Today was my last day with B. This morning she stood at the door of the bathroom holding the frame for balance. Her pants were unbuttoned and her shirt was hiked up. I could see her belly button ring. She said, "I am destined to live a miserable, worthless life. I will never be happy." I told her to have hope that things are going to get better. Her head was down. She asked, "What is hope?"
I wish I had told her that its the feeling she has when we drive down 15-501 South with the windows down, singing to the Dixie Chicks' Wide Open Spaces and she opens her arms out, as if taking in all that space in the world for her. But I didn't say anything. I just shook my head.
B's Grandma came to visit. B is one of 18 grandchildren. Her grandma has 11 great grandchildren and a 2 month old great-great granddaughter. It had been a long time since she had visited Brittany. Just before she left B said, "Sometimes in the morning I stand at the top of the stairs and think that if I jumped no one would care." B was yelling with tears in her voice. She cannot cry but her grandmother can. They held hands. Her Grandma told her to look up. She talked about Jesus' suffering and said that He is everywhere. She asked her to keep faith.
When B was in the bathroom her grandmother asked me if she talked like this very often now. I said, "She talks like this everyday." We both shook our heads and said, "Its real hard." Brittany's dad came to take her to see the neuro-psychiatrist. Me and grandma drove home.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
I'm a Real Person
He wonders if his barbie dolls can sweat. He knows they are nice people and they talk to him sometimes. He likes to talk to his barbie dolls. He really just loves talking. Yesterday he said, " I love people. I love world."
I said, "Yes, I love being in the Earth."
"NO NO Elizabeth, not IN the Earth! We are, like, ON the Earth!" He proclaimed.
I had slipped the wrong preposition. I agreed and we proceeded to drive. You cannot control the traffic.
Yesterday there was a quiet moment in the car. We were on our way to his golf practice in Hillsborough. He looked out the window and said, "I love the world. I just love the trees. The trees make me think of dancing. Do you think the trees dance? I dance with the trees."
I said, "Yes, I love being in the Earth."
"NO NO Elizabeth, not IN the Earth! We are, like, ON the Earth!" He proclaimed.
I had slipped the wrong preposition. I agreed and we proceeded to drive. You cannot control the traffic.
Yesterday there was a quiet moment in the car. We were on our way to his golf practice in Hillsborough. He looked out the window and said, "I love the world. I just love the trees. The trees make me think of dancing. Do you think the trees dance? I dance with the trees."
Counting Sheep
She remembers drinking moosetrack milkshakes from Hardees in the hospital. And people crying and touching her. She heard voices. She says it was like the 6th sense. I imagine waking up and not remembering myself as a 17-year-old who would celebrate my 18th birthday in the hospital, 3 months after my accident, and one month after waking up. To be reborn into the world, with part of me gone but part of me left. To come back to the world and say "Hey! Those are my hands, but why do they look so twisted?" She would remember each day, and then forget it the next, and spend those days, in the beginning, wondering if that image of the windshield, and barreling forward into trees, and the rain, and that fucking white mailbox and red fire hydrant twenty feet from Brittany Lane, from her home--wondering if those images were just in a movie she once saw, or if it had been her life.
It was in that moment, on the curve in the road where there is a white mailbox that I pass every day on my way to her house- it was here that she went from being her 5-year old sister's best friend picking her up from bible school, to someone disabled by a terrible car wreck, disabled by the trauma it caused her physically and emotionally. Now her sister is 9. They do not see each other very often. They never talk about the accident. And Brittany can no longer paint her little sister's fingernails red.
This morning when I got to her door and she did not answer I wondered if she was alive. As morbid as it seems to me now, I remember smelling for her. I called her name. She yelled for me to come upstairs. I had never seen her in bed, all curled up. She looked so safe. She didn't say hello. She asked if I would just come and hold her. She can't cry. The tears will never come, the doctors tell her.
I could feel her breathing under her counting sheep sheets. I imagined her dreams. The ones she must have had just after the accident. One sheep jumps. 2 sheep jump. They all fall down.
I tried to tell her I used to have dreams about the scar on my knee. I went through a period as a child when I wished all day that the scar would go away. I can remember having repeated dreams over that scar- dreams and I would wake up and think that it was gone. B said, "That didn't make it go away." I told her that the scar taught me my left from my right. I could remember that the scar was on my right knee because of the r that ends the word scar. She laughed. But I'm talking about a scar- a cut on my knee I got when I was five and playing hide and seek. But she has tremors down her arms, she falls down every day, she burns herself trying to iron, cuts herself shaving, she has crusty milk stains on her tshirts.
The other day was a bad day so she asked me to dance. There was no music playing. We danced to the crunching sounds of the spilt, dry cereal on the kitchen floor.
It was in that moment, on the curve in the road where there is a white mailbox that I pass every day on my way to her house- it was here that she went from being her 5-year old sister's best friend picking her up from bible school, to someone disabled by a terrible car wreck, disabled by the trauma it caused her physically and emotionally. Now her sister is 9. They do not see each other very often. They never talk about the accident. And Brittany can no longer paint her little sister's fingernails red.
This morning when I got to her door and she did not answer I wondered if she was alive. As morbid as it seems to me now, I remember smelling for her. I called her name. She yelled for me to come upstairs. I had never seen her in bed, all curled up. She looked so safe. She didn't say hello. She asked if I would just come and hold her. She can't cry. The tears will never come, the doctors tell her.
I could feel her breathing under her counting sheep sheets. I imagined her dreams. The ones she must have had just after the accident. One sheep jumps. 2 sheep jump. They all fall down.
I tried to tell her I used to have dreams about the scar on my knee. I went through a period as a child when I wished all day that the scar would go away. I can remember having repeated dreams over that scar- dreams and I would wake up and think that it was gone. B said, "That didn't make it go away." I told her that the scar taught me my left from my right. I could remember that the scar was on my right knee because of the r that ends the word scar. She laughed. But I'm talking about a scar- a cut on my knee I got when I was five and playing hide and seek. But she has tremors down her arms, she falls down every day, she burns herself trying to iron, cuts herself shaving, she has crusty milk stains on her tshirts.
The other day was a bad day so she asked me to dance. There was no music playing. We danced to the crunching sounds of the spilt, dry cereal on the kitchen floor.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Pink Clouds
On my drive home this afternoon I saw two cardinals on the highway- two red splashes on a backdrop of summertime green- they raced each other along the highway stream. I thought of a nighttime swim, and the excitement of a new love, and moondancing soaking wet in the sand. Most of the drive was green and gold. Wheat fields and hay, an afternoon glow, and the wind blowing streams of hair across my eyes. I was already thinking of beautiful things, but that darting red made me think especially of love. I was in love right then.
Don't be scared if I tell you I'm in love with you right away. Sometimes I wonder if I fall in love every day. With boys and girls, by a look, a laugh. It always shocks me. Last week it happened with an old black man on a rusted bike. Before that, it was an artist in a rice field in Bali. I can be in love for as little as three minutes, for the length of a dance, or crossing a street when its not my turn. Yesterday, it happened when a three-legged black lab stopped and stared at me, huge glass-eyed, for an eternal second, then quickly loped off.
My windows were down as I passed the cardinals and I hoped to hear them. Sometimes every piece of me wants to feel such excitement, every sense needs that stimulation-not wanting to miss anything that makes me feel alive. But all I heard was the wind. What can be more present, more real than the wind? I felt an actual electrical current. Maybe it was the pink clouds in my rearview mirror, but something seemed on fire.
Don't be scared if I tell you I'm in love with you right away. Sometimes I wonder if I fall in love every day. With boys and girls, by a look, a laugh. It always shocks me. Last week it happened with an old black man on a rusted bike. Before that, it was an artist in a rice field in Bali. I can be in love for as little as three minutes, for the length of a dance, or crossing a street when its not my turn. Yesterday, it happened when a three-legged black lab stopped and stared at me, huge glass-eyed, for an eternal second, then quickly loped off.
My windows were down as I passed the cardinals and I hoped to hear them. Sometimes every piece of me wants to feel such excitement, every sense needs that stimulation-not wanting to miss anything that makes me feel alive. But all I heard was the wind. What can be more present, more real than the wind? I felt an actual electrical current. Maybe it was the pink clouds in my rearview mirror, but something seemed on fire.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Indonesia
A month on Bali, Lombok, Nusa Lembogan, and the Gili Islands
Surfing, Diving, Volcano climbing
I bought booties first, to walk across the reef bottom. I stepped gently, not wanting to break off the life beneath my feet. I thought a lot about the reef while I was surfing. I thought about it growing, I thought about it breaking off into me. Once it snagged my surfboard leash, on a small day at the Gili Islands. I broke off that piece of reef. I can hear it crunching.
There is a lot I haven't written yet about Indonesia. Truthfully, I'm scared to open my journal and reread it and copy it to this blog. I'm scared of missing the ocean, the islands, the travel, and Sarah.
I printed a picture of me doing a handstand on a beach that was white, sliding into clear, turquoise water, a green headland in the background. In the picture my feet reach its peak.
I rest the picture on my desk and I'm not sure why its there. I am tan in the picture and strong from weeks of surfing. I feel alive after feeling so vulnerable on the reef and in the ocean. I am on a beach and no one else is there. I reached the beach by motorbike and it was dangerous and I was scared- driving fast and happy and somehow feeling so right.
Surfing, Diving, Volcano climbing
I bought booties first, to walk across the reef bottom. I stepped gently, not wanting to break off the life beneath my feet. I thought a lot about the reef while I was surfing. I thought about it growing, I thought about it breaking off into me. Once it snagged my surfboard leash, on a small day at the Gili Islands. I broke off that piece of reef. I can hear it crunching.
There is a lot I haven't written yet about Indonesia. Truthfully, I'm scared to open my journal and reread it and copy it to this blog. I'm scared of missing the ocean, the islands, the travel, and Sarah.
I printed a picture of me doing a handstand on a beach that was white, sliding into clear, turquoise water, a green headland in the background. In the picture my feet reach its peak.
I rest the picture on my desk and I'm not sure why its there. I am tan in the picture and strong from weeks of surfing. I feel alive after feeling so vulnerable on the reef and in the ocean. I am on a beach and no one else is there. I reached the beach by motorbike and it was dangerous and I was scared- driving fast and happy and somehow feeling so right.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Moto Blues
On Friday I woke up with a sore throat. I got myself out of bed and started the drive to Korsang. At the corner of Norodom and Mao Tse Tung Blvds., I saw the police in their blue and orange uniforms and looking so cold and sad. I checked my signals and avoided eye contact. They directed me to pull over. They are mean as hell. No one in Phnom Penh has mirrors on their motorbikes, but it was time for them to demand fines. I paid off a dollar to the pocket of a policeman, for my freedom, and for their New Years Celebrations.
When I first started driving the moto I did so with a frightening degree of excitement. Abandonment. I learned how to navigate the streets like the Cambodians- against traffic, on the sidewalks, in and around and infront and between all cars and cyclos and motorbikes, and to the point of barely dodging the most obscure obstacles that were only avoided by astute attention to the peripherals. I prided myself in my steering, in my fearlessness.
But gradually it wore me out. The excitement exited out of my body as I laid in bed each night feeling happy to be alive.
After my run-in with the cops, I resumed my seriousness on the moto, carefully crossing each intersection where a game of chicken ensued. I crossed two streets, asserting to everyone in question that I did not fear them nearly side-swiping me, and that in fact, I was on the main road and they must slow, for their own damn well-being.
Two intersections were crossed in such manner.
Then I got hit by a van. It mustn't have seen me, for it slowed a minute, indicating I should continue on at normal speed. But then it sped up and we collided with just enough force to send my moto to the ground, and me just barely with it. Mostly, I avoided contact with the pavement. Fear and adrenaline forbid my rememberance of the moment. Only my hands hit. I picked up my bike quickly, looked at my body with profound disbelief and pride at its ability to endure. Two men jumped out of the van and much to my surprise, they apologized. I said it was okay and drove off as quickly as possible in order to avoid a scene. Immediately I reached an intersection and saw the much feared police, so naturaly I turned sharply against traffic and continued along the side, careful to avoid head-on collisions.
When I first started driving the moto I did so with a frightening degree of excitement. Abandonment. I learned how to navigate the streets like the Cambodians- against traffic, on the sidewalks, in and around and infront and between all cars and cyclos and motorbikes, and to the point of barely dodging the most obscure obstacles that were only avoided by astute attention to the peripherals. I prided myself in my steering, in my fearlessness.
But gradually it wore me out. The excitement exited out of my body as I laid in bed each night feeling happy to be alive.
After my run-in with the cops, I resumed my seriousness on the moto, carefully crossing each intersection where a game of chicken ensued. I crossed two streets, asserting to everyone in question that I did not fear them nearly side-swiping me, and that in fact, I was on the main road and they must slow, for their own damn well-being.
Two intersections were crossed in such manner.
Then I got hit by a van. It mustn't have seen me, for it slowed a minute, indicating I should continue on at normal speed. But then it sped up and we collided with just enough force to send my moto to the ground, and me just barely with it. Mostly, I avoided contact with the pavement. Fear and adrenaline forbid my rememberance of the moment. Only my hands hit. I picked up my bike quickly, looked at my body with profound disbelief and pride at its ability to endure. Two men jumped out of the van and much to my surprise, they apologized. I said it was okay and drove off as quickly as possible in order to avoid a scene. Immediately I reached an intersection and saw the much feared police, so naturaly I turned sharply against traffic and continued along the side, careful to avoid head-on collisions.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Being Scared
Every story is more complex than we ever hope for it to be. Eve was murdered two weeks ago. And that is devastating. In dealing with a person's death I think its natural to try and create images for every moment that could have passed during that last night. This was especially the case for me, hearing about it on vacation in Thailand, away from fast computers, good news sources and friends. I received a text the night after Eve's death from Erin in Phnom Penh telling me I should check my email: sad news from UNC.
I ran to an internet cafe. It was 10pm and the place was about to close. When I saw Eve's picture on the opening page of UNC's website, it didn't register that she had died. I was used to seeing her picture everywhere.
I imagined my last conversation with her. How rushed I had been! Standing in the Weaver Street parking lot- my backpack was on! I was decked out in my hiking pants. I was leaving that moment for this trip. Kristen drove up, ready to take me to the airport. Eve was also rushed, she always had a million things on her mind and in her hands. But she was so excited to see me. We hadn't seen each other since graduation. I think her excitement was less about seeing me, but more about seeing someone on the other side--the other side of graduation. She wanted to hear about my trip. She was thinking about traveling herself when she finished school. She just wanted to see the world- to see, do, touch all that she could. And she was so excited to talk about what was next.
I didn't have a chance to find out many details about her death that night. Most people knew very little about the circumstances of her death in the beginning anyway. Even now, after learning more, I still try to imagine every second that lead up to it. As I'm pouring a draft at Talking to a Stranger or cleaning an infected cut for a kid in Boeung Trabek, I suddenly stop and can't keep my mind from imagining. It's salsa night at the bar and I see a girl dancing by herself, long hair, laughing with her friends and I imagine Eve in Cuba with Margaret and I'm so sad for her, for Margaret, for everyone.
I imagine the possibilities for Eve that night- did she almost decide to go on to sleep, did she almost get away, did she run, did she try to convince them not to shoot her, where exactly was she shot, what were her last words, and who was she thinking about? Mostly though, I imagine just how deeply sad she was to let go of it all.
I don't know whether to be terrified. Am I supposed to be constantly conscious of every danger, every where? She was killed a block from where I had lived my senior year at Chapel Hill.
This summer when Ginger and I drove to San Francisco together and camped outside in the Grand Canyon, she woke me up, "EB, are you scared?" I said, "No, don't think about it and it'll be fine. I think there are too many people around us for bears anyway." But she wasn't scared of bears. She was scared of a man. So we locked ourselves in her car for the night.
When I found out that Eve had been shot, my immediate thought was that she had been killed by a man. And now I hear all of this uproar about race. A white man may say, "Whats wrong with the black youth of today?" Or, "I suspected that the guy was in a gang." Or, "Of course he was from Durham." And the white men, again, as they have forever in America, fear for their beautiful white daughters.
Does this not get at the root of racial problems between white and blackmen in America- a black guy taking (violently or in matrimony) a white woman.
So we spend our lives protecting our white women from black men. And we punish, consistently, black men for it.
Eve wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want racial tensions to flare as a result of her death. More and more she becomes less of an individual. She is lost to the cause. Is this how it should be? Does she become a martyr for stricter gun laws? For tighter gang regulation? Who can we blame, how can we honor her?
The problem with the black youth in America is a societal problem. And I blame all of us. Who does a black youth turn to when he can't get a job or education or any direction? Some turn to gangs. Everyone wants family, for someone to support them and for someone whom they can support. Its hard to blame someone for joining a gang when they have nothing- no country, no home.
In some ways, this is a race issue. But I think its unfair to call it a problem with African Americans. I think white America has to own up to it. We cannot ignore the way that we've marginalized non-whites since the founding of our country.
Maybe Eve's murder should be the impetus for a different conversation. Instead of asking, "Whats wrong with the black youth?" we could ask, "Whats wrong with patriarchy? Whats wrong with American men? Why is no one surprised that another act of violence was committed by a man?" I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I wish it weren't so, but I am scared of men.
I ran to an internet cafe. It was 10pm and the place was about to close. When I saw Eve's picture on the opening page of UNC's website, it didn't register that she had died. I was used to seeing her picture everywhere.
I imagined my last conversation with her. How rushed I had been! Standing in the Weaver Street parking lot- my backpack was on! I was decked out in my hiking pants. I was leaving that moment for this trip. Kristen drove up, ready to take me to the airport. Eve was also rushed, she always had a million things on her mind and in her hands. But she was so excited to see me. We hadn't seen each other since graduation. I think her excitement was less about seeing me, but more about seeing someone on the other side--the other side of graduation. She wanted to hear about my trip. She was thinking about traveling herself when she finished school. She just wanted to see the world- to see, do, touch all that she could. And she was so excited to talk about what was next.
I didn't have a chance to find out many details about her death that night. Most people knew very little about the circumstances of her death in the beginning anyway. Even now, after learning more, I still try to imagine every second that lead up to it. As I'm pouring a draft at Talking to a Stranger or cleaning an infected cut for a kid in Boeung Trabek, I suddenly stop and can't keep my mind from imagining. It's salsa night at the bar and I see a girl dancing by herself, long hair, laughing with her friends and I imagine Eve in Cuba with Margaret and I'm so sad for her, for Margaret, for everyone.
I imagine the possibilities for Eve that night- did she almost decide to go on to sleep, did she almost get away, did she run, did she try to convince them not to shoot her, where exactly was she shot, what were her last words, and who was she thinking about? Mostly though, I imagine just how deeply sad she was to let go of it all.
I don't know whether to be terrified. Am I supposed to be constantly conscious of every danger, every where? She was killed a block from where I had lived my senior year at Chapel Hill.
This summer when Ginger and I drove to San Francisco together and camped outside in the Grand Canyon, she woke me up, "EB, are you scared?" I said, "No, don't think about it and it'll be fine. I think there are too many people around us for bears anyway." But she wasn't scared of bears. She was scared of a man. So we locked ourselves in her car for the night.
When I found out that Eve had been shot, my immediate thought was that she had been killed by a man. And now I hear all of this uproar about race. A white man may say, "Whats wrong with the black youth of today?" Or, "I suspected that the guy was in a gang." Or, "Of course he was from Durham." And the white men, again, as they have forever in America, fear for their beautiful white daughters.
Does this not get at the root of racial problems between white and blackmen in America- a black guy taking (violently or in matrimony) a white woman.
So we spend our lives protecting our white women from black men. And we punish, consistently, black men for it.
Eve wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want racial tensions to flare as a result of her death. More and more she becomes less of an individual. She is lost to the cause. Is this how it should be? Does she become a martyr for stricter gun laws? For tighter gang regulation? Who can we blame, how can we honor her?
The problem with the black youth in America is a societal problem. And I blame all of us. Who does a black youth turn to when he can't get a job or education or any direction? Some turn to gangs. Everyone wants family, for someone to support them and for someone whom they can support. Its hard to blame someone for joining a gang when they have nothing- no country, no home.
In some ways, this is a race issue. But I think its unfair to call it a problem with African Americans. I think white America has to own up to it. We cannot ignore the way that we've marginalized non-whites since the founding of our country.
Maybe Eve's murder should be the impetus for a different conversation. Instead of asking, "Whats wrong with the black youth?" we could ask, "Whats wrong with patriarchy? Whats wrong with American men? Why is no one surprised that another act of violence was committed by a man?" I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I wish it weren't so, but I am scared of men.
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