Lauraland

Ten little words in black and white typeface. Words I wasn't expecting. At least not yet. Words that twisted my stomach and dried my mouth. Made my hands shake and fingertips go cold. As they danced before my eyes, the crystalline palace I had erected about myself shattered.

I had one of those heart-stopping moments today, where you realize something about yourself that you probably always knew, but never really acknowledged. You know the feeling...a sudden squeeze at your heart, a physical reaction to a mental realization. A tingly-frozen feeling in the pit of your stomach, akin to panic or the stomach-drop sensation when you know someone is on the verge of telling you some very bad news.

Was the news I received really that earth-shattering? No. I knew it would come some day. I suppose I just wasn't expecting to have to face it in the stone-cold, no ifs ands or buts about it, reality of facebook. "In a relationship with." It implies intimacy and a sense of forever. "Dating" would be so much easier to accept. 

And I realized how self-centered I am. How self-centered we all are. I can try my hardest to see things from other people's perspectives, to step outside the box, take a walk in their shoes. But in the end, it's from my own unique--and utterly self-centered--vantage point from which I view the world. I am still, at base, the infant who doesn't understand that the world outside of me doesn't freeze when I'm not directly involved--that people move on in their own directions and forget about me and my world.

The thing about us egotistical humans (or perhaps it's just me...who knows) is that we never expect to be replaced. Even if I have already replaced the person in question. In my own little world of pink ponies and butterflies, no one will ever get over the loss of moi, the one and only. I reign as queen of Lauraland, and outside of that, nothing ever happens or changes.

The weird thing, the thing that led to the sudden panic and twisting in my stomach, is that I never realized I had created Lauraland in the first place. It just kind of cropped up. And I only realized it was there when it shattered into a million little pieces of rose-tinted glass. And all because of those stupid ten words. And that stupider social networking system. (By the way, this is only part of the reason I deactivated my account tonight. But that's another post for another day.)

The more I pondered this broken fortress, the more its presence spread before my eyes, until it overshadowed much more than just this one long-ended relationship. It covered all relationships, not just those of a romantic nature. Friends I've grown apart from, people I was once so close to but didn't make enough of an effort to maintain the relationship--they've all moved on. I don't really matter anymore.

Of course, I did realize all of this in one part of my brain. The rational, practical portion. You know, the deathly boring place I tend to avoid. Anyone who knows me at all probably suspects that that one corner of my brain is far overpowered by the emotional, mostly-if-not-completely irrational part. And they would be correct. It's so much easier to face difficult and painful truths once they've been diluted in some way. For me, it's through writing--fiction or non. It creates a barrier you don't get when forced to deal with things face-to-face with no warning or time for preparation. I need the time to figure out how I'm going to react, what's reasonable. Can I scream and cry and demand to be made the center of attention once more? Probably not. Can I accept that my irrational feelings of betrayal and replacement are inevitable and painful, but perfectly normal? Yeah, I think I can handle that.

And so I take a moment, call a friend, and let that vice-grip on my heart slowly begin to melt. "That's life," she says. And I know she's right. "Just be strong and brave, and show the world who you are. Because that's what matters." And then the three words. The words that get us into so many troubles in the first place. But also, miraculously, the only words that can get us back out. 


"I love you."

What Do You Do With a BA in English?

I had a conversation the other night with a friend. It went something like this:

Him: I've never understood liberal arts degrees.
Me: What do you mean?
Him: Well, I just don't understand why someone would want to major in writing or history or something like that.
Me: Why not?
Him: There just doesn't seem to be anywhere to rise to, no higher levels to achieve.
Me: You can teach.
Him: Do you want to teach?
Me: No.
Him: Case in point. I mean, I majored in nursing, will further hone my nursing degree with a masters in anesthesiology, and then I will be a nurse anesthetist. Simple, logical, surefire. I will climb the steps until I achieve my ultimate goal; a goal I knew all along. I guess that's why I'm a Republican. (That comment fit in with an earlier part of the conversation, although it sounds somewhat random here.)
Me: Well, for me it's not about money or success. I'd rather be doing something I love.
Him: I get both.
Me: Well aren't you lucky.

The two of us are very good friends, although we disagree on just about everything political and professional. Opposites attract? I don't know. We drive each other nuts sometimes, I think. But anyway, this post isn't about politics or anything like that. (Thank God! I've had enough of that in the last week.) It's about why I'm an English major.

In true "Laura" fashion, I had absolutely no rebuttal ready for my friend's challenge. However, I got to thinking about it and have now had time to formulate an answer for him and anyone else who wonders why some of us would pick a career path that almost undeniably leads to a life in a cardboard box. Or at least a roach-infested apartment.

... Or our parents' house ...

So, why was I an English major? Well, the easy, totally honest, practical answer is that I love to read, and I always have. I'm a decent writer. I hate memorizing facts. Science and math make my head spin uncomfortably fast. And while I was interested in psychology, I didn't want to do labs. So I figured I could just apply simple psych to literature and call it a day.

The more analytical, English-major answer is more complicated. I like to think. Let me qualify that: I like to think creatively. Now, this is not an acceptance of the common misunderstanding of liberal arts students to be a bunch of egotistical elitists who sit around making up BS all day and calling it knowledge or fact. 1) It's more complex than that. 2) I, at least, have never claimed that the theories I came up with about Moby Dick's incapacity for humanoid intentions or Dr. Jeckyll's relation to the Ego or Id are fact. Not even that it was the author's intention.

You see, the liberal arts are about creative thinking--critical thinking. Saying, "Bakhtin had some interesting thoughts on the grotesque. How could his theory be applied to Tristram Shandy?" (Yes, I'm aware that I just outed myself as a complete lit. theory nerd.) The way you learn to think and analyze is completely different than memorizing facts and regurgitating them in a little blue book twice a semester. In fact, I would argue (completely biased, of course) that it's actually more practical in real life than a lot of other disciplines might be. Or at least that it is more practical and valuable than commonly given credit for.

Liberal Arts students are constantly bombarded by professors or classmates saying, "Well, that's one way to look at it, but think about this. Isn't it just as likely? Or maybe even more so?" Professors constantly urged us to "Think harder!" To really dig in and not just gloss over the obvious points.

Now, forgive me, but I feel a spurt of politics coming on. I'll try to keep it tame.

For me, at least, I feel that learning to think in this way gave me an incredibly valuable tool when it comes to dealing with the people and situations we encounter every day. Yes, to me this particular situation might come off in one light. But if I stop and consider the circumstances, I can come to realize that the other person's point of view is equally valid. Or at least I can understand where they are coming from and how to better communicate my thoughts and ideas with them, without coming off as a hard-headed egotistical jerk.

So, if any of that made sense, and you made it through my obnoxious literary allusions (sorry, I'm going through a spurt of learning-withdrawal at the moment), then you have my answer as to why I was an English major. Or at least, that's what I got out of being an English major. And if you're still skeptical, then let me leave you with this:

At least I wasn't a philosopher major*!


(*Sorry Kate and Eric, couldn't resist it!)

A Walk in the Woods

I went for a walk in the woods today. It wasn't a long walk, but it was nice. Sometimes I get too caught up in my mind. It's a dangerous place to be, I tell you. Today was one of those days, unfortunately. Election day was getting me thinking about the innate greed and self-centeredness that corrupts the political world. The ignorance and basic racism I find even here in Wellsboro (perhaps especially here, in Wellsboro?) was getting to me. The fact that the average, good-hearted American doesn't have the ability to get people to listen to reason and the truth, unscarred by political agendas was eating at me. And then there are personal issues that don't really need to be discussed. My brain was being tugged at in all directions, and there didn't seem to be a single answer in sight. No solutions, very little hope.

When I get like this, little things set me off. So naturally, I got unnecessarily upset that we weren't having pizza for dinner like I had thought. And when Dad wanted me to help research recipes for this non-pizza dinner, well, I was about in tears. Don't get me wrong: I know it's stupid. I knew then that it was stupid. And of course it had nothing to do with pizza. But the tears were threatening, and at that point there's no turning back. So I took a walk in the woods.

I wanted to feel my nose run in the cold, the numb, leathery sensation of the wind on my face. The slight burning in my legs as I climb the hill, and the jelly-leg weakness as the leaf-strewn ground evens out. I wanted to see my no-longer-a-puppy dog frolic through the leaves and in the creek like he hadn't a care in the world (he probably doesn't).

And so I walked. I passed the old treehouse my brothers and I built ten years ago, with it's plywood floors now green with mossy age. I came upon the creek we used to have leaf-boat races on, and listened to it's tired gurgle for a while. I was cold.

It wasn't any sort of novel-worthy spiritual experience. I spent most of the time watching the ground and trying not to fall over. Making sure the dog didn't get too excited and run out of my sight. And did I mention it was cold?

But when I came back up once again, I felt glad that I had taken the walk. I didn't have any illusions about being at peace with the world, but I was grateful for the physical sensation of the walk itself. It was something other than thinking. I started at the top of the hill, and when I was finished, I may have ended up in the same place, but I had been somewhere; I had seen something new along the way. My runny nose and jelly legs gave testament to that. So maybe the circuitous journey was worth it in the end, even if I can't put my finger on why or how it helped. And that is strangely comforting, in a way.

Sister from Another Mister

I was thinking earlier that I knew what I wanted to write about tonight. I wanted to share my thoughts on music, and how certain songs or artists are forever connected in my mind to certain people and times in my life. And I still do want to write about that.

But then, I read my sister(not-in-law-but-close-enough)'s latest blog post. It stirred my heart and got me thinking about the really important things in my life, and in society as a whole. It got me thinking in so many different directions that I can hardly formulate my own post. I don't know where to start. Let's say it's a matter of heart, politics, religion, and so much more. But let's start with the heart, because that, to me is purest and most important.

My "sister," we'll call her K, is one of the sweetest people I know. I met her for the first time a little over a year ago, when she accompanied my older brother to my twin brother and sister-in-law's wedding reception. I could tell she was nervous (can't blame her, either), but my first impression was that she was very sweet and eager to get to know us and befriend us. And since then, we have become very close, sisters at heart, if not legally. Looking back, it was really impossible not to become fast friends. We are similar in many ways, and she, being more outgoing than me, reached out to me constantly, sending funny messages and sharing little girly, sisterly secrets with me. (Don't worry David, nothing about you, of course! :p) I don't see how anyone could dislike this sweet, loving young woman.

But one thing about her tends to stick out to people. Something that's not her fault and shouldn't really matter, but does anyway, in this country and at this time. She's not white. And she speaks with an accent. A latino accent. K was born in Peru, and has only lived in the States and spoken English for three years. Personally, I am constantly amazed how well she speaks English--it's fifty times better than my Spanish. And I think she is absolutely gorgeous. I frequently tell her she looks like a supermodel. But for some reason, in this country, having dark skin and imperfect English immediately demotes one to a second-class citizen, or even worse, an illegal alien. (And yes, she and her family are here legally.) She was looked down upon, assumed ignorant and unworthy. It didn't matter that she had completed college in Peru. Strangers told her to her face to "go home", that she didn't have a place here. She was unwanted.

These things took a toll on K, but thankfully she is a strong person, and decided it wasn't worth listening to the ignorant people degrading her. She decided to get an American degree, so she worked two full-time jobs to earn enough money for tuition. She succeeded, and now works in a management position, impressing her superiors with her work-ethic and drive to succeed.

And she is still the sweetest, most loving person. We talk multiple times a week, even if it's just a text or silly e-mail forward. She's going to teach me how to flirt, because she says I'm too shy. She makes me smile on rough days, and I hope I do the same for her. I, for one, am infinitely glad she came here to the U.S. and had the guts to stick it out, ignore the jerks, and maintain her beautiful smile and silly sense of humor.

But learning more in depth what she went through when she first came here (and what she still goes through, to some extent), hurts me to the core. Because she came here for opportunity and a better life--the American Dream. And she was met with self-righteous, self-centered jerks. What kind of a society are we, that this happens? We all know she's not the only one. And she's lucky in that she's in a relatively tolerable part of the States. I imagine the Americans of Mexican or Central or South American descent living in Arizona and other border states are harassed ten times the amount she is.

This is racism, pure and simple. It's been fifty years since the Civil Rights Movement. Things have improved, but there is still such a long way to go. And the people affected by racism are growing to include latinos and, more recently, those of Middle Eastern descent. I saw a skit on The Colbert Report the other night, in which a black correspondent and a Muslim correspondent discussed the gradual changeover from whites fearing blacks to whites fearing Muslims. They compared notes on their favorite ways to scare whites. Of course, in true Colbert fashion, they were hyperbolic and sarcastic, but the trend is so very real. And in the long run, it's America as a whole that's losing out. Just think of all the smart, talented, incredible people we miss out on because we fear their differences. What if we had sent Einstein back to Germany in the 40s? Where would the world be now? It seems to me, that those making arguments about abortion potentially destroying the next Einstein or Mozart should consider sending Muslim, African, or latino people back to certain death and destruction just as deplorable. But that's just my opinion, and I'm sure many people have comebacks ready and waiting for me.

After all, they had the audacity to be born something other than American. So they don't deserve the same rights as us, right?

Discouraging Words

I'm beginning to wonder if college ruined (or at least maimed) my capacity for enjoying literature. I have heard music majors say school destroyed their ability to just enjoy music, because now all they can do is analyze and critique, judge as they listen. Music became mechanical and fundamental, no longer really about art and indulgence. I don't think this is quite the case with me, but I do wonder sometimes. Am I being too judgmental, too critical? Am I allowing my own preferences and opinions to masquerade as some artificial and unsubstantiated apex of literary perfection? In other words, am I becoming an insufferable literary snob?

I do my best to "not judge a book by its cover." And I mean that literally, as well as in the time-old, tired metaphoric sense. When I was young I came to realize that the best books weren't always the ones with the most colorful, appealing covers. Some of my favorites turned out to be the cloth-bound volumes tucked away in the back of the library's reading room. (A particularly large, red, cloth-bound copy of The Secret Garden comes to mind, especially, with its simple gold script.) And throughout my reading career, I have always been driven to finish every book I've started, no matter how bad it seems at first, or how long it takes to get through. (The one notable exception to this being Charles Dickens. I've tried to enjoy him, but every single book of his that I've started, I have been unable to finish, including but not limited to Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, Bleak House, A Tale of Two Cities, and Nicholas Nickleby.) Even if someone "ruins" the ending for me by telling me what happens in the end, I can't help but finish it for myself, partly because I think I've always known that a book is not just about finding out what happens. The truly exciting part is discovering the characters and worlds created by the author.

Lately, however, it seems this no longer applies to the books I read. The only thing that keeps me reading is to see how it ends. The last three books I read have been disappointingly...well, disappointing. The characters were dull and unchanging, the setting was tired and boring (and in some cases blatantly copied from earlier, better books), and the writing itself was downright painful at times. Let me tell you, reading just to see what happens is tiring and not very enjoyable, especially when the tiny spark of hope that it will get better flickers harder with each dry sentence and predictable plot device.

I guess I'm thinking about this more than usual, mainly because I've been thinking I should start a second blog, solely dedicated to reviews of the books I read. Not because I think everyone should listen to my opinions and take them as their own, but because my brain is desperately begging to be challenged and do some critical thinking. I've actually already created this blog; I've just yet to post anything. I'd like to start with a good review, but at the rate I'm going, it seems that everything I post will be negative and critical. That doesn't sound fun to me. That's just not the kind of blogger I want to be. It makes me feel like a snobbish, "better than thou," jerk.

But at the same time, I guess blogging is sort of intrinsically self-centered and egotistical. So maybe I should just push forward and spread my opinions to the far ends of the worlds. After all, in the words of the ever-wise Dr. Seuss, "Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter."

A Colorblind Society, Revisited

I have received a number of comments about my post "A Colorblind Society" from 10 August 2010. People disagreeing with me, saying it's important to keep a sense various ethnicities and backgrounds. And they're right. I'm not sure if it's a matter of me not saying what I meant to say in the first post, or if I just hadn't thought of it that way before, but I agree with you all. "Colorblind" maybe isn't the word I should have used. I wasn't trying to say that everyone should be the same, or assume that everyone is the same as them. What a boring world that would lead to. We should be aware of the differences in who we are and where we come from. It is what makes the world the rich tapestry of human lives it should be. To use a terribly elementary and cliche metaphor, we should aim to be a salad bowl, rather than a melting pot; a place where different ingredients come together to create a well-complemented whole, rather than melting into one big glob of unidentified mush. It's okay if the carrots stain the radishes a little orange, or the dressing soaks into the croutons a bit along the way. But if it becomes one big, wilted, soggy mess, and no one knows who they are or what they started out as, well, that doesn't create a very satisfactory meal, now does it?

I don't want my godson to think that black people or asians should be exactly like him, at least not in the way they act or talk or any sort of physical or outward manifestation of who they are. I just want him to know that inside, they are the same as him, in that they dream and love and think and feel. And if that Mexican immigrant's English isn't perfect, or that Brit's teeth are a little crooked, it doesn't mean they're any less of a person. I want him to be able to see things from outside his own point of view, so he can understand that his way isn't the only right way, and just because someone does something differently, it doesn't mean they're a worse or less sophisticated person.

I guess I just want him to transcend the ignorance that causes so many misunderstandings and so much unnecessary pain in this world: the ignorance that all of us fall prey to on occasion, myself included. Sometimes it just seems like we have so far to go. Will we ever make it? But at the same time, I have to believe we will. It gives me hope and the will to live, trying to make the world a little bit better every day. (I just realized what a Jewish concept that is...making heaven (perfection) on earth. Interesting.) I like to think there's a heaven, but the truth is I have no idea what awaits me after death. So for now, it seems to me that the best use of my time is trying to make things better here in this world. And if there is something after this, then I hope whoever is in charge up there will approve of my humble attempts at improvement, both of the self and the world.

Remembrances of Christmas Past

Christmas with the Reindls

Packing into the family van for a two hour drive to Dayton from Lancaster. Pulling into the steep blacktopped driveway, past the huge tree surrounded by the flower box we liked to use as a balance beam, looking to see if Aunt Susie's van was there yet; it usually wasn't. Pouring out of the car, climbing over the slower sibling by the door, following Dad into the covered back porch, knocking at the door and walking into the kitchen, greeted by a blast of warmth. Grandpa greeting us with hugs: "There's my little Tweety Bird!" (So my voice was a bit high and squeaky as a small child...) Feeling the warmth from the brown double decker oven right next to the door, hugging Great Aunt Rose because I was supposed to, but resenting her a little for taking Grandma's place; knowing that something wasn't right there, but never being told what (until she died last Christmas).

All sitting in the living room, with the marble side tables, Rose's very floral couch with fringey pillows-braiding the fringes-Grandpa's gray recliner with the towel over the head rest, Rose's brown recliner, the Christmas tree in the corner by the rarely-used front door and the grandfather clock, the brass goose on the gray polished stone hearth, the built-in bookcases with Grandpa's carved wooden birds, many of his carved Santas all around the wooden mini grandfather clock he made with the fancy face.

Getting bundled up in snow clothes, Dad and Grandpa wearing old suits; one bright orange, one gray. Getting the sleds from Grandpa's back shed. Wondering at the old-fashioned wooden slat sled with red runners and the metal disc sled. Sledding on the front hill, seeing Mom and Aunt Rose watching from the front bay window. Sitting on the sled with Dad or Grandpa, or one of them pulling Michael and I on the sled. David hogging the good sleds. Grandpa bringing out his tractor mower and attaching the cart to the back and taking us for a ride around the yard. Finally tramping into the warm kitchen again and getting dried off and warmed up.

Kneeling backwards on the couch, looking out the bay window waiting for Aunt Susie's blue minivan to drive down the street, finally seeing it and jumping up and running to the back door, opening it and waiting impatiently for Susie and the boys to get out of the car and come in. Willy and Thomas running up, Susie carrying baby Charlie, Uncle Joe following them all up. Suddenly becoming shy and hiding behind Mom a little bit, coming out to hug Aunt Susie and the boys, hugging Uncle Joe but being a little wary of him because he likes to tease a lot. Listening to Thomas's never-ending and semi-pointless stories, playing fireman with Willy, trying to teach Charlie to walk; being unsuccessful.

Watching Mom and Susie pull the dining table out from the wall and opening the wings to make it big enough for everyone. Helping set the table with the good silverware from the china cabinet, waiting for all the food to be brought in, finally sitting down to dinner with all twelve of us. Saying grace, and remembering that Dad used to have to fold his hands together flat and point the tips of his fingers to the sky because if he pointed them down the prayer would go to hell and if he interlocked the fingers it wouldn't go anywhere. Wondering why Aunt Cindy and John never came anymore; not realizing what MS was. Watching Grandpa's hands shake as he lifted up his glass of water and imitating him out of curiosity as to how he didn't spill; not realizing what Parkinson's Disease was. Eating the roast, potatoes, carrots, rolls, gravy. Listening to Grandpa rant about politics and hearing his say "Damn" and giggling to myself. Feeling too full.

Playing with the cousins some more, waiting impatiently for it to be time to open presents, Grandpa watching us with a twinkle in his eye I didn't notice until years later. Finally bothering the parents enough that they agreed it was time to open presents. Digging under the Christmas tree and reading the names on the tags and handing them out with only a few mix-ups. Begging Grandpa and Dad for the olives in their martinis and sometimes being successful. Ripping the paper off the presents and years later having no clue what I got, but remembering the warmth and happiness pervading it all.

Going down to the basement and singing Christmas carols while Aunt Susie played the old upright piano. Thinking I'll never be as good as she is. Following the grown-ups back upstairs into the living room. Sitting on the couch next to Dad or Grandpa and falling asleep on him while listening to the adults talk about distant family and politics and old family stories. Feeling happy and warm. Finally being put to bed in the back room on the couch, with the furry blanket Grandma used to get out especially for me. Looking up at the stained glass in the little window above the couch. Being a little bit afraid of sleeping in the room alone, but hearing the adults talking in the living room and hearing the grandfather clock chiming every quarter of an hour and finally falling asleep, feeling safe and warm and happy, never expecting anything to change.