More Than Words

Many of you who know me know that I place much value in the visual aspect of our world. I just took part in presenting a panel with two friends about the importance of graphic novels, I am working with a professor on campus to establish a visual literacy program, and I hope to get a Master's degree with an emphasis in visual narratives.

The visual makes up much of our lives and our experience here.

As such, I feel that I have stumbled upon the crystallization of why I will never work in the food service industry again. Watch it all; I promise, it's worth the wait.

An Update... Kind Of

So, I wouldn't say this is the finished product, but this is the piece I presented at Sigma Tau Delta's National Convention in Louisville last week. I was privileged to be on a panel of amazing women who wrote incredible papers about their experience in life sans Y chromosome. The panel was a Creative Non-Fiction panel; I submitted this paper as CNF mostly because I don't think I was ready to admit that everything about it was true. But, it is true.

I Wasn’t A Feminist Until I Found Four-Inch Red Stilettos

A Wilder Side

When I was little girl, I had a pair of shoes that my parents and I affectionately referred to as my “wild shoes.” They were a type of Keds that were multi-colored, flowery, and bold. I felt invincible in my wild shoes. No puddle was too wide or muddy, nor was any rollie-pollie bug or spider safe from the crushing power of my small feet or my wild shoes. When my tiny toes started to press against the edge of my beloved shoes, I was reluctant to get another pair. Soon, I began walking like an arthritic, three-legged dog and new shoes were a must. I traded in my wild shoes for a pair of shiny, white, bland, popular Keds.

I Had Feet in Those Shoes

Whenever I think of reading as a child, I always picture a quaint scene in Barnes & Noble on a snowy day. A young, buff and surprisingly afro-ed version of my father walks up to the long haired, stick version of my mother. He says in his authoritative cop-tone, “Hey honey. When did you start reading children’s books?” A playful smile curls into his lips and somewhere beneath his busy mustache, his dimples indent slightly. As the snow continues to fall and create perfect, picturesque fog circles on the windows, my mother says, “You’ve got your head on your shoulders and your feet in your shoes…” She turns to him and quickly retorts, “Oh, I just wanted pick out your Christmas present early this year.” My mother, always sure to make a point, sets down the book she was reading to me and goes on to say why she’s perusing the kids’ books: she wants to make sure that I, her three-year old blonde and bashful pride and joy, have positive female role models to read about – she’ll have none of that manipulative-bitch-like behavior that is seen in sordid characters like that damn Tinkerbelle. My father shakes his head and walks back to the magazine section of Barnes and Noble where those people hang out and waits expectantly until he’s needed. The facts: Barnes & Noble couldn’t have been found in a hundred mile radius of where I lived in 1988; I grew up in Southern California and it snowed only once when I was six; my dad still may never have set foot in a bookstore in his adult life; and, my mother, well, the part about my mother is true. I grew up with positive, non-manipulative, non-bitchy, but vocal nonetheless, female role models.

Whose Shoes?

Basketball shoes remind me of sixth grade. I’ve been six feet tall since then. When shopping for basketball shoes, I had to buy boys’ shoes because the small-town shoe store we went to didn’t have any girls’ shoes big enough for me. Word got around in rural school about the six foot, boy-shoe wearin’ girl, and so began the three basic assumptions about me: one, I was the fat kid that weighed like a thousand pounds – how do those chairs hold her up again?; two, I was tall ergo I was good at basketball and volleyball and basically any other sport that required me to be athletic and my usefulness ended there; and three was that I did not like boys – at all. The facts: I weighed close to 140 pounds and was basically all muscle; I was a force to be reckoned with when playing basketball, but the mop the janitors used to clean with would have volleyed a ball better; and, I was so much in need of boys’ attention that I stunted my own dating growth well into my sophomore year of college. In my adolescence, I was not the girly-girl, the pretty girl, or the girl who got asked out; I was the move-in-from-Southern-California-where-surely-there-must-be-

something-wrong-with-the-water-girl that was completely mislabeled. I just wasn’t “normal.” Oh, I also wasn’t blonde anymore.

Ready, Fire, Aim

When I think about Tyson Brown, I see a grassy middle school football field on a rare sunny day in April. Eighth graders are abundant and ready to leave the dregs of society behind for something much cooler: high school. There are about ten of us and the boy that I loathe is in attendance. Intellectual exchanges are obviously important in middle school, so we begin to discuss the meaning in a name. For instance, Jordon – who is my beautiful, tiny, flirtatious best friend – her name means, “Hot,” because, well, all the boys think she’s sooo sexy. We go around the circle, expertly classifying each others’ names and the boy whom I’m not fond of, the one I mentioned before, he gets his profound observation ready for the kill. There is no mistaking the look in his eyes for anything but pleasure as he pronounces, “Sarah is a Fat-Ass name.” The usual awkward chuckles ensue, and cumbersome looks are cast in my general direction. I don’t even have to look up from my three-stripe Adidas soccer shoes before I whip out the secret, end-all-be-all trump card: “Yeah? Well, Tyson is a Limp Dick name.” Laughs are beyond being stifled because I have just handed out the biggest slam of any middle school career. Chubby/Tall girls are redeemed forever, and stupid boys will think twice before they cross a girl that can think. The facts: my mom told me to say that.

I Can’t Feel My Toes…

There was a time in my life when I would wear nothing but flip-flops. They, at the most, caused a half-inch change in stature. I wore flip-flops in the winter, and even when my toes would turn blue, I wore the flops. I wore drab colors and I didn’t know how to dress my awkward body. Girl’s clothes didn’t fit because I was too tall and I had started to mature, which meant I was getting stretch marks and cellulite in awkward places, like my arms and breasts. Wearing boy’s pants gave me an inner-tube that Goodyear would have been proud to support and a figure reminiscent of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. I didn’t want to stand out so I walked with my hair in my eyes and my head down. The facts: I was popular by association; I incurred a devastating knee-injury that put me out of sports for the rest of my life during my freshman year and consequently gained 50 pounds due to inactivity; halfway through my first date ever, I was lied to, ditched, and left at a friend’s house to be the third-wheel wondering what I had done wrong; and, I was pity-dated to my Junior Prom and I couldn’t even find a dress to fit that I liked because I was too big.

Hitting the Road

There is a clear picture of black Vans shoes stomping down onto the black pavement in the visual narrative that exists in my mind. The shoes have a white stripe on either side of the foot. One shoe has a bright red shoelace, the other, a white lace. The text that accompanies the image reads, “The shoe sounded down onto the pavement catching her averted attention. He knew she hadn’t noticed him until then, walking down the sidewalk, but he knew he had to have her attention, even if for a moment; he needed her to know that he existed. She was startled and looked up, surprised that someone would interrupt her thoughts as the grim scene from the night before controlled her contemplative state. His grin was from ear to ear and in that moment, she knew he was something.” The facts: seeing those Vans with a red lace changed my life. I hadn’t noticed the shy boy that sat in the back of two of my classes until that day. It wasn’t long until we were together, and I grew to love him more than any other. I’d never felt close to someone, never felt like someone truly saw me despite my faults. A significant other hadn’t really loved me until then. But with all love comes the trial – and we were put in front of a grand jury. I was forced to realize that with the revealing of all the truth comes the unveiling of all the lies. I committed to a love that almost destroyed me; I almost lost myself in the act of trying to recover what was never really there. Because of that relationship I learned more about myself, humanity, love, and God than any other singular experience had ever taught me.

The Great Enlightenment

When I reflect on how I came to the realization that I’ve always been a Feminist, I picture a rainy afternoon during my senior year of college. I walk into a store where I insist on finding a good deal and therefore can justify picking out an outfit that will make me feel better about myself, life, and, basically, civilization in general. I peruse the racks looking for ways to spend money that I don’t have when I suddenly find myself staring at my very own altar to the gods – a shelf full of shiny, shiny pointy-toed stilettos. Now, ladies with skis for feet can understand – Size 11 does NOT exist to the fine shoemakers of the world. A pair of shoes that gargantuan is not only offensive to the fashion world and to women, but is probably abhorrent to humanity as a whole. Therefore, to find a pair of Size 11’s to strap on that one loves is cause for choruses of Hallelujah to ring through the halls. Hallelujah’s are blaring through the halls, perfectly timed glittering flakes have been released for a dramatic and celestial effect, and a spotlight from above shines down like a beacon of righteousness onto a pair of Size 11 shiny, pointy-toed red stilettos – my pair of Size 11 pointy-toed red stilettos. The facts: this passage is completely, 100%, swear on the Bible, The Virgin, and, even though he’s still alive, my father’s grave, accurate.

Sunny Day Sweeping the Clouds Away

When I picture my life as of now, I’m usually sitting in front of a computer. This is only because it’s my last semester of classes and I’m somewhat of a procrastinator. On late nights, my novelty Elmo slippers keep my feet warm because I’m too poor to turn up the heater past 70. Paper after paper weighs on my mind and I can’t wait to be done with my undergraduate degree because I can’t bear the thought of having to teach one more day of high school. The facts: I’m not giving up on teaching – quite the contrary, I’m applying to grad school so that I can teach what I want to teach where I want to teach it; tomorrow night I’m auditioning to be in the Vagina Monologues for a second time and I desperately want to be the “Angry Vagina”; I’m a six foot tall woman that on occasion becomes 6’4”, and I plan on spending the rest of my life finding ways to make choruses of Hallelujah materialize as if from nowhere.

A Bit Too Chilling

My heart goes out to the people effected by the shooting in Illinois today. The fact that people are sometimes very senseless and selfish still astounds me. A part of me hurts that to hear about shootings on the news every six months is almost commonplace; schools and universities have evacuation plans in for shooters  - it doesn't feel like people should have to live or prepare like that. 

The reoccurring nature of shootings got me thinking. I blog about music, and music listeners leave me comments. I write about poetry, and other poets read my writing.

I googled "how to be a columbine shooter" tonight. The fifth, 5th, hit on the first, 1st, page was called "Super Columbine Massacre RPG!" (Take special care to notice the exclamation point.) Curiosity got the best of me and I clicked the link. The page contains normal data links for downloads and directions for players of the "game." What is most chilling is the game description: "This game delves into the morning of April 20th, 1999 and asks players to relive that day through the eyes of Eric Harris and Dylan Kleblod, those responsible for the deadliest school shooting in American history."

How humanity can come to this is beyond my comprehension. The producer of this savage site is obviously intelligent. Only someone truly atrocious and intelligent could matter of factly state that he or she wants users to "delve" into the eyes of monsters. The unremorseful nature of the description, although sickening, makes the nature of these copy-cat shooters more clear - but never acceptable.

I was raised to respect guns because I was also taught to respect the sanctity of life. I understood that guns were not bad, that guns were a good thing in the right hands. They were for protection and for the hunting of food. I still feel that way. I knew what guns were capable of because my mother and father took the time to teach me. I knew this mostly because I grew up in a family of police officers. My dad was a cop, my uncles were cops, and my cousins are cops. Had I not injured my knee, the police force would have been a heavyweight fighter in my career choices.

When I was fifteen, I learned that my father had killed a man in the line of duty while the man was holding an apartment complex hostage. In doing so, my father saved the life of another officer. I am, always have been and and always will be proud of my father for this. Taking such action takes courage. My father knows he did the right thing, so do I. But, my father made sure to teach me that people deserve to live, and that life is precious.

Events like today do not want to make me ban guns. Events such as today make me want to help legislate access to guns and who gets them. I do not have a gun right now, but that's because of where I live. I will have a gun in my home though. I am not afraid of them. I am afraid of what would happen if someone tried to take my life, or the lives of those I love, and I was not properly equipped. People in Australia learned what would happen; when the right to bear arms is removed and people are forced to turn over their guns only one thing happens - the good, law abiding citizens turn over their arms and the bad people keep theirs.

Stupid, angry people make stupid, angry decisions with guns, true, but they would have made a stupid, angry decision no matter the access to materials.

I pray for humanity tonight. I pray that those who suffer, not just in Illinois, might be comforted. I pray that people will be smart and aware of the inherent value of life.

Find a Happy Place

Sometimes, being happy is a battle for me. I imagine myself as a stanch fighter in some kind of war, like the war at the beginning of "The Lord of the Rings" movie, fighting against the powers that would make me unhappy, because the key to happiness lies just on the other side of the opposing army. A weird picture to be sure, but that's what happens when you're a dork with an overactive, visual imagination.

Last February 14th, I was realized I had depression. Two days later, I was diagnosed with severe depression and severe anxiety. Writing, or saying, this on paper or out loud is not difficult when I share my experience with a trusted few. I knew that I would inevitably share this particular trial with many. And for some reason, I feel the need to share tonight.

The two months prior to that fateful day, and the three months after, were the hardest in my life. I have never known despair to that extent. I felt hopeless, helpless, miserable, and empty. I had nothing to give; I could only take.

But, and this is a big but, because I knew sadness to that depth, I knew that I could also experience happiness to that degree, and more. 

There is a stigma in many cultures, particularly in the Utah culture, that the word depression is a synonym for crazy. I think this is why I don't share my experience with many. I am not ashamed of myself, but leaving the sacred parts of my life open to the judgements and sneers of those who choose not to understand is difficult.

I heard once that we should not share sacred experiences with many, because they lose their sanctity, much like I shouldn't tell someone I'm in love with them when I really am unsure of my feelings. And although my trial with depression is sacred, I refuse to let an unhappy memory have power of my life. Instead, I choose to let it be a secure foothold in my life. A place where I know I have strength, courage, and experience so that it cannot be an unhappy memory anymore. Depression has been replaced with wisdom and love.

There are many things that help me now. I don't feel the need to share them. I just want to illustrate that sometimes my happiness is a choice and a battle. Today was a difficult day to keep fighting though.

The past few days have been really tough. I missed an extremely important grad school deadline and almost forgot another. I still have no idea what to do with my life after August, I feel like I'm in limbo, I feel like I can't do anything right, that people have no faith in me, and that if they do have faith in me that it's a wasted effort, and that all things that I have been trying to do "better" lately have been for naught. I feel depressed.

Maybe it's the time of year or the fact that the sun hasn't been out in a really long time, maybe I'm fighting what I'm supposed to really be doing instead of what God needs me to be doing, maybe I don't know what I really want. Maybe it's P.M.S.

I don't know. 

What I do know is that writing about this helps me. Sharing my experience does too. Maybe that's all I need to know right now.

La Vida Buena Está Aquí

I had previously thought that I'd try to blog about my days in Mexico at the end of everyday in Mexico. So much for promises to myself that I never intended to keep.

I find that even though I left three and a half days ago that I'm still having a hard time crystallizing my thoughts about my experience there. I love it in Mexico; it is forever a part of me now and I know that I will go back. Maybe more than the country is the experience. Our group had shirts that read, "Solamenete una vida que se vive para otros es una vida que vale la pena." Only a life lived for others is a life worth living.

I didn't agree with that statement upon first glance, but upon further introspection, I just didn't understand it. I didn't know what it could be like to worry and work for others. To not worry about how I would get my food, but how another family would get theirs became my focal point. To not worry about my toys or my sidewalks or my playtime or my enjoyment, but somebody else's... I never lived that 24 hours a day. I want it back.

Christmas is a little less magical for me right now. I'm a little more observant, pensive, and grateful. And at the same time, I worry about how much money was spent on me when such money could be spent on the people and orphans in Mexico. Every dollar to me is ten pesos that could have gone to them.

There are so many things in my heart that I cannot write, and should not because they've become sacred. But I will share this.

On our last day in Mexico, we went to the market and the beach. I was bitching from the beginning of the day. There were still things to be done and kits to be handed out. I hated the market. I hated buying things for myself and my family, and I hated the souvenirs. I left as soon as I'd dropped sixty bucks. A friend and I wandered the streets for the remaining two hours, trying to desperately capture the last minutes we had in this different culture.

When we went to the beach later that day, I thought about the day before, when we'd gone shopping for a lady that lived in a 10 by 8 foot shack with walls of cardboard and tin and a leaky tin roof. All of her possessions had been stolen and she and her husband and 4 children lived in this "home." The only food they had were about 8 oranges. Everyone in our van donated at least 20 dollars and we spent almost 200 at the store buying food, blankets, diapers, clothes, and cots, because they'd been sleeping on box springs. Shopping that day was just.... better.

As I stood in the surf and watched the sun go down, I knew that I had been so annoyed earlier at the market because I was buying things for people who didn't really need them. I spent money on myself, instead of those who truly needed it.

When I related this experience to my dad, I cried - a lot. I didn't cry at all in Guaymas, but coming home reminded me of what I missed there. He told me about a time when he was in San Carlos, a town not far from Guaymas. He met an old fisherman and my dad asked if he'd ever dreampt about going to the U.S. for something more. The old man smiled and shook his head. He said that he'd been here, and he'd met our people. And then he said, "La vida buena está aquí." The good life is here.

I was blessed in Mexico with a glimpse - a glimpse at what life should really be like. I don't know how I'll go back to everything in Cedar that awaits me. I don't want to.

I found a new fulfillment in Mexico. I may have even found God again in Mexico. Mexico is the best Christmas present I've ever been given, and I hope that I change because of it.

Hasta Nunca: Mexico Part Dos

So, second post for the day. Although I had to finish up work this morning and was unable to follow the schedule everyone else was on, today was a great day. Definitely better than yesterday – but not in a bad way. During the daytime, we “work” for eight hours in various places. We can choose from a soup kitchen called Chewy’s, an orphanage, an elementary school, or water collection for scientific testing (which really means we go to areas outside of Guaymas and check water for bacteria and Ecoli). Since I didn’t go anywhere this morning, my choice was made for me in the afternoon – the orphanage.

The orphanage is just outside the city limits of Guaymas near a harbor, but it’s not the picturesque beach in Mexico – it smells real bad. The orphanage is run by Catholic nuns and actually is quite quaint. The kids have a nice little courtyard and a playground, and everything is really really clean considering their surroundings.

We do different things there. Breaking into little groups, I headed for the playground. Today’s project was digging a better hole for the new trampoline we were going to assemble. The hole needed to be quite large and they didn’t have wheelbarrows, so we had to shovel dirt into ten gallon buckets and haul it to the edge of the playground, bucket by bucket. The children were so willing to help. They shoveled dirt and generally kept us entertained. There was definite excitement in the air as the other groups finished and came to watch us put together the trampoline. We had to keep grabbing kids off of the frame because they were trying to get on before we were done. If any of you have put together a trampoline before, you know it’s tough business. Lots of pulling and stretching.

The tension finally reached the ultimate threshold as the last spring was connected and the kids cheered and scrambled on. I have never seen kids that happy before. They laughed and bounced and it was just so wonderful.

I’d like to think I’m making a difference by being here. Maybe I’m not to them. They probably won’t even remember me. But they are making a difference to me and I’ll always remember them.

The good thing about a group our size, about 50, is that there was basically one kid to every American. Mine is name Aleah. She’s seis and so full of life. She was hanging onto someone else while I was digging, but as I clambered out of the hole in my pink hiking skirt, she had her hands stretched out for me. She held onto my neck and nuzzled me. It was really hard to hold her when she was trying to escape to the unfinished trampoline, but as soon as we had it in the ground, she was on it. She kept coming back to me, wanting me to bounce with her. I don’t think the leaders really wanted us on the trampoline with the kids, but we’ve established that I don’t really have an affinity for listening to them. Three of us big kids got on with the ninos and had a blast. Aleah’s laugh was intoxicating. I don’t know the last time I’ve had that much fun. Playing with the kids, shoveling the dirt, avoiding the frogs – none of it felt like work. Everything we do is for someone else. I’ve never lived my life like that. A life like that is just….better.

We bounced for a good half hour before we had to leave. We said hasta luego y adios y hasta manana. We will really be back tomorrow, but it kind of felt like a lie because we won’t be able to come back in a few days. Even one of the girls retorted Hasta Nunca! And I know that she meant it.

While we’re here, I’m going to make the most of it though.

We went to the beach after the orphanage, which was great, but I’d have rather been at the orphanage. I can’t wait to go back tomorrow and see the kids again. They are such wonderful little people and even though they’re orphans, I really think they’re some of the happiest kids I’ve ever met.

This will keep me safe from the hot, Mexican sun.

Okay. Today isn't necessarily my first day in Mexico, but it's the day I'm writing about my first day here. Yesterday was amazing, but definitely not what I expected. I know that I came down here to do service, but I think I was too busy this semester to process what coming here would exactly entail. Oh. And would just like to mention/gloat that I'm sitting in the shade because sitting directly in the sun is a little too warm.

To start off the day, we went to church. I will avoid venting about how the leaders only knew where an L.D.S. church was or that even though I thousands of miles away from Utah, that it was still somewhat of a social obligation to attend church. I am glad, however, that I went. I do love going to church - anywhere - but here, it is much different. There were only about fifteen members and the Bishop was the only person on the stand. When our entire group walked in, we quadrupled the size of the congregation. What was the most neat part of sacrament, aside from obviously being in Spanish, is that these people have a completely different kind of testimony than what I usually see and hear. They are humble and they sacrifice greatly to be members. Everyone works here, and to attend church, these people probably miss out on money for their living, but they come anyway. Their love for the gospel is so simple, but so strong and real. The Spirit is able to transcend language barriers and testify of their love, the love of God, and the abundance of truth. I will take church in Mexico any day. (The only "weird" part about church is when two completely separate groups of students from SUU came to church - apparently they're here job-shadowing in the medical fields. We were all quite surprised to see each other.)

I checked out of church after sacrament because I actually have to work while I'm here (not something I like to do even when I'm in the U.S.). So I headed back and was promptly asked to help the leaders. Another member of the group and I wen to "Ley" - the Mexican, more crowded and disorganized version of a ghetto Wal-Mart - to buy milk, ice, and cream cheese. This was quite the experience. Ley is located in a mall-type situation. People are absolutely everywhere. Everyone here is always waiting. (I'll take pictures to prove this, but I left my cord at home.) Around the actual store are all these little vendors selling food and clothes. I will pause this narrative to say that I had the most amazing carne asada tacos for 17 pesos (roughly $1.70) at the store. I love Mexican food -REAL Mexican food.

Anyhoo, Ley was so lively. There were Flamenco dancers right outside the store and people were yelling in to microphones about pollo, carne, jamon, frioles, y marisocles, but other than that, it was another Wal-Mart. When we finally checked out, a boy about seven bagged our groceries. The other group member and I asked the check out lady and she said that he doesn't actually get paid - he only gets tips from people as he bags their groceries. My heart broke a little. This little boy should have been out playing soccer with his friends, but he was bagging groceries, working, like he'll be working for the rest of his life.

Lunch. Lunch was lame. I did not come to Mexico to eat Doritos, snack-packs, and chicken salad sandwiches. I'm going to a vendor for lunch today.

The highlight of the day was when brought hygiene kits to an impoverished neighborhood in Inpendencia. Most of the houses were made from scrap wood, cardboard, and one was even made from the bottoms and tops of barrels. The kits had blankets, food, soap, towels, toothbrushes, and the like in them. One of the families we brought it to was being raised by an 11 girl. She had a 7 year-old brother, a 3 year-old sister, and another infant sister. We couldn't really figure out if there actually was a mother present or just working, but the little girl raises this family. Another family was comprised of two 15 year-old parents and a 3 month old baby. 

As we were taking the kits around, families, mostly kids were flocking to us because we were handing out necessities and some toys. The problem is that we only had a limited supply of things, and we'd promised goods to families already. Leaving the kids behind who weren't quick enough to get a toy was heart-breaking. I started taking food out of our treat bags and handing that out. I was told not to by a leader because "that was all we had for the trip home." Really? That's all we have for the trip home? Good thing I brought my debit card. I started steathily handing out treats at a faster rate after that.

The best part about this highlight was when we played soccer with the neighborhood kids for an hour or so. These kids are amazing, probably because it's all they do all day, but they kicked our trash! It was the Americans versus the Mexican ninos and it was so much fun! Playing games with them better than handing out food. It was much more memorable.

What little Spanish I do know is very handy. I find that I know more than I thought I did and that communicating with the people is wonderful. I thought they would be sad - missing out on iPods, clean food, clean streets, and the like, but they are so happy and so patient with me and my crappy Spanish. Especially the kids. When we were playing soccer, Luis, a little boy I snuck some ChexMix to, handed me a tiny package of candy. He told me it was for me for being there. I don't think I'm going to eat the candy. When it came time to leave, they asked if we were going to come back as we were leaving yesterday. I don't think that any of us had the heart to tell them no.

We had to leave shortly before dark. That's what the Police Officers told us. They were with our group for our protection, but I never really felt unsafe. That is until we heard two gunshots from the street last night. I do love Mexico though!

We did lots more yesterday, but I don't want to keep writing and missing out on experiences. Hasta luego!

Finalmente!

I'm done. I done? I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I am done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done!I'm done! I AM DONE.

I am the official holder of a Bachelor of Arts degree in English. I have worked for four and a half years. I turned in my last undergrad paper today (on why Wonder Woman should NOT be a feminist icon) and I am done. Graduated. Finished. Accomplished. Done.

I even bought myself a graduation ice cream cone from Grandee's - double scoop.

I'm done. Now I'm going to Mexico for eight days. I'll be sure to chronicle my adventures.

I'm done.

Free Advice*

I've always found choosing concert-going items a tricky business. Should I take my purse? No. I don't want to hold it whilst jostling about in the pit. Perhaps I should cart along some chapstick? Yes, yes. I must. Don't want to get chappy, unkissable, dry lips. Should I take my camera? Maybe. But, only if the shirt I'm wearing can support and conceal that much extra weight in my bra.

I usually settle on the bare minimum when going to a concert. In my pocket, I've generally got a chapstick, anywhere from 20 to 60 bucks (depending I how many t-shirts or waters I will purchase), and a single key for my car in case I lose my entire ring of keys. I don't even take a cell phone for fear of losing it or having it crushed by the mass amounts of bodies in the pit.

When I ventured out in 20 degree weather without a jacket on Saturday night to see Anberlin, Mae, and Motion City Soundtrack, I had four items in my right-cheek pocket: one tube of chapstick, three 20 dollar bills, one car key, and one ticket. When my brother (we were there because I was taking him to his first moshing type concert for his birthday), his friend, and I arrived winded and freezing after three and a half blocks of brisk walking at In the Venue, the only items I had in my right-cheek pocket were as follows: one tube of chapstick, three 20 dollar bills, one car key, and pocket lint. There was no concert ticket to be found - anywhere.

Somewhere in the three and a half blocks to the venue, either I'd lost the ticket or it had been stolen from me. We basically ran back to the car, but found no ticket. All my fastidious planning was for naught because I wasn't able to see one of my top three favorite bands.

Although I had money, the concert was sold out. I dropped my brother and his friend off, gave Jimmy the money I hadn't lost, and told them to call me when the concert was over so that I could come get them.

*This is where the free advice comes in. Will Call. Always Will Call your tickets people - ALWAYS! Your tickets will be waiting for you when you get there. Then you won't have to spend two and a half hours at the stupid Gateway mall (okay, it's not that stupid, I'm just real bitter) walking in (or out really) an outdoor mall, freezing. You won't be by yourself not looking cute because you got ready to go to a concert, not to go to the mall, and you won't get sneered at by high and mighty Forever 21 employees because, let's face it, you look like crap. You won't spend time by yourself cursing the Gods that you've become the type of person that buys a book in Barnes & Noble and then immediately reads it while still in Barnes & Noble. You won't be by yourself because your friends that live in Salt Lake would probably be home and would be able to entertain, console, and/or feed you. You won't be stuck not going to a movie because they all started at the wrong times or because you don't want to see another holiday family film, like The Santa Clause 37: Rudolph's Bastard Brother, Gary the Green Nosed Reindeer.

You also won't have to hear about how your litte brother went crowd surfing for the first time or about how you weren't there to see it, or how you didn't even get to boost him up.

You also won't have a sweatshirt from a concert that you didn't actually go to.

Will Call people. It's the only way to go. Take this advice. Love it. Cherish it. And for all that is holy in music's sake, don't lose your freaking ticket on the way to the venue.

Hurt

Auden had always considered herself a good friend, the kind of friend that could listen and process, and be trusted. That’s why she sat and looked at him patiently, waiting while he searched for words.

Darnell’s picture of himself resembled a puzzle, the kind of puzzle that had fall colored trees and endless blue sky. Putting together that kind of puzzle takes patience and a keen eye. People don’t generally have time to put Darnell together. That’s why he fidgeted and looked away as her green eyes patiently waited.

“Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

The chair he was sitting on made him look like a child. The arms came up past his chest and the head of the chair was at least two inches above Darnell’s head.

As he began, his eyes were locked onto the stain on the edge of the arm of the chair. “My dad left me a letter before he left for good. I found it before my mom did, that’s probably why I still have it. I keep it in a box with dirt samples. I thought it would be one of the last places my mom would ever find it. I don’t really remember him. I don’t have any pictures. It’s like he’s dead, like she killed him when she burned the pictures. I only have the letter. ”

The couch creaked as Auden adjusted. She had the distinct feeling that he was telling her something he had never told anyone. She had thought it was strange that he began referring to her as his best friend shortly after they met, but now it occurred to her that no one had ever listened to him before.

“I’ve read that letter down almost past repair – the ink is so faded. I know what it says though. It says I should find someone I can call my sweetheart. It’s funny he’d say that. I think he hated my mom.” He looked up suddenly and met her gaze for the first time that night. “I’ve never told anyone about that letter before.”

***

The music was loud - the kind of loud that went into Auden’s head and pushed out any other thought so that the music became the only thing that was real. Her keen eyes kept jerking back to the entrance of the bar, searching for Darnell. He’d been gone for a week. She hadn’t gone that long without seeing him since they met. She liked knowing that she had a best friend that cared about her they way Darnell did.

She didn’t know if he’d find her in the crowd; she didn't feel safe standing there without him. Ten minutes after the set started, she felt a familiar hand on her back. Darnell was the only one she let touch her back that way. She turned and saw his beaming face. She made the mistake of believing his smile was for her, because he'd missed her.

They listened to a few songs. Swaying to and singing the lyrics they barely knew, Auden realized that having Darnell around was like being home. A few beers made Darnell realized that few people saw him like Auden did – maybe no one else could see him like Auden did.

“Auden. Auden!” He was used to stating things matter of factly, but he had to yell to be heard. His face kept bashing into the braid running around her head as he shouted into her ear.
She looked away from the band and smiled at his face.

“I’m gonna marry her!” His smile grew. Auden’s grin didn’t disappear right away, but as her eyes swelled wider, there was less room on her face for a smile.

“Bella! I’m going to marry Bella!”

“I know who you’re talking about!” Her voice was rarely so flat. Darnell forgot that Auden’s flat voice meant she was trying not to cry, that a flat voice meant her heart was falling down.

“I decided while we were gone to her family’s house!” Darnell saw her face flash in the lights from stage. “Wait! You like her, right?!”

“Yes! I do!”

“You’re my best friend Auden! Will you help me pick out the ring?!” He yelled this in her ear and as he got closer to her head, a bobby-pin stuck out from her head and scratched his face. Darnell barely noticed.

She pulled back from him and paused. She knew she had already lost her most trusted friend.

Her voice remained flat and she pushed his hand away from her arm. “If that’s want you want I’ll go! But you should know, you can have it all! Is she the one that’s going to help you do that?! You’re my sweetest friend….just….” Her voice faltered as the music grew louder. It was probably better that way

“God, why did you have to tell me here?! My thoughts are too broken here!” Auden had been looking elsewhere for help, the crowd, the walls, the bottle of beer in her hand. She hadn’t seen his face lose all expression. She hadn’t seen him put down a five and pick up his coat. Darnell had made the mistake of thinking she would tell him what he wanted to hear.

She grabbed his arm and the words came out before she could stop them. “Is she your sweetheart?! Can you call her that?!”

Her voice regained emotion as she yelled after him. “Wait! Wait! Let me start again!”

***

Bella sat on the tie-rug on the hardwood floor in the living room. She pulled documents out of a box. She rearranged things and filed them in a large cabinet they kept in the corner of the room. Sometimes she filed things by dates, then she’d take everything out when she found a new box and file them using another system. She liked to start again. The process gave her purpose, so boxes were piled around her and cabinet drawers were flung open.

Darnell walked in the front door. He wasn’t surprised to see the state of the living room. As he pulled off his boots, he said “I hurt myself today.”

She looked up in alarm. “Why would you do something like that?!” She tended to end questions with too much emphasis. Darnell felt intruded upon and guilty when she asked questions, even when she was only asking him to pass the salt.

“God. No. I didn’t do it on purpose, Bella. I was giving a shot to a cow and the needle got away from me. It tore a hole through my jeans and went into my leg.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yeah. I guess it mostly stung. I usually pay more attention than that.”

Darnell sat down in the only chair that was available. “We should get rid of this thing. It’s got stains and no one fits in it right.” He spoke absentmindedly and fingered the ring on his left hand. His eyes perused the boxes on the ground.

“Where the hell did you find that box?!” By the time Bella looked up, Darnell was already moving to a box labeled “Private: Dirt Samples.”

“I guess you couldn’t read the part that said ‘Private!’” Darnell picked up the box as he spoke and treated it gently, as though the box contained sacred artifacts.

The whole episode looked odd to Bella. At first, she didn’t say anything as she continued to sit on the floor. While Darnell walked back to the chair with the box, she said, “I found a note in there. It looks like time has made the words disappear.”

A flash of anger began to race through Darnell, but he decided to calm himself instead of rage at her. It wasn’t her fault he’d chosen the ground beneath their bed for a hiding nook.

“Who wrote that note? It looks well read.”

“My dad.”

“What does it say? I couldn’t make out some of the words.”

“He gave me advice on life. Mostly about the woman I’d marry. He wanted me to find my sweetheart. I found it right after he left”

She had this way of looking at him that made him feel like he was looking at a puppy that was waiting for praise from it’s master. “Oh,” she said dreamily, “Oh. I see.”

“Yeah. My mom didn’t even know about it.”

She looked up again, intrigued by the revelation. “You mean, I’m the first person you’ve told about it?”