe? A new Nerf football? A VHS copy of Back to the Future III? No, of course not. It’s a handmade coupon book detailing numerous things that they can redeem them for through me: 1 Free Room Cleaning; 1 Chore Pass; 1 Hour of Uninterrupted Nintendo Play (Your Choice of Game).
My brothers’ reactions to these presents were understandably unenthusiastic. I even recall my parents having to pry a, “thank you,” out of both of them. But none of this ever phased my momentum for such projects. I was well aware that they would rather have a new toy or game, but that wasn’t the point. The point was in the process: The idea as it appeared perfectly in my head. The glue, scissors, fat Crayola markers, and mismatched scraps of construction paper. The below-par final product that I was always too elated, at that point, to notice.
A few Christmases ago, poor, depressed and single, I decided to renew my old tradition and hand-make the majority of my gifts for friends. I used a friend’s old wallet which resembled a cassette tape as a template, and settled on hand-sewing simple, small, multi-use pouches. I knew that I wanted the inside lining to be a starry-night fabric pattern that I had pined over, several times, years earlier, while under the illusion that I could make a quilt. And the exterior I wanted to be a thick, heavy, canvas-like material that I could easily stencil an image upon with a fabric marker. The pouch would be secured with a single button, particularly picked out for each individual friend, sewn in the top middle opening of the pouch.
I mainly worked on the handmade gifts while watching the complete series of M*A*S*H alone in my living room. And I do mean complete. I’m talkin’ season one through season eleven; 1972 through 1983. I’m talkin’ from Trapper to BJ; from Burns to Winchester; from Blake to Potter. I’m talkin’ Henry Blake’s death, Margaret’s divorce, and Radar’s hardship discharge. Watching the series in its entirety, which I tend to do about once every couple of years, always conjures a sense of family for me. Not only does the show’s theme music remind me of taking naps in my parents’ bed as a child but I truly begin to feel a bond with the characters. I begin to conceive Hawkeye, Hunnicut, and Klinger as friends. I think of my own friends in relation to those fictional characters and how we have all created this made-up, chosen family.
Each pouch was made in stages. First I sewed the two pieces of fabric together at each end with the exterior sides facing in so that the actual stitch would be on the inside of the pouch. Then I turned the already sewn pieces over, folded the fabric so the exterior piece would be touching and sewed the sides. I made these methodically, in bulk. When it was time to finally dole out my fine stack of handmade treasures, I used a dinosaur stencil to sketch an Apatosaurus (otherwise known as a Brontosaurus) onto each pouch, carefully choosing the location and color of each Jurassic creature. For Micah and Jake the dinosaurs were black, Tamara’s was multi-colored, and Andrew’s was yellow. Meredith’s actually had a brown Ankylosuarus and Kitty received one with a stencil of the state of Kentucky with a pink heart button where Louisville would be located – a tattoo design that we both longed over and I now have. Each pouch had the person’s initials on the back and the buttons were the crowning detail. The buttons had to not only match the dinosaur but also somehow reflect something about the recipient. For my two best friends, Sarah C and Sarah B, I attached buttons that had fallen off my favorite mustard-yellow, torn up, too-small-for-me cardigan sweater. I often finished each pouch right before giving it to the person with the ink still fresh and button newly attached.
Although the final product of these gifts were much closer to my original vision than any present I ever made for my brothers and were received with more enthusiasm, I still knew that some people were unimpressed. Not to say that a majority of the recipients don’t use them still today for a number things such wallets, a purse for their band money, or a pocket to hold their own spools of thread. But the final product, or even the reactions from friends, is not what I will remember about these gifts. It was the process. It was the hours spent reflecting on friends and family while I watched M*A*S*H, spent time with family and friends and, of course, pricked my finger a thousand times. It was the enjoyment that I received from making these little gifts, that included a tiny part of myself, that each simple, small, hand-sewn pouch represents – if not to others, then at least to me.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Welcome!
Welcome to Pocket Thoughts! I finally decided to start a blog about decade after blogs became popular. Why? Well mainly because I think, in writing-form, and there is not presently a venue where I can send all of these thoughts. So, I'm sending them here. This blog will be a smorgasbord of poetry, essays, memories, and eulogies for people who have not yet died (these really need to get out of my head). I hope to make readers laugh, cry, or maybe even throw up. Whatever it is, I hope to invoke something. Thanks for joining me and please come back soon.
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