Sitting in the scorching hot sun on Friday, watching one graduate after another cross the stage, it struck me that I’m starting to feel old. Now for all you sensitive 40 and ups out there, don’t get your panties in a wad. I’m not implying that I am old, thus making you older. I’m not that stupid. I’m merely making a suggestion that with each passing year, I’m reminded that I am beginning to make my entry into the serious-we’re-not-joking-it’s-really-real world of adulthood. I have friends with wrinkles. And back problems. And babies. And divorce lawyers. It’s weird.
I remember what it felt like that day and how amazing it felt to walk across that stage. The excitement, the drama, the sadness. Here I was in the cozy womb of my wooded college campus, among the people I considered my best of the best, and I was being asked to leave. Graduate. Pack up. Move on. I had spent four years laughing and discovering and growing and falling over stupid and accomplishing and throwing up from too much vodka from plastic containers and hiding in nooks of shadows of trees and gazing at stars and writing papers all night and pretending to tap dance down brick pathways and grieving and stumbling into new selves and former selves all while thinking “what is the self?”
For some people, college is this obligatory stamp on their path. Four years (or maybe five) of requirements and probably too many parties and maybe the place where you met the person you married. Or maybe you busted your ass to get through, working full-time just to get the degree. This piece of paper that is supposed to somehow transform us. Make us more hire-able. Better employees.
But for others, college is this space of discovery. A chance to pause the rest of the world and completely absorb yourself in your own years of 18-22. It’s like four years of padded walls and access to all the fingerpaint you could ever want. Oh and Cookie Crisp. And chicken fingers. And the goal is to still come our hire-able and a better employee. But maybe with some deeper, more philosophical thoughts on hand.
That’s how I remember college. A journey. A road. A space of discovery. A chance to figure out me. Who I was and why I cared. And why anyone else might ever want to, too.
I remember asking myself questions I’d never thought to ask before. I remember trying to catch it all—all the things that were happening in my brain and in my ears and in my knees and in my eyes. Trying to cram it all into my heart and my brain and my memory banks; horrified someone might steal this slice of life I’d stumbled across. That I’d lose access.
I remember all the tragically sad things that happened and how I thought there was no way my heart could ever find its pieces again. And then finding those pieces, and emerging a bit more hardened and perhaps more wise.
I remember laughing so hard I thought I’d die. And reciting movies from heart. And meeting women who changed my life—strong, courageous, hilarious women who taught me how to be a woman. How to fight for myself. How to love myself. My girls.
I look up at the windows that face the lawn of commencement. I think how many mornings I’ve woken up facing this lawn. How many mornings I’ve been here. With the sun on my face. And all the things that have happened between all those sunrises.
This is home. For nine years I’ve called this place home. After being out in the real world for a few years, I came back to work here. As a grown-up. As an adult. But I feel like one of the lucky ones, because I know what happens here. I know how it feels. I’ve felt it in my heart and in my hands and I’ve danced with it at night and I’ve rolled around with it in the rain. I’ve tasted it on my tongue and I’ve taken it out on walks. It’s not something anyone can ever put a thumb on and almost everyone tries to name it. Each year a new student commencement speaker has the enormous task of trying to find words that describe this thing that happens here. And I watch her catch her breath. And it is there in her voice. This thing we all know about. This thing we cannot name.
There are days when I question why I ever came back to work here—this charming alma mater of mine. Like anywhere, we have our own fair share of the dramas. And I hear the others whine and moan and talk quietly behind closed doors. Perhaps they don’t know. But I do. I know what happens here. And I remember. And those moments remind me why I’m here.
As I listen to the names, one after another, I look up to the window where I spent my freshman year. And my eyes wander over to the window where I spent my junior year. And I smirk because I know things about these walls. And I look out at the lawn. And I’m feeling old, but happy. Missing my girls. Knowing they'd be sitting right here next to me, in something terribly chic, clapping for people they don't know. Because we know how it feels. We know what happens here.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Lemonade
When life hands you lemons, don’t you sometimes want to shove those lemons down someone’s throat and walk away? With no guilt or conflict of morality or ethics getting in the way?
I get that I’m supposed to be all kinds of positive about when shit happens, because, shit happens. It just does. In the order of the world, there has to be a balance of good and bad, and I guess life was getting too good (although, I’d like to ask the universe: can life ever be too good? Really? Are we sure about that answer?) And as my uncle told me so kindly earlier this week, “you had a yang coming with that steady flow of yin…” Yeah, yeah. Whatever.
Earlier this week I was jolted out of my precious slumber by the sound of a horrendous crash outside of my window. Hazily leaping out of bed to the window, I looked down to find that another car had indeed crashed into MY car. Out of the 30 she had to choose from on our block, mine was her victim. Well, mine and two others. But mine not only got hit, it got CRUNCHED. And mine was the last one she hit, thus receiving the biggest blow. And I parked under the street lamp the night before, because I had come in late, and so the street lamp had also aided and abetted in the crunching of the OTHER side of my car. Epic crunching.
Due to the fact that it was 5:45 am, I was all kinds of confused and disoriented and didn’t quite understand the extent to which I had just been handed lemons. Smiling, and still trying to wake up my brain, I didn’t think to be outraged or hostile. I didn’t think to challenge the police when they failed to provide me with any of the driver’s information. I didn’t think to ask for her driver’s license number. This was all promised to be in the police report—the police report I would be able to claim in 5-10 days for a cost of $10. I didn’t think this was outrageous.
Now, almost four days later, my hostility is setting in. Especially now that the young girl, driving alone on a learner's permit at 5:45 am, is MIA, her insurance plan was cancelled months ago, and the police appear to have “lost” parts of the police report (the only document that contained her information that we need in order to seek justice), I’ve poured the lemonade down the drain.
The lemonade is gone. I’m looking at a preliminary (I repeat, preliminary) damage report that rounds in at about $6,500 worth of body work (thank god for comprehensive collision insurance). I’m trying hard not to get hustled by the “industry” that is car insurance and collision repair. And I find myself totally overwhelmed with it all. I’m wondering if my car will be totaled—something NO ONE seems to want to tell me—and I’m also wondering if it means I’m gonna have to buy a new car this week (and if so, what do I buy? Can I even afford a new car?) I’m driving a crappy rental car that drives like a sewing machine on wheels that smells like ass covered up with air freshener. And I’m preparing myself for this to go on for another couple of weeks until official decisions are made and repairs can be done (or not).
I’m wondering if this girl, now being hassled by my insurance company and my neighbor’s insurance agencies, is even going to face ANY penalties. It doesn’t appear that we have any kind of grip whatsoever on the situation, thank you very much Baltimore city police who wanted to rush cleaning up the scene/writing the report so that they could end their shift.
And everyone keeps saying: Look at the bright side, you weren’t in the vehicle. No one got hurt.
What the fuck is up with everyone’s love for lemonade? I know y’all aren’t this positive on a regular basis. This is why I live on the East Coast. I live for our perpetual cynicism and negativity. Live for it. Please, for the love of god someone say something snarky.
The only thing that has kept me together this week has been the overwhelming amount of anxiety I have about all the homework I have left to finish before my last two classes of grad school this semester. I fear that come Tuesday morning, I might just dissolve into a big mess in the carpet and poor Cara (patient plutonic wife and roommate that she is) is gonna need to scoop me up and put me in front of a marathon of Always Sunny in Philadelphia with some Red-Hot Cheetos. And possibly a Quaalude and a vodka tonic.
I got a feeling it won't be pretty, folks.
So thus far, my solution for today has been to bake a cake and to read some scholarly journals (that by noon I need to have synthesized into a well-thought out thesis). By 7:30 this morning, I was highlighting to the sexy hum of my stand-up mixer, faithfully beating the shit out of some cake batter. Using my beautiful, shiny, red KitchenAid mixer is like the equivalent of getting high. It’s totally my heroin. I also have plans to go buy some plants today and to get my little organic urban garden bloomin'—plans I had last weekend but ended up botching thanks to cold natty boh's and a really, really hot sunshine.
Today, I will blissfully ignore the fucking lemons. I will NOT look at new cars online (which gives me anxiety). I will NOT look at my 8 page preliminary estimate from the body shop (which gives me anxiety). I will NOT call my insurance company or check my online claim for any details (which gives me anxiety). Today I will do my homework. And maybe throw on a shirt-dress, some high heels, and some red lipstick. And maybe I’ll vacuum. Or make a soufflé from scratch.
Here’s hoping a healthy dose of domesticity (and intellectual discourse) will brighten up my weekend. But don’t expect lemonade if you drop in. We’ll be serving bourbon, only. And no more positivity, people. It's making me nauseous.
I get that I’m supposed to be all kinds of positive about when shit happens, because, shit happens. It just does. In the order of the world, there has to be a balance of good and bad, and I guess life was getting too good (although, I’d like to ask the universe: can life ever be too good? Really? Are we sure about that answer?) And as my uncle told me so kindly earlier this week, “you had a yang coming with that steady flow of yin…” Yeah, yeah. Whatever.
Earlier this week I was jolted out of my precious slumber by the sound of a horrendous crash outside of my window. Hazily leaping out of bed to the window, I looked down to find that another car had indeed crashed into MY car. Out of the 30 she had to choose from on our block, mine was her victim. Well, mine and two others. But mine not only got hit, it got CRUNCHED. And mine was the last one she hit, thus receiving the biggest blow. And I parked under the street lamp the night before, because I had come in late, and so the street lamp had also aided and abetted in the crunching of the OTHER side of my car. Epic crunching.
Due to the fact that it was 5:45 am, I was all kinds of confused and disoriented and didn’t quite understand the extent to which I had just been handed lemons. Smiling, and still trying to wake up my brain, I didn’t think to be outraged or hostile. I didn’t think to challenge the police when they failed to provide me with any of the driver’s information. I didn’t think to ask for her driver’s license number. This was all promised to be in the police report—the police report I would be able to claim in 5-10 days for a cost of $10. I didn’t think this was outrageous.
Now, almost four days later, my hostility is setting in. Especially now that the young girl, driving alone on a learner's permit at 5:45 am, is MIA, her insurance plan was cancelled months ago, and the police appear to have “lost” parts of the police report (the only document that contained her information that we need in order to seek justice), I’ve poured the lemonade down the drain.
The lemonade is gone. I’m looking at a preliminary (I repeat, preliminary) damage report that rounds in at about $6,500 worth of body work (thank god for comprehensive collision insurance). I’m trying hard not to get hustled by the “industry” that is car insurance and collision repair. And I find myself totally overwhelmed with it all. I’m wondering if my car will be totaled—something NO ONE seems to want to tell me—and I’m also wondering if it means I’m gonna have to buy a new car this week (and if so, what do I buy? Can I even afford a new car?) I’m driving a crappy rental car that drives like a sewing machine on wheels that smells like ass covered up with air freshener. And I’m preparing myself for this to go on for another couple of weeks until official decisions are made and repairs can be done (or not).
I’m wondering if this girl, now being hassled by my insurance company and my neighbor’s insurance agencies, is even going to face ANY penalties. It doesn’t appear that we have any kind of grip whatsoever on the situation, thank you very much Baltimore city police who wanted to rush cleaning up the scene/writing the report so that they could end their shift.
And everyone keeps saying: Look at the bright side, you weren’t in the vehicle. No one got hurt.
What the fuck is up with everyone’s love for lemonade? I know y’all aren’t this positive on a regular basis. This is why I live on the East Coast. I live for our perpetual cynicism and negativity. Live for it. Please, for the love of god someone say something snarky.
The only thing that has kept me together this week has been the overwhelming amount of anxiety I have about all the homework I have left to finish before my last two classes of grad school this semester. I fear that come Tuesday morning, I might just dissolve into a big mess in the carpet and poor Cara (patient plutonic wife and roommate that she is) is gonna need to scoop me up and put me in front of a marathon of Always Sunny in Philadelphia with some Red-Hot Cheetos. And possibly a Quaalude and a vodka tonic.
I got a feeling it won't be pretty, folks.
So thus far, my solution for today has been to bake a cake and to read some scholarly journals (that by noon I need to have synthesized into a well-thought out thesis). By 7:30 this morning, I was highlighting to the sexy hum of my stand-up mixer, faithfully beating the shit out of some cake batter. Using my beautiful, shiny, red KitchenAid mixer is like the equivalent of getting high. It’s totally my heroin. I also have plans to go buy some plants today and to get my little organic urban garden bloomin'—plans I had last weekend but ended up botching thanks to cold natty boh's and a really, really hot sunshine.
Today, I will blissfully ignore the fucking lemons. I will NOT look at new cars online (which gives me anxiety). I will NOT look at my 8 page preliminary estimate from the body shop (which gives me anxiety). I will NOT call my insurance company or check my online claim for any details (which gives me anxiety). Today I will do my homework. And maybe throw on a shirt-dress, some high heels, and some red lipstick. And maybe I’ll vacuum. Or make a soufflé from scratch.
Here’s hoping a healthy dose of domesticity (and intellectual discourse) will brighten up my weekend. But don’t expect lemonade if you drop in. We’ll be serving bourbon, only. And no more positivity, people. It's making me nauseous.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Me Big Chief
On Saturday night I took the opportunity to use my sunburn as an excuse to stay home on a Saturday night and do homework. (You know, the sunburn I got while I was making myself walk the dog, which turned into running into college buddies, which turned into watching ultimate frisbee for a few hours without sunscreen, which turned into drinking a couple beers in the middle of the day, which turned into an exhausted sun-burnt nap, which made me wake up cranky and incapable of social activities, which made me ignore any and all of my said social engagements in exchange for a quiet night at home).
And because I don’t nap (I’m like a freak of nature with the sleeping), this 45 minute slip into a REM cycle apparently made me incapable of rational, intellectual thought. Realizing my research paper on Erich Fromm, the tantalizing German Jew psychoanalyst who I’m sure has amazing things to say, was NOT going to happen, I caved and did what all grown folks who work full-time while in graduate school do: REPRESS FEELINGS OF GUILT ABOUT NOT DOING HOMEWORK ON THE ONE NIGHT YOU HAVE FREE AND PROCRASTINATE.
Instead, I ordered a pizza and decided to park my happy ass on the couch with the dog and catch up on the new HBO show Treme.
I’m an admitted David Simonstalker admirer. I pretty much watched the entire series of The Wire over a series of a few weeks and found myself so involved with the characters that I still refer to them on a first-name basis as if they’re real people in my life. You know, Stringer Bell? Lives down the block?
The invention of the television show on DVD really did wonders for my social life. At one point, I was so involved in watching the entire series of Six Feet Under that I began thinking I might actually be in an episode. Every episode of this show starts with someone dying in some kind of freak accident. I’d be walking down the block and envision a hammer being accidentally dropped from the top floor of the building and then in my head I’d cue the opening music and flash forward to a view of my own tombstone. Thank God I finished that series before I developed schizophrenia.
And don’t get me started on the L-Word. I think I actually craved lesbian drama in my life just because I felt so entitled to it after watching all that melodrama betwixt the ladies. Which, for the record, is never drama ANYONE should crave.
Okay, back to Treme. (Sorry, I’m over-caffeinated).
I had the chance to meet David Simon through my job last year and almost urinated down my pretty little dress with excitement. And he, in person, is just exactly what I suspected him to be: slightly neurotic, totally depressing, and simultaneously one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. You know how you meet people and you just know they’re smart? They got that pretty talk and yuns know they can ‘cipher good? Yeah, well. He did.
So when I heard David Simon would begin working on a show about post-Katrina New Orleans I started emotionally cumming all over myself. Because, you know, us geeky liberal arts college graduates LOVE television shows that blur the line between fiction and fact—especially when it involves things like sexuality, racism, and poverty. I’m getting chills just thinking about all the cultural and sociological implications I’ll inevitably try to sneak into a classroom discussion someday. Sidenote: We also love reading the Atlantic Monthly and pretending to be smarter than everyone else. And posting clever, biting, intellectually snarky comments on each other’s Facebook pages, ESPECIALLY when we get to reference our favorite NY Times op-ed columnist as if we know them personally (umm, duh, Gail). And of course wrapping it all up by finding a way to connect it all to some obscure Always Sunny in Philadelphia scene.
So here I am on a Saturday night watching this new show on HBO about New Orleans. And the storyline isn’t great—it’s fairly predictable. I see all the usual suspects—about half of the cast from The Wire (which is like running into old friends with guns) and I’m trying to get used to their new character names and disconnecting them from their darker, more addicted (and definitely better armed) Baltimore alter-egos.
But there is this music. And the second line gets warmed up on the screen. Without warrant, my feet start tapping. And I notice I can’t help but rock my hips. And my head starts moving. And I’m not even thinking about it but I’m shifting around to wiggle my little (okay big) white girl ass around like I got some rhythm. And before I know it my head is in a million places at once and I’m flashing through all these moments.
Then the character puts on his Mardi Gras Indian costume.
And I'm thinking about the first time I saw a real-live Mardi Gras Indian. And how hot it was. And the smell of those feathers. And the sounds that came from his mouth. Raw, guttural noises that were something in between song and prayer. And how it almost scared me.
Then he is playing his tambourine.
And my brain is thinking about three years ago in Winneba, Ghana when I stumbled across something that looked vaguely familiar: a parade in the middle of a village with a line of people marching down the middle of the street with horns and drums and dancing and singing and bright colors. Handkerchiefs were twirled in my face. I was so hot but so enthralled in the procession that I didn't care about the sweat dripping from my face.
And then I’m back in New Orleans, thinking about the taste of that po’boy and wondering if the shop we used to go to survived the storm and if it didn’t if they’ve reopened somewhere else. And thinking about how delicious those crawfish Zapp’s potato chips are and the time I saved all my money to buy myself a kitten watch (with a ball of yarn as the seconds hand) from a flimsy booth in the French Market. And how good those beignets tasted.
And what it felt like to see a real, live voodoo ceremony in Benin.
And to hear a goat be sacrificed.
And to run into Quint Davis, the freakin’ godfather of the Jazz Fest, in a random village in Benin because he was trying to find artists to bring from West Africa to New Orleans for the Jazz Fest. To bring the music full circle.
And I’m thinking about Katrina and how angry it made me. And how obvious it is to me that no matter what you try and tell me, if you're poor in this country, you've probably been fucked over by somebody. And I'm gonna go out on a limb here and blame a system (although I won't narrow it down to just one).
And then I'm thinking about how much I wouldn’t get this shit if I’d never moved to Baltimore. And never taken that first job in the Baltimore City Schools. And never felt all the things I’ve felt. And been in the places I've been. And felt, first-hand, what my skin color affords me.
And here is how I know David Simon is brilliant. Because all of this happened to me on a Saturday night on my couch. In yoga pants. And I only watched like three episodes.
This is also how I know I’m Presbyterian. I’ve found myself in this life of mine, where all these things make sense to me. And I find it strangely normal. Like it's the path I was always intended to be on. With all these experiences connecting and merging and overlapping.
And I do believe in magic. And I think sometimes we're given special knowledge from our ancestors that lets us in on some pretty big secrets about the universe. When I was a kid, my dad would tell me I was part gypsy. He told me all kinds of wacky things, but this was my favorite. Well, no, the Easter Monkey was (is) my favorite. But I've always liked to think about my totally-made-up fantasy gene pool (as if you couldn't tell from my sunburn that I'm totally Scotch-Irish-German-English and like 1/32 Cherokee).
Once upon a time, there was some rumor that up that magical family tree of ours was a Spanish bear trainer in the circus. Naturally, I've embellished and blown up this story in my extra-fancy tree and Great-Great-Great Granddaddy who tamed the bears and wooed the ladies is this central figure in my family's history. I'm assuming this is probably the way people feel when they are related to someone famous like a Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln. In this fantasy family tree I can't help but feel like I've got connections to these places that I love so much. And this gypsy grandfather of mine probably traveled around a lot. And maybe procreated in New Orleans. And I probably have cousins there.
And maybe in West Africa, too. Because it only makes sense.
And of course, I like to think I make him proud.
And because I don’t nap (I’m like a freak of nature with the sleeping), this 45 minute slip into a REM cycle apparently made me incapable of rational, intellectual thought. Realizing my research paper on Erich Fromm, the tantalizing German Jew psychoanalyst who I’m sure has amazing things to say, was NOT going to happen, I caved and did what all grown folks who work full-time while in graduate school do: REPRESS FEELINGS OF GUILT ABOUT NOT DOING HOMEWORK ON THE ONE NIGHT YOU HAVE FREE AND PROCRASTINATE.
Instead, I ordered a pizza and decided to park my happy ass on the couch with the dog and catch up on the new HBO show Treme.
I’m an admitted David Simon
The invention of the television show on DVD really did wonders for my social life. At one point, I was so involved in watching the entire series of Six Feet Under that I began thinking I might actually be in an episode. Every episode of this show starts with someone dying in some kind of freak accident. I’d be walking down the block and envision a hammer being accidentally dropped from the top floor of the building and then in my head I’d cue the opening music and flash forward to a view of my own tombstone. Thank God I finished that series before I developed schizophrenia.
And don’t get me started on the L-Word. I think I actually craved lesbian drama in my life just because I felt so entitled to it after watching all that melodrama betwixt the ladies. Which, for the record, is never drama ANYONE should crave.
Okay, back to Treme. (Sorry, I’m over-caffeinated).
I had the chance to meet David Simon through my job last year and almost urinated down my pretty little dress with excitement. And he, in person, is just exactly what I suspected him to be: slightly neurotic, totally depressing, and simultaneously one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. You know how you meet people and you just know they’re smart? They got that pretty talk and yuns know they can ‘cipher good? Yeah, well. He did.
So when I heard David Simon would begin working on a show about post-Katrina New Orleans I started emotionally cumming all over myself. Because, you know, us geeky liberal arts college graduates LOVE television shows that blur the line between fiction and fact—especially when it involves things like sexuality, racism, and poverty. I’m getting chills just thinking about all the cultural and sociological implications I’ll inevitably try to sneak into a classroom discussion someday. Sidenote: We also love reading the Atlantic Monthly and pretending to be smarter than everyone else. And posting clever, biting, intellectually snarky comments on each other’s Facebook pages, ESPECIALLY when we get to reference our favorite NY Times op-ed columnist as if we know them personally (umm, duh, Gail). And of course wrapping it all up by finding a way to connect it all to some obscure Always Sunny in Philadelphia scene.
So here I am on a Saturday night watching this new show on HBO about New Orleans. And the storyline isn’t great—it’s fairly predictable. I see all the usual suspects—about half of the cast from The Wire (which is like running into old friends with guns) and I’m trying to get used to their new character names and disconnecting them from their darker, more addicted (and definitely better armed) Baltimore alter-egos.
But there is this music. And the second line gets warmed up on the screen. Without warrant, my feet start tapping. And I notice I can’t help but rock my hips. And my head starts moving. And I’m not even thinking about it but I’m shifting around to wiggle my little (okay big) white girl ass around like I got some rhythm. And before I know it my head is in a million places at once and I’m flashing through all these moments.
Then the character puts on his Mardi Gras Indian costume.
And I'm thinking about the first time I saw a real-live Mardi Gras Indian. And how hot it was. And the smell of those feathers. And the sounds that came from his mouth. Raw, guttural noises that were something in between song and prayer. And how it almost scared me.
Then he is playing his tambourine.
And my brain is thinking about three years ago in Winneba, Ghana when I stumbled across something that looked vaguely familiar: a parade in the middle of a village with a line of people marching down the middle of the street with horns and drums and dancing and singing and bright colors. Handkerchiefs were twirled in my face. I was so hot but so enthralled in the procession that I didn't care about the sweat dripping from my face.
And then I’m back in New Orleans, thinking about the taste of that po’boy and wondering if the shop we used to go to survived the storm and if it didn’t if they’ve reopened somewhere else. And thinking about how delicious those crawfish Zapp’s potato chips are and the time I saved all my money to buy myself a kitten watch (with a ball of yarn as the seconds hand) from a flimsy booth in the French Market. And how good those beignets tasted.
And what it felt like to see a real, live voodoo ceremony in Benin.
And to hear a goat be sacrificed.
And to run into Quint Davis, the freakin’ godfather of the Jazz Fest, in a random village in Benin because he was trying to find artists to bring from West Africa to New Orleans for the Jazz Fest. To bring the music full circle.
And I’m thinking about Katrina and how angry it made me. And how obvious it is to me that no matter what you try and tell me, if you're poor in this country, you've probably been fucked over by somebody. And I'm gonna go out on a limb here and blame a system (although I won't narrow it down to just one).
And then I'm thinking about how much I wouldn’t get this shit if I’d never moved to Baltimore. And never taken that first job in the Baltimore City Schools. And never felt all the things I’ve felt. And been in the places I've been. And felt, first-hand, what my skin color affords me.
And here is how I know David Simon is brilliant. Because all of this happened to me on a Saturday night on my couch. In yoga pants. And I only watched like three episodes.
This is also how I know I’m Presbyterian. I’ve found myself in this life of mine, where all these things make sense to me. And I find it strangely normal. Like it's the path I was always intended to be on. With all these experiences connecting and merging and overlapping.
And I do believe in magic. And I think sometimes we're given special knowledge from our ancestors that lets us in on some pretty big secrets about the universe. When I was a kid, my dad would tell me I was part gypsy. He told me all kinds of wacky things, but this was my favorite. Well, no, the Easter Monkey was (is) my favorite. But I've always liked to think about my totally-made-up fantasy gene pool (as if you couldn't tell from my sunburn that I'm totally Scotch-Irish-German-English and like 1/32 Cherokee).
Once upon a time, there was some rumor that up that magical family tree of ours was a Spanish bear trainer in the circus. Naturally, I've embellished and blown up this story in my extra-fancy tree and Great-Great-Great Granddaddy who tamed the bears and wooed the ladies is this central figure in my family's history. I'm assuming this is probably the way people feel when they are related to someone famous like a Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln. In this fantasy family tree I can't help but feel like I've got connections to these places that I love so much. And this gypsy grandfather of mine probably traveled around a lot. And maybe procreated in New Orleans. And I probably have cousins there.
And maybe in West Africa, too. Because it only makes sense.
And of course, I like to think I make him proud.
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