New This Year

Among the many things that I never expected from New Orleans was flooding. Now, I know that might sound silly. Ok, might is wrong. It is silly. I am talking about that is built on a swamp, next to a river, and at one of the worst points in its history, approximately 90% covered with water.

Yes, I know that. But what I didn't expect was for my street to flood. I have lived here for a year now. I have lived in three different apartments in the same zip code, all less that a mile from each other. In the whole year that I have lived here, it never flooded. Until this fall.

I was born on a farm in Illinois. I know what to do in the event of a snow storm. You should always keep a flashflight and extra blankets in your car, your gas tank full, and your cell phone charged, just in case. I know how to get out of a curb that a snow plow has blocked me into, and I know how to drive on the snow (even if I do drive like a grandma in it).

But when it rains? I don't know what to do. I have never liked driving in the rain. But it isn't even the driving that is the problem. It's the flooding.

The first time it flooded, it was in September. Still warm. I drove to the grocery, without even thinking about it. I almost turned down a flooded street...but turned around when I felt the water lapping at the floorboard. I parked my car when I got home, and the water was high at the curb, but not bad. And minutes later, it was flooding. I ran out in galoshes to move my car, after calling my local friends in a panic. Galoshes and phone calls were useless. My friends just laughed at me and the water just poured over the top of the boots. Afterward we poured some wine and put on our swimsuits and stood out in the rain and sewage. Yes, friends, I didn't know it was sewage at the time. I thought it was run-off, and it was...in addition to the sewers backing up.

This time around, I knew to expect the flooding. I had weather updates being emailed to me from the weather channel. I was keeping an eye on the steady down pour and my poor 1998 Bonneville. I didn't need to move it, I thought, because I was about to go scoop ice cream at Brocato's. I had time. In less that five minutes, it went from being at the bottom of the rim on my tire, to the top. LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES. I threw on a jacket, galoshes (useless again, but it seemed like it would be a good idea), and threw my work clothes in a plastic bag. The streets were horrible- on Canal street, only one of the three lanes was useable in some places. There was no where to park once I got to Brocato's. For two hours, the rain came straight down, with a few rumblings of thunder. It was a long and lonely shift without customers. The customers we did have were only there because they were stranded in the city. Roads were shut down because of flooding.

And now it is raining again. It's been raining for the past four hours. Straight down and steady, making a gentle pattering with thunder that is lulling me into domestic activies such as baking and scrapbooking. No galoshes tonight: I parked my car on high ground when I got home.

i will pour it
all out.
and i will fill it
up again.

i will seek and i will
find. i will pilgramage
even when
i cannot walk
cannot carry even myself.
i will not even quit
when i think that i have.

After Imaginary

After (my favorite poem) Lisel Mueller's "Imaginary Paintings"

I. How I would paint the future

A bubble growing bigger and more threatening until
it explodes into now.

II. How I would paint happiness

A surprise that you made for me
on a day when I am lonely.
A letter in the mail on top of the
bills, an invitation; a slayer
of loneliness.

III. How I would paint death

A hole in the ground.
A pit. No light, no shadow.
Just an empty hole and hands
trying, trying
trying to climb.

IV. How I would paint love

I could not paint something I have
only touched. In darkness or

blindness, I have felt it;
Warm, fragile wild. But I have never

seen it, so I would paint with my eyes

closed, paint with my heart for a brush.

V. How I would paint the leap of faith

I would paint you falling
with your eyes closed.

VI. How I would paint the Big Lie

Suits and coats and warm handshakes.
Eyes that should be warm: dying, dead, and shutters
open. Mouths whispering.
Baking pies with vinegar,
stuffed with apologies
and a bitter taste of gossip.

VII. How I would paint nostalgia

Lake Michigan in September, an empty beach.
Holding hands and kissing and not knowing.
The sun in the half afternoon light; it is following
footprints, freezing shadows in the sand.

spinning spinning spinning spinning spinning spinning spinning
dizzy dizzy dizzy dizzy dizzy dizzy dizzy dizzy
churn. churn. churn.





something isn't sitting right with me.

I haven't been so good about writing either on here or in my journal. When I don't write, I don't feel human. All my inside stuff gets all backed up and yucky. And then I get here, to this place of stuckness. It's really quite frustrating. I know the only good way to become a writer is to write. And not just write sometimes, or when you feel like it, or when you're mad, or when you're happy about something. You're supposed to write through all of that bullshit and just get straight to writing. And yet I have a hard time doing it.

I want to write, and I want to be published. I was so excited about moving to New Orleans because I thought it would be a great place for me to be creative in. But I got way out of the habit of writing, and I quit doing it, and now here I am in this stuck place. It's not writer's block; it's writer's purgatory. I'm not even dead yet, and I'm in purgatory.

Is it juvenile to say that I don't know what to write about? I suppose it is. SOmetimes when I feel really ambitious, or even not so ambitious, but like I should be doing something, I try to push something out. It usually doesn't go so well and then I end up getting mad at myself for spiraling out control and landing straight into purgatory. Then I displace my anger by blaming it on the fact that I am no longer in college and don't have the dead lines or prompts that were required in creative writing. I miss those things, it's true. But I set deadlines for myself and gave myself prompts, and yet I failed to follow through. It seems the truest writing that I have is that that has come from self-deprecating my writing skills.

There are writing groups around. There are millions of publications: journals, e-zines, blogs, magazines, all kinds of things. I am too scared to try publish anything, too scared to show anything that I have worked on, and terrified about what that means about writing. I don't know what type of writing I want to do, or what the point of writing is. The fact that there is someone who is better than me out there kind of stops me from wanting to do it. And that doesn't just hold true for writing. It's why I hate sports, quit singing, and rarely cook. It isn't the fear of failure, although that is daunting, so much as playing second fiddle or being overlooked.

Maybe it is the youngest child coming out in me. I don't think that is it. I can feel myself holding back, but I can't stop myself from doing it. I feel like the only thing that could really liberate me is traveling. Leaving and being completely terrified until I have to earn that confidence back for survival. Logical? No. Increasingly appealing? Yes.

When I don't write, I am cranky. My life feels like it fills up with gunk. I was doing really good about it. Then I stopped picking up my room, stopped writing, and my life turned really blah. Or maybe that order is skewed. It's a theme I have noticed before. My bedroom reflects my general state of sanity - the more clothes on the floor, the more stressed out I am. They are in a giant pile right now. And have been that way for weeks. Weeks. The thing is, I don't have anything to really stress about, other than paying my bills and what I am going to do on the weekends. I just feel like something major is missing from my life, and I don't know what it is.

I can't sleep.
i.a.wide.awake.
I'm tired. I'm yawning, and I am tired. But I can't sleep, even though I have been trying for the past two hours.

In one hour, I will be going to go watch a meteor shower. I have never seen a meteor shower in my life. And I was pretty excited about it. Until I couldn't fall asleep to take a nap before hand.

Now I am nervous because I know I have to work tomorrow, and I will be up way later than I usually am. Which, whatever, I can deal with that. I have stayed up til 5 before, packed, and been up to catch a 7:00 train, carried a backpack and walked all day, taken a two hour nap, and then gone back out again. It's do-able.

It's not the sleep that concerns me. It's the waking up in time. If I go back to my bed right now, I will most likely make it OUT of my bed for the meteor shower because I will either a.) shut off my alarm clock, or b.) be too cozy to get up, thus continuing my streak of never seeing a meteor shower. The alternative is to risk oversleeping tomorrow, for which there aren't any too major consequences. Still.

There is something to be said about the past days of getting up and running to the train station at 7 in the morning. I had short hair back then, and it could go days without washing. That is not necessarily the case now. I also lived two blocks from the train and could dodge traffic early in the morning because there really wasn't any. But most importantly, I had responsible Cheri to call me and make sure that I was awake. Or more importantly, to call me 15 minutes before the train left to tell me that if I didn't hurry, I would miss the train to Rome would owe her money for the train, for the hostel, and the breakfast that she had waiting for me. That adrenaline is missing from my life.

I like waking up, excited about the day.

Age Ain't Nothin' but a Number

prime age: (noun) the age that matches someone's personality and behavior

Trina and Britani told me once that my prime age was that of a spastic 23 year old. Right now, I am a spastic 23 year old. Once, I thought that being 23 would be the best age to be. It wasn't too old where people start expecting you to get your life together and maybe settle down, or at least hve a good reason for why you aren't settling down. And I told that to a friend who was 23 at the time. She got the funniest, almost bewildered look on her face when she told me I was wrong.

I guess, maybe I was hoping that I woud be a little more put together at 23. I didn't know myself very well back then. I was scared and excited about the future. I thought that because I loved someone and he loved me back, I thought that we'd still be in love and maybe we'd end up married after a few years.

Now I am 23. I'm still spastic, but I don't think that is ever going to go away. But I'm a little bit more familiar with myself now than I was back then. I knew back then that things don't always go the way you want them to, but now there's a touch more realism in my life. I wish that wasn't the case. Once at a church retreat in high school, the speaker was talking about how we had to put our trust in God and not in men. I don't remember what his illustration was exactly, something about a paper cup, poking it with a pencil, and then trying to fill it with water. But I will never forget this part: "People let you down 100% of the time," he said. I have no idea what he said about God, but I do remember that he told me that people are always going to disappoint me.

For a while in college, I was in this safe little bubble. Everything was going really well. It wasn't perfect. I found things to be unhappy with. I wasn't sure what I wanted, or what things I really wanted. I guess I hadn't really thought about all of this being let down stuff. Looking for the good in people isn't a bad thing. But you just can't always count on it. If they don't know who they are, or what they want, then I guess that is when you can expect to be let down.

This is all rambling thinking about how maybe I've let myself down or people have let me down. It isn't even about a prime age any more. I think that I would be okay hanging on to being a spastic 23 year old for a while. I guess I realize that there is good in people and bad in people, that sometimes there are just things that are nobody's fault, and that maybe you know what you want , but you don't know how to get it. Sometimes we let everybody down, and sometimes nobody knows but us.

That's just kind of what I've been thinking. I don't know if it makes sense, but I'm a spastic 23 year old. I still don't know what to think all the time.

Singing Every Little Thing is Gonna Be Alright

There's a little bird on my porch, just outside my window. It's sniffing around my jack-o-latern, old cigarette buts, and rotting floorboards. It hops to the edged and looks down, and it hops back. It hops around and enjoys where it is.

We both are enjoying the view. But we both want to know: Does it get better than this?

2011 is going to be the year of the Great Migration Part I. I have lots of planning and work to do until then. More details to follow.

This Could Explain It

I wrote pages in my journal tonight about how I feel like I am missing something. I really don't know what it is. I can't put my finger on it. Whatever it is, it is intangible and mysterious. But it is essential enough to feel that it is out of place.

But now all I can say, 'Maybe this, maybe this.'

Gold.

Working with GED students isn’t always as easy or as fun as I imagine that it is. Sometimes I try to glamorize it to others, so that I remind myself that it is an adventure. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do. The people that I work continually find ways to humble and amaze me. But the job is not without its hang-ups.

I’ve become irate when I’ve been stood up for study sessions and irritated for assigning homework that doesn’t get touched, or even thought of, until the next class. That is, if my students make it to class. There are days that the seats are not even half full, and on the days when it rains, the only people there are the ones with cars, who live in the area, or were on the bus before it started raining. Weekly there is a death, someone in the hospital, someone else near losing housing. When I get hungry and I eat my lunch, sometimes I eat a piece of humble pie while I wonder who didn’t get to eat at all that day. There are people who get up at six or six-thirty in the morning, while I drive two miles because I overslept that morning. And the only way the to explain positive and negative numbers is to use a checking account as an example.

All of this makes orientation week exhausting. After testing and a whole week of preparation for the next session comes the day I look forward to with excitement and dread. It almost feels like a reunion of sorts because there are students that I haven’t seen for a six weeks or longer coming in and out of the building, and the new students are getting their new schedules timid, but excited about the next session. But it also means having to explain to someone who made it to the 11th grade, who has fed a family, been a manager, or is twice my age that they have been operating on the 5th to 7th grade level. It’s dancing with reality and optimism and hoping that this session will be the one that gets this students into the world with the education the world says they need. There’s a lot of unhappy faces when the test scores come back. It’s easier to deliver bad test scores to a newer student. It’s the students who have been here for a year or more and still haven’t made any changes that kill me.

But today was a very good day.

Because one of my students got his GED.

I have been with Delgado for a year now, only two months as staff. I know a lot of the people in the program, but there are very few students that I felt were “mine.” Mine in the sense that I taught them from when they came into the program and watched them work through. This particular student started his first session with Delgado in June in the first class I co-taught. We were rookies together. Let me tell you, this man has seen me
flounder. He has seen me grasping for explanations and examples the same when you do when you’re about to drop something special and fragile, and then you watch it shatter wondering why you bothered to begin with. I’ve watched him come to class tired, on his way to or from work in his work clothes. I have watched him put his pen to his paper and heard stories about his life in essays that I’ve corrected and made him rewrite. I’ve worried that he was going to drop out and been annoyed that he left early. But I guess we’ve been a support system for each other without actually really knowing each other. I encouraged him to come to class, and helped with what he needed to study (not much really), and he’s thanked me for working with him and encouraged me, despite my bumbling teaching attempts.

He took his GED about two weeks ago. He was worried about orientation day and getting his schedule. He couldn’t come to get his schedule on the day returning students were supposed to come, so he sent a friend. We were closed when she got there. So he came in today, and he sat down at my desk.

“I’m here for my schedule.”

In my zombie like state from telling people their schedules all morning, I started to pull his name up in the system. Halfway through typing his name, I stopped. “You took the test last week, didn’t you?!”

“Yeah, I just figured I didn’t pass.”

I couldn’t recall seeing his name on the test results list that I checked earlier in the morning. But I couldn’t believe that he would fail.

I pulled up his scores and bursting, I turned to him. “You don’t need that schedule after all.

A slow smile spread over his face, his four gold teeth shining in the happiest smile. “What?! You serious?!” He shot backwards in his rolling desk chair almost taking down another teacher.

He gave me a big hug and thanked me. “I did it! I have a step-daughter and nephew in the 12th grade. And I told them that I would finish before they did. And I did!”

His face glowed when I told him that we would be having a GED graduation in the spring time. I knew that there was no need to ask if he was interested in it, but I did anyway. His smile got bigger, and he said that he’d be there.

“You know, I told you to read my teacher evaluation about you, and you said you couldn’t. Well, I just want you to know that I said and I tell everyone else that you have know choice to fail when they have you for a teacher.”

The best part of the day lasted only for a couple of minutes. But it made for the best orientation day ever.

Closet

My last high school choir concert. The Ice Cream Social. It was just like I had planned my senior year concert to be.

I cried my eyes out when it was over. I sobbed more that day than I did on graduation day. In fact, I didn't cry on graduation day, even though I felt like maybe I should. I suppose that there were a lot of reasons I cried after that final concert. Stress, relief, giving up something that I loved. I don't know what the real reason was, but I think that right then, is when I said goodbye to my high school self. That person that I was, who I always have with me, ceased to be me and has just been with me since then. Mrs. Pearson hugged me that day, and told me that those were not the best years of my life. There were better ones to come. It doesn't always seem that way.

I remember that day with one of my favorite dresses. It's a strapless gray plaid dress that my mom and I bought for Homecoming that fall. I didn't end up wearing it until that concert, and have kept it because I love it so much. Every time I see it or wear it (yes, I still have it, it still fits, and I have worn it in the last year) I think of the ice cream social, and who I was at that time.


I suppose that who you are is kind of like the clothes that you keep in your closet. You know, those ones that you can't get rid of or will never forget because they were so wonderful or you wore all the time. I guess it's like a growing moment. You shed your old self and become your new self and just carry that old one with you. You take it off, fold it up, and put it in your suitcase. You'll pull it out every now and then, and think about maybe wearing it; you'll shake it out and maybe try it on. You'll even take it for a spin around the living room or just around the block. And then you'll remember why you grew out of it in the first place. It will be too small and pinch in all the wrong places. It might make alluring curves in one spot, and then the light will hit just right, and you'll kick it off in a beat.

So a list of things hanging in my closet, that I refuse to throw out for sentimental value:

-May 1995. Third grade, end of the school year. Bad bangs, head bands, and funky jeans. My mom and I were waiting in the car to pick my sister up from school. I sobbed and sobbed that it was the last day of school. "You'll go back to school next year and your friends will all still be there." "But it won't be the same," I said. "We'll all be different." I think I remember this, simply because my mom didn't try to soften the blow of reality. "You're right," she said.

I still pull this out of the closet frequently. I don't try to squeeze into it any more, but sometimes I wish I could.

-Fall 2004. Knitted scarves were so in. So was Old Navy, Clark's on Belmont, Neffertiti's, and the Chicago stop on the Redline.

Thank God I grew out of that.

-Italy, Fall 2005. Nothing ever looked better on me than travel, scarves, and boots. They complimented my newly found charm. That brown hat ruined the ensemble completely, but it was a necessity.

Of all the outfits I'd like to wear again, it would be this. But I would leave the hat behind. We all make fashion mistakes.

-Summer and Fall 2k6. All I needed to wear was a tan. There was no need to comb out my hair.

I'm never letting this look go out. <3

-October 2006. I remember a cold goodbye on a windy and sunshiney day. The colors that season were dark. I retired that green cordoroy jacket after that day. Maybe if the green hadn't clashed with the grass, I would have kept it around.

Bright colors, blues and reds and patterns with hearts were in that summer, but went out more quickly than they ever came in. And who knows if they'll ever be back in?

-May 2008. College graduation, the last day, standing on the bridge over the Chicago River. I have a picture that captures my last moments as a college co-ed with my two best friends. We walked off the bridge, and seconds later, we were gone.

I pull this out a lot. I don't look as good in it any more; fashions change and varies from city to city. Besides, it just doesn't look as good without the rest of the line.

-Fall 2008. I don't need my helmet any more.... I hope.

-Summer 2009. My old brown slippers bought for the fall line of 2006. They were raggedy from walking the floor and through the snow. They couldn't keep up with the heat.

-Fall 2009. Fashion yet to be determined. But so far it has a lot to do with hats, sweat pants (in the air condition), and no shoes for when it's raining.

The best accessories are best friends, old and new.

Poetry Exercise

Take the phone off the hook.

Find a mirror and examine your
wrinkles, the depth of your own eyes, and the circles underneath them.
In one paragraph, write about all the people that
make you cry and
then delete it.
Rewrite the paragraph. Do not cry this time. Only
write what you learned from each tear.
When stuck, use your favorite word and write
paragraphs and essays about why it is your favorite.
Spend extra time on self discovery, using
action verbs and hindsight. Absolutely do not
forget your first dance, first kiss, and any time you snuck out.
Light a cigarrette, but leave it,
ashing in a tray while you spend a page on your first one.
Pour a glass of lemonade and eat a popsicle to
cure the hangover of memory.
When through,

Eliminate any lies

Strike out any and all unneccesary

chatter, commas, and pages of regrets.

Dew Hushing

When the sun comes up and you
listen really close, noone’s knowing
the earth’s heart beating.
And just when the light comes over
the dirt, if you put your ear to the sky
hold your breath,
and hush the morning dew on your face
you can hear
the sound of the earth’s heart breaking.
A second or so and then
the birds.
Cacophony and chaos in the streets
and a thousand hands are clapping
and a two thousands eyes are
watching and they hush the breaking
of their own hearts
with the roar they
heard with their eyes.

At the end of the day
and the sun’s falling just so
there’s a soft light that colors everything
in sepia and nostalgia.
No one’s knowing then that
the earth’s heart is being patched
with prayers and dreams
and lovemaking
whispers and salt from the eyes
of the people who
held their breath and
hushed the dew.

Dear Friend,



I miss you a lot tonight. I don't miss you in the sad sort of eating chocolate and sappy movies sort of way, but in the way you miss a friend. I wish that I could call you up on the phone and talk, but things just aren't like that for us any more. They can't be.



I poured a lot of myself into you, into you and me, and it isn't there any more. It's funny how when you don't have something anymore, you're suddenly shocked that you don't have it, but how quickly you adjust. And then the shocking part becomes realizing that you survived. You are surviving without that thing that you thought you could do alone. It's funny that my life sometimes feels less substantial now. I can completely ignore the voice telling me to be quiet and be still because it isn't personified by anyone. It's guilt free though, this gadding about town and spreading myself to thin. I feel confident. I feel capable. I feel completely vulnerable.



Survival is the only instinct we have. I shoot to kill when I speak. And I killed something that shouldn't be dead, but I put it, us, out of misery. Sometimes, even though I'm mostly grown, all I can do is throw a fit. I huff and I puff and I stamp the house down and it makes me feel better. And it makes me look selfish and childish. If I could control the bull in the china shop part of me, maybe, maybe....But if I didn't have that childlike faith and hope that the silver lining is going to pull through, there might not have been as many songs about rainbows as there were.



I'm mixing my metaphors and sending this into space tonight, hoping that you know what this all means. I'm walking in the sun and I'm walking in the swamp and I'm not holding anyone's hand but my own. And we're both going to be just fine.

Tip-Top

I live on a porch now. I don't meant that I have a porch; I mean I really live on the porch.

I left my basement apartment that was nice and close to work and two or three blocks from the park. It was just not well suited for me. Basements here are different than back home because you can't dig into the ground here. The apartment was just on the ground level, but it provided all the amenities that a regular basement does. Poor natural lighting, cool, plenty of bugs. I am unrepsonsive to two out of three of those words.

So after deliberation, I made the decision and commitment to move. I heard a sermon once about commitment, and the pastor said that if you make commitment, you'll be surprsed at the outcome. I don't know if that is true in this case or not, but once I made that decision, I texted my friend Jennie that she should move down, do Literacy Americorps, and be my roommate in her spare time. And guess what? She did.

So now we have a three bedroom shotgun apartment with our third roommate joining us in the next week.

Let me refresh your memory about what a shotgun is. It's a house that you have to walk through everyone else's room to get somewhere. Two of the rooms are pretty private, being in the front and the back of the house.

My room is my favorite. It is in the front of the house, off the balcony. There is a door made entirely of windows, and two floor length windows next to it that can open like miniature doors. I've slept better here, even though it's brighter and noisier than I ever did at the basement on St. Ann.

The street outside is a parkway with a nice wide neutral ground (median). There's a playground and a bikepath. If you follow the bike path, it leads to Bayou St. John, a sort of park on a canal.There's huge live oak trees that shade us. There's people running or walking by, and always cars driving by. I haven't eaten but two or three meals inside. I make my food and carry it out to the porch, so I have something to watch while I eat.

My neighbors are great, too, albeit a little eccentric. That's another entry entirely though. For now I am tip top shape, feeling better about myself than I have for months. I won't attribute it all to the natural lighting and porch sitting, but it probably has something to do with it.

Al Gore, why make web?
Hunt and gather easy way
So boring; make fat.

LD

I'm pretty sure that I have an insurance learning disability. I just don't get it. It doesn't matter how many times someone explains it to me; I just don't get it. I can't understand how it works. I am so frustrated. I feel like a freakin' idiot. This is absolutely ridiculous. How do I keep ending up having to pay for more and more stuff?

i.hate.this.

Time

I don't knwo what has been up with Time lately, but it seems like every time I check the time, it is waaaaaay faster than it should be. Like just a little bit ago it was midnight. And then a little bit later, and I am talking what seemed only like minutes, it was 12:38. I made a mental note, and planned on getting things wrapped up with my Facebook stalking, and go to bed. Then I looked down at the clock and it was 1:32.

This has been happening a lot of the last week. It's kind of really annoying. Especially because time goes slower when I really want it to go faster.

Tuesdays at the TT

All the crazy things happen on Tuesdays at the Tulane Tower, or as I affectionately call it: the TT. The Tulane Tower is another one of the sites that houses Delgado's GED program. It houses a very interesting mix of people. It is just up the block from the City Hall, around the corner from both the men's and the women's prisons, and across from the Sheriff's Offices and the county jail where two of our teachers teach. If you have never been to the prison district of a major city...It isn't maybe the most, uh, beautiful place to be. If you like the flashing neon of signs reading "Bail Bonds" and the raving red and blue lights, then this is the place for you. Once I went to the corner store to get a snack and man showed me how he could cut the top of a beer can off with his remaining teeth.

The inside make up of the building is a rather unique mix of people, quite of representative of the city itself. There are two GED programs, ours, and another that is geared for 16-24 year olds, many of whom are court mandated to be there. In addition, there is the New Orleans AIDS Task Force, probation officers, the DA's office, and drug counseling, among other things. There is secure parking lot, where the manager of our GED programs had her Lexus stolen, and my bike was stolen. There is security at the front door and a police officer on our floor.

Everything bad that happens there happens on a Tuesday. Which coincidentally happens to be the day that I am usually there. My bike was stolen on a Tuesday. There have been screaming matches between two flamingly gay men, one our student and the other a schizophrenic that goes to the other GED program. One of the people from the drug counseling program upstairs followed one our female students around. 3 of our students were arrested and threatened by the police. Always on Tuesdays.

The worst things happened this week. Apparently it is the season for break ups. Myself and apparently a bunch of our students decided that it was time to break up. We had two extreme cases of crazy exes come to the Tower. I have always heard the myth of a crazy ex, but I had never truly experienced it for myself. I hope I never have to experience it again. It seems pointless to explain the situations and, perhaps, a breach of privacy. Long story short, one crazy ex, a female, showed up and threatened our male student. The other crazy ex threatened one of our female students .

The thing that frustrates me the most is their lack of trust in the justice system. Both of the students spoke with our police officer about the situation. But because both of them refused to ask for ask for help, the police officer could do nothing. Both students are minorities that come from a background that traditionally has not been helped or supported by the system. They come from a background where they can't trust the people who are supposed to help them. I worry about them.

Blah, blah, blerg. Just more ramblings.

Homesick.

I haven't been good at keeping in touch lately. And by lately, I mean the last six months. Life is too busy.

A brief rundown of all the things happening.

-Fourth of July consisted of cover bands at an overly priced fest in a homey town. It would have felt like home if I hadn't been with a bunch of uppity east coasters.

-Kyle was here for a week for a much overdue visit. We saw gators giant spiders that were the size of my hands in the swamp, Kermit Ruffins, Public Enemies (the whole time I kept elbowing him saying, "that's such and such street! I saw this set!"), and the great state of Louisiana via river whilst tubing. We even had a movie moment when we got in my car and a roach flew out of nowhere; we both screamed in unison. It might still be in there.

It still fascinates me how people come into your life and become a part of you. Most of the time, I think you don't even know it until all of a sudden you say something you never thought you would or you do something you never thought you'd do or you feel a feeling you didn't know you had. Good byes are hard.

-We spent this last weekend in Florida at the beach. GLORIOUS. The good news is that I did not get attacked by a shark. We saw dolphins and white wales and caught one little crab with one pincher named Shirley. We were hoping to catch enough crabs to have a crab boil, but Shirley lucked out. She was set free. BJ was sure she was going to take one of my fingers with her, but I decided to keep it. We went swimming off the pier and sailing on the SS Molly with the Elks Club, and even took in a stowaway. My friends here make me not so homesick when they can. And so does watching the sun go down. I should do it more often.

-I have plans now for post-Americorps, but I'm not sure I'm happy with them.
a. Finding a new apartment.
b. Working at Delgado part time as an assistant to the program effectiveness person (that sounds way more complicated than it is) + still scooping ice cream
c. Making a writing contract with myself to write consistently and working up the courage to start submitting stuff.
d. Saving money.
e. Waiting for my litigation to absolve itself.
f. Trying to ignore the Chicago shaped hole in my heart.
g. Planning where I'm going next in the world.

-I'm disgustingly homesick.
a. There aren't oceans at home though.
b. But there aren't sharks in Lake Michigan either.
c. I'll have to think on that.

ankle-bitten

this is just a friendly neighborhood warning not to get an ankle-biter. today i got bit by a chihuaha while going for a walk through the neighborhood. i have a blood blister on my thigh because of it. i hate those things. chihuahas, not blood blisters.

maybe tomorrow.

i've been mia lately. mostl because it's been the only thing i've been able to be lately. i'm a hurricane of emotions. it's hard to keep my sanity in the heat. i've never been good at being rational anyway, but this oppresses me.

my americorps time will be up in a few weeks. i think six. i don't know what is going to happen to me after that. it has been a really unbelievable year. when i think back on everythign that i have experienced this year, i am overwhelmed. i want it to be over with, but i cna't imagine saying good bye to the students who have taught me so much. i can't imagine working with the staff that has become my family this year, taking me to the hospital, dealing with my craziness, laughing til we cried, and sending me when home when i needed to cry. i've invested a lot of myself to that place.

i have an option to stay on with delgado part-time as an administrative assistant if i choose. i wouldn't have to start over. the program is going to making some big changes, and i would get to help make that happen. it would be only part time because adult education is based on grants and state funding, and it would only be guaranteed til december. to a normal person, that might not sound like a good deal. but to someone with commitment issues and doesn't know how much longer they are going to stay in this place, it's tempting.

what are my other options? americorps? another year of insanity. another year of health insurance. another $5000 towards my loans. another commitment to a place i'm not sure i want to spend a whole nother year in. another place to live. another year of poverty and too many bills and two jobs.

this is so HARD. i know when i move, i'm going to miss this place. it's crazy here. the people are special here. but i am homesick for CHICAGO.

god. this is like reverse seasonal depression.

this isn't as crazy as it gets, but pardon my ramblings. it's the stress and the heat and the frustration and the exhuastion setting in. maybe tomorrow i'll know what to do.

my big sister is getting married this week.
i brought a boy home for the first time in a long time.
there's been some extra other things going on outside the fam.

everyone's a little insane right now.
it's a little too weird for me.

The First Saturday in May

I always love the first Saturday of May. It's Kentucky Derby Day; it's magical. It's better than a holiday because it's a normal day. But something about it is spectacular and magical and wonderful. I love it.

This year's magical Derby Day, I volunteered at Jazz fest, and after volunteer time was done, this was my day....

-fresh Louisiana strawberry ice (Brocato's of course.)
-Aaron Neville
-crawfish streudel
-Rod Romero and the Hub City All Stars
-Cowboy Mouth
-Preservation Hall Brass Band
-Kings of Leon
-New Orleans Kelzmer Allstars
-crawfish and crab stuffed mushrooms (don't be excited. they were a disgrace and a waste of $5.)
-Franklin Avenue Baptist Church Choir
-Bon Jovi

I'm pooped. No time to rest. It's Nick and BJ's birthdays tonight, and then tomorrow I have another free ticket to Jazz Fest to use before I have to work!

Never a dull moment!

And then.

The Story of my Insurance

This is a very long and irritating story. I will spare you the many details, as well as the weeping and gnashing of teeth. Here is a brief outline.

I. I hate them
II. They're stupid.
III. They are slow.
IV. The website they supposedly update weekly for changes still has two doctors listed with phone numbers that are out of service at a hospital that has been closed for three years because of Katrina.
V. I hate my insurance company and think they are stupid.

The very thought of my insurance company makes me want to either burst into tears or rip things to shreds. I wish I could type out the sound of annoyance to the extreme of agony.

oh!

It's like summer here. I think it's love. So now I am bragging. Every other time I've talked about the weather was just commentary. This time I am out and out bragging. It is unfreakingbelievably beautiful. I can't remember when I have seen bluer skies or greener grass.

It amazes me every spring that this spring is more beautiful than any year ever before. The sky gets bluer, the grass gets greener, the flowers bloom with more grace than any other year. I am always most hopeful in the spring time. I can pray a million prayers of thanks; I can smile with genuinity. Any awful thing doesn't seem as awful any more when the sun is out. Even the list of one million things I have to do isn't long any more. Everything reallyis sunshine and lollipops and rainbows every day when it is spring time.

Spring time always makes me nostalgic though. I want to study on the Green Space, Angie's ice cream, and free North Park black bean burgers. Chicago downtown is an adventure when it starts to get warm. I want summer to be a looming event, instead of knowing that I will be working every day and sweltering through 99% humidity. I am so nostalgic and starry eyed right now; it's disgusting.

commentary

Weddings

Every time I have stood up in a wedding (ok, a whole 2 times), I have been frustrated because I couldn't see my friend's face beaming while she said her vows. I could only see her profile, and the groom's face. It's not like I have something against grooms, but I am standing up for the bride, and I want to see her.

I had an "aha moment" when Katie and Andy were saying their vows. I couldn't see Katie's face, but I could see his face. I could see him looking into her eyes and promising to be there for her for the rest of their lives. I realized that we were standing up there to be more than witnesses for the two of them. When Katie said, "I do," we were there to say, we will be there to support you, and we will hold you to that promise. When he said, "I do..." we could see the love in his eyes, so that if a day ever comes, we'll be able to remind Katie that there is love there. We can say to Andy, "we were there, and we are going to hold you to your promise."

I suppose that everyone else knows that, but it was an epiphany for me. I never really understood it, until then.

Money, money, money

I will trade only in furs. I will have
children only for bartering purposes
(kidding). I will start
evading my taxes,
losing my bills,
maxing out my credit
because what good
is paying any of it?

I'll sleep in a tent on
the side of the road
and I'll ride a horse and
drive a buggy to avoid
fuel tax, and I'll work only under
the table and take my cash
as monopoly money.
Forget Mr. Money bags.
I refuse to be like him
because I can't be him.

One-der
There's lots of different types of One.
Isn't there?

do-over

remember when we were kids and every time your team made a mistake in a game, you called a do-over? i wish you could do that with real life. every time something happen that i don't like, everytime i do something stupid, and every time i open my big mouth, i wish i could cancel it with a do-over. the thing is, do-overs don't even really cancel out your mistake. sometimes the do-over is everyone's fault. sometimes it's just an accident. regardless, the mistake is still there. the other team is still mad at you for calling a do-over, but they are going to do better next time. you are going to do better. everyone stops, accepts the mistake, and keeps going. there is no shame in a do-over, no having to apologize, or letting the accident stew over night. the best part is that the do-over is a fresh start. what happened is in the past, and you can put your best, or at least better, foot forward.

i wish it was still acceptable to call a do-over.

just in case you didn't know,
i'm the office farter.

does that surprise anyone?

the person next door

is playing their

piano, and

i can hear it.

it's very

nice.



bad news:

for my computer.

the backspace button is broken

and

it looks like it won't

be long til the

spacebar goes, too.

cross your fingers for

a baller tax return.

Where I Been

What ha' happened was...

I had a big plate; took a li'l
more than I could take
a li'l overwhelmed,
and a li'l undermotivated. A li'l
too much suga' and not enough coffee'll
make ya late.
Ima be there for 9 but show for ten
I'm up to my ears and
under my eyes.
What that is?
Ima beaucoup hot mess. What time
it is? Girl, lemme tell ya,
yes indeed.

I removed the last post.
I don't want to disclose my student's information, but that doesn't change my anger or outrage.

Remember that you have a voice. Remember to have a voice.

A Very Brave Man.

I met a Very Brave Man last week at physical therapy. He was in a house fire and was burned all over. He doesn't remember most of it. He was burned so badly that the doctors induced a coma. They didn't really think that he would recover to the extent that he has.

But there he was. Living, breathing, and walking, even if it was slowly and uncertain. He was a Very Brave Man. I am more than thankful to have met him. His gentle spirit, but determined spirit has left an impression on me that I can't forget.

all those bittersweet things
won't be so bittersweet one day.

"peace train sound it louder...."
-the man, cat stevens.

Forrest Gump

For the record: I am calling this student J-man in this blog because it as about as appropriate as I can get. There is actually another student that I call J-man because his belt buckle is a giant J with rhinestones all over it, but since this story is not about him, I'm ok with it.

Every Monday and Wednesday I get to work around noon or one. Every Monday and Wednesday, the first thing I see is J-man waving all crazy like at me. That is really what I hope my welcome to heaven is like because, on a day-to-day basis, no one ever is that excited to see me. It makes me feel pretty good.

Every Monday and Wednesday, I say, "Hey J-man, how you doin'?" and look down to see what he's working on. And every Monday and Wednesday, it is the same: basic multiplication. I'm not sure how long J-man has been trying to get the concept of multiplication, but one thing is for sure: he has been dong the same work sheets for the last three weeks. Every time starts off the same. I remind him that 3x2 means that you have 2 groups of 3 or 3 groups of 2. He gets it for about 2 seconds. I walk away, and then things really fall apart.

Even though he doesn't get the multiplication, and I am positive he had some sort of undiagnosed learning disability or special need, it isn't discouraging for the J-man. He "don't let life get 'em down" because he "go to church every Sunday, Molly, every Sunday." Plus he got himself a fine "baby girl" [girlfriend] to talk to on the phone about the new Hannah Montana movie that is coming out in April (it's already marked on his calendar).

Today J-man was in rare form.

Fidelity

J-man: I saw you at the store this weekend, Molly.

m: Oh yeah at the grocery? Why didn't you say hi?

j-man: I was in my friend's mom's car. I couldn't get out. (Brief pause where he only looks at 5x1) Did you take that survey?

[The survey was about Katrina, and was being solicited by some pretty college-age girls.]

j-man: Yeah. I did get out the car for that. Axually, my friend's mom told me to get out of the car for that. They were....

m: They were really pretty, weren't they?

j-man: Yeah....I...I...I flirted a lil bit. And it's okay because I'm only partially attached. So I flirted.

m: [quizzical look] You mean...?

j-man: My girlfriend lives in California, so it's okay.

I was laughing so hard that I couldn't sit up straight. His relationship advice was off the chain.

Forrest Gump

J-man: Molly, you got 50 cent?

M: No.

J-man: I gotta walk home. I was hoping to catch the bus. But....I be like, like the black version of Forrest Gump! I loooove Forrest Gump!

The J-man didn't know how dead on he was. Or maybe he did. But that's exACTly who he is.

myspace

J-man: Molly, you on myspace?

M: [not feeling guilty for lying] No.

J-man: Man. I got soooo many friends. I got about 800 hundred friends. Lots of really pretty girls, too. Reaaaaal pretty girls!

M: [really not feeling bad any more. obviously, i'd only be a number.] Wow.

J-man: Yeah, when I was in school, people used to call me stupid and retarded. But NOW LOOK AT ME! Where were they back then?! I bet they're sorry! [pops his collar a lil bit.]

Forrest Gump Cont'd or Are you Trying to Impress Me?

J-man: You know what I did today?

M: [frustrated that he has not been doing his multiplication] What?

J-man: This lady came up to me, and she wasn't around here, like she didn't sound like she was around here. And she said, "'scuse me, sir, you have a dollar?" So I gave her a dollar. It wasn't like it was anything. I mean, I'd probably go try to buy something I didn't need. It wasn't anything to me.

M: [if you had kept your dollar, you wouldn't be asking me for 50 cent.]

Breakthrough?

I really enjoy working with J-man, and today I really think we made a break through. I think he is finally starting to understand the concept of multiplication. I gave him a pile of paper clips so that we could count out the answer to each problem. It seemed mildly successful.

We'll see what the self-proclaimed black Forrest Gump will bring for me on Thursday.....

transport.

my bike gotten stolen on tuesday.
but on the plus side, i can bend my finger four more degrees than i could last week.
that really makes up for it.

good thing my parents are bringing my phat ride down this weekend (aka a 1999 bonneville).

so sometimes i see these cars around that have these huge details painted on them. i always thought the drivers were paid money to drive around with a Monopoly board or Nerds candy advertising them. wrong. WRONG. these people pay thousands of dollars to get things like cinnamon toast crunch detailed on the side of their car. apparently a lot of drug dealers do it. ("so do different drugs have different types of cars?"my friend isabelle had asked one of her students. "like is snap, crackle, pop, code for crack? (no, it is not.)).

isabelle told me tonight that there was a shooting recently on the interstate between two of these cereal cars. it isn't quite clear if it was drug related, or if it was because they were competing to see had the faster cereal car. either way, one of them turned out to be a cereal killer.

seriously though, i'm not kidding: today i saw a purple nerds candy car, and then tonight i saw a pimped out monopoly car (that was actually kind of cool- in a 'i''d never want to drive it, but if the dude offered me a ride, i'd totally accept).

farthest.

Farther.

Imagine the farthest place you
think you can.
You’re not there.
Farther. Think farther.

Farther than lost
farther than never
farther than dead.

That’s where you are.
Farther.

It’s not lonely when you’re farther
but you’re alone.
It’s not cold when you’re farther
but you shiver.
It’s not bad when you’re farther
but somewhere else seems better.

You’re a face in a frame,
trapped in a locket,
printed in the paper,
you’re put in the ground.
You’re all of a sudden
would’ves and could’ves
I’m sorries
and under the stars.
You’re farther.
than ever.

You’re so far
that the eyes in the back of your head
can’t see the tears they are crying,
so far that tears don’t
exist any more.
You’re farther away than a voice can
call, and even prayer can’t reach you.
You’re far enough to know
there’s no coming back,
and still near enough to hope
you can.

Farther doesn’t get any nearer.
Not even with a map,
or a Bible. And even if you tried
moving nearer you would have gone
farther. Anyways, you might not want
to be nearer.

It’s lonely when you’re nearer
because you feel a space.
And it’s cold when you’re nearer
because warm is colder than before.
It’s bad when you’re nearer
because you remember farther.

Telephones don’t operate between
farther and nearer. And they say nothing
can. With you so far, all I want is
you near,
nearer than ground and gravity
nearer than skin on bones
nearer rather than farther.

Pack Your Bags

I realized last night that in the past eight months, I have not completely unpacked myself in the places that I have been living. During the summer, I didn't have all of my stuff because I knew I'd be leaving. The last four months, I never even bothered settling in because there was an immeninent move looming in the future.

There's the difference between living and staying.
It takes time to live instead of staying. Maybe it takes less time to live than it does to stay.
I've become awfully neurotic, a likely side effect from trying to live and stay at the same time.

I'm going to unpack all my boxes this time. I'm going to throw them all away so there are no cardboard question marks asking what's going to happen next.

i have no best friends here to snuggle and watch movies with.
i feel really far away and lonely today.
that's all.

i m.i.g.h.t. have met some guy who has a tv show last night.
and i m.ig.h.t. have gotten in a fight with him.

but i don't really watch tv, so he could have just been a regular jerk after all.

My New Year's Resolutions

Usually I don't believe in New Year's Resolution. Most of the time, and almost anyone will tell you this, they fall to shit in mid-January. Consequentially, I generally avoid them as tools of the weak. However, this year, I have realized that I do, in fact, have some New Year's resolutions that I believe would be beneficial to my existence.

(Item #1)
For instance, when I went to the dentist over my break, I had a new hygenist (which was a little trying for me because Cheri has been cleaning my teeth since I was in jr. high). I am not a chronic flosser, but I would like to argue that I argue more than the average bear, you know, something like 3 times a week. Because I was on my break, my consumption was in overdrive, and I was verily refusing to do anything I did not want to. Like flossing. Half the time I forgot to brush my teeth. (Disgusting, but true.) Anyway, this new girl spent something like 20 minutes going at my mouth with her little metal stick, all the while giving me a lecture about how the food sticks to your teeth and then gets stuck there, and then you have to go through all of this at the dentist. Because of that, and the fact that my dentist insurance isn't as miraculous as I'd like it to be, and because I want to have teeth for a long time, I decided that I am going to brush my teeth in the morning and before I go to bed, and NOT forget to floss. So far, it is going well.

(Item #2)

When I studied in Italy, every day was an adventure. While I drank my tea and ate my cookies for breakfast, I wondered what the day would bring. Not every day was perfect. There were days that were even boring. But because I was out of my own context, I was able to find adventure were there was none. I was able to look on the bright or the funny side of almost of every situation because I knew I was in Italy, and my days were numbered before I would return to the states.

I remember one day, it was in late October some time. I had been looking for schools to stay in, and looking for a way to stay in Italy instead of coming back to the States. After one of the most disappointing and unsupportive conversations of my life (which was certainly not from my parents), I realized I would be getting back on the plane to go home. After all this realization sank in, I walked through the city, eyeing every detail on every church, every crack in the cobblestone, every pigeon and gypsy. I remember saying to myself: You've got one month left. Do not waste it.

That's how I intend to live now. While work is important and all of that, I am not going to waste my time that I have here in New Orleans. I'm not really sure what's going to happen when my contract is up, but should I decide to move, I don't want to move with a list full of I-wish-I-would'ves.

Which leads me to.....

(Item #3)

I did not want to read the book Eat, Pray, Love. Mostly because it was on Oprah's book club, and every woman I saw in the El this spring was reading it. My old friend, Hop-a-long Jen, insisted that I read. She insisted so hard that she bought me the book. Appreciating the gift, I read it. But not in public. I took it with me to Europe when I left on the graduation trip I bought for myself. And even THERE, in Italy, I couldn't get away from that book. People were reading it there! (Ok, true, part of the story takes place there, but still.)

Anyway, I'm pretty sure Elizabeth Gilbert was writing this book for me. I'm quite sure there are many other people out there who feel the same way, but I like to think that she and I have so much in common. You know, except for the fact that I will never be bendy enough to do yoga, and I have no idea how to meditate. Minor details.

The first section of the book takes place in Italy, and Liz is learning to experience pleasure. She talks about il bel far niente, which is Italian for "the beauty of doing nothing." She explains that in the Italian culture, that is for which everyone is striving. Doing nothing and enjoying yourself along the way is life's goal.

I am absolutely terrible at that. I can't sit still. Especially these last six months, I've become more and more wound up. I have to know what's going to happen next, and in fact, I need to know so badly, I can't enjoy what I'm doing currently (no matter how marvelous it is) because I have to know what is going to happen next.

Dead or Something. This is Incoherent.

disclaimer: i shouldn't have to feel like i have to defend this post. but i do. what's wrong with that?

I had a phone call from a friend. When we were nothing but kids, he kissed me, and he’s been nothing but a true friend ever since. We talked about drugs and guns and why we wanted to die. If we had the courage to kill ourselves, there would be a remarkable freedom. And here I am, minutes later, with a larger than usual glass of red wine. Listening to John Denver. And wondering what it would be like to die, and would I even wonder if some I loved hadn’t tried his hand at it first. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to talk irrationally with someone who needed to throw away the boundaries of everything completely rational for a while. I would still be listening to John Denver.

I’m still sitting here. My Dead Friend died two and a half years ago. It seems probably to you that when he died, so did our friendship. You’d be wrong to think that. The truest form of friendship keeps on giving, even when the person is gone. With time there’s more investment than before, and even though the memories are fading, the feelings aren’t. Conversations are now memorized pieces of scripture. Feelings are cemented into my soul. No matter how many plastic surgery words I’m given, guilt is branded into and it won’t come out. I’ve prayed Mary and Martha’s prayer, and as it turns out, my Dead Friend wasn’t Lazarus.

In this far from perfect world, there are moments when our humanity is exposed. We’re ashamed of our nakedness, those imperfections that, like freckles on skin or wrinkles at the corners of our eyes, don’t fall into what we think are supposed to look like.

But, you know, that’s not the fucked up part. This is, I think:

If it had all been perfect, if my Dead Friend had been Lazarus afterall, I would have been nothing to the Friend On The Phone. I would have been another number he scrolled past. Another person who just wouldn’t understand. And goddammit, I hate that I have to understand. I hate being the one that my friends call when their grandma dies, or their brother dies, or their cousin’s sister’s hamster’s dog dies (which hasn’t happened yet). But I have to be, don’t I? Because when I scrolled through my own phone book, there were startling few people that I actually felt I could call. And if my Friend On The Phone can call me, then isn’t the world a little bit smaller, and a little bit better? That’s cliche, but please, understand that some cliches are what you need to hear. When they’re from someone who has prayed the Mary and Martha prayer.

It’s all completely irrational, isn’t it? There isn’t anything that is rational. The very idea of rationality is completely irrational. Thank God for red wine and John Denver.

Rocky Mountain High
-John Denver

He was born in the summer of his 27th year
Comin' home to a place he'd never been before
He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again
You might say he found a key for every door

When he first came to the mountains his life was far away
On the road and hangin' by a song
But the string's already broken and he doesn't really care
It keeps changin' fast and it don't last for long

But the Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
The shadow from the starlight is softer than a lullabye
Rocky mountain high

He climbed cathedral mountains, he saw silver clouds below
He saw everything as far as you can see
And they say that he got crazy once and he tried to touch the sun
And he lost a friend but kept his memory

Now he walks in quiet solitude the forest and the streams
Seeking grace in every step he takes
His sight has turned inside himself to try and understand
The serenity of a clear blue mountain lake

And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply
Rocky mountain high

Now his life is full of wonder but his heart still knows some fear
Of a simple thing he cannot comprehend
Why they try to tear the mountains down to bring in a couple more
More people, more scars upon the land

And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
I know he'd be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly
Rocky mountain high

It's Colorado rocky mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
Friends around the campfire and everybody's high
Rocky mountain high

In a Blizzard

Chicago welcomed me back with a blizzard. Instead of going down in a blaze of glory, I came home in a blaze of snow. I kind of felt like a blaze myself. I was a blaze of Molly. As a result, I am now exhausted. Being a blaze of yourself takes a lot out of you. I've been trying not to indulge in the binge eating that I subconsciously will restore all of my burnt out energy.

And now what you've all been waiting for:

Why I'll Never Sit in the Emergency Row Again.

If Chicago missed me enough to welcome me back with a blizzard, New Orleans missed me enough to welcome me back with a rain storm. The day just did not start off right. The day started off a little if-y. I got to the airport with enough time to get checked in, grab a bite to eat and get to my gate. I had taken careful precaution to pack my suitcase so that it was not obviously overweight, since it would cost an additional 40 bucks had it been overweight. I put it on the scale, and there it was, my worst nightmare: 50.5 lbs. A half pound overweight. Thank goodness the girl behind the counter had the presence of mind to adjust the scale, and save me $40 I didn't have to spend.

I got to my gate. And waited. And waited. And waited. I had to reschedule my connecting flight to New Orleans because there was no way I was going to make it. "Is the emergency row ok?" the man behind the ticket counter asked. "Sure, sure, no problem," I answered.

After sitting on the runway for about another hour, we finally made it to Atlanta. My flight to New Orleans was delayed. I ate a cheeseburger and talked to the people waiting next to me. Finally, we were able to start boarding. And then we sat on the runway and waited another hour.

"You realize that you are in the emergency row?" The flight attendant asked. "You are familiar with the procedures and are willing and able to perform the duties required?" After we all agreed, he walked away. No one looked at the flyer. Finally, I couldn't stand it any more. I had to look at the flyer. I never do because I know how to fly. This was my first time in the emergency row. It seemed easy enough. I put my head back, and fell asleep.

Up in the air, the first 45 minutes were smooth sailing. I woke up at snack time and read my book. The turbulence started out gradually, and I was unalarmed. And then it started bobbing so uncontrollably that my stomach started queasing, and I had to put my book down. I watched the plane drop in the front and move from side to side. It felt like a child's play toy that was being jerked from side to side. At any minute, I fully expected the forces that held the craft in the air to disappear.

"It's ok," I told myself. "I read a book about a plane crash in junior high. I've totally got this. I'll be okay. I'll just call 911."

And then, "Oh my God. What if we land in a swamp? Alligators? There's no solid ground. I'm going to be the first one to go." I was breathing hard. I started forming a plan in my head about what to do first. Then I decided that was stupid. I would have to wait and scope out the scenario before I could really formulate the plan. Which stressed me even more. Finally, I just prayed myself through it, and reminded myself, while bolts of lightning flashed next to the window, that the pilot had been trained to deal with situations such as this.

The difference between flying in Europe and flying in America is this: After the plane touches down in Europe, everyone bursts out in applause for the pilot bringing it safely to the ground. In America, everyone immediately whips out their Blackberries with the "what took so long" attitude, and begins to strategize who they can climb over to immediately exit the plane. After a flight like that, the pilot certainly deserved a round of applause. Tests have shown that individuals will rarely go against the crowd, even if they know the crowd was wrong. I am ashamed to admit that I did not initiate a round of applause for that wonderful pilot who made it possible for me to decide that I will never ever sit in the emergency row ever again.