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Thursday, October 27, 2011
Our Talk
I wrote this a few years back for my thesis, and revisited it recently to see if it still settled with me like it did before. Seeing as how it has, I thought I'd share it...maybe get some feedback if anyone's willing. And I have no idea why it's all weird looking when I post it, but whatever...
Sitting on the back porch of our somnolent Florida home, we talk. Never late into the night because she has to be up at 3 AM to work security at the nearby Southwest Florida International Airport, but late enough that we feel a sense of finish to the day. We talk until my mouth becomes dry and hers filled with the tail of smoke from yet another cigarette. She's started smoking again, no doubt the cause of her incessantly coughing and which makes me wish I were older so I could have kids. Will they know her? But rather than say something of what feels like some irrational fear, I resort to hiding her pack of Marlboros. Maybe wait until she comes home before smoking one myself, pretending to be alarmed when she stands in front of the sliding glass door looking embarrassed. Ashamed.
My mother is sick. Sick in the sense that I'm afraid of how old she is and how old she's become. And my fear of such a sickness has arrested me since I was little, when I would sneak into her room at night to watch her breathe, watch the caves of her blankets fill with her belly as she inhaled deeply from a place I could never reach or fix if broken. Watch her breathe so that I could sleep one more night knowing that I'd have her in the morning.
The last few nights we've talked of uncertainty. I'm afraid of graduating and being forced to go without a set schedule. She reminds me of how I've always wanted to travel to Ireland and of the 1,500 dollars I saved before quitting my job to come home. "You could just buy a one way ticket," she ventures, "maybe live with one of the people you worked with from Dublin." I drag my feet along the paled Persian rug my mother has brought from Morocco. It seemed while the house belonged to her family, the lanai is her escape, its very air tasting of cheap coffee. A combination of the things she loved most from her travels: wrought iron keys from Spain, aluminum decorations from Jamaica, ornate umbrellas from India. I want to tell her how I'm growing restless in California and nee d out, but that if I
were to go, I may not come back.
"Your father and I would help. It would be good for you, Mariel." The guilt cuts across the top of my body like a flash of sunburn. I quickly change the subject to her potential loneliness. I'll be gone soon as will my younger sister, Kalena. And as I listen to my mother, her voice slow and rich with her Puerto Rican accent, I hear a sadness from lower than the throat where lie the daily troubles, washed clean with the night. It comes from the bottom of her stomach, waiting like some rusted bomb, hitting each rib as she leans forward and begins to cough again. It's a sadness that seems as endless as her sickness, but one she's come to terms with. One she's forgiven and insists she can manage.
I feel disconnected, so I tell her of when I would sneak into her room when I was little to watch her sleep when overcome with a sudden fear of her death. She smiles to herself, rubbing her throat gently as she begins to rock in her chair, willing the words from somewhere else than within. "Yo tambien. I would do the same with your abuela when I was young, especially on the nights she was upset. I was always afraid I may never be forgiven and so I would sit by her bed and wait until she would wake up to tell her I was sorry, even if it wasn't my fault. Watching, listening, waiting. Always waiting, it seemed." For a moment we avert our eyes from one another. She stares into the neighbors' palms she herself cut. She runs her hands along the arms of her chair, the blisters from working with a machete raw and exposed against the damp wood. Thinking, maybe, about how the couple was upset from lacking a sense of privacy the plants were intended to provide in being overgrown.
She knew the old Mexican man who cuts the grass would have done it for an extra ten, maybe fifteen dollars, but she wanted to do it herself. Her hands insisted upon feeling the weight of the soiled curved blade cut its uneven teeth into the under belly of each tree. Their fronds littering the yard's divide like the orphaned children of some poorly planned massacre. Then, one by one, she would drag them to the street for the garbage man to take away. The work is what she needs, not the results. It reminds her of who she was before she was our mother. Instead, I stare absently into the house, letting my spine rake itself along the back of my wrought iron chair as I inhale. I suddenly feel the need to understand that I'm breathing again. I watch our two cats find temporary comfort from the oppressive humidity by spreading out on the tiles beneath the baby grand in the living room, which has taken my mother seven years to pay off.
"I'll miss you," my mother says, standing up to hug me. She smells of earth and smoke and rose water. The skin of her discolored arm feel displaced at the back of my neck, the fat slid along the top of the bone like the fat beneath the skin of a broiled chicken breast. I want to remember her as the flamenco dancer from the pictures that she keeps tied in a box in her closet. Her back a never-ending question mark, hands forever poised like doves. I want to remember her struggles and her triumphs. I want to remember how twice, my abuela had to fly to Madrid to nurse her back to health because all my mother could afford to eat was a broth filled with whatever vegetables she could find. I want to remember that she was the first and only Puerto Rican to dance in Spain's national ballet, despite the women who spit in her face for taking what they as Spanish citizens believed was theirs.
"I know. Me too. I'll miss you too." I wrap my arms around her awkwardly in place of standing up. Her thin dress is wet from sweat. She exhales the last of her cigarette from the left corner of her mouth before moving aside to fix something she sees as out of place - a pool towel my father has draped over the back of a chair, or an incense holder filled with ash. Anything until the pain of our inability to steal a bit of one another's strength from such an act of compassion passes. Then, carefully, she lowers herself back into her rocking chair. Pèpè, the younger of our two cats, is drawn from beneath the piano, interested in the sudden commotion between my mother and me. Through the glass, I watch as his mouth opens and closes, the pink of his tongue an eyesore against the black of his coat, his cries to join us lost in the anguish of a Macaw across the street that calls out to his owner to be held. Too weak to be heard, he paces, his eyes like two pools of expanding oil, as again and again I'm lost in the brief gasps of silent air collecting in the wet of his mouth.
"Have you fed the cats?" I ask, and get up to let Pèpè out.
The conversation has grown tired. It's now when it seems my mother would rather simply sit and stare into the faded sky beyond her. Beyond the neighbors' palms. Beyond the sickness and sadness. She begins to cough and this time I get up and stand beside her until it subsides. We watch as Pèpè makes his way to the edge of the large screen surrounding the pool. Here two large moths have come to rest and we listen as his voice cracks, his long whiskers carrying the moon's dirty light. I'm afraid this will turn into the foundation of what may be salvaged of our talk. I'm afraid of the sadness. I'm afraid of her age and the fact that I'm running out of time. I'm always running out of time. What about kids? Will they know her?
"Mamí, do you miss abuela?" I ask, desperate to regain ground that I'm convinced is lost.
I think I understand.
"Can you believe they actually complained about me cutting their palms?" She begins to rock again, pointing beyond where I can see. Beyond everything. And then, if only briefly, the sadness is lifted.
My mother is sick. Sick in the sense that I'm afraid of how old she is and how old she's become. And my fear of such a sickness has arrested me since I was little, when I would sneak into her room at night to watch her breathe, watch the caves of her blankets fill with her belly as she inhaled deeply from a place I could never reach or fix if broken. Watch her breathe so that I could sleep one more night knowing that I'd have her in the morning.
The last few nights we've talked of uncertainty. I'm afraid of graduating and being forced to go without a set schedule. She reminds me of how I've always wanted to travel to Ireland and of the 1,500 dollars I saved before quitting my job to come home. "You could just buy a one way ticket," she ventures, "maybe live with one of the people you worked with from Dublin." I drag my feet along the paled Persian rug my mother has brought from Morocco. It seemed while the house belonged to her family, the lanai is her escape, its very air tasting of cheap coffee. A combination of the things she loved most from her travels: wrought iron keys from Spain, aluminum decorations from Jamaica, ornate umbrellas from India. I want to tell her how I'm growing restless in California and nee d out, but that if I
were to go, I may not come back.
"Your father and I would help. It would be good for you, Mariel." The guilt cuts across the top of my body like a flash of sunburn. I quickly change the subject to her potential loneliness. I'll be gone soon as will my younger sister, Kalena. And as I listen to my mother, her voice slow and rich with her Puerto Rican accent, I hear a sadness from lower than the throat where lie the daily troubles, washed clean with the night. It comes from the bottom of her stomach, waiting like some rusted bomb, hitting each rib as she leans forward and begins to cough again. It's a sadness that seems as endless as her sickness, but one she's come to terms with. One she's forgiven and insists she can manage.
I feel disconnected, so I tell her of when I would sneak into her room when I was little to watch her sleep when overcome with a sudden fear of her death. She smiles to herself, rubbing her throat gently as she begins to rock in her chair, willing the words from somewhere else than within. "Yo tambien. I would do the same with your abuela when I was young, especially on the nights she was upset. I was always afraid I may never be forgiven and so I would sit by her bed and wait until she would wake up to tell her I was sorry, even if it wasn't my fault. Watching, listening, waiting. Always waiting, it seemed." For a moment we avert our eyes from one another. She stares into the neighbors' palms she herself cut. She runs her hands along the arms of her chair, the blisters from working with a machete raw and exposed against the damp wood. Thinking, maybe, about how the couple was upset from lacking a sense of privacy the plants were intended to provide in being overgrown.
She knew the old Mexican man who cuts the grass would have done it for an extra ten, maybe fifteen dollars, but she wanted to do it herself. Her hands insisted upon feeling the weight of the soiled curved blade cut its uneven teeth into the under belly of each tree. Their fronds littering the yard's divide like the orphaned children of some poorly planned massacre. Then, one by one, she would drag them to the street for the garbage man to take away. The work is what she needs, not the results. It reminds her of who she was before she was our mother. Instead, I stare absently into the house, letting my spine rake itself along the back of my wrought iron chair as I inhale. I suddenly feel the need to understand that I'm breathing again. I watch our two cats find temporary comfort from the oppressive humidity by spreading out on the tiles beneath the baby grand in the living room, which has taken my mother seven years to pay off.
"I'll miss you," my mother says, standing up to hug me. She smells of earth and smoke and rose water. The skin of her discolored arm feel displaced at the back of my neck, the fat slid along the top of the bone like the fat beneath the skin of a broiled chicken breast. I want to remember her as the flamenco dancer from the pictures that she keeps tied in a box in her closet. Her back a never-ending question mark, hands forever poised like doves. I want to remember her struggles and her triumphs. I want to remember how twice, my abuela had to fly to Madrid to nurse her back to health because all my mother could afford to eat was a broth filled with whatever vegetables she could find. I want to remember that she was the first and only Puerto Rican to dance in Spain's national ballet, despite the women who spit in her face for taking what they as Spanish citizens believed was theirs.
"I know. Me too. I'll miss you too." I wrap my arms around her awkwardly in place of standing up. Her thin dress is wet from sweat. She exhales the last of her cigarette from the left corner of her mouth before moving aside to fix something she sees as out of place - a pool towel my father has draped over the back of a chair, or an incense holder filled with ash. Anything until the pain of our inability to steal a bit of one another's strength from such an act of compassion passes. Then, carefully, she lowers herself back into her rocking chair. Pèpè, the younger of our two cats, is drawn from beneath the piano, interested in the sudden commotion between my mother and me. Through the glass, I watch as his mouth opens and closes, the pink of his tongue an eyesore against the black of his coat, his cries to join us lost in the anguish of a Macaw across the street that calls out to his owner to be held. Too weak to be heard, he paces, his eyes like two pools of expanding oil, as again and again I'm lost in the brief gasps of silent air collecting in the wet of his mouth.
"Have you fed the cats?" I ask, and get up to let Pèpè out.
"Sí." The response quiet, lost in my mother.
The conversation has grown tired. It's now when it seems my mother would rather simply sit and stare into the faded sky beyond her. Beyond the neighbors' palms. Beyond the sickness and sadness. She begins to cough and this time I get up and stand beside her until it subsides. We watch as Pèpè makes his way to the edge of the large screen surrounding the pool. Here two large moths have come to rest and we listen as his voice cracks, his long whiskers carrying the moon's dirty light. I'm afraid this will turn into the foundation of what may be salvaged of our talk. I'm afraid of the sadness. I'm afraid of her age and the fact that I'm running out of time. I'm always running out of time. What about kids? Will they know her?
"Mamí, do you miss abuela?" I ask, desperate to regain ground that I'm convinced is lost.
"I can still hear her breathing."
I think I understand.
"Can you believe they actually complained about me cutting their palms?" She begins to rock again, pointing beyond where I can see. Beyond everything. And then, if only briefly, the sadness is lifted.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Nothing.
So this is what it's resorted to: sitting alone, a dog curled up between each leg, mouse moving haphazardly across a makeshift book-desk. The sound of construction on the canal out back competing with the TV in the next room.
It's simply astronomical how alone I feel at this moment.
In the years I've spent here, nearly 3,000 miles from my mother and father, the space has never been much of a thought until now. In the hours following the accident, after Marco had guided me onto the couch and quiet finally settled, I was surrounded with the aftermath: Who was I supposed to call first? OPD or my insurance? Where was my car and purse? What was I supposed to do about the pain until I could get a prescription? How would the staff fair with my kids? What about my lesson plans, the worksheets, the activities?
It had taken hours to determine I had survived relatively unscathed only to undo what little courage I had left in 15 minutes.
I laid back and closed my eyes tightly, taking my mind to our porch in Puerto Rico. Feet hanging over the edge as a storm sweeps across the lawn, rain tangled with yagrumo leaves and red petals from my abuela's flamboyan. From within the house I can hear my mother's soft laugh as she sits with my father, the smell of fresh coffee slipping out along the kitchen's cool tiles. In the distance, lightening strikes an open expanse of the forest. I grasp desperately at the image and the peace it invokes, hoping to slip away into a dream and stay there awhile longer.
But the sound of rain is already fading quickly, the corners of the photograph folding in on themselves. I open my eyes, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered to my brother's living room ceiling, prolonging all the calls and explanations.
I wish more than anything, more than being back in that dream, that my mother could walk out from some door and run her hands through my hair. Whisper to me in Spanish that it will be alright, that I survived the worst. To take it one day at a time. I take a deep breath to find some resolve but begin to cough as the strain is too much for my sternum.
I want to be strong, to know that in a few months this will all be forgotten and life will resume as it always has, but nothing comes to me aside from the aches and pains that I know will only be worse tomorrow.
I take a shower and order Chinese. I put in Young Frankenstein and smoke a bowl, trying for some sort of normalcy. Some sort of relief, but like everything else, it doesn't come.
The days following are hollow. Trekking between OPD and the impound leave me exhausted and bitter. I pay the fees to get my things out of the car which they won't allow me to see. Everything thrown into a dusty black trash bag, including my lunch and the empty case for the Vince Guaraldi CD I'd just bought a few days prior on Haight in the city. The guy said he couldn't get the engine to turn to spit it out, it was stuck in the dash for now. I wish I was well enough to be apart of Occupy Oakland, to bring about the change the city desperately needs.
Instead I unpack the trash bag, throw away my lunch, and smoke another bowl. Checking my phone for texts or emails, some link to the outside world of friends I would hope would call on me. Reach out.
Nothing.
A few co-workers have checked in. My two site teachers bring me food on Thursday and homemade cards from the students.
That was two days ago
Maybe people are busy. Maybe this is a result of all those walls I've built up thinking I didn't need anyone. Maybe I wasn't as good of a friend as I had believed to be. Maybe people are too lazy. Maybe they don't care as much as they say they do. I feel half compelled to take the battery out of my phone and disconnect completely, but I don't. I hope that maybe with enough time someone will call.
I know there's something I should be doing. My doctor wants me to start taking physical therapy. Relying on the cane for my right ankle has left my back, neck, and shoulders weaker. But all I can imagine is how easy it would be to leave this place. Disappear again. Everyone would understand - I could blame it on fear, on the need to be with family to heal. Anything to escape this overwhelming sense of emptiness and failure.
The kids. I can't leave the kids. Not without finishing what I've set out to do yet.
I'm not sure how to move forward from this. How to fight the anger and disappointment in those who haven't stepped forward and the overwhelming desire to push everyone out all together, the wanting to leave California for good only to truly never look back again. How to avoid the thoughts of what could be different if only I had...
So this is what it feels like, to be alone. The small dog stirs, staring up at me for a moment before stretching and moving to the edge of the bed. Waiting. Coaxing me out from under the covers. I cradle her momentarily, taking in her smell and the saltiness of her coat before stepping out to make lunch for the both of us.
It's simply astronomical how alone I feel at this moment.
In the years I've spent here, nearly 3,000 miles from my mother and father, the space has never been much of a thought until now. In the hours following the accident, after Marco had guided me onto the couch and quiet finally settled, I was surrounded with the aftermath: Who was I supposed to call first? OPD or my insurance? Where was my car and purse? What was I supposed to do about the pain until I could get a prescription? How would the staff fair with my kids? What about my lesson plans, the worksheets, the activities?
It had taken hours to determine I had survived relatively unscathed only to undo what little courage I had left in 15 minutes.
I laid back and closed my eyes tightly, taking my mind to our porch in Puerto Rico. Feet hanging over the edge as a storm sweeps across the lawn, rain tangled with yagrumo leaves and red petals from my abuela's flamboyan. From within the house I can hear my mother's soft laugh as she sits with my father, the smell of fresh coffee slipping out along the kitchen's cool tiles. In the distance, lightening strikes an open expanse of the forest. I grasp desperately at the image and the peace it invokes, hoping to slip away into a dream and stay there awhile longer.
But the sound of rain is already fading quickly, the corners of the photograph folding in on themselves. I open my eyes, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered to my brother's living room ceiling, prolonging all the calls and explanations.
I wish more than anything, more than being back in that dream, that my mother could walk out from some door and run her hands through my hair. Whisper to me in Spanish that it will be alright, that I survived the worst. To take it one day at a time. I take a deep breath to find some resolve but begin to cough as the strain is too much for my sternum.
I want to be strong, to know that in a few months this will all be forgotten and life will resume as it always has, but nothing comes to me aside from the aches and pains that I know will only be worse tomorrow.
I take a shower and order Chinese. I put in Young Frankenstein and smoke a bowl, trying for some sort of normalcy. Some sort of relief, but like everything else, it doesn't come.
The days following are hollow. Trekking between OPD and the impound leave me exhausted and bitter. I pay the fees to get my things out of the car which they won't allow me to see. Everything thrown into a dusty black trash bag, including my lunch and the empty case for the Vince Guaraldi CD I'd just bought a few days prior on Haight in the city. The guy said he couldn't get the engine to turn to spit it out, it was stuck in the dash for now. I wish I was well enough to be apart of Occupy Oakland, to bring about the change the city desperately needs.
Instead I unpack the trash bag, throw away my lunch, and smoke another bowl. Checking my phone for texts or emails, some link to the outside world of friends I would hope would call on me. Reach out.
Nothing.
A few co-workers have checked in. My two site teachers bring me food on Thursday and homemade cards from the students.
That was two days ago
Maybe people are busy. Maybe this is a result of all those walls I've built up thinking I didn't need anyone. Maybe I wasn't as good of a friend as I had believed to be. Maybe people are too lazy. Maybe they don't care as much as they say they do. I feel half compelled to take the battery out of my phone and disconnect completely, but I don't. I hope that maybe with enough time someone will call.
I know there's something I should be doing. My doctor wants me to start taking physical therapy. Relying on the cane for my right ankle has left my back, neck, and shoulders weaker. But all I can imagine is how easy it would be to leave this place. Disappear again. Everyone would understand - I could blame it on fear, on the need to be with family to heal. Anything to escape this overwhelming sense of emptiness and failure.
The kids. I can't leave the kids. Not without finishing what I've set out to do yet.
I'm not sure how to move forward from this. How to fight the anger and disappointment in those who haven't stepped forward and the overwhelming desire to push everyone out all together, the wanting to leave California for good only to truly never look back again. How to avoid the thoughts of what could be different if only I had...
So this is what it feels like, to be alone. The small dog stirs, staring up at me for a moment before stretching and moving to the edge of the bed. Waiting. Coaxing me out from under the covers. I cradle her momentarily, taking in her smell and the saltiness of her coat before stepping out to make lunch for the both of us.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
826 Valencia.
It was a day like any other for the past 2 and a half months.
Ripe with the possibility for either monotony or disaster, which ever decided to show itself first.
I was looking for an entrace to 880 South, weaving in and out through lower East Oakland. The morning had already been rough, our meeting at ICS unfruitful. I was thinking of how I could catch up on service hours while out for the kids Thanksgiving break and had written 826 Valencia across the top of my left palm as a reminder to check in with the nonprofit for volunteer opportunities. I reached up to put my visor down, the ink standing out against my white skin like an eye sore when I spotted the sign.
Left, I needed to turn left. My eyes scanned the lights ahead. Green.
I paused at the intersection momentarily, waiting to see if it were clear before I began a careful turn.
That's when I saw him. A blue BMW, late model, descending upon me from the overpass which had momentarily blocked him from view. My mind reeled trying to piece together its next action. I instinctually veered right, hoping he would see me in time and swerve to avoid the collision that was imminent.
Nothing slowed down as I thought it would have.
I thought it would hurt.
I thought I might die.
I screamed impulsively. An ugly gutteral sound.
I don't know if I put my hands up to protect my face from the airbags or if the visor had acted as a guard. Everything smelled like burning plastic. My eyes rolled open and from across the street a crowd had already formed.
A man was yelling at me through my windshield, pulling widly at my door to yank it open at the sight of smoke. The door opened, the cold afternoon air spilling in, the sound of voices and car horns evading the small space.
Why did this happen? Why now? I looked down at my hands. 826 Valencia. Was that really so long ago that I wrote that? My head felt like it was rubber, unable to support itself.
I felt a tug at my hand, directing my gaze to the man next to me. Jim. He was on the phone with 911 he said. He would stay with me until help arrived he said, the voice on the line directing him.
What year was it? He asked.
Where did I work? How old was I? Where was I headed? Where was I going?
I was drifting, suddenly exhausted. I felt another tug to stay awake. The shock, now fading, brought on tears. Another tug, this time for comfort.
I handed him my phone to call my coworkers. To call my brother. I tried to stay lucid, stare out into the faces who were watching me like some science experiment gone wrong.
A fish bowl with two half-dead betas.
The police came first, directing traffic. Next the firefighters. And then the EMTs. One was behind me, supporting my head as we waited for the gurney.
His birthday was July 22nd, 1971. 16 years and 3 days before mine. I never saw his face. He tried to collect my hair into a bun to avoid getting caught in the neck brace.
Next came Geoff. A young EMT with blue eyes and brown hair. He slid me onto the board, bringing me out into the intersection to strap me down, working fast and quietly, his hands cold to the touch.
The sky above me was clear, brilliant, endless. I was drifting again, but this time it was okay. Geoff told me to close my eyes and relax.
Because I blacked out, I was trauma 2. I told Geoff I was afriad. He didn't hear me. He hummed to himself waiting for the ambulance to pass over railroad tracks before slidding the IV in and patting my arm gently. He prepared me to expect a lot of people in the Trauma exam room, it was a learning hospital. He would go with me as far as he could he said.
The hospital was freezing. The sound of muddled voices mixing with the hum of machines and tearing cloth. Cloth?
My clothes. I tried to tip my neck forward in my brace to watch as two sharp scissors began their ascent through every layer beginning with my jeans. All of it was coming off. I lay naked on the examination table for all to see.
All the burns. The bruises. The swelling. Along with the past scars, stretch marks, fat...
A nurse appeared with two warm blankets. Melissa. Melissa Jackson.
For two hours Melissa took me through my CT scans and EKG reading. She commended me for my bravery and my tattoos.
For another 6 I waited on the results. Finally able to use the bathroom, I shook of my gown letting it fall aside as I stood over the sink mirror. Black mascera pooled around my cheeks like oil, hair missing from where the tape and velcro had pulled it away. The burns had already started to blister, bruises along my chest and pelvis from the seatbelt slowly surfacing. My right ankle swollen to the size of an apple.
I looked at my hands, still intact. 826 Valencia.
How long had it been? How long would I be here? The tears threatened to come again, but I pushed them back and dressed myself.
Outside Marco stood by my bed with the social worker assigned to my case. I lay down, taking hold of Marco's hand as I settled, ready to begin to process of picking up the pieces.
It had started as all other days have for the past 2 and a half months. Today, disaster showed up first.
Ripe with the possibility for either monotony or disaster, which ever decided to show itself first.
I was looking for an entrace to 880 South, weaving in and out through lower East Oakland. The morning had already been rough, our meeting at ICS unfruitful. I was thinking of how I could catch up on service hours while out for the kids Thanksgiving break and had written 826 Valencia across the top of my left palm as a reminder to check in with the nonprofit for volunteer opportunities. I reached up to put my visor down, the ink standing out against my white skin like an eye sore when I spotted the sign.
Left, I needed to turn left. My eyes scanned the lights ahead. Green.
I paused at the intersection momentarily, waiting to see if it were clear before I began a careful turn.
That's when I saw him. A blue BMW, late model, descending upon me from the overpass which had momentarily blocked him from view. My mind reeled trying to piece together its next action. I instinctually veered right, hoping he would see me in time and swerve to avoid the collision that was imminent.
Nothing slowed down as I thought it would have.
I thought it would hurt.
I thought I might die.
I screamed impulsively. An ugly gutteral sound.
I don't know if I put my hands up to protect my face from the airbags or if the visor had acted as a guard. Everything smelled like burning plastic. My eyes rolled open and from across the street a crowd had already formed.
A man was yelling at me through my windshield, pulling widly at my door to yank it open at the sight of smoke. The door opened, the cold afternoon air spilling in, the sound of voices and car horns evading the small space.
Why did this happen? Why now? I looked down at my hands. 826 Valencia. Was that really so long ago that I wrote that? My head felt like it was rubber, unable to support itself.
I felt a tug at my hand, directing my gaze to the man next to me. Jim. He was on the phone with 911 he said. He would stay with me until help arrived he said, the voice on the line directing him.
What year was it? He asked.
Where did I work? How old was I? Where was I headed? Where was I going?
I was drifting, suddenly exhausted. I felt another tug to stay awake. The shock, now fading, brought on tears. Another tug, this time for comfort.
I handed him my phone to call my coworkers. To call my brother. I tried to stay lucid, stare out into the faces who were watching me like some science experiment gone wrong.
A fish bowl with two half-dead betas.
The police came first, directing traffic. Next the firefighters. And then the EMTs. One was behind me, supporting my head as we waited for the gurney.
His birthday was July 22nd, 1971. 16 years and 3 days before mine. I never saw his face. He tried to collect my hair into a bun to avoid getting caught in the neck brace.
Next came Geoff. A young EMT with blue eyes and brown hair. He slid me onto the board, bringing me out into the intersection to strap me down, working fast and quietly, his hands cold to the touch.
The sky above me was clear, brilliant, endless. I was drifting again, but this time it was okay. Geoff told me to close my eyes and relax.
Because I blacked out, I was trauma 2. I told Geoff I was afriad. He didn't hear me. He hummed to himself waiting for the ambulance to pass over railroad tracks before slidding the IV in and patting my arm gently. He prepared me to expect a lot of people in the Trauma exam room, it was a learning hospital. He would go with me as far as he could he said.
The hospital was freezing. The sound of muddled voices mixing with the hum of machines and tearing cloth. Cloth?
My clothes. I tried to tip my neck forward in my brace to watch as two sharp scissors began their ascent through every layer beginning with my jeans. All of it was coming off. I lay naked on the examination table for all to see.
All the burns. The bruises. The swelling. Along with the past scars, stretch marks, fat...
A nurse appeared with two warm blankets. Melissa. Melissa Jackson.
For two hours Melissa took me through my CT scans and EKG reading. She commended me for my bravery and my tattoos.
For another 6 I waited on the results. Finally able to use the bathroom, I shook of my gown letting it fall aside as I stood over the sink mirror. Black mascera pooled around my cheeks like oil, hair missing from where the tape and velcro had pulled it away. The burns had already started to blister, bruises along my chest and pelvis from the seatbelt slowly surfacing. My right ankle swollen to the size of an apple.
I looked at my hands, still intact. 826 Valencia.
How long had it been? How long would I be here? The tears threatened to come again, but I pushed them back and dressed myself.
Outside Marco stood by my bed with the social worker assigned to my case. I lay down, taking hold of Marco's hand as I settled, ready to begin to process of picking up the pieces.
It had started as all other days have for the past 2 and a half months. Today, disaster showed up first.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Brown paper packages tied up with string...
Okay, not quite. However, I took these past few days to recognize the little things in my life that really make my heart sing. They include:
1. Packages of any kind and hand written sentiments in general.
2. Finding new Puerto Rican food in the bay area unexpectedly that isn't incredibly over-priced or ultra super pretentious. And painted my ultra super favorite color.
3. Also unexpectedly finding a Vince Guaraldi Trio CD used for $3.99 next door to listen to on the way home.
4. Mr. Darcy :swoon:
5. Getting a call from my parents on their holiday to Argentina for their 30th anniversary after just arriving to Iguazu to say they wish I was there to write their story.
6. Getting a pat on the back/high five while on the BART wearing my Americorps shirt.
7. Sharing a Blue Moon with a HUGE slice of orange with an old friend.
8. Opening a savings account and (if I calculated correctly)realizing I may have enough money to make Italy and Greece a possibility this coming summer.
9. The sound of train horns in the distance.
10. Coming home to a room with a made bed and that smells of clean, folded laundry.
11. Google Chrome. Even if is on my poor excuse of a wanna-be laptop HP mini :grumble:.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
1000 mil
It's 11:25 in the morning, and I can honestly say this is the least productive I've been since August.
And holy shit does it feel epic.
That's right. I'm still in my sweatpants, my hair is an absolute mess from showering at 12 am and not bothering to put anything in it, the bandaid on my burn looks disgusting (I changed it just after I saw that, don't fret), and I'm here. Writing. Sipping on boiling hot chamomile tea and taking tablets of trader joe's 1000 milligram of vitamin C to the face because I'm positive I've finally caught what Lopez was spreading around the apartment.
And holy shit does it feel epic. Minus...the possibly getting sick part. Fucking Lopez.
Last night was well-needed. It's been so long since I've been around such a plethora of creativity, I couldn't help but feel I'd discovered the fountain of youth. There were musicians, old timers and green horns. There were writers, mostly there for Rich's sake, and artists. All drunk or strung out. All shaking hands and talking the good ol' days. All in this small, dilapidated bar far from downtown San Francisco and the usual yuppies.
The perfect petri dish if you will.
After hours of decorating and scrambling about to put the final touches on what would be the 4th annual Frisco Freakout, I tucked myself into what would be the merch spot and sat.
Watching.
The smell of vegan chilli clashing with the weed seeping from the staff's private room above the kitchen. There's a pause as the next band sets up, I take my earplugs out and scan faces, taking mental notes of all the John Lennons and Bob Weirs weaving through one another. I feel out of place momentarily. I'm not with the band, I'm not even really with Rich who put all this together. I'm just here.
Watching.
The smell of vegan chilli clashing with the weed seeping from the staff's private room above the kitchen. There's a pause as the next band sets up, I take my earplugs out and scan faces, taking mental notes of all the John Lennons and Bob Weirs weaving through one another. I feel out of place momentarily. I'm not with the band, I'm not even really with Rich who put all this together. I'm just here.
The young married couple at the table next to mine smile.
This one really does look like John Lennon.
They run a literary magazine out of their apartment in North Oakland off the MLK. He took a short story class with Rich at City College. I thumb through and happen upon one his poems. It's good, really fucking good. We get to talking about what the process has been like to start Drift. The struggle to get the word out - literally, the cost to print in black and white versus color, the fear of pursuing an MFA rather than a Masters and getting pigeon-holed by passion rather than logic. We exchange war stories on editing. I'm introduced to their friend visiting from Australia.
Someone who's interested in a subscription approaches the table, so we step aside. His eyes are a phenomenal blue-green that close every so slightly when he smiles. He tells me that he's just returned from a cross country trip of the lower 48 and up through Canada.
We talk school, we're both elementary school teachers. He encourages me to get my credentials and move to Melbourne. We compare Americans to Australians. We discover we're both incredibly severe on our own countries. He makes fun of Americans for saying Koala bear, when in fact they're not bears, but marsupials - pouch and all. I chastise him from driving on the wrong side of the road. He tells me that his favorite author at the moment is John Krakauer, I tell him he should read Dave Eggers. He mentions he was going to volunteer at 826 Valencia. He brings me a Blue Moon as I man the merch table. We go in for a high five which reverts to an awkward in between greeting gone wrong: hand over thumb. We laugh. He tries to teach me to snap my fingers together as shake we hands. Mine are too small in his and I can't make it without having to throw my whole body into the motion.
Electricity, he calls it.
Feelings of belonging are suddenly insignificant.
Replaced instead with a desire to no longer be stagnant with myself. To find my motorcycle and map and conquer whatever it is I was meant to discover. To not be so afraid of what life is outside of what I've programmed myself to think it is. After all, I'm meant to be here, at this exact moment.
The drive home into Oakland is quiet, nearly intoxicating. I decide after dropping the three off that I'll take the 13 and skyline home. From the top I pause, starring out from what seems to be where the Earth meets infinite space.
The bay looks on fire, surrounded by the red of light pollution.
I dance in its shadow, celebrating this burst of self-realization.
After all, I was meant to be here. At this exact moment.
After all, I was meant to be here. At this exact moment.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
An Accident
I feel heavy, weighted. I want something constructive to do, but there are no books to re-read and scour for new vocabulary or create a week's lesson on team work and our school community.
Tomorrow we pick the books.
I washed my sheets to kill time, to take my mind away from today.
This morning we sat through CPS training just liked we needed to learn CPR, but I was dreading it. Maybe because I knew I could find the strength within myself if called upon to save a child's life. To not hesitate to accomplish 30 compressions and 2 half breaths if necessary. But here, in the midst of learning to differentiate abuse and neglect I feel lost. Muddled in my own head space, trying to compose myself as I listen carefully to when we should call and how to fill out the forms correctly.
I focus on number 3: which of the following may be an indicator of sexual abuse. My partner scoffs at c, wearing or sleeping with multiple layers of clothing. I squirm, twisting in my hands sleeves. Sail to the Moon by Radiohead comes to mind, I try to focus on Yorke's voice.
It doesn't work, I can see all the clothes I used to wear then thinking how my father's Hope College sweater went unnoticed in late July.
In the car on the way to work, we chastise other teachers for speaking too much during the presentation. I point out how one in particular got up and made a scene that she was crying, probably for attention. I want to admit that I came close to breaking down myself, but I press the small of my back into the worn leather of the front seat and face out into the October rain. The moment is lost.
I want to feel desolate, but even that seems challenging.
The day is hesitant, our students catch on and take full advantage. On the way back from the bathrooms, my colleague whispers that one of mine has wet his pants.I pull him aside and sit him down in a chair outside the door labelled trash. How do I begin? I close my eyes and see myself, a 5-year-old running. Untouched. Not yet jaded, not yet bound in my father's college sweater.
I hold up a pinky, training his eyes on where I had cut myself two days before using a dull knife to open a whole wheat bagel.
An accident. The skin has already started to repair itself.
Next, I lift my jean leg, showing an indent in soft skin along my shin where I had fallen down the stairs outside my brother's apartment three weeks prior.
An accident. Forgotten and fixed.
I ask if he understands and he nods, letting me take his sweater and wrap it around his waist so he can join the rest for the read aloud, Finklehopper Frog. He thanks me quietly.
I sit outside in the chair labelled for trash, taking in three breathes. Once for that 5-year-old self I had worked so hard to forget. Again for the 24-year-old woman fighting the desolation. And lastly for the them, for all of them.
The sky overhead threatens to spill over, I hear the laughter coming from the black top just beyond my classroom. It is 4:12 pm. An accident, steal healing. Not quite yet ready to be forgotten.
Tomorrow we pick the books.
I washed my sheets to kill time, to take my mind away from today.
This morning we sat through CPS training just liked we needed to learn CPR, but I was dreading it. Maybe because I knew I could find the strength within myself if called upon to save a child's life. To not hesitate to accomplish 30 compressions and 2 half breaths if necessary. But here, in the midst of learning to differentiate abuse and neglect I feel lost. Muddled in my own head space, trying to compose myself as I listen carefully to when we should call and how to fill out the forms correctly.
I focus on number 3: which of the following may be an indicator of sexual abuse. My partner scoffs at c, wearing or sleeping with multiple layers of clothing. I squirm, twisting in my hands sleeves. Sail to the Moon by Radiohead comes to mind, I try to focus on Yorke's voice.
It doesn't work, I can see all the clothes I used to wear then thinking how my father's Hope College sweater went unnoticed in late July.
In the car on the way to work, we chastise other teachers for speaking too much during the presentation. I point out how one in particular got up and made a scene that she was crying, probably for attention. I want to admit that I came close to breaking down myself, but I press the small of my back into the worn leather of the front seat and face out into the October rain. The moment is lost.
I want to feel desolate, but even that seems challenging.
The day is hesitant, our students catch on and take full advantage. On the way back from the bathrooms, my colleague whispers that one of mine has wet his pants.I pull him aside and sit him down in a chair outside the door labelled trash. How do I begin? I close my eyes and see myself, a 5-year-old running. Untouched. Not yet jaded, not yet bound in my father's college sweater.
I hold up a pinky, training his eyes on where I had cut myself two days before using a dull knife to open a whole wheat bagel.
An accident. The skin has already started to repair itself.
Next, I lift my jean leg, showing an indent in soft skin along my shin where I had fallen down the stairs outside my brother's apartment three weeks prior.
An accident. Forgotten and fixed.
I ask if he understands and he nods, letting me take his sweater and wrap it around his waist so he can join the rest for the read aloud, Finklehopper Frog. He thanks me quietly.
I sit outside in the chair labelled for trash, taking in three breathes. Once for that 5-year-old self I had worked so hard to forget. Again for the 24-year-old woman fighting the desolation. And lastly for the them, for all of them.
The sky overhead threatens to spill over, I hear the laughter coming from the black top just beyond my classroom. It is 4:12 pm. An accident, steal healing. Not quite yet ready to be forgotten.
Monday, October 3, 2011
6:53 PM
It begins as a tickle brushing past on the coat tail of an October wind. A thought that hasn't come to you since July, and that has suddenly reappeared clearly as though it never left. Rising from the asphalt just beyond your classroom door. It's slow rhythm an old grandfather clock, collecting in the crook beneath the stairs leading to your apartment as your make your way in.
Rain. The rain has come, and just in time. I'd nearly forgotten how sweet her voice was. And with it the desire to curl into myself, dig deep those images that have suddenly stirred from their long sleep and capture them all in some glass mason jar so I can bathe in their light. There are new CDs to be made, new journal entries to be written, new quiet moments to be shared in the quickly fading light before us.
The sage is saturated in the hills, its smell coming in through bedroom windows, lingering on pillow cases. Tonight I've chosen to write. Tonight, the rain has come and just in time.
Rain. The rain has come, and just in time. I'd nearly forgotten how sweet her voice was. And with it the desire to curl into myself, dig deep those images that have suddenly stirred from their long sleep and capture them all in some glass mason jar so I can bathe in their light. There are new CDs to be made, new journal entries to be written, new quiet moments to be shared in the quickly fading light before us.
The sage is saturated in the hills, its smell coming in through bedroom windows, lingering on pillow cases. Tonight I've chosen to write. Tonight, the rain has come and just in time.
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