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I was only four years old the first time I flew by myself. It was
a tough flight to Chicago; my first ever without my Dziadzu by my side.
The old brown porch swing that used to be our “airplane” seemed so empty.
I was defenseless against the cold that was biting at every inch of my
open skin. My feet dangled above the concrete sidewalk, swinging
back and forth as the wind chased dry leaves between the barren trees while
I tried to remember which airport we usually landed in.
Dziadzu was the one who always took care of these kinds of flight details
while I was bust keeping a constant look out for hurricanes, angels, cloud
monsters, or anything else that might impede our journey to the city.
His watch also dictated when it was time for the in-flight service.
When it beeped, we would sneak out of our seat and tiptoe into the dark
cellar of my Baci’s house, careful not to disturb her or any patrolling
flight attendants. The wooden stairs were especially dangerous, as
they always squeaked and groaned with our weight. At the bottom,
my Dziadzu would pick me up and turn right into his workshop, or, in this
situation, the back of the plane. On top of metal filing cabinet
way up high, the orange soda meant only for the pilots was stored.
Fortunately, in his back pocket, my Dziadzu kept a small plastic green
cup. He would pour the fizzing warm orange soda into it and hand
it to me. I would down it in one gulp, the bubbles stinging my throat.
Giggling, I’d whisper, “Hurry!” and we’d creak up the creepy stairs and
back to our swing, where I’d curl up in my Dziadzu’s lap and nap, safe
and warm, until we landed at O’Hare.
My first flight alone was cold and dangerous. Everything was impossible
by myself. My feet couldn’t reach the dusty ground for a take off
push, I forgot where I was going, and, worst of all, I couldn’t find my
way down the creepy stairs to get my orange soda. So I just laid
down on the seat, my cheek against the cool wood, and waited. As
the sun began to set, I looked up in the sky to the place where the cloud
monsters usually rested to see if I could find my Dziadzu up there, like
Mommy said he would be. I didn’t see any angels. But as I looked,
the clouds started to turn the color of orange soda.
A rock is hardly concerned with time. It rests wisely wherever it happens
to be situated and watches life’s marionettes with a detached amusement.
My mother and I were two such marionettes. While sitting atop the same
rock, which overlooked the ocean, in front of the same cottage, our photographs
were taken—my mother’s in 1960 and mine in 1995. I often wonder if, like
rocks, we watch the world pass us by while waiting for the day we will
ultimately slip into the realm of that which is forgotten. Thirty-five
years is the only thing that separates my feelings about that view from
the Rock from my mother’s.
In 1995, I was a six year-old child. When I stared at the great Atlantic,
swells of emotions gained momentum within my soul until they pounded with
my heart and churned my every word into some unintelligible jargon. I was
a celestial being, looking upon the water as though it were my soothing
blanket and the sand as though it were my pillow. I felt the Earth.
In 1960, my mother was a three year-old girl. When she looked across the
ocean, she felt as though she were as small as the sea snails which clung
to the slimy rocks. For her, the edge of the horizon was the edge of the
world. To embark upon the Sea would be to journey to the end of everything.
My mother felt the Sea.
To both of us, the Sea was, at times, a turbulent
pool of holy water. To dip our feet in her coolness would be to disrupt
her perfectly disordered beauty. Although the waves came at random, they
represented nature’s spontaneity—a quality we humans forfeited long ago.
Thus, at times such as these, I preferred to leave the Sea to carry out
her own majestic discord. My mother, too, used to watch, rather than touch,
that which is perfectly imperfect.
But because we cannot tame the Sea, we cannot own her. Because we can tame,
cultivate, and sculpt the Land, we’ve deemed that it can be owned. When
our cottage, along with the Land the Rock was situated on, was sold to
some wealthy businessman, my mother’s usually vivacity was usurped by a
queer solemnity. For several weeks, the light in her usually sparkling
green eyes was extinguished. A part of her was taken.
The news stole a part of me, as well. The
swell of emotion I once felt so ardently in my breast was reduced to an
agonizing emptiness as I realized that, in thirty-five years, my children
would experience none of the Rock’s sweet sorcery. Never would they feel
as powerful as a god or as insignificant as a snail. Never would their
hearts pound like the waves that churned both sand and souls. But perhaps
it’s better to not be bewitched. Perhaps it’s better to not understand
magic than to have magic taken away.
Look at them.
So sweet, so innocent.
“Ring around the rosey
A pocketful of posies,
Ashes, ashes
We all fall down!”
The three little kids. I can still remember all the fun they used to have. They’d get into little fights over little things, become mad at each other, and then the next day it would all be over.
And every year, just like for everybody else, came a special occasion for each of them, with pretty little candles lighted in a sweet little cake. And the lovely little cards with wishes for “health, happiness, and prosperity- today, tomorrow, and always.”
But when the candles were blown, the flickering light from each one spread, burnt the cards until they were blackened down to ashes, swept the fire that kindled the hearts of each family member, and singed the rope that tied them together.
And the lights kept vanishing, one by one.
But don’t let’s talk about bad things.
That boy over there, see him? On the far right. He was such an innocent kid. His mom had high aspirations for him. She probably still does, but he refused to carry them out, and now he is more stubborn than ever. With twelve candles on the cake, his sweet mind turned awry.
“Shut the hell up, okay? You freakin’ told on me!” he yells at his older sister as he throws a mirror across the room.
Her eyes well up with tears; mine are no different. But nothing can be done.
“This is how you hold the bottle when you drink beer,” he explains as he demonstrates to his little brother with a bottle of cream soda. It is absolutely abhorrent- how such a great kid became involved in such awful things. Drugs became cool, along with breaking the rules.
I saw stuff on his website. The pictures, the rap songs, the language, the people. They stirred through my mind in a whirling merry-go-round of daunting images and reverberating sounds. Only, it wasn’t very merry, and it wasn’t going to stop.
And the lights kept vanishing, one by one.
But don’t let’s talk about bad things.
See that baby boy in the center? He was such a darling little kid. The same baby boy I had once wanted to hold tightly and never let go- with his soft white skin covering his delicate body, a gentle rosy redness emanating from his cheeks, and sparkling eyes leading into the depths of the fountain of youth; completing the paradigm of innocence. Those crazy eyebrows would always twist in confusion, creating symmetrical mirror images and a cutesy-daisy face. But it’s all distorted now. His expressions reflect rage and fury.
Nine candles- quarter to midnight. It wasn’t a time when things are apt to go wrong or people are prone to drastic changes. But he was transforming into his predecessor. It was a destiny bound to occur.
“You’re a freakin’ idiot! Shut up! Get the hell away from here!” he screams as the words pierce through my head as if successive bullets were being shot through to the back.
He knows the meanings of words you don’t learn until you’re at least in junior high. And already he’s talking about boyfriends and girlfriends, and kissing and dating. Once when I was over I saw him printing out lyrics to a song that he wasn’t old enough to even be listening to. He said he was going to memorize them. And now, a typical conversation with him involves at least a few shouts here and there, making you want to just get up and leave.
I couldn’t hold on to him forever; he slipped away with time.
And the lights kept vanishing, one by one.
But don’t let’s talk about bad things.
Their sister doesn’t have the heart to tell her mom anymore, and I know exactly why: she already knows some of the things that go on, and delving further would depress her even more. Their mother loves her children very much, and she is constantly thinking about them. She has trouble going to sleep. Her blood pressure keeps rising…she’s just too stressed. What can she do about her sons? Always so impervious, they almost never listen to her. What’s worse, sometimes they even yell at her and tell her to shut up. It fills my heart with so much resentment as well as with heavy burdens of regret.
Their mother looks a lot older than she is, and the freshness of her face draws off as the innocence from her children drains away.
And the lights keep vanishing, one by one.
But please, please don’t let’s talk about bad things.
Now look at the little girl. Look at her. She
seems so cheerful but you won’t say that about her now, now that the hearts
and the minds of her brothers have been burnt by the fires of the ages.
She tries to keep everything together, but she can’t. She has to accept
the fact that they just can’t change. Nothing can be done. Ashes can never
be unburnt.
I remember the book we had to read when I
entered high school: The Catcher in the Rye. In it, the narrator
imagines thousands of children romping and playing in a field of rye, surrounded
by a cliff. He wishes to be the catcher in the rye, so he can prevent the
innocent children from falling off the cliff.
But now it’s too late. The children couldn’t
be caught. They fell down, and it’s just too late for them to get back
up.
And the worst part is, the lights will keep
on vanishing, one by one,
one by one,
one by one.
Ashes.
Ashes.
We all fall down.
As I absentmindedly glance around my room, my eyes fall on the familiar
picture. Suspended in an ornate blue and silver frame, the photograph has
dutifully sat, often unnoticed, waiting patiently for its chance to remind
me of a single moment. As I study the familiar faces of my younger brother
and myself, I start suddenly as I realize that it’s been almost three years
since it was taken on that bitter November day. While I couldn’t
know it then, that picture captured a moment that would be the last of
it’s kind.
The quintessential New England town of Bradford, Vermont is unfathomably
small, and incredibly beautiful; rolling hills and clusters of pine trees.
An indigo night sky glows with the stars hidden by everyday suburbia.
Horses run, as if free, through pastures on the side of the road.
Deer amble by, as if unaware of the human presence. Such a sense of tranquility
and peace with nature radiate from every facet of this place: the ground,
the houses, even the people.
However, arriving in Bradford late one night, I was feeling equal parts
anxiety mixed with my usual excitement. I knew that I needed to face
the fact that my great grandfather was gone, however, it is only now that
I am able to fully realize and appreciate what his absence has really meant.
That night, I stood outside alone, as I had often done before. In
the dark, with no one but the stars to hear my thoughts, I simply could
not help feeling that for that moment, at least, everything in the world
made sense.
The leaves had long since vacated the trees and were busy milling around
on the frozen ground the next morning. While the wind whistled softly
as is blew by, branches snapped in the dead grass under our feet.
The bleak, yet bright light that exists only on a cold morning illuminated
abandoned bird’s nests in a few trees. It seemed almost as if nature
were mourning the loss of Lloyd Kidder, the man who was honored as Bradford’s
oldest citizen, the man who loved the town that two of his six children
now call home. And yet, the barren landscape is somehow enhanced
by my grief. I had never seen it this way before. But at the
same time, it had never meant more to me than that last morning as I looked
out over the mountains. What I saw was an unfamiliar view, a view
that was void of Fall’s foliage masterpiece or Winter’s picturesque snow.
It was different–this place that I loved was different–I was different.
As I stare at the photograph, I wonder if maybe I did understand that any
time spent in Vermont from that point on would not–could not–be the same.
Perhaps that’s why I insisted so strongly that this particular moment be
captured that morning. I knew on some level that death, as is its
custom, would alter this place of serenity, this corner of the world that
seemed to make sense. Slowly, furniture was moved out and dispersed
among various relatives, and there was a brief attempt to hang on to the
house. But just as my own mindset was changed, my family also realized
that without Gramp, this place and his house were no longer of any use.
The sentimental value was overwhelmed by overly logistical thought and
emotions that were to strong to face, and I have not been back. Nelson
Mandela said, “There is nothing like returning to a place that remains
unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.” I
can not help but wonder what differences, both subtle and profound, I would
discover about myself if I were to return to the sleepy Vermont town.
The walls were like a coloring book. As soon as I walked in, I wanted
to take out my twenty-four pack of crayolas and jump right in. Characters
like Winnie-the-Pooh, Christopher Robin, and Rabbit were all outlined in
black and waiting to be filled in with the vibrant hues that would make
them come to life. Someone had already colored in some of the characters.
Piglet’s light pink face contrasted his striped dark shirt (the artist
had most likely used carnation pink and hot magenta), and Tigger was eye-catching
with his bright orange coat (atomic tangerine, I suspected).
There were piles of crayons on the three small white tables on the right
of the room, and on the other side, two giant bookshelves of toys.
I didn’t play with any of these toys. The oldest of the group of
four that included my brother and my two neighbors, I felt too old to engage
in such childish activities. In fact, I was embarrassed to even be
in the fitness center daycare. Wasn’t I old enough to stay home alone
while my mom worked out? I stood apart from the others as I contemplated
what the best activity for a mature, sophisticated seven year old would
be. Well, obviously! I would help to color in the walls and
decorate the room.
Sauntering over to one of the while tables, I decided I would begin Christopher
Robin (mostly because he was the only one I could reach). I looked
for a crayon to replicate the brick red of his shorts. Razzmatazz
was the closest color I could find, so I figured that was good enough.
I stood on my tiptoes and began coloring, the little smile on my face showing
my satisfaction that I was both enjoying myself and doing something mature
to help the adult world. Then I heard the shrieks.
“Are you crazy? What are you doing? Bad! Bad! Don’t
you know I have a color-coded plan for this entire room? I’m getting
paid to do this. Paid! You’ve got to be kidding me. Get
away!”
My head jerked up, and I stared for a moment with a blank look until I
began to comprehend her words. From what I could tell, the woman
in charge of this daycare was clearly unhappy with my attempt to be a “grown-up,”
I backed away silently. My eyes dropped to the ground, and I retreated
away to stand by the bookshelves. Looking up, I tried to keep the
tears welling up in my eyes from falling. I avoided the worried faces
of my little neighbors and leaned my forehead against the cold, white bookshelf
as the woman furiously colored over my razzmatazz.
“My daddy was a bankrobber.” So begins one of the greatest punk songs
by the godfather of modern punk rock, the Clash. Few music aficionados
would refute that the Clash is the pioneer band of the punk genre.
While America had the Ramones, the remainder of the planet had the Clash,
as the late seventies were turned upside-down by a new brand of music that
defied tradition. Despite releasing nine critically acclaimed albums
over the course of the Clash’s career, the albumless single “Bankrobber”
is the first song I recommend to inquiring friends. People can’t
believe their ears when they first listen to this punk rock song.
Where’s the screaming? Where’s the cursing? Where’s…the guitar?
“Bankrobber” is a slow, daydreaming ballad about the “corporate machine.”
A picture is painted of the endless industrial oppression that virtually
every human being faces at one point or another. Even though the
social commentary is evident in the lyrics, you’re probably more likely
to fall asleep during the song rather than start a revolution. A
synthesized wail haunts the track, giving the listener an unmistakable
feeling of unconditional oppression. A gentle and carefree melody
starkly contrasts with the electronic drone. Just when you’re expecting
Bob Marley to begin singing about the downtrodden peoples of Jamaica, what
sounds like a pubescent boy cracks on to the track.
But no, it’s Joe Strummer, the frontman of the Clash. And it sounds
as if he’s getting over a bad cold. “My daddy was a bankrobber, but
he never hurt nobody. He just loved to live that way, and he loved
to steal your money,” Strummer indignantly explains. One can’t help
but be charmed by Strummer’s honest and open confession on behalf of his
criminal father. The lead vocalist continues to defend his father’s
lifestyle and to condemn our own:
“Some is rich, some is poor. That’s the way the world is. But I don’t believe in lyin’ back and sayin’ how bad your luck is. So we came to jazz it up: We never loved a shovel. [So go and] break your back to earn your pay, and don’t forget to grovel.”
“Bankrobber” makes its audience applaud the song’s message, until they
analyze the lyrics. People are lured into the song by its soft, settling
melody, and jarred out of their black-and-white world by Strummer’s ironic
lyrics. The listeners must understand that the people Joe Strummer
is condemning are the listeners themselves. The traditional, supposedly
“moral”, person who breaks his back to earn his pay may be the metaphorical
bankrobber.
The four minute and thirty-five second
anthem can be best described as hypnotizing. The tune’s easy-to-follow
rhythm sets listeners in trances, rendering them unable to focus on anything
but Strummer’s pleading lessons on life. The audience is forced to
become one with the echoing moan that drifts in and out of the track like
a ghost. Although it may be saying “Oo-oo-oohh…” it sounds as if
it’s warning us to heed the words of Joe Strummer. The Clash creates
a shroud of mystery around a simple song, causing us to wonder if these
punks know something the rest of us don’t. Maybe, just maybe, they’re
smarter than we credit them for being. If the song belonged to an
album, I’m sure the CD case would have a sticker reading “WARNING! May
cause introspection.” “Someday you’ll meet your rocking chair, ‘cause
that’s where we’re spinning. There’s no point to wanna comb your
hair when it’s gray and thinning.” The frontman ominously concludes.
So where’s the screaming? Where’s the cursing? Where’s…the
guitar? Not in this song. The Clash doesn’t need any of the
three to get its purely punk message across to its audience. Strummer
speaks of beliefs and principles to advocate a criminal life. When
someone sees the hundreds of bands attempting to emulate the Clash and
failing to do so successfully, the brilliance of “Bankrobber” is only made
clearer. Whether you’re in a band or a dead-end job, maybe we can
all learn a lesson from the no-good punks who once composed a masterpiece
called “Bankrobber.” With such an enticing portrayal of the taboo
life, the question is raised, who is the real bankrobber?
“Run rabbit run. Strike out, boys, for the hills. I can find
that hole in the wall, and I know they never will.”
-The Clash, final words of “Bankrobber”
“Gosh, you're gorgeous..." Papa whispered as I stepped through the squeaky
screen door. I self-consciously tugged at my striped sweater that clung
to my pre-pubescent figure and smiled. "Thank you, Papa," I timidly replied,
reaching my arms around his tall frame in a reuniting hug. After greeting
the rest of my family, he got right to his usual business.
I followed him into the living room. His sweatpants lingered over his infamous
chicken legs and closed at the ankles where they met his navy blue slippers.
"So how was your report card this term?" he asked, turning toward me for
the answer. He raised one eyebrow. Papa expected the best. I proudly
told him, "Straight A's."
"That's great. You're a smart kid," Papa continued and asked genuinely,
"And how's swimming going?" He sat down in his recliner and pulled the
handle that caused the footrest to pop up. Papa was more of a contact sports
guy, but he still knew that swimming meant a lot to me. "Well, I won a
race at my last meet!" I enthusiastically replied. Although he lived two
hours away and I didn't see him much, Papa had a way of quickly dissolving
my introverted tendencies. I told him about swimming- explained the rules,
complained about my coach, and described my toughest competitors. There
weren't touchdowns or personal fouls in my sport, but Papa nodded his head
and smiled, clearly pleased with my success.
"You know who you remind me of..." Papa said, squinting at my face as though
he were turning me into someone else. "My sister Gene...You have that...same
smile.” I was surprised with Papa’s earnest remark, but before I knew it,
he was joking again. “You know, us Flood's are pretty attractive people,"
he said looking at me through the corner of his eyes and nodded his head,
projecting a façade of complete seriousness.
"Let's see..." He clicked on the television, and looked for a football
game. "Do you have a boyfriend?" I blushed. "No, Papa." He opened his mouth
in joking disbelief and chuckled, "No boyfriend?"
I quietly watched Papa as he mumbled about the player who just fumbled
the ball. These were the moments I enjoyed the most. I grasped the pillow
that Noni embroidered, and stole glances at his rosy cheeks and wisps of
feathery white hair. While on that couch adjacent to his chair, I wasn't
just the shy girl at school- I was his grandchild- and for this instant,
it seemed as though that was more important than anything. His gaze briefly
left the glowing screen and he turned towards me.
"Megan," he said as he smiled with his pale blue eyes, "You know that I'm
very proud of you."
……………………………………………………………………………………………
November 2006
I anxiously stepped off the hospital elevator and made my way down the
hall towards the waiting room. It was full. My cousins smiled and invited
us to sit in the few remaining seats. “We’re taking over the hospital,
one of them commented jokingly. We were products of Noni and Papa’s seven
children, and my sister and I were the youngest. I had always looked up
to these successful, athletic, and loving relatives as I watched them get
scholarships to colleges, win their high school games, and even get married.
Papa had always encouraged them, and they had grown to be great adults.
I calmly sat down. It was quiet for a while.
I looked around the room. Erica was a Buffalo Bills Cheerleader, and now
she’s a music teacher. Michelle got a full scholarship to play basketball
at a Division-1 school. Sam writes poetry and dyes the ends of her hair
red. And I finally came into my own. Papa helped me become confident. He
showed me the importance of goals and achievements. All of my cousins had
sat on that couch next to Papa’s chair and heard the same words. We were
confident that Papa would be proud of us no matter what our aspirations
were.
No one said it, but we all knew that this could be our last moment seeing
the man we loved. I was growing nervous. What would I say to him? My mother
had warned me before that he might not look well, and that he had lost
his hair from the chemotherapy treatments. My father was blessed to have
been able to sleepover in the hospital room with his dad, but unfortunately,
it had been a rough night. Tears filled my eyes. If only I had spent more
time with him. I rose out of my seat and walked slowly down the hall towards
his room. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
All of my angst melted away as I glanced across the room. It was my Papa.
It was the same man who pulled his dentures out and scared us with them
when we were little, the same man who strut around in his navy blue slippers
and teased everyone relentlessly, but lovingly, and the same man who told
each and every grandchild how proud he was of them. “Hi Papa!” I said as
I smiled through the tears welling up in my eyes and kissed him for the
last time. His cheeks bones, now with an unnatural gray pallor, projected
from his once plump face, his wispy white hair had dwindled to just a few
strands, and his lips were dry from a tired day. But his pale blue
eyes still glistened like they always had when he looked up at me and said
softly, “Gosh, you’re gorgeous.”
Nature is my sanctuary. As I skip carefully over the wobbly, black
rocks across the steadily flowing stream, I occasionally pause and stare
up with amazement at the gigantic pine trees enclosing the stream and me.
“This world is so big,” I think with childish wonder. It may sound
bizarre, but when I am alone, walking through woods, I feel at peace.
When I am alone, I am happy. For as long as I can remember, I have
always enjoyed the tranquilizing sounds of nature washing away the worries
of the day. I love socializing and surrounding myself with people,
but only when I am by myself, tangled in mother earth, do I feel alive.
High School is my battlefield. Constantly testing my sanity and trying
my nerves, high school leaves me drained and depleted. On the battlefield,
I am not only “fighting” with my classmates, but also with time.
I love being involved with everything, extracurricular activities both
in school and outside. Sometimes I enjoy the business of my life
and the excitement of rushing from one commitment to the next because it
keeps me active and supplies me with a sense of accomplishment. The
only problem is time. Time. I often wish that God would add
six hours to the day because to be actively involved with activities besides
school does not allow me much time for anything else. My life can’t
be all extracurricular. I still am a normal high school student who
is sent home from school on a regular basis with hours of homework.
To take a break from the chaos of my life, I stroll through the woods and
am consumed by the stillness created by the natural noises surrounding
me.
Nature is my consistency. My hobbies change with time, and fluctuations
in my scheduled life do occur, but nature is always here. It’s around
me, silent and impartially watching my everyday encounters. Because
of its consistency, it provides me with equilibrium. At those moments
when I want to scream because some immature sophomore boys are shouting
obscene language to their friends two feet away, blocking my path in the
hallway between classes, I have the thoughts of ambling alone through a
densely packed forest following a stream, and a balance is created.
Stressful times enable me to see pure beauty, allowing me to feel the release
of any worry I carry when wandering into the woods. Without nature
as my constant, I would not have any way of relieving the stress of an
ordinary day.
High school is my pressure point. Importance lies not with academic
feats, but with life lessons. Nature teaches me life lessons.
To some people, nature might be just the passing scenery, but to me it’s
everything. The biggest lesson it taught me to be is introspective;
I question life because I have to. When I gaze upon the trees swaying
smoothly, back and forth in the wind, and then observe the cloudless blue
sky with a depth inconceivable, I can’t help but to feel insignificant.
As people are born and as they die, the world is still in motion, silently,
around us. How powerful is that? I feel significant when the
world around me moves steadily as I stand still, eyes closed, face relaxed,
and let the energy from the earth around me flow throughout my body.
This connection brings me peace and comfort, and most importantly, it allows
me to have faith in myself.
The natural world around me is my source of clarity and stability.
Though I can’t see the end of this stream, if I keep skipping across these
darkened, slippery rocks, I know that I’ll steadily keep moving forward
to eventually set with the dimming stars at twilight. So, how can
I balance my extracurricular activities with my homework, sports, and my
wish to stay fit? The truth is that I don’t. The key word is
“balance.” I may not have balance in my day-to-day schedule, but
nature provides me with the balance that I lack. I wouldn’t want
to take away the business of my life just as much as I wouldn’t want to
deprive myself of being surrounded by nature’s beauty. They balance
one another out, keeping me grounded. So, when I’m standing in the
middle of a crowded room, my head spinning with the chaos, I will close
my eyes and picture this place I know where the sound of flowing water
elegantly streams around and over rocks, rhythmically creating a humming
sensation throughout my veins, soothing my restless spirit…
“This stuff sounds like circus music,” my mother commented about the fruity
melodies drowning out the white noise emanating from my sister’s iPod.
As my mind began racing with thoughts surrounding what she said, Mom, Lauren,
Andrew, Tayler and I headed down I-91 to eventually arrive at the Webster
theatre in downtown Hartford. This ex-movie theatre is exactly what
you’d expect - a hole in the wall - kind of rundown…dingy. As we
stepped out of the car now blasting with the proud trumpets and the beating
of violent percussion of the topsy-turvy tunes, we immediately saw crowds,
The spectators smelled of nicotine… and looked like it. They, just
as we, were waiting to enter the domed arena, tarped in yellow and red.
The entrance bellowed open, welcoming the gathering to its spectacle.
We entered.
A stampede reminiscent of a herd of elephant’s strides was heard as we
passed many large, safely guarded beasts. Their messy manes were
tied to the napes of their thick necks as they ferociously kept watch on
the young ones while entering. We clung to our brightly colored merchandise,
our salty treats, and ticket stubs, anything that proved our existence
at this tremendous event. Eventually, Lauren, Andrew, Tayler and
I joined the rest of the audience in the main arena, which encircles the
opening acts. A large, brown beast of a vocalist balanced himself
on wobbly, worn down wooden chair echoing sentiments of woe into the unforgiving
microphone. After the great lug bounded down the steps of the stage,
a sparkly sprite of a woman lept onto the empty floor. Soon after,
her trusty steed counterpart joined her and they produced a softly lulling
noise, almost reminiscent of a siren’s song. They wooed the crowd
with swift melodies. The excitement had yet to reach its apex.
The spotlight tightened, automatically hushing the crowd to silence with
anticipation of a main act. A petit, barefoot man entered, briskly
removing his top hat as if it offended the onlookers. He held a hat
in his left hand and a wired tail covered in black plastic in the clenched
fist of his right. The tiny man with a grand presence of wisdom,
innocence, love, heartbreak, friendship, and disappointment took two twelve-inch
strides to meet the spotlight at center stage. The decibel level
doubled as the audience’s ears accepted the sweet chord issued by the electric
bass-guitar. The excitement now boomed. It was almost as tangible
as the small man who stood exactly six feet before me on the small, hardwood
stage. Suddenly, as the beat played on and the swarms of people surrounded
me, the prowling security guards, and the sound of stampedes were drowned
out. My focus belonged to them. These men were no circus act,
but musicians. Relaying a story. Their lives. To me.
Their music was not a flamboyant display of their superficial attempts
at stardom, but a realistic, heartfelt tale. I understood.
I am an artist. If given a paintbrush and paint, though, I cannot
physically show the images displayed in my mind. But, if a pen is my paintbrush
and ink is my paint, I can paint pictures. This painting, I shall entitle,
Heaven. Of all the beautiful sights I have seen, none are more heavenly
than the view from Cadillac Mountain.
From sea level, Cadillac Mountain appears to have been created by an unborn
child, living deep within the earth, stretching its small arm so far that
its hand can be distinguished right through its mother’s skin. The rambunctious
child, wanting to test the elasticity of its mother’s flesh, pushed slowly
and steadily toward the sky, not stopping until it touched clouds. The
vegetation at the base of the mountain seemed to be undisturbed by the
child’s activity, but the skin at the top of the mountain was bald from
stretching. A first time venturer would imagine it extended right into
heaven. Even on the clearest of days, the peak of this great mountain hides
in the tufts of cloud that drift through the clear blue Maine sky. Anticipation
grows in me.
The steep ascent up the mountain has always seemed slightly unearthly to
me. As the path winds and spirals, I watch as the ground falls further
and further away from me, and the trees grow thinner. At some points, it
seems as if I could reach my hand out and catch cloud, but each time I
try, the white wisps dissipate and fly from my grasp. The further
I travel up the mountain, the more it seems I am leaving civilization and
society behind me. The pollution of civilization, it seems, is prohibited
from climbing the mountain. Smog and crime stay on the ground. The worries
in my life have no meaning atop that mountain, so they too, slide away
from me, back down the mountain. The chains that are the requirements and
pressures of society are slowly becoming untangled from my limbs, which
are slightly weak from their immense weight. The clouds, wind, rocks, and
small amount of vegetation care not for my desire to break away from the
well-worn path of life that society has created for me. I have relaxed.
As the top of the mountain is achieved, I inhale deeply the freshest, purest
air I will ever breathe. A slight hint of salt always lingers in the air
as the wind carries the scent of the Atlantic up the mountain. The clouds
that I had so often tried to catch on my way up the mountain have now disappeared
because I am above them, in them, a part of them. Far below, the Atlantic
looks like a piece of smooth blue glass. The waves that break the stillness
of the water cannot be seen from my perch. From one side of the mountain,
the busy town of Bar Harbor can be seen, reminding me of the society I
have left behind, but from the other, nothing can be seen but the sweeping
expanse of rock, vegetation, and ocean, until it blends into the sky, creating
a faint horizon. I am at peace.
A faint lavender glow is beginning to creep up the horizon, defining the
line between sky and sea. The sun moves across the sky, preparing to set,
marking the end of another day. Today was not a wasted day, for the monotony
of my life has been broken. For this one day, I have left the well-worn
path of life that society has created for me and have followed my own path
up this mountain. As the clouds appear to thin out and stretch out below
me, I realize that I am the closest to heaven that I ever will be. Here,
I have forgotten where I have come from, and where I am headed. I am living
for the moment and honestly enjoying each second I spend admiring the incredible
beauty that is nature. I am glad to be alive.
I am reminded of my existence as the sun touches the ocean, bringing a
ray of diamonds to the surface of the water. The horizon has turned a vibrant
shade of red. Extending out from the horizon, the red fades to orange,
to pink, to finally a pale blue, where the moon and stars will soon appear.
If I were a painter, at this very moment, I could have taken out a paintbrush
and dipped it into the sky, only to pull it out covered with color. The
sun, half settled into the water, burns a brilliant orange in a pink sky.
I know I have to savor every second of this sight. As the last rays of
light disappear into the horizon, the sky begins to turn a dark, velvety
blue. I know the sun has removed the rest of my chains and has taken them
over the horizon, and I have reached heaven, at last. As I peer down the
side of the mountain, a bird takes flight from its resting spot on a ledge.
If I were to jump from my ledge, I could grow wings and fly away with that
bird. To soar among the clouds, high above land and sea would be the ultimate
freedom. I am free.
Boof! There is a puff of smoke, and a white “100” appears in the
air above an orange fox standing on its hind feet. Its two tails
twirl impatiently as he comes to a stop, turning back to find his partner,
a shiny blue hedgehog with large spikes, red shoes, and more attitude than
a supermarket cashier when given a twenty dollar bill for a pack of chewing
gum. Sonic (the Hedgehog) skids wildly to a stop. Miles (“Tails”
Prower the Fox) looks up calmly to make eye contact with Sonic, but the
bluer of the two ignores this and starts to run again. Tails follows.
“Hey! You two!” Our grandma’s sharp, raspy voice breaks the
monotonous groove emitted by the television speakers facing us. Brian
grudgingly pushes in the Start button to pause the game. “Look over
here and smile!” We comply, or at least I do, while my brother manages
a sort of satisfied face of content: not quite a smile, but certainly not
a frown. We turn back to the television and our video game, Sonic
the Hedgehog 2, but we are pulled swiftly back to reality. “Hey,
hold on! One more!”
We force our mugs of concentration into those of utter joy and blink for
several seconds after the light of the flash blinds us. Brian mutters,
“Ready?” knowing full well that it doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not,
because I’m not the main character. He presses Start to take the
game out of Pause. I haven’t picked my controller back up yet.
Sonic’s immediate progress leaves Tails in the dust, leading to a striking
bass note signaling his death. Alas. You see, in Sonic the Hedgehog
2, two players can be on the same “team”, but only Sonic’s life counts
for anything. Tails can float in and out of the screen however he
wants to, as he is invincible, and his main purpose is to serve as an indestructible
teammate who can fight tough opponents while the hero conserves his health.
In essence, Sonic owns Tails. They’re best friends, and yet Sonic
simply uses Tails’s energy and enthusiasm to help him to achieve his own
goals. Sure, these goals are admirable (defeating Dr. Robotnik, freeing
the animals of Westside Island from their robotic enslavement), but Sonic
manages to achieve them by simply going through the motions and allowing
Tails to do the dirty work. But the balance is delicate. If
Tails decides that Sonic is being too overbearing, he can simply take the
only means of travel available and leave Sonic to stand impatiently, tapping
his foot and whistling. Moving platforms, dinosaur heads, and rotating
bolts – all are thieved by Tails in an effort to lessen Sonic’s bossiness.
My relationship with my brother has mirrored that of Sonic and Tails throughout
our lives. We did everything together, especially during the time
before Brian had reached the third grade. And I would do whatever
he wanted me to – within reason. I would certainly charge nobly into
battle versus Dr. Robotnik in Metropolis Zone in order to defend Brian.
I would also gladly play the role of the sidekick during any imagined adventures
and lend my creative expertise to the process of making a superb plotline
with which to spend our free afternoons. But I drew the line at nabbing
Oreos from my grandma’s pantry by standing on a chair – unless, of course,
there was something in it for me. And so I retrieved three Oreos
while he only got two. But just as Sonic would, Brian claimed he
was going to the bathroom only to return with the telltale dark brown crumbs
on his lips that he stubbornly claimed were left from his two rightful
Oreos. But I knew he was lying. He did it just to show me that
he could do it. He didn’t need me. Typical.
When Sonic found Tails orphaned and alone, he took him under his wing just
because it was the right thing to do. In the same way, Brian decided
to teach me to read when I was only three years old just because it was
a nice thing to do. Because of things like this that Brian has done
for me throughout my life, I have felt compelled to achieve as highly as
he has, just as Tails idolizes Sonic. But in so doing, I have also
built up the urge to achieve not just what Brian does, but also more.
I am hoping to get into Notre Dame, a college with a higher profile than
Holy Cross, my brother’s college. Also, I compare anything I do (SAT
scores, grades) with how my brother performed. In essence, though,
my will to achieve greater things than my brother has achieved will always
be second to my respect for Brian.
After about thirty seconds of hiding on the side of the screen while Tails
takes care of Robotnik, Sonic strides into the next scene. There,
a metal container with a yellow release button stands, waiting for a certain
blue someone to pounce on top of it. Instead, Tails gets there first,
with a triumphant glint in his eyes. However, no matter how many
times he jumps up and down on the button, the cage does not release.
Sonic shoots one derisive glance at Tails, heroically jumps on top of the
container, and poses as tiny animals flood out of the contraption, celebrating
their freedom. Tails ignores this, as he does every time and begins
to jump around in the background to disrupt Sonic’s perfect scene.
But he stops himself before long, pauses, and looks up to Sonic with admiration.
“We’re climbing that?!?” squealed on e the younger scouts as the troop
collectively gazed at the mountain peak 8,732 ft up. “Don’t worry. We’ve
been training for months. It’s gonna be great,” expressed our Boy Scout
troop. No amount of reassurance could quell the ferocity inside our next
adventure. Mt. Kathadin was more than am mound of menacing dirt and stone;
it was something only “experts” should attempt.
We began our two-mile pre-hike to the base, and all our anticipation molded
into anticipation. “We’ll see you at the top!” yelled the adults as we
young folk took off speedily along the trail. “It is out time now, just
us.” We came upon a mellow stream, which ran perpendicular to the mountain
peak. Thus far we had coasted along our way, calmly and easily. But now,
the realization of the work to come took hold. I took the lead up the first
incline and steadily pushed forward, although my heavily pounding heart
said to fall behind. Each step was a new level, a new challenge in every
stride. The mountain was creating chaos in our minds, holding our hopes
just put of reach. On its peak was victory, but that summit was still out
of sight. The loose ruble under my feet only made the burden greater. The
challenge was on.
A sign read “Abraham’s trail”, openly mocking our attempts at breaking
the sky. “Are we really doing this?” exclaimed the last few scouts breaching
the 1,500 foot elevation mark. Their rhetorical question continued to swirl
in our heads…Are we really? AS lactic build up began to slow our pace,
the steep inclines took what little adrenaline we had left. “Heaven’s view:
¼ mile ahead.” The infamous halfway view drew nearer, giving each
hiker another something to shoot for. “Halfway there fellas…halfway there…”
“It’s too much! We can’t – it’s too much!” sighed one of my friends, “I’m
going back with the adults.” The remaining hikers all looked around for
reassurance, and all I could say was, “we’re almost there! It’s our time
now, remember?” We had lost one of our own, and our youthful confidence
could only take us so far. Each hiker had the same thought, “Maybe I should
just quit…never.” So close was goal and to back down now would ruin the
purpose of the struggle. Another boy soon dropped out. The elevation marker
read 7,000 ft, and with it came thinning air. This air did nothing but
help the mountain to seem as though it were growing taller by the step.
The rocks under my feet seemed to pull me back as the wind whispered, “stop”
in my ear. The mountain wasn’t going to beat me now.
“The top is right over this crest!”
We’d done it. The triumphant scouts began the cries of victory. My heart
seemed to stop as I surveyed the land around me. There was nothing but
sky here – here, a place where only a few had reached. I found myself in
quick disbelief. The steep inclines and the over bearing leg pains were
all worth it. Every challenge along the way only made this feeling of being
on top of the world that much more sweet. I was ready for anything now.
I look back upon my trip to Mt. Kathadin with awe. But even now, I face
another challenge that is all too similar: senior year and college applications.
It has been over a year and a half since my journey to the peak and so
much has changed, but still, I am walking a similar path. With seemingly
insurmountable tasks everyday, I look back at what I did that day in the
peaks in Maine. I know that all those struggles led to something amazing
– a place where I can begin my future.
“Jeff, she’s not breathing! JEFF, MOLLY CANNOT BREATHE!” screamed my mother,
who began to furiously pat me on the back.
“Beth, that will not help her. She still can’t breathe!”
“Where is her inhaler?”
“How will that help her if she can’t breathe in?”
With the surreal calm of one who expects to die, I watched my parents struggle
to aid their six year-old. My body, however, was not calm, and my mucus-clogged
lungs tried hopelessly to allow air to pass through. Everything moved in
slow motion, and I felt as though I were in some sickening permanent nightmare.
In vain, I tried to will my lungs to work, but the world slowly began to
fade.
“Oh my God, she’s losing consciousness!” said my mother, whom I faintly
saw standing over me. Suddenly, I felt very differently. I saw the furniture,
portraits, and windows move by. Surely, I’m dying, I thought at first.
But then I realized that I was being carried. A door in front of me opened,
and I saw sky above. Although delirious, I perceived a mixture of vibrant
and swirling colors muted by wisps of clouds. Mystified by their beauty,
I was hardly paying attention to my mother, who was whispering to me fervently.
“Breathe, honey, breathe!” she said. I gave it one last try before I slipped
into the realm of death. Although I expected the choking feeling, I felt
the rush of air fill my lungs. Everything flooded back. I saw my father
holding me and saw my mother, in tears, gazing at me.
As my parents thanked God for my still
being alive, I beheld a cornucopia of brilliant pigments which painted
the otherwise pale blue palette of sky. Pinks, oranges, and violets shone
through the tiny tufts of clouds and hit my eyes like fire. That fire seemed
to touch all the blackness around it and illuminate the contrast, just
as the contrast of life and death had been illuminated for me. It was as
though the sun were giving its own eulogy of color behind the black pulpit
that was the skyline. Each tree was stripped bare of its decorative leaves.
I, too, felt as though I had been brought back to basics: the basic feeling
of being alive.
The glory of it was almost too much to handle! I wanted to touch everyone
in the same way as I had just been touched, but I realized that I was bestowed
such a gift for a reason: I was meant to live. I was meant to know the
terrors of death so that I may see the beauty of life.
It is rather ironic that the one thing that has almost killed me so many
times has manifested itself as the greatest gift ever bestowed me. Asthma,
which cruelly plagued me as a child, has made me realize that. The beauty
of everyday life makes existence precious. Perhaps life’s trials make its
elegance all the more apparent.
My mother has a beautiful smile. If you ask her, of course, she’ll
disagree with you. She’ll shake her head and immediately enter upon
her story of wearing braces until she was twenty years old and subsequently
refusing to wear her retainer when the hated metal was finally removed,
causing her teeth to shift back into crooked formation. But it’s
not perfectly aligned teeth that make a beautiful smile. It’s understanding
the beautiful, complex woman behind the smile that makes it so special.
It’s the simple thrill of knowing that you’re being let in on a long-kept
secret. At the end of the day, when your patience and emotions are spent
and you seem to have nothing else, you still have that smile.
My mother’s smile has different degrees. To the untrained eye, these
smiles may appear to be the same, but I can detect the subtle distinctions
between them that make each smile unique. The first is her cheesy
smile. This smile is her picture smile, her theater smile, her “I
haven’t seen you in ages!” smile flashed when she runs into an old acquaintance
at the grocery store. Her lips spread back from those slightly slanted
teeth, and the smile makes its way up her face, crinkling the skin around
her round, blueberry eyes. There it stops.
I don’t mean to say that her cheesy smile is not genuine. My mother
is, above all, honest; even her smile could not deceive someone.
When she flashes her grin, one must never doubt that she is happy, for
that instant at least, because to use a smile as a portal of deception
would be an evil above all others. The smile is fleeting, revealed
with a sudden burst of emotion, yet it is not the smile unleashed when
she is truly content. That is another smile entirely.
My mother’s next smile–her happy smile–is very rarely displayed by itself.
Usually this expression of pure joy is accompanied by her laughter, a sound
more beautiful to me than that of the greatest masterpiece of the most
accomplished musician.
When my mother laughs she is uncontrollable, and the smile splayed across
her face is stunning. Like her cheesy smile, my mother’s happy smile
dominates her expression, yet it goes further. It reaches into her
soul and awakens something inside her, coaxing her eyes into a jubilant
dance. Without even knowing what she’s laughing about, you find yourself
laughing with her. You savor the feeling of being alone in the world,
the two of you, the sound of her laughter transporting you from reality
to a dream world, where the laughter floats on the breeze like the wisp
of a cloud, and you cling to it as long as you can, until it stops and
you are back again, your feet planted firmly on the ground. The moment
has passed.
Her smile can make even the worst situation seem not so bad. Driving
home from a college visit, it doesn’t matter that the trip takes two hours
more than it should because we missed an exit sign. It doesn’t matter
that we drive in circles for hours until we finally realize where we need
to go. It doesn’t matter, because she is laughing. Her smile
is a cure-all for every wound. Even when I feel as if I could be
angry with her forever, all it takes is one smile and suddenly I can’t
hold a grudge.
My mother has a beautiful smile. Anyone could tell you that.
Look at any photograph of her and you will see her cheesy smile, and even
her happy smile if someone was lucky enough to snap a candid shot in the
midst of a laugh. Yet it is neither of these states of being that
I refer to when I speak of my mother’s beautiful smile. The smile
that means the most to me could barely be described as a smile, actually.
It is a moment in time, suspended from all reality, when my mother’s expression
tells me everything that I could ever need to know. It’s her proud
smile. It’s a slight curve of her closed lips, a barely noticeable
tilt of the head, and her warm eyes telling me without words how proud
I’ve made her. It’s not the smile the world gets to see. It’s
not the smile in the pictures or the smile shared with friends over a glass
of wine on a Saturday night. It’s my smile. It’s a moment between
the two of us. Between mother and daughter. Between friends.
And it’s beautiful.
James was thirteen and had a lot of life to live. I was nine and had a
lot of his life to silently watch. I like to believe that my older brother
never knew that I watched him, but the truth is that he probably calculated
his moves in our small rituals that I took for granted daily.
Every day he would come with my other brother to walk me home form elementary
school. As I told James about who I played with at recess, he would let
me skip in front of him so that he could constantly watch me and make sure
that I was safe.
“Hey James!”
“What?”
“Guess who I played hopscotch with.”
“Who?”
“Gueesssssss!”
“Ok, did you play with that boy that lives down the street?”
“Billy?”
“Yeah.”
“Nooooo! Boys don’t play hopscotch silly! I played with Hillary! And guess
what she said!”
“What?”
“Gueeesssss!”
“Ok, that she’s having a birthday party?”
“Nope! She said that you were cute.”
“Oh.”
“So I hit her. And then I got sent in for recess. And she didn’t sit with
me at lunch so we didn’t trade snacks. So I called her a poopyhead and—
"
“Dani, you know that you shouldn’t hit people.”
“But, I had a good reason!”
“It doesn’t matter. We don’t hit people, especially if it’s just because
they called one of us cute. I don’t want to hear about you hitting anyone
else. Ok?”
“Fine…are you going to tell Daddy”
“Only if you promise to say sorry to Hillary and to never hit anyone again
unless you absolutely have to.”
“Ok, I promise…”
After a quick sulk, I continued to skip home where we would eat our snack
and go on to do our homework at the kitchen table in silence. Every night
following dinner, we would do the dishes. I would wash and he would rinse
as we both pondered whatever was important at the time in our own life.
At the end of the day, I knew nothing more about him than at the beginning.
But on Tuesdays, I knew a little more about his abilities. Every Tuesday
my mom, James, and I would take a two-hour trip for his Olympic Developmental
Program soccer practice. Every Tuesday I’d set up a blanket underneath
a tree in front of the mom’s lawn-chairs.
At the first practice I was brought to, I was amazed. I sat in awe as I
watched my brother and his back-up goalkeeper warm up on the other side
of the field. His back-up would toss the ball in a random direction, and
James would pounce on it. He never let the ball go by, not even when he
had his back turned. James would turn when he heard his partner tell him
to, trusting that his partner will have already thrown the ball in some
direction.
I could read it in his body. He stayed with his back turned with all his
muscles tense, ready to spring. When he finally heard “turn”, he spun around
like a rubber band twisted too tightly until it was finally let go. As
he spun, his eyes darted in every direction to judge how far the ball was.
Before he landed, he spotted it. He would then dive for it.
His body arced gracefully as he flew into the air, outstretching his arms.
The ball seemed to fit right into his hands as he caught it in midair.
As he landed with a slight thud, the ball was pulled into his body’s natural
cradle. He’d then get up and repeat the process ten times more, never once
losing his natural agility that would improve with each Tuesday as I watched
and absorbed from my own little world.
James’s presence has a strong role in that world since he has always given
me confidence, a feeling of security, and an example to watch and follow.
And even though I try not to let him know, in case he would treat me differently,
that’s what I have always done-watched and followed. For James still has
a lot of life to live. And I still have a lot of life to follow.
Running. Who would have thought that such a simple activity could
have changed my life so much? As I started high school in ninth grade,
I really wanted to go out for one of the sports teams. Cross Country
was my most logical choice for a high school sport, because everyone made
the team. You did not have to try out. In middle school I had
not been the kid who hung out with friends all the time, or who was in
the best shape, or who was extremely focused and confident. Running
changed everything.
From a social aspect, Cross Country brought me into contact with the people
who would ultimately become my most trusted friends, friends who spanned
the classes from freshmen to seniors. This was a new experience.
But even so, it was not until later in my first season, and especially
after the first batch of seniors had graduated, that I understood the bigger
community of which I was a member. It was something bigger than myself,
which did not have any boundaries: school, alumni, grade level. Nothing
got in the way.
Both the boys’ and the girls’ teams did everything as one big group.
They practiced, competed, and socialized together. I looked forward
to the weekly pasta parties and later random dance parties before meets
and on weekends. I had started off, freshmen year, as a self-conscious
wallflower, who was ashamed of what he looked like without a shirt on.
By the end of the year my body had matured a little, but my confidence
and sense of worth had grown enormously.
Cross Country running not only physically changed me, it also taught me
how to take better care of my body. Running has made me physically
a stronger person. For example, freshmen year, when I first showed
up for captains’ practices, during July, each practice run took an enormous
effort to complete. I could not have imagined that by the end of
the season my out-of-shape self would be honed into a decent runner.
In fact, in my first race, it was not until I had my breath back and was
standing on my own that I realized the race had come to an end. During
the race I had felt as though I had crawled over the flat stretches, had
had to claw my way up the hills, and had had to force my tired limbs to
keep up the rhythmic motion of running. But it had paid off.
I approached and passed the finish line. The race was over.
I had finished.
Over the years I kept finishing and became stronger. I even learned
from my injuries. Although it was not until senior year that I was
so affected by an injury that I needed to get taped up, I still learned
about them. From shin splints to stress fractures, I detected the
signs and learned how to treat the problems. To my surprise, I discovered
that I could run through most minor injuries just by being mentally strong.
Running is all in your head. It is nothing more than a mental game.
If you can focus yourself on the task, running becomes easier. When
I first started running, my mental toughness was at a low level.
However, that did not last long thanks to the camaraderie on the team which
increased my confidence level. With more focus I was also able excel
in school. I found I do better work when I am in a sport season.
I learned that emotions play a huge role in confidence and self-esteem.
Thanks to running, I have been able to relieve much of my stress over these
last years. Running puts me at peace. Whether by allowing me
the time to work through my busy day or to give me something else to focus
on, running helps everything fall back into place.
This past season the team had a few twelve-mile practices. It was
on one of these runs that I had a real breakthrough. I realized that
I did not hurt anymore. My arms and legs were not heavy. Everything
that had previously hindered me on my runs no longer affected me.
Running, such a simple activity, has changed my life. I would not
be the strong, confident person I am today, if it were not for running.
Everything that is important to me has at some point been discussed with
my teammates on a run. Every problem or obstacle has been overcome
through a comparison to running or after a “pondering session” during a
long run. Without Cross Country, and the community of runners that
I proudly call myself a part of, I would never have had the confidence
to work for and achieve everything I have. Running took me, a boy,
transformed me into a young man, and is continuing to shape me in its own
way...step…by step.
Eleanor Roosevelt said, “You gain strength, experience, and confidence
by every experience where you really stop to look fear in the face.
You must do the thing you cannot do.”
This past summer I was forced to look two kinds of fear in the face and
conquer both. First, I traveled by myself from the safe and comfortable
to the unknown and unfamiliar, a continent away. I was one of two
Americans selected to represent the United States at a Seminar Camp in
Brazil sponsored by an organization called Children’s International Summer
Village (CISV). To get there, I made a solo twenty-five hour journey
from Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts to Belo Horizonte, Brazil.
I navigated my way through six international airports. The three
in Brazil were the roughest because very few people spoke more English
other than the dreaded phrase, “I don’t speak English.” I developed
confidence and gained strength each time I successfully completed another
leg of my journey. But the trip was not the toughest part.
The goal of CISV as expressed by its founder Doris Allen is to “unite young
people around the world to promote international peace through understanding.”
CISV was started in the immediate aftermath of World War II, so that the
friendships formed would help future leaders achieve peaceful solutions
to worldwide problems. The philosophy of CISV is that universal
peace is only attained as individuals and groups come together as friends.
It was very intimidating, however, to try to accomplish this goal with
thirty-three people from sixteen countries, none of whom I’d ever met until
I arrived in Brazil.
The Seminar Camp is specifically designed for young adults, ages seventeen
to eighteen. The Seminar’s thirty-day program challenges participants
to examine who they are and what they believe. It is mandated that
each attendee travel unaccompanied to the Seminar’s location. In
essence, the minute you say goodbye to your family and walk toward the
plane, the Seminar has begun.
Conquering my fear of traveling alone ultimately enabled me to fully experience
the amazing opportunity that the Seminar Camp presented. I lived,
worked, talked, and played with everyone. We shared all of our daily
living responsibilities, which included preparing our meals and cleaning
our living space. By engaging in activities that evolved from simple
name games to intense debates, we became a family in which everyone’s differences
and cultures were accepted. Every experience, ranging from private
conversations to seminar discussions, challenged and affected my attitudes,
thinking patterns, outlook on the world, and ultimately, my life.
By doing what I thought I could not do, I grew up. The friendships
that I formed living with my friends—outstanding young men and women from
across the globe—will last a lifetime. My Seminar Camp experience
has helped shape me into a confident, self-reliant, inquisitive, and compassionate
citizen of the world.
It was Chimney Corners, but at the same time it wasn’t. At least it wasn’t
the Chimney Corners that I had come to know. It wasn’t mine. I had never
seen Chimney outside of the busy summer camp.
“Hey, Anna,” Doreen called. “How does it look?” I surveyed the place slowly.
“It looks dead.” I replied. The day was Friday, the start of the Senior
High Youth Group’s weekend retreat at Chimney Corners in Beckett.
That first night on the retreat, the whole group went down to the man made
lake. The wide dirt road wound down the hill and ended at the fence entrance
to the small beach. From the top of the hill the entire waterfront and
a good part of the lake were visible. The lake was a smooth glassy opaque
from the mud on the bottom and the lack of wind. A large solid wooden fence
ran from the metal floating boat docks to the hand built sauna on the other
end of the waterfront. Facing the water on the beach was a small red lifeguard/first
aide hut and sideways from the hut sat the tall wooden lifeguard’s chair.
The chair was more like a bench, big enough for two or three people to
sit on. The two floating docks, made of course from wood, were pulled onto
the beach for the winter, and the weather was still too cold for them to
be put back in the water. The metal docks had been pulled closer to the
shore. Outside the beach, a large expanse of grass slowly turning green
stopped short in a small drop toward the inky black water. The entire lake,
waterfront and all, was surrounded by the silent forest which wove its
way around the entire camp, bare trees rattling in the wind, with one or
two evergreens poking through. The sky was a deep blue touched with steaks
of orange, yellow and violet from the setting sun. Mostly the waterfront
looked how I remembered it. But it wasn’t the exact same place anymore.
The difference during camp was enormous. During the summer, the waterfront
is a flurry of activity. For most of the day nearly every girl in the camp
uses the entire waterfront. Some girls swim, running into the cool water,
jumping off the mint green diving board or swimming out to the far docks
to sun tan. While others sit on the grass in circles and play games like
Indian Chief or Mafia. There is always sound during the day, and sometimes
even in the evening and early mornings, when no sane person would want
to go in the freezing water, but they do anyway. The waterfront during
camp was a meeting place of sorts. It was almost never silent.
That spring as we walked down to the lake, my friends were laughing and
having fun. By the time we were at the lake, I was beginning to see that,
even though this wasn’t summer the waterfront, the waterfront was still
the same. We ran around on the green brown grass, like the campers do in
the summer. We shouted at each other, voices echoing, breaking the silence
with our movements and the stillness with our movements. At the beach we
climbed all over the lifeguard chair, finally settling on the floating
docks, and stretching out on our backs. Twisting and turning, we tried
to get comfortable on the cold hard wood. The sun set as the first stars
came out. Stones were thrown into the lake by the light of the setting
sun. We watched the ripples spread across the black surface. My friend
James attempted to teach Tom where to look for Mars among the starts. We
all laughed when Tom shouted that he could see “the big white shiny thing”
that James pointed out was the moon. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked
as we talked and joked. We stayed on the beach until the night was so dark;
they had to rely on me to get back.
When I was younger, Chimney Corners was my second home. Chimney during
the summer was my own special world. I haven’t been back to Chimney Corners
since the retreat. To me, the summer was full of movement, and I loved
it. I didn’t love the Chimney Corners I saw on the Retreat, but in the
end I did. But Chimney Corners is more than just a place or a couple of
seasons. Chimney is more than a collection of happy and sad memories. It
is a part of me. As real as my arm or my leg. I might never go back there
again, but I will carry it with me forever.