People from back home in the general vicinity of Waynesville, OH have often asked me what the best thing about living in Chicago is. I'm usually torn about what I should tell them; the abundance of artistic and creative happenings that is so completely overwhelming that the only way to take it all in is to have millions of dollars, copious amounts of free time, and unlimited evenings (i.e. holy crap it's impossible); the wide variety of food and culinary delights of all manner of ethnic types and cultures; the skyline and the sights that make Chicago uniquely its own (for example, the giant monument to baseball resting less than a hundred feet from my doorstep); the crazy stories and happenings that can only exist on public transit that every native has after only two weeks of living in the city. (For an example of the latter, please read the prior blog post.)
After a year and a half of city living, I can safely say that what I love best about living in Chicago is the opportunity to take part in being in just the right place at just the right time. Granted, this can happen anywhere in the world. To boil down my meaning, let me explain one of my basic philosophies of life. I am a firm believer that as long as one applies themselves to their passions and desires, everything that is supposed to happen in life tends to work out exactly the way its supposed to. This results in experiences that live beyond the moment of their occurrence, lifetime lessons that resonate long into the future, and transcendental epiphanies that help shape the course of one's future.
I typically follow up with deep-dish pizza, because people like tangible things that they can relate to. And I love deep-dish pizza.
Living in Chicago, however, has provided me with countless opportunities that have not only reaffirmed my choices in life, but have also pushed me to continue expanding what it is that I'm doing with my life, forcing me to truly examine why I'm doing what I'm doing at this point in time. It's forced me to truly identify what it means to be independent, and how to fill my days. It's also showed me, directly and indirectly, exactly what are the things that matter in my life.
Which brings me to Unabridged Books.
Last Saturday (February the 2nd, or Groundhog's Day for the fans of Bill Murray), I ventured out my door at about 12:30 in the afternoon to walk the six blocks from my apartment to Unabridged Books, an indie bookstore not far from the Belmont Red Line station. It was snowing rather heavily at the time, as Chicago winds its way through an unusually schizophrenic winter season, and my passage along the streets was slightly more adventuresome than I had been anticipating. I could have taken the Red Line, thus increasing the ease of my trip at the expense of standing around waiting for a train on Saturday for an additional ten to twenty minutes. On this day, however, I had resolved to brave the elements, pulling on my reserves of countrified endurance that can only come from marching a mile into a frozen cow pasture to convince an unruly bovine that "there's fresh hay in the barn, so PLEASE GET OUT OF THE SNOW", in order to make it to Unabridged Books with plenty of time to spare.
Dave Eggers was going to be there, at 2:00 pm, for a book signing.
I'll start by stating that prior to this day, I was a big fan of Eggers' work. A modern writer, a product (one might say) of Generation X, world traveler, and philanthropist, Eggers' first claim to fame was as the author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, a post-modern memoir recounting the death of both of his parents from cancer and his subsequent struggles to raise his much younger brother in San Francisco. At times hilarious, at times heart-rending, the book dives between fiction and non-fiction like a surfboard through choppy waters, pushing the boundaries of what can be considered memoir as well as how we can reconstruct our pasts to suit our own purposes while dealing with our own grief.
Needless to say, in the months following my mother's death from breast cancer, I turned to many familiar forms of comfort in my collection of books, music, and movies, looking for personal relief in ways that supplemented the support I was already receiving from multiple friends. I found that in the days immediately following the news that it was impossible to read; reading was something that my mother and I shared a deep passion for. Many is the night when I was living at home when I would come home from work, plop down on the couch opposite from her, and read my own book, spending time with her in a way far more meaningful than if we were to play board games or go out for dinner. Consequently, reading with an empty space on the opposite couch seemed hollow, if not downright impossible.
The first thing I actually attempted to read in the days following her passing was HWOSG, cracking it open in the days after her memorial service. Falling into its pages, I was able to relate to passages that before had seemed threatening, looming over my future like towering monoliths, reminding me of the inevitable. Now, they proved far more comforting than I had anticipated them to be, and I lived in that book for several days, reading and rereading it endlessly. In a two months' span of time, I read the book a total of three times, and it's always held a place of high honor on my shelf. I've also branched into Eggers' other works, though I have yet to read what many consider to be his masterpiece, Zeitoun, or his latest work, A Hologram for the King.
In short, I went to the book signing with quite a lot of additional baggage, in addition to the copies of his books that I now carried in my messenger bag.
Reaching Unabridged Books after a brisk ten minute walk, I sloughed off my trappings and approached the desk. The woman working there kindly offered to check my bag, which I gratefully accepted; standing in line for an hour and a half is only made worse by the amount of literal baggage you carry with you. In my case, I had a layer of winter clothing, my bag with all of my notebooks, journals, and other required reading materials, and my three Eggers' tomes. After a brief conversation regarding how my current attempt at a handlebar mustache resembles the one that Errol Flynn's stunt double wore, I began poking my nose about the store.
The signing table was set up at the back, and I was relieved to find that at the exact moment of my entry into the store, only two people were in line. This is no small feat; in Chicago, if there's an event on a grand scale happening, people are willing to brave the elements and wait in line for anywhere up to four hours. Trust me on this; I went to an advance screening of The Artist last December, arrived two hours before, and found that there were already upwards of thirty people in line.
Anyway, I seized a quick opportunity to pick up a copy of How We Are Hungry, a collection of short stories by Eggers. It always feels of the utmost importance to support small bookstores, new and used, whenever I enter; it's an unwritten rule I have. Having been through a bookstore closing, I am convinced that the only way to ensure the survival of smaller stores is by making sure that I financially compensate such places whenever I walk through their doors. While this may or may not guarantee the fiscal survival of indie bookstores, it does make for a surplus of books on my shelves, as well as a slightly lessened wallet when it comes time to shopping for things such as, you know, food.
Sacrifices.
Planting myself in line, I looked at my cell phone and discovered that, as it was only 1:00 pm, I had an hour to kill. Had I been anywhere but a bookstore, this might have been unbearable. Fortunately, I was in a bookstore. This wasn't waiting for an author to sign my books, this was a chance for pleasure reading! Arriving early worked to my advantage as not only would I get my books signed quickly, but I could browse through books that I didn't have at home!
Picking up the nearest book next to me, I read the first couple of essays in Patton Oswalt's Zombie Spaceship Wasteland. Expecting humorous anecdotes and quirky observations, I was immediately struck by his relating a story of growing up in suburban Virginia. Reading quickly, I found that at a young age, Oswalt felt bogged down by the trappings of a quiet life, surrounded by burnouts and unambitious twenty-somethings at the movie theater where he worked as an usher. Again and again, he related the observation that getting out when he did was the best thing that he could have ever done in his life.
It might just be my willingness to relate to anyone and anything I discover on printed pages, but I could only feel empathy as I read through his essay. I knew those people! I left some of those people behind myself! WE ARE BROTHERS, PATTON OSWALT AND I!
I try not to read too many memoirs of current popular actors and comedians; they tend to bring out the worst in me.
As time passed by, the line grew and grew. Soon, it wrapped around the upper level of the bookstore, extending down into the basement travel section. I could only feel an intense sense of relief that I had arrived when I did. The only book signing I had been to prior to Mr. Eggers was when Sean Astin visited Springfield, OH to sign copies of his autobiography. This coming in the wake of the Oscar domination of Return of the King, it was quite a popular event. After his lecture, there was just enough time for me and my family to drive home, give me the car, start driving back alone, get pulled over and receive a ticket for speeding, arrive back in Springfield (almost an hour away, mind you), get in line, and wait a further hour to get Mr. Astin's signature on my edition of Lord of the Rings. By this time, Sean Astin resembled something of a zombie, mindlessly signing books as they were placed in front of them, with a horribly forced smile for the crowd.
It was my resolution not to be the guy waiting three hours in line for a mindless scribble.
2:00 rolled around, and Dave Eggers was nowhere to be seen. At 2:05, the crowd began to exchange worried looks. Would he show? Was he late? What if there was a horribly tragic car accident? What if he decided "Screw these peeps, Ima get myself to O'Hare and fly to MEX-EE-COOOO!"? (That last one might be a stretch of the imagination, but I swear, the face on the girl behind me appeared as if she was pondering that exact possibility. It's a very distinct look; you can't miss it.) At 2:10, the owner of the store informed us that Eggers had just left his prior book signing, and was traveling to the store as quickly as he could, prompting a sigh of relief from the small horde of fans in the store.
At 2:17, I looked towards the doorway, not visible from my spot in line, crouched behind a shelf filled with coffee table art books. I could see the entry way, however, featuring a tack board covered with announcements and fliers. I could tell when the door had opened, as a breeze ruffled the fliers ominously. In the back of my mind, a deep voice, probably James Earl Jones' circa Field of Dreams, seemed to say "A great man has arrived."
And then Dave Eggers walked into the store.
A short man (people are always shorter than I imagined them to be, a byproduct of being a tall man myself), his hair was long and shaggy, exactly as I imagined it to be. He wore a blue University of Illinois hooded sweatshirt that looked as though he'd had it since the early 90's; I mean, this thing was filthy. Maybe not that filthy, but bear with me. That part of my brain that identifies with my heroes immediately suggested that he looked much the way that I do on a Saturday morning. You know, like a normal guy.
One of these days, I'll get over my obnoxious case of hero worship.
"Sorry I'm late," he gushed, walking towards the owner. He then turned to take in the line, all watching him with rapt interest. "Sorry everybody!" he said, flinching only slightly.
He was swiftly escorted to the signing table, where he sat down with a hand to his forehead. "Can I get you anything to drink?" asked a helpful employee. "Water? Coffee? Anything - "
"Asprin," said Dave Eggers, looking directly at the employee. "Asprin, please." As the employee ran off to get asprin, I deduced two possible reasons for his needing pain-killers: 1) that signing books for three hours twice a day would give anyone a headache; 2) he had a hangover after hanging out with lifelong friends the night before. (As Mr. Eggers is a consummate professional, in the middle of a long signing tour, and didn't appear otherwise hungover, the latter is most likely just a fantasy scenario in my mind. But hey, you never know.)
Without further ado, the signing began.
The first man in line held several hardcover copies of all of his books. Dave took one look at the pile, said "Hello" and started signing.
"You ever come in here before?" he said, punctuating his signing with forceful stabs of his black Sharpie marker.
"Uh, no," stammered the guy. His hardcover editions, all published by McSweeney's (Eggers' own publishing house), suggested that he only ventured out occasionally, acquiring books as they came. No doubt a devoted fan, he flinched beneath the uninterested face of the writer before him.
"Well," said Dave Eggers, "You should!" He finished signing, shook the man's head, and bid him out the door.
The next guy had only a few books, but told Dave that he was there for his girlfriend. "You're a good boyfriend," said Eggers, signing the books to Sheena after inquiring about the spelling of the name. Already, he seemed cordial and relaxed, quite impressive given that he'd probably be signing somewhere in the vicinity of one thousand to two thousand books today.
Finally, it was my turn.
I approached hesitantly, conscious of my lower moral standing in comparison with a writer that I've followed for years.
Before he even asked my name, he looked at me and said: "Nice mustache!"
Dave Eggers likes my mustache! I died a little bit inside, smiling the awkward smile of the imbecilic, and muttering "Thanks".
"Do you wax it?"
I immediately realized that my tongue was incapable of forming human speech. (Dave Eggers likes my mustache, you guys!) "Uh, no, it's infant - it's uh, infan - it's still in its infancy."
Dave Eggers now thinks I'm a moron.
He asked my name and began signing his books. Before he could get beyond the writing of my name, I looked at him and said "I just want to let you know that, uh, Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is what helped me get through my mom's death a year ago. Almost exclusively."
And then he stopped.
And then he looked at me. "I'm sorry to hear that. How are you holding up?"
This was not what I expected. In my relations with celebrities of any standing, such encounters are usually tight and formal, sticking to a finely tuned script. (This would be somewhat proven by rather formulaic inscriptions on the other books I had brought: "Stay Hungry." "I Hope You See the World." "Keep Listening." For him to actively ask about my state of being completely rattled me. I almost didn't know what to do beyond bolt for the door.
"Uh, well, you know," I said. How can I possibly relate to him? I lost my mother, sure, but he lost both of his parents at the same time from horrible diseases and then had to take care of a young boy without any prior warning! We're on completely different levels. "It's been a long year," I said finally. "Not the easiest time." He nodded at this, setting aside HWOSG and moving on to the other books before he had finished signing that one. "I guess - just trying to move on, you know."
"Well, you don't," he said, looking down at his books. "I'm still getting over everything that happened in my life, and it never leaves you, you know? It never goes away. It's always there.
"And that's okay."
I have no words.
"What you can do is: write about it." He finished signing my other three books, though HWOSG still sat to the side, awaiting his Sharpie. "You know, anecdotes, memories, things that only you remember. I'm losing a little bit more everyday, and it hurts, man. But you've just got to take what you can, and know that it never leaves you. But that's okay."
I'm almost in tears. I'm sure he said more, but just hearing those words come from someone I've always admired moved me in a way that I've only felt a few times before. It opened up new wounds, it bared my soul wide open, and shook the foundations of the store. There were no other people in line, waiting to get their books signed; it was only me and Dave Eggers. And he felt the same way.
"Wow," I said finally. "Thanks. She - I know she only wanted the best for me and my brother." He nodded, pulling HWOSG back to sign. "Breast cancer." He grunted, feeling the pain. "Twelve years. But she never quit. She was still teaching two days before she died." Saying that last part might feel almost rote to others by now, but I'm constantly amazed by the idea that my mother, in the middle of dying, still had it in her to teach at two separate colleges; that's why it never feels scripted to let others know that.
"She sounds like a true warrior, then," said Dave Eggers.
Now I actually did feel tears coursing down my cheek.
"Remember," he said, finishing whatever he was writing in HWOSG as he slid it back to me. "Memories fade. The pain doesn't, though. That's why it's so important to remember the things that matter. Keep writing, keep doing whatever it takes to hold on to those. I wish I'd written down a hundred things that are lost, now. But do that, and you'll stay strong."
We shook hands. "Thank you," I said.
"Take care, man."
As I walked away, I looked back at him. The next person in line was already moving up eagerly. "Good luck, man."
He laughed, understanding my sympathies and consciously aware of the long hours awaiting him. "Thanks."
I stepped over to the desk, retrieved my bags, and thanked the lady working at the desk, clutching my books tightly to my chest. Bundling myself up, I stepped out the door and make the quick walk to the Red Line, bound for downtown where I had to work that evening. (I had to meet Dave Eggers in my server's uniform. I am a tool.) I hadn't opened the books yet, waiting to sit down so that the paperbacks wouldn't be marred by the snow. Finally, I fought my way onto the train, taking a seat at the rear of the car. Pulling out my stack of Eggers' work, I began riffling through the pages to see what was written.
How We Are Hungry: Stay Hungry.
You Shall Know Our Velocity!: I Hope You See the World.
What is the What: Keep Listening.
Each punctuated by his sprawling signature. Often repeated, broken down to easy words for a mass audience, I wasn't bothered by their casualness. (They had my name at the top, man!) Dave Eggers had a long day ahead of him; just the fact that he bothered to write anything was impressive.
And then I opened A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.
Travis,
With profound thanks.
Be well.
STAY STRONG.
Dave Eggers
I understand that he must have a conversation similar to mine every ten minutes of his book signings; he's a popular author. I realize that the above inscription might be what he writes in every copy of the book; it's his life story, of course he'll be profoundly thankful to people for reading it. I also realize that he might say the same thing to everyone he meets, at lectures, in interviews, and in casual street encounters.
But none of that matters.
It was exactly what I needed to hear at the exact right moment.
And really, that's all that matters to me.
HWOSG sits on my coffee table now, not far from reach. I'm working through a pile of reading at the moment, but it is in that pile now, forcibly inserted by these recent events. In my head, I'm working through exactly how to implement the suggestions that Dave passed on to me. I could write a biography of my mother's life; I could continue to write stories about growing up; I'm working on a full-length play about how we deal with grief, with cancer, and with living. A hundred different ideas have passed through my mind, as I work from a garden apartment near Wrigley Field.
It'll be a year ago a week from Sunday.
In that time, I've gone through three drafts of my first book, completed the second draft of the sequel, written a dozen short stories, two short plays, and agreed to direct my first full length show since graduating college. All of it knowing that my mom is watching.
Now I know that, truthfully or not, Dave Eggers is rooting for me as well.
And that's more than I could ever ask for.
(Sidenote #1: A catch-up on where The Atlantean Chronicles stands. As of now, the first draft of Book II is completed, and my small army of readers are pouring over it, discovering new ways to tell me about how much I suck. In the meantime, I've resolved to self-publish Book I: Defenders of Avondale. I'm in contact with an artist friend of mine who's willing to provide a cover, and going over my options. What I can safely say is that it will be available in e-book format on Smashwords.com, most likely for a price of $5.00, with whatever I make from that being used to buy a new laptop that isn't cracked, ten years old, and slower than molasses. If you have a tablet/e-reader/Kindle/iPad, you'll be able to read it. If not, let me know, and I'll figure something out. In addition, I've decided that to further honor my mother, 10% of the proceeds from the sales of the book will be donated to the National Wildlife Federation. So that's ANOTHER reason you should get an e-reader! Stay tuned for more information.)
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Monday, January 21, 2013
Once and Future Freedoms: An Open Letter to a Woman Encountered on the CTA Red Line
Dear Madam,
I will be honest: you're probably not a reader of this online blog. I am aware that my readership is somewhat limited in scope and nature, and that it is absolutely unreasonable of me to expect a complete stranger to take an interest in my writings. This is especially certain given that I have no means of ever reaching you, contacting you, or even guaranteeing that our paths will cross once again (though the last is out of my control, as the ease and accessibility of public transit in this town is coupled with a certain unpredictability of contact). I will continue to be honest when I say that, quite frankly, I couldn't care less if we were to never see each other again; I cannot be certain that this will disappoint you, but given the nature of our interaction, I am led to believe that you could also care less.
I must frame the context of our interaction by telling the story of what happened on this afternoon on the CTA Red Line, this afternoon being the coldest day of the young 2013. In the interest of painting an unbiased portrayal of events, I will first give an observer's description of what occurred, followed by my respective thoughts and opinions. (You might feel that this afternoon was fairly inconsequential in the grand scheme of your life's history, and this may well be the case, but as far as I am concerned, I have a certain duty to post a commentary on what transpired on our subway car.)
I had just gotten off work from my busy restaurant located in the heart of downtown Chicago (although busy might be a liberal overuse of the word at this time of year; scraping by doesn't fully do justice to the state of my financial well-being during the first months of the year). The train I elected to board for my trip home, as one might expect at 4:00 in the afternoon, was fairly crowded, with several passengers being required to stand and utilize the steel handrails while riding. I was lucky enough to board at the Lake station, by which point enough passengers had disembarked that I was able to procure a seat in the crowded car. This is especially useful to me, as I enjoy reading while traveling; I get most of my reading for pleasure done during my utilization of public transit. My particular experience on this run of the Red Line was uneventful for the first leg of my run (Lake to Grand/State), which allowed me to catch up in my book of choice. (Chuck Klosterman's Killing Yourself to Live, in case you were wondering, although I don't believe that particular detail is necessary to the moral of the story. I just like sharing a good book title when I'm reading it. Then again, after relating what transpired this afternoon, I get the feeling that you don't read much.)
You boarded the train at Grand/State. I barely noticed the location of the stop, with your appearance bringing me out of my private world enough to notice where in Chicago we were at the time. To be honest, I often get so enraptured in my own bubble of reading pleasure when I ride public transit, I have a tendency to miss my stop and continue on down the line, forcing myself to disembark several blocks away from my final destination. (If I were tweeting every inane detail of my life, this would have to be hash-tagged '#firstworldproblems'. Fortunately, this is not Twitter.) What did happen was that you managed to puncture my focus and solitude, as well as the relative tranquility of every other passenger in the car, when you chose to declare at maximum volume the following phrase:
"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME."
Riding the Red Line leads me to experience a great many scenarios that the average reader of this blog might never get to see in their everyday life. The communal nature of the Red Line, as well as the relative economic cost of public transit in Chicago, ensures that a certain air of eccentricity is maintained in the train cars. For example, the other day, I was riding along when the train stopped at Chicago/State to allow passengers to board/disembark. While stopped, a man (who I can only believe is homeless, though the relative cleanliness of his shoes and well-shaven face gives me pause when making such a declaration) stood up from his seat in the middle of the car, walked to the open doors, and flung a bag of empty cans onto the boarding platform before returning to his seat. When the train remained stopped for 'technical difficulties', he repeated the action with a bag filled with paper garbage. Having now thrown two bags of refuse from the car, he smartly saluted his created monument to disposable waste before returning to his seat. I should point out that nobody said anything to the man regarding his discarded luggage, nor did anyone even raise an eyebrow at his peculiar actions. (Apart from one girl sitting across from me, who shared a look with me that could only read "What the heck have we gotten ourselves into?" I answered back with a shrug, which produced a giggle from her before we both returned to our reading of choice, mine being the aforementioned title and hers being George R.R. Martin's A Storm of Swords. There is a small part of me that remains convinced that this was the love of my life, whom I shall never again encounter. I could write stories about how many people in Chicago I know bemoan their lost "CTA crushes".)
I bring up this story in order to point out that users of the CTA are a hard crowd to rattle, no matter how extreme the actions of its occupants.
Which makes the following story all the more interesting, from where I was sitting.
As I mentioned before, your declarative statement snapped me from the private reverie of my reading material, gathering the attentions of every other rider in the car. The particular tone of voice that you used (with such wonderful projection! my actor's heart says) is one that your average Chicago citizen would associate with sexual assault, attempted theft, or being set on fire. As we (I'm including the other passengers in my car in this usage of the possessive pronoun "we" from hereon in) looked in your general direction with alarm and concern for your well-being, we were treated to watch you storm your way from one end of the train to the other, taking a seat at the far end of the car. From your state of dress, it was possible to discern the following: a) you are not homeless; b) you are a white, middle-age woman with long blonde hair and the wherewithal to have acquired a white fur coat; c) you were either dressed for casual shopping downtown or for a light luncheon in the city (I'm inclined toward the former due to your holding a shopping bag from Macy's); and d) you were not intoxicated, though that again could be a misjudgment on my part.
As you took your seat at the end of the car, you glared back towards your original boarding spot with a look of pure vitriol in your eyes, the kind of look reserved for someone who has made a highly inappropriate pass at you in a crowded bar. While still spitting venom from your eyes towards the opposite end of the car, you made the second of five statements I overheard from you in the train car this afternoon, with this one being delivered with a volume equal to (or slightly less than) your first statement:
"Fucking foreigners."
At this point, every eye in the car, which until then had been trained on you, shot back towards the open car door to observe the offending party in your domestic encounter. I expected to see a large and imposing male, or perhaps a group of mischievous teenagers (of which there are many on the Red Line). Instead, what I observed were two girls of Asian descent, staring in your general direction with a mixture of hurt, confusion, and (mostly) intense disbelief at what had just transpired.
The train departed from the station, moving into the tunnel. What happened next was what struck me so profoundly; every eye in the car, including and especially those of us who had until this point been reading and keeping quietly to ourselves, was drawn back to you. Granted, this might have been out of a fear that you would suddenly burst into flames, pull out an Uzi, and scream bloody murder as you defended your fervent nationalist pride. Given the looks of loathing and disgust for you and your state of being that many of us seemed to share, I highly doubt this. What I know is that two white patrons of the CTA apparently struck up a conversation with you. I cannot say that I heard what they were saying, or that I heard every word of your next two phrases, but from the nature of your statements and the events that transpired afterwards, I can only imagine that their inquiries consisted of something in the nature of "What the fuck is your problem, lady?" Your responses that I was able to overhear are printed as follows:
"What, I need to see a psychiatrist?"
"I'm not a pedophile!"
(In the grand scheme of things, Statement #4 might be irrelevant to the entirety of the scenario, but it is my journalistic intent to portray the happenings of this afternoon as accurately as I am able to report them.)
By this point, the focus of every rider in the car was locked on you. You stood up and swayed in the back door of the car, holding onto the rails for support as you turned your head away from making eye contact with anyone else in the train. You remained this way until the train reached its next destination, the Chicago/State stop. Again, this is one entire stretch of track where the eyes of every rider in the car were on you. The sheer probability of this ever happening on public transit is typically reserved for instances involving fire, murder, or one of those crazy flash mobs that I hear about happening from time to time. When the doors opened ("on the right") at Chicago/State, you left from your precarious perch in the safety door and walked towards the nearest exit. As you did this, you uttered the last of your statements for the benefit of the entire car to hear, which I now reprint with 100% accuracy:
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know I should be afraid of free speech!"
You then disembarked, walking towards the nearest staircase to reach the street. As I covered before, it is unlikely that our paths will ever cross again, and as far as I'm concerned, good riddance.
The 'offending parties' remained standing, exchanging a confused snapshot of conversation with a seated patron, probably somewhere along the lines of "what the hell just happened?". They did nothing to suggest any malevolence, and I'm pretty sure that at no point in their afternoon did they bear any ill will to you or to your person. There IS A CHANCE that you were referencing someone behind them, although I doubt this because they were the only ones who seemed to make any eye contact with you prior to your outburst, as well as the fact that the train car behind them was empty. (2 + 2 = Racism?)
The moral to my story is that this transpired on Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
You may have had cause to say the things that you said. You may have a history that led you to shout with such hatred the things that you shouted. I don't feel like there's anything that anyone could have done to you short of physical assault that would warrant such an outburst, however, and I find it exceedingly unlikely that those girls in any way deserved the vile hatred you spewed. What I can say is that, for once, I am glad that you were able to perceive the general mood of your surroundings. I am glad that everyone on the train, regardless of background, recognized what you did and reacted with displeasure. Not violence, or a countering epithet that would have led to verbal warfare, but rather a silent protest against your actions regarding fellow patrons of the CTA.
You are right when you suggest that you should not be afraid of "free speech." You had every right to say what you did. However, you must also remember that we (the other people on the train with you, including those "foreigners" you seemed to loathe so much) have an equal right to freedom of speech, and to respond to your statements with thoughts and words of our own. That's an American value, but even more so, it is a universal value. Dr. King pointed that out several times in his life. (or at least, I think he did. If you can prove otherwise, please let me know: travis.cook.j@gmail.com)
It's good that you recognized our disapproval of your actions, and it's especially wonderful that this disapproval was a universal feeling. I'm proud to have been in a place where such a counter to prejudice could take place. In the grand scheme of things, this is a relatively small and inconsequential matter, but for one afternoon, a crowd full of strangers were able to unite against hate without resorting to angry words, violent action, or forcing a confrontation where one would possibly be warranted. (Those two patrons who tried to talk to you non-withstanding.) What you felt wasn't an outcry against what you said; it was a judgment on what you did and what it represents, which is purely blind bigotry. It was made in the eyes of your fellow man, and carried out with a subtle shift of the atmosphere of the train car that required no mass demonstration and resulting in nothing more than you feeling as though you had to leave the train car. It wasn't your speech being threatened; it was your worldview, which came crashing down around you like a broken glass house, shattered by the stones that you cast.
We've come a long way over the years in terms of how we relate to one another, and there is surely much work to be done. This was especially proven to me by the fact that your actions seemed to be of second-nature to you. However, as an aesthetic background to the daily actions of the Red Line (and to modern American society), you were decidedly out of line.
You shouldn't be afraid of freedom of speech. But you also need to realize that we are not afraid of it, either.
Yours truly,
Travis J. Cook, fellow patron of the CTA
P.S. Next time, take a cab.
P.P.S. Although you should know that cabs are usually driven by minorities in this city. Wouldn't want you to be trapped in a small car with someone you actively despise. I bet your driver would have a lot more to say about the subject at hand.
I will be honest: you're probably not a reader of this online blog. I am aware that my readership is somewhat limited in scope and nature, and that it is absolutely unreasonable of me to expect a complete stranger to take an interest in my writings. This is especially certain given that I have no means of ever reaching you, contacting you, or even guaranteeing that our paths will cross once again (though the last is out of my control, as the ease and accessibility of public transit in this town is coupled with a certain unpredictability of contact). I will continue to be honest when I say that, quite frankly, I couldn't care less if we were to never see each other again; I cannot be certain that this will disappoint you, but given the nature of our interaction, I am led to believe that you could also care less.
I must frame the context of our interaction by telling the story of what happened on this afternoon on the CTA Red Line, this afternoon being the coldest day of the young 2013. In the interest of painting an unbiased portrayal of events, I will first give an observer's description of what occurred, followed by my respective thoughts and opinions. (You might feel that this afternoon was fairly inconsequential in the grand scheme of your life's history, and this may well be the case, but as far as I am concerned, I have a certain duty to post a commentary on what transpired on our subway car.)
I had just gotten off work from my busy restaurant located in the heart of downtown Chicago (although busy might be a liberal overuse of the word at this time of year; scraping by doesn't fully do justice to the state of my financial well-being during the first months of the year). The train I elected to board for my trip home, as one might expect at 4:00 in the afternoon, was fairly crowded, with several passengers being required to stand and utilize the steel handrails while riding. I was lucky enough to board at the Lake station, by which point enough passengers had disembarked that I was able to procure a seat in the crowded car. This is especially useful to me, as I enjoy reading while traveling; I get most of my reading for pleasure done during my utilization of public transit. My particular experience on this run of the Red Line was uneventful for the first leg of my run (Lake to Grand/State), which allowed me to catch up in my book of choice. (Chuck Klosterman's Killing Yourself to Live, in case you were wondering, although I don't believe that particular detail is necessary to the moral of the story. I just like sharing a good book title when I'm reading it. Then again, after relating what transpired this afternoon, I get the feeling that you don't read much.)
You boarded the train at Grand/State. I barely noticed the location of the stop, with your appearance bringing me out of my private world enough to notice where in Chicago we were at the time. To be honest, I often get so enraptured in my own bubble of reading pleasure when I ride public transit, I have a tendency to miss my stop and continue on down the line, forcing myself to disembark several blocks away from my final destination. (If I were tweeting every inane detail of my life, this would have to be hash-tagged '#firstworldproblems'. Fortunately, this is not Twitter.) What did happen was that you managed to puncture my focus and solitude, as well as the relative tranquility of every other passenger in the car, when you chose to declare at maximum volume the following phrase:
"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME."
Riding the Red Line leads me to experience a great many scenarios that the average reader of this blog might never get to see in their everyday life. The communal nature of the Red Line, as well as the relative economic cost of public transit in Chicago, ensures that a certain air of eccentricity is maintained in the train cars. For example, the other day, I was riding along when the train stopped at Chicago/State to allow passengers to board/disembark. While stopped, a man (who I can only believe is homeless, though the relative cleanliness of his shoes and well-shaven face gives me pause when making such a declaration) stood up from his seat in the middle of the car, walked to the open doors, and flung a bag of empty cans onto the boarding platform before returning to his seat. When the train remained stopped for 'technical difficulties', he repeated the action with a bag filled with paper garbage. Having now thrown two bags of refuse from the car, he smartly saluted his created monument to disposable waste before returning to his seat. I should point out that nobody said anything to the man regarding his discarded luggage, nor did anyone even raise an eyebrow at his peculiar actions. (Apart from one girl sitting across from me, who shared a look with me that could only read "What the heck have we gotten ourselves into?" I answered back with a shrug, which produced a giggle from her before we both returned to our reading of choice, mine being the aforementioned title and hers being George R.R. Martin's A Storm of Swords. There is a small part of me that remains convinced that this was the love of my life, whom I shall never again encounter. I could write stories about how many people in Chicago I know bemoan their lost "CTA crushes".)
I bring up this story in order to point out that users of the CTA are a hard crowd to rattle, no matter how extreme the actions of its occupants.
Which makes the following story all the more interesting, from where I was sitting.
As I mentioned before, your declarative statement snapped me from the private reverie of my reading material, gathering the attentions of every other rider in the car. The particular tone of voice that you used (with such wonderful projection! my actor's heart says) is one that your average Chicago citizen would associate with sexual assault, attempted theft, or being set on fire. As we (I'm including the other passengers in my car in this usage of the possessive pronoun "we" from hereon in) looked in your general direction with alarm and concern for your well-being, we were treated to watch you storm your way from one end of the train to the other, taking a seat at the far end of the car. From your state of dress, it was possible to discern the following: a) you are not homeless; b) you are a white, middle-age woman with long blonde hair and the wherewithal to have acquired a white fur coat; c) you were either dressed for casual shopping downtown or for a light luncheon in the city (I'm inclined toward the former due to your holding a shopping bag from Macy's); and d) you were not intoxicated, though that again could be a misjudgment on my part.
As you took your seat at the end of the car, you glared back towards your original boarding spot with a look of pure vitriol in your eyes, the kind of look reserved for someone who has made a highly inappropriate pass at you in a crowded bar. While still spitting venom from your eyes towards the opposite end of the car, you made the second of five statements I overheard from you in the train car this afternoon, with this one being delivered with a volume equal to (or slightly less than) your first statement:
"Fucking foreigners."
At this point, every eye in the car, which until then had been trained on you, shot back towards the open car door to observe the offending party in your domestic encounter. I expected to see a large and imposing male, or perhaps a group of mischievous teenagers (of which there are many on the Red Line). Instead, what I observed were two girls of Asian descent, staring in your general direction with a mixture of hurt, confusion, and (mostly) intense disbelief at what had just transpired.
The train departed from the station, moving into the tunnel. What happened next was what struck me so profoundly; every eye in the car, including and especially those of us who had until this point been reading and keeping quietly to ourselves, was drawn back to you. Granted, this might have been out of a fear that you would suddenly burst into flames, pull out an Uzi, and scream bloody murder as you defended your fervent nationalist pride. Given the looks of loathing and disgust for you and your state of being that many of us seemed to share, I highly doubt this. What I know is that two white patrons of the CTA apparently struck up a conversation with you. I cannot say that I heard what they were saying, or that I heard every word of your next two phrases, but from the nature of your statements and the events that transpired afterwards, I can only imagine that their inquiries consisted of something in the nature of "What the fuck is your problem, lady?" Your responses that I was able to overhear are printed as follows:
"What, I need to see a psychiatrist?"
"I'm not a pedophile!"
(In the grand scheme of things, Statement #4 might be irrelevant to the entirety of the scenario, but it is my journalistic intent to portray the happenings of this afternoon as accurately as I am able to report them.)
By this point, the focus of every rider in the car was locked on you. You stood up and swayed in the back door of the car, holding onto the rails for support as you turned your head away from making eye contact with anyone else in the train. You remained this way until the train reached its next destination, the Chicago/State stop. Again, this is one entire stretch of track where the eyes of every rider in the car were on you. The sheer probability of this ever happening on public transit is typically reserved for instances involving fire, murder, or one of those crazy flash mobs that I hear about happening from time to time. When the doors opened ("on the right") at Chicago/State, you left from your precarious perch in the safety door and walked towards the nearest exit. As you did this, you uttered the last of your statements for the benefit of the entire car to hear, which I now reprint with 100% accuracy:
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know I should be afraid of free speech!"
You then disembarked, walking towards the nearest staircase to reach the street. As I covered before, it is unlikely that our paths will ever cross again, and as far as I'm concerned, good riddance.
The 'offending parties' remained standing, exchanging a confused snapshot of conversation with a seated patron, probably somewhere along the lines of "what the hell just happened?". They did nothing to suggest any malevolence, and I'm pretty sure that at no point in their afternoon did they bear any ill will to you or to your person. There IS A CHANCE that you were referencing someone behind them, although I doubt this because they were the only ones who seemed to make any eye contact with you prior to your outburst, as well as the fact that the train car behind them was empty. (2 + 2 = Racism?)
The moral to my story is that this transpired on Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
You may have had cause to say the things that you said. You may have a history that led you to shout with such hatred the things that you shouted. I don't feel like there's anything that anyone could have done to you short of physical assault that would warrant such an outburst, however, and I find it exceedingly unlikely that those girls in any way deserved the vile hatred you spewed. What I can say is that, for once, I am glad that you were able to perceive the general mood of your surroundings. I am glad that everyone on the train, regardless of background, recognized what you did and reacted with displeasure. Not violence, or a countering epithet that would have led to verbal warfare, but rather a silent protest against your actions regarding fellow patrons of the CTA.
You are right when you suggest that you should not be afraid of "free speech." You had every right to say what you did. However, you must also remember that we (the other people on the train with you, including those "foreigners" you seemed to loathe so much) have an equal right to freedom of speech, and to respond to your statements with thoughts and words of our own. That's an American value, but even more so, it is a universal value. Dr. King pointed that out several times in his life. (or at least, I think he did. If you can prove otherwise, please let me know: travis.cook.j@gmail.com)
It's good that you recognized our disapproval of your actions, and it's especially wonderful that this disapproval was a universal feeling. I'm proud to have been in a place where such a counter to prejudice could take place. In the grand scheme of things, this is a relatively small and inconsequential matter, but for one afternoon, a crowd full of strangers were able to unite against hate without resorting to angry words, violent action, or forcing a confrontation where one would possibly be warranted. (Those two patrons who tried to talk to you non-withstanding.) What you felt wasn't an outcry against what you said; it was a judgment on what you did and what it represents, which is purely blind bigotry. It was made in the eyes of your fellow man, and carried out with a subtle shift of the atmosphere of the train car that required no mass demonstration and resulting in nothing more than you feeling as though you had to leave the train car. It wasn't your speech being threatened; it was your worldview, which came crashing down around you like a broken glass house, shattered by the stones that you cast.
We've come a long way over the years in terms of how we relate to one another, and there is surely much work to be done. This was especially proven to me by the fact that your actions seemed to be of second-nature to you. However, as an aesthetic background to the daily actions of the Red Line (and to modern American society), you were decidedly out of line.
You shouldn't be afraid of freedom of speech. But you also need to realize that we are not afraid of it, either.
Yours truly,
Travis J. Cook, fellow patron of the CTA
P.S. Next time, take a cab.
P.P.S. Although you should know that cabs are usually driven by minorities in this city. Wouldn't want you to be trapped in a small car with someone you actively despise. I bet your driver would have a lot more to say about the subject at hand.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
The Erstwhile Resolutions: Goals for 2013
I'll be honest: 2012 was a little bit up and down for me. It was probably the most eventful year of my life, and alternately filled with joy and downright depression. I'm glad for the experience, and there are moments which will resonate long into the years to come.
With that being said, there are a few things that I would like to have happen this year:
(This may sound slightly (OK, very) callow, shallow, and downright disrespectful, but believe me when I say that this first request comes from a very deep and personal place: could everybody in my life please not die this year? I've been to a lot of funerals in the past two years, and could really stand to keep all of you around for the foreseeable future, so let's stick to that, deal? Deal.)
(Sidenote #1: These are not so much resolutions as goals for the year. Resolutions are made to be broken. Goals are things that I can look back on and say that I achieved or didn't achieve. Think of it as a checklist for success.)
- Write Book Two of the Atlantean Chronicles. (I started it today! 30 pages in! And judging by the outline, this is the book where shit gets real. Not that it didn't get real in the last book, but shit gets hella real in this book. Get excited.)
- Get more stories written.
- Get one (1) story published. (Sent out several, and received several rejection letters. The name of the game is persistence.)
- Acquire an agent/get a book contract for Book One of the Atlantean Chronicles. (I mean, I've got a book just sitting around, and it doesn't suck, so let's see if anybody wants it, you know?)
- Direct a show. (This is going to happen, so the sub-goal is "Direct a show that does not suck." This seems highly attainable.)
- Get cast in a show somehow/somewhere. (I guess I really should audition more, as this fell by the wayside for one reason or another. Maybe it's because I've found that I enjoy directing/writing/music more than constantly being rejected for one reason or another.)
- Write a full length play. (Also attainable.)
- Write ten new songs. (I wrote one in an hour and a half last year, and have the ideas for at least eight, so this could be done by February. More on this in weeks to come.)
- Play 5 new open mics. (One down, five to go!)
- Explore new employment opportunities. (Not that I'm not satisfied with McCormick's, but I'd like to continue to try and find new means for gainful employment. Let's see how this goes.)
- Read 200 Books (New/Never read before. Honestly, we're already one down: Satch, Dizzy, & Rapid Robert by Timothy M. Gay. Good read!)
- Get into grad school.
- SUB GOAL: Get fully funded for said graduate schooling experience.
- Avoid surgery. (Seriously, no more surgery. My (phantom) wisdom teeth still ache.)
- Start a savings account. (Mine got blown through between moving to Chicago and my travails out west. Time to start over again.)
- Continue to keep my credit in check. (Of all the goals, this one is actually the easiest. I'm just paranoid like that.)
- Lose weight. (A perennial goal, although I'm doing well so far.)
- Set a sleeping schedule. (Not having windows in my room has NOT been good for this, although I've worked over the holiday break to get back to getting up at a reasonable hour. Hopefully, this one will continue.)
Happy New Year, everybody!
Friday, December 28, 2012
Thanks for Paying: An Erstwhile Guide to Graduate School Applications
The past week has been mostly offset by my recovering from surgery, specifically having my wisdom teeth removed. What I've been told is that I'm quite old to be having this surgery done, as most people have them out before they turn 20. The thing is, I remember when those people got their teeth out, and how their faces swelled up for a week's time and they were on high-grade industrial painkillers right out of a Rush Limbaugh movie, and am glad that of my four wise teeth, three chose to mostly settle into my mouth while one ornery little bugger became impacted. This is probably why my pain was much less intense than might otherwise have happened. (Don't get me wrong, my lower jaw has endured a sizeable amount of trauma to the bone, which results in a constant dull ache that throbs when I don't get hopped up on ibuprofen, in addition to the gaping wounds from where my former teeth occupied my mouth.)
Fortunately, I've not been knocked into senselessness by the drugs I'm taking to offset the pain. As a result, not only am I far more ambulatory than I had expected, my senses have not completely left my body. This means that I've been able to push forward with the process of applying to grad school. Coincidentally, I've also spent nearly $700 in the last few weeks for what may ultimately be a fruitless endeavor.
Let's start back at the beginning.
1) The Idea
It was somewhere around the month of May, while I was homeless and couch surfing as I had sublet my apartment. (Brief shout out to the Bestuls and the Beans who tolerated my presence on their futon and couch for much of this time as I worked up the funds to afford my apartment once again. Traveling out west was the experience I needed when I needed it, and I'd do it again if I could, but I'd also have sublet my apartment a little sooner than I ended up doing, if only to return to my humble abode in a more timely manner.) As one can imagine, working part time at two jobs while living in someone else's home is not an ideal situation for someone who's always held Emerson's "Self-Reliance" to their heart as a mantra of sorts. Thinking back over where I wanted to be, I remembered that my initial promise to myself was that after three years of being out of college, I would start thinking about applying for graduate school. I didn't want to jump back in as soon as I graduated; most of the programs I was interested in wanted me to work up a sizeable amount of career experience as it was. Thinking back, I looked over my accomplishments and (with some helpful advice from several mentors) realized that I've actually done quite a bit since graduating. I've performed in several professional theatre productions; I've completed an internship at one of the most prestigious Shakespeare theatres in the country; I've become the only undergraduate to have a scholarly essay (that didn't suck) published in BGSU's The Projector; I've written a complete fantasy novel (that doesn't suck); I've made friends in high places; and, as of this coming summer, I will have directed a professional performance of "As You Like It" for a company that has grown in renown and reputation in its community. (Hopefully, it won't suck.)
Realizing this, I decided that yes, looking at graduate school requirements would be worth my while.
But in which field?
2) The Research
In my undergraduate studies, I fell in love with theatre. I knew that directing was a passion of mine ever since I was young, but I didn't realize that theatre spoke to me as strongly as it did. Focusing my study, I found that I could in fact direct with some measure of success.
What I didn't realize was how much I also loved writing. I'd been writing stories ever since I was in kindergarten. In college, it had fallen by the wayside, but I still kept several ideas for short stories that I told myself I would work on from time to time. Plays were another creative outlet that let me get my kicks out, short plays that were well received by friends and colleagues who enjoyed their presence. (The success of "Hunter Thompson Strikes Again!" is possibly my favorite memory of working in the theatre; it's the only show I'd ever seen in a student setting to receive a standing ovation. Not only that, but when it was requested for an encore presentation in Toledo, it received a second standing ovation. Yeah, I'm kinda proud of that one.) Writing on a grand scale fell off my radar.
So it was something of a surprise, yet completely understandable, when I fell back into writing following the passing of my mother. During May and June, I wrote the second draft of my novel and realized that while the first draft, in essence, sucked, the new work I was doing was improving the novel ten-fold. It became completely conceivable that I could make a living as a writer. (A Hard and Arduous Way of Life, to be sure, but a Way of Life nonetheless.) Looking over my options for graduate school, I knew that I could pursue either career and be completely happy with my choice, while still maintaining the other as a second passion.
So, if you could (and would) do both of these options, why do grad school at all? you might ask. There are three answers to that question.
1) To expand on my creative process, making myself better at my chosen field than I was before so as to provide opportunities that I would not have been capable of achieving before.
2) To gain practical experience as a teacher and open my avenues for working in a collegiate setting. It's no lie that my mother had wished fervently for me to continue my studies in graduate school, and that her presence in my life as a teacher impacted me greatly. For me, one of the greatest ways in which I could honor her memory would be to use my talents as an educator while still putting out new art into the world.
3) To give myself time to focus solely on my craft. Sure, I'm getting stuff done in the real world, but there's also having a job and paying bills to manage that comes with it. The result is my efforts are somewhat minimized from what I would like to be doing at this young and tender stage of my career. Two or three years solely focused on my craft would be immeasurably beneficial to my artistic abilities.
The ultimate decision I reached was this: I would apply to both M.F.A.'s in Creative Writing and in Theatre Directing. Whichever programs accepted me, with the best funding offers, would be the direction (no pun intended) that my studies would take. Sort of leaving it to the fates after doing everything in my power to achieve something.
It was settled. I now had a goal: to get into grad school for either writing or directing. Now I needed to pick out which ones.
3) The Schools
I looked at over fifty programs for creative writing, and upwards of twenty directing MFA programs. There are all kinds of places where I could practice, and all kinds of programs which would admit me at the drop of a hat. The problem with those is that I wouldn't be learning anything new; a cursory study of the programs revealed something only slightly more intense than my undergraduate studies had been. There were also some incredibly prestigious programs, programs with world-famous alumni. Needless to say, my chances of getting into these programs rested at somewhere above or below zero, depending upon wind fluctuations.
Proximity to home was a concern and a consideration. I didn't want to go to school on the East Coast, New York seemed too terrifying, the West Coast still seems alien to me at this point in my life (coupled with the imploding California school system), and the South is even more terrifying. Except Disney World, and Disney does not offer an MFA. At the same time, I wanted to keep pushing myself beyond my comfort zone; schools that had more remote settings that appealed to my love of nature might be good for writing. Schools near Chicago, with all of the connections that might entail, would be good for directing. SO MANY CHOICES.
As of now, I've settled on the following schools for their respective programs:
Creative Writing:
University of Iowa
Iowa automatically made the cut as the best Creative Writing program in the country. With that being said, I realize that the likelihood of getting into the Writer's Workshop is...well, let's just say that they admit 25 students a year out of 1400 that apply annually. That's an admissions rate of 1.7%. Eeks.
Iowa State University
Their program is actually entitled Creative Writing and Environment. Being an eco-hippie who's always wondering about how to pay tribute to my love of nature and desire to share the joy and wonder that is living on the planet Earth, this program spoke to me right from the start. I'm not saying that it's my preferred program, because I'd be happy getting into any of these, but it's up near the top.
Ohio State University
O!H! - I!O!
University of Colorado - Boulder
Because sitting on the side of a mountain solely to write would be the best experience that I can think of.
University of Michigan
Similar to Iowa. Also, this goes against 25 years of training myself to hate That School Up North. If I get it, it would be amazing, but I'd immediately lose 10% of my Facebook friends. Maybe not that many.
University of Idaho
Not just because it's the Vandals, let me get that out there right now. This school's program is actually remarkably similar to Iowa State's environmental study program. And having visited the Palouse, I can testify that it's a perfect writing environment out there. If not isolated from anything remotely human.
Theatre Directing:
Illinois State University
I've wanted to apply to this school for years. They have a fantastic theatre program, focused on classical studies, and their program features a great deal of hands on work that greatly appeals to me. Plus they're very closely connected to Chicago and also require you to complete an internship at a qualified regional theatre. Sort of my ideal scenario for learning to direct at a graduate level.
Purdue University
Much like Illinois State, only with 100% more Boilermakers.
Southern Illinois University - Carbondale
This program came highly recommended by way of my mentors, and features more hands on work. That was essentially my biggest requirement of a directing program (besides obtaining an assistant ship), allowing me to have access to a great deal of practical experience. With guided feedback, that would allow me to advance further into my abilities as a director than simply sitting in a classroom doing scene work would ever do. Also, this would finally let me explore Southern Illinois. (Not that I'm shallow or anything.)
Ohio University
Honestly, this might not make the cut; I've heard great things about the program and about the school, and it does come highly recommended. It might just be a victim of the costs of applying. (More on that in a second.)
Just Missed the Cut:
DePaul University
The only program in Chicago I liked, but they don't offer an assistant ship. That means loans. Guh.
Bowling Green State University
For all intents and purposes, BGSU does have a great creative writing program. It offers an assistant ship, and is a familiar setting. The downside is it's a familiar setting; I have many friends there already, and have experienced most of what the town has to offer. Going back to learn to write might not be the best thing for me. Even if it would be an all new program with faculty that I've not worked with before, it would be the same setting that I'd been in for five years. Consequently, they just missed the cut.
4) The Applications
Having picked out the schools, now I set to putting together my materials. Each application required a Curriculum Vita, a glorified academic resume. Putting that together wasn't as hard as I had thought, with much welcomed assistance from my mentors from undergrad. It was putting this together that helped me further realize how much I've done over the last few years.
The bitch was writing a statement of purpose. Doing research on the subject led me to discover that there are unwritten rules to writing these things: use descriptive grammar; don't be afraid to brag about yourself, but don't embellish; avoid certain words; make it pop, yet don't make it too crazy. I spent several months agonizing over how to write a solid statement of purpose before finally committing something to paper. Even then, it had to change depending on the program I was applying to. While forcing myself into a deadline brought out some of the better results, dealing with the statement of purpose will not be something I miss about this whole process.
Letters of recommendation followed, much the same as when I applied for internships, and once again, I am indebted to anyone and everyone who wrote a letter spouting my virtues (or lack thereof).
The last piece of each application was if a creative sample was not. For creative writing, this meant manuscripts of stories and excerpts from my book (typically in the form of chapters). My short stories "The Duet" and "Wren who is Raised by Wolves" were given a quick edit and revision, and as I finished the third and a half draft of my book, several chapters were pulled out. The samples varied between 25 to 80 pages, and each gave a quality representation of my writing capability. For directing, only one school required a portfolio of work, quickly drawn together with highlights from my undergraduate coursework, my directed shows, and my internship.
No, the applications were easy. The bitch was paying for them.
5) The Fees
It's no secret that colleges and universities are increasingly run by administrative costs, much as a business would be. It's also no secret that paying for college remains an expensive endeavor. What's a complete scam is how expensive it's getting simply to apply for admission into college.
Before I did anything, I was required to take the GRE (Graduate Record Exam) for most of the colleges I applied to. Simply taking that exam cost me $175. It graciously allowed me to send my score to four colleges for free, but each additional score that I had to send out would cost an additional $25.
Here's a rundown of the costs of each application, along with if I had to pay a GRE fee or not.
Ohio State - $40; GRE - $25
Colorado - $50; GRE - $25
Michigan - $65; GRE submitted early
Iowa - $60; GRE submitted early
Iowa State - $40; GRE submitted early
Idaho - $60; GRE NOT REQUIRED (Woo!)
Illinois State - $40; GRE submitted early
Purdue - $60; GRE - $25
SIUC - $50; GRE - $25
Ohio - $50; GRE NOT REQUIRED
If you factor in the $175 GRE fee, the $20 I paid in postage to mail out transcripts and manuscripts, and the $20 used to pay for copies and FedEx computer usage time, the grand total for just applying to grad school without knowing if I actually get in or not comes to: $830.00.
And to think, I got into this so I could ultimately make more money in my career.
Where I Stand Right Now)
As of right now, I still have to send in materials for Idaho, SIUC, and OU (though OU might fall victim to my not wanting to spend another $50 for a school I'm not that excited about in the first place) and will be waiting until late February/early March to hear if I've gotten in to any of these schools. As I've mentioned before, I don't want to go into major, soul-sucking debt for the next three years of my life, so if I do get into a school minus an assistantship, I will have to strongly consider turning down the offer. As it stands though, I feel like I've built a fairly competitive case for getting into grad school and earning the right to teach introductory courses. Only time will tell if the admissions boards will see me in the same light. In the meantime, I'm also waiting on interviews for both Illinois State and for SIUC before they make a final decision; I'm thinking of it as a job interview for a three year teaching contract. All I can do now, however, is wait.
Oddly enough, that's proving to be the hardest part of the whole process.
Fortunately, I've not been knocked into senselessness by the drugs I'm taking to offset the pain. As a result, not only am I far more ambulatory than I had expected, my senses have not completely left my body. This means that I've been able to push forward with the process of applying to grad school. Coincidentally, I've also spent nearly $700 in the last few weeks for what may ultimately be a fruitless endeavor.
Let's start back at the beginning.
1) The Idea
It was somewhere around the month of May, while I was homeless and couch surfing as I had sublet my apartment. (Brief shout out to the Bestuls and the Beans who tolerated my presence on their futon and couch for much of this time as I worked up the funds to afford my apartment once again. Traveling out west was the experience I needed when I needed it, and I'd do it again if I could, but I'd also have sublet my apartment a little sooner than I ended up doing, if only to return to my humble abode in a more timely manner.) As one can imagine, working part time at two jobs while living in someone else's home is not an ideal situation for someone who's always held Emerson's "Self-Reliance" to their heart as a mantra of sorts. Thinking back over where I wanted to be, I remembered that my initial promise to myself was that after three years of being out of college, I would start thinking about applying for graduate school. I didn't want to jump back in as soon as I graduated; most of the programs I was interested in wanted me to work up a sizeable amount of career experience as it was. Thinking back, I looked over my accomplishments and (with some helpful advice from several mentors) realized that I've actually done quite a bit since graduating. I've performed in several professional theatre productions; I've completed an internship at one of the most prestigious Shakespeare theatres in the country; I've become the only undergraduate to have a scholarly essay (that didn't suck) published in BGSU's The Projector; I've written a complete fantasy novel (that doesn't suck); I've made friends in high places; and, as of this coming summer, I will have directed a professional performance of "As You Like It" for a company that has grown in renown and reputation in its community. (Hopefully, it won't suck.)
Realizing this, I decided that yes, looking at graduate school requirements would be worth my while.
But in which field?
2) The Research
In my undergraduate studies, I fell in love with theatre. I knew that directing was a passion of mine ever since I was young, but I didn't realize that theatre spoke to me as strongly as it did. Focusing my study, I found that I could in fact direct with some measure of success.
What I didn't realize was how much I also loved writing. I'd been writing stories ever since I was in kindergarten. In college, it had fallen by the wayside, but I still kept several ideas for short stories that I told myself I would work on from time to time. Plays were another creative outlet that let me get my kicks out, short plays that were well received by friends and colleagues who enjoyed their presence. (The success of "Hunter Thompson Strikes Again!" is possibly my favorite memory of working in the theatre; it's the only show I'd ever seen in a student setting to receive a standing ovation. Not only that, but when it was requested for an encore presentation in Toledo, it received a second standing ovation. Yeah, I'm kinda proud of that one.) Writing on a grand scale fell off my radar.
So it was something of a surprise, yet completely understandable, when I fell back into writing following the passing of my mother. During May and June, I wrote the second draft of my novel and realized that while the first draft, in essence, sucked, the new work I was doing was improving the novel ten-fold. It became completely conceivable that I could make a living as a writer. (A Hard and Arduous Way of Life, to be sure, but a Way of Life nonetheless.) Looking over my options for graduate school, I knew that I could pursue either career and be completely happy with my choice, while still maintaining the other as a second passion.
So, if you could (and would) do both of these options, why do grad school at all? you might ask. There are three answers to that question.
1) To expand on my creative process, making myself better at my chosen field than I was before so as to provide opportunities that I would not have been capable of achieving before.
2) To gain practical experience as a teacher and open my avenues for working in a collegiate setting. It's no lie that my mother had wished fervently for me to continue my studies in graduate school, and that her presence in my life as a teacher impacted me greatly. For me, one of the greatest ways in which I could honor her memory would be to use my talents as an educator while still putting out new art into the world.
3) To give myself time to focus solely on my craft. Sure, I'm getting stuff done in the real world, but there's also having a job and paying bills to manage that comes with it. The result is my efforts are somewhat minimized from what I would like to be doing at this young and tender stage of my career. Two or three years solely focused on my craft would be immeasurably beneficial to my artistic abilities.
The ultimate decision I reached was this: I would apply to both M.F.A.'s in Creative Writing and in Theatre Directing. Whichever programs accepted me, with the best funding offers, would be the direction (no pun intended) that my studies would take. Sort of leaving it to the fates after doing everything in my power to achieve something.
It was settled. I now had a goal: to get into grad school for either writing or directing. Now I needed to pick out which ones.
3) The Schools
I looked at over fifty programs for creative writing, and upwards of twenty directing MFA programs. There are all kinds of places where I could practice, and all kinds of programs which would admit me at the drop of a hat. The problem with those is that I wouldn't be learning anything new; a cursory study of the programs revealed something only slightly more intense than my undergraduate studies had been. There were also some incredibly prestigious programs, programs with world-famous alumni. Needless to say, my chances of getting into these programs rested at somewhere above or below zero, depending upon wind fluctuations.
Proximity to home was a concern and a consideration. I didn't want to go to school on the East Coast, New York seemed too terrifying, the West Coast still seems alien to me at this point in my life (coupled with the imploding California school system), and the South is even more terrifying. Except Disney World, and Disney does not offer an MFA. At the same time, I wanted to keep pushing myself beyond my comfort zone; schools that had more remote settings that appealed to my love of nature might be good for writing. Schools near Chicago, with all of the connections that might entail, would be good for directing. SO MANY CHOICES.
As of now, I've settled on the following schools for their respective programs:
Creative Writing:
University of Iowa
Iowa automatically made the cut as the best Creative Writing program in the country. With that being said, I realize that the likelihood of getting into the Writer's Workshop is...well, let's just say that they admit 25 students a year out of 1400 that apply annually. That's an admissions rate of 1.7%. Eeks.
Iowa State University
Their program is actually entitled Creative Writing and Environment. Being an eco-hippie who's always wondering about how to pay tribute to my love of nature and desire to share the joy and wonder that is living on the planet Earth, this program spoke to me right from the start. I'm not saying that it's my preferred program, because I'd be happy getting into any of these, but it's up near the top.
Ohio State University
O!H! - I!O!
University of Colorado - Boulder
Because sitting on the side of a mountain solely to write would be the best experience that I can think of.
University of Michigan
Similar to Iowa. Also, this goes against 25 years of training myself to hate That School Up North. If I get it, it would be amazing, but I'd immediately lose 10% of my Facebook friends. Maybe not that many.
University of Idaho
Not just because it's the Vandals, let me get that out there right now. This school's program is actually remarkably similar to Iowa State's environmental study program. And having visited the Palouse, I can testify that it's a perfect writing environment out there. If not isolated from anything remotely human.
Theatre Directing:
Illinois State University
I've wanted to apply to this school for years. They have a fantastic theatre program, focused on classical studies, and their program features a great deal of hands on work that greatly appeals to me. Plus they're very closely connected to Chicago and also require you to complete an internship at a qualified regional theatre. Sort of my ideal scenario for learning to direct at a graduate level.
Purdue University
Much like Illinois State, only with 100% more Boilermakers.
Southern Illinois University - Carbondale
This program came highly recommended by way of my mentors, and features more hands on work. That was essentially my biggest requirement of a directing program (besides obtaining an assistant ship), allowing me to have access to a great deal of practical experience. With guided feedback, that would allow me to advance further into my abilities as a director than simply sitting in a classroom doing scene work would ever do. Also, this would finally let me explore Southern Illinois. (Not that I'm shallow or anything.)
Ohio University
Honestly, this might not make the cut; I've heard great things about the program and about the school, and it does come highly recommended. It might just be a victim of the costs of applying. (More on that in a second.)
Just Missed the Cut:
DePaul University
The only program in Chicago I liked, but they don't offer an assistant ship. That means loans. Guh.
Bowling Green State University
For all intents and purposes, BGSU does have a great creative writing program. It offers an assistant ship, and is a familiar setting. The downside is it's a familiar setting; I have many friends there already, and have experienced most of what the town has to offer. Going back to learn to write might not be the best thing for me. Even if it would be an all new program with faculty that I've not worked with before, it would be the same setting that I'd been in for five years. Consequently, they just missed the cut.
4) The Applications
Having picked out the schools, now I set to putting together my materials. Each application required a Curriculum Vita, a glorified academic resume. Putting that together wasn't as hard as I had thought, with much welcomed assistance from my mentors from undergrad. It was putting this together that helped me further realize how much I've done over the last few years.
The bitch was writing a statement of purpose. Doing research on the subject led me to discover that there are unwritten rules to writing these things: use descriptive grammar; don't be afraid to brag about yourself, but don't embellish; avoid certain words; make it pop, yet don't make it too crazy. I spent several months agonizing over how to write a solid statement of purpose before finally committing something to paper. Even then, it had to change depending on the program I was applying to. While forcing myself into a deadline brought out some of the better results, dealing with the statement of purpose will not be something I miss about this whole process.
Letters of recommendation followed, much the same as when I applied for internships, and once again, I am indebted to anyone and everyone who wrote a letter spouting my virtues (or lack thereof).
The last piece of each application was if a creative sample was not. For creative writing, this meant manuscripts of stories and excerpts from my book (typically in the form of chapters). My short stories "The Duet" and "Wren who is Raised by Wolves" were given a quick edit and revision, and as I finished the third and a half draft of my book, several chapters were pulled out. The samples varied between 25 to 80 pages, and each gave a quality representation of my writing capability. For directing, only one school required a portfolio of work, quickly drawn together with highlights from my undergraduate coursework, my directed shows, and my internship.
No, the applications were easy. The bitch was paying for them.
5) The Fees
It's no secret that colleges and universities are increasingly run by administrative costs, much as a business would be. It's also no secret that paying for college remains an expensive endeavor. What's a complete scam is how expensive it's getting simply to apply for admission into college.
Before I did anything, I was required to take the GRE (Graduate Record Exam) for most of the colleges I applied to. Simply taking that exam cost me $175. It graciously allowed me to send my score to four colleges for free, but each additional score that I had to send out would cost an additional $25.
Here's a rundown of the costs of each application, along with if I had to pay a GRE fee or not.
Ohio State - $40; GRE - $25
Colorado - $50; GRE - $25
Michigan - $65; GRE submitted early
Iowa - $60; GRE submitted early
Iowa State - $40; GRE submitted early
Idaho - $60; GRE NOT REQUIRED (Woo!)
Illinois State - $40; GRE submitted early
Purdue - $60; GRE - $25
SIUC - $50; GRE - $25
Ohio - $50; GRE NOT REQUIRED
If you factor in the $175 GRE fee, the $20 I paid in postage to mail out transcripts and manuscripts, and the $20 used to pay for copies and FedEx computer usage time, the grand total for just applying to grad school without knowing if I actually get in or not comes to: $830.00.
And to think, I got into this so I could ultimately make more money in my career.
Where I Stand Right Now)
As of right now, I still have to send in materials for Idaho, SIUC, and OU (though OU might fall victim to my not wanting to spend another $50 for a school I'm not that excited about in the first place) and will be waiting until late February/early March to hear if I've gotten in to any of these schools. As I've mentioned before, I don't want to go into major, soul-sucking debt for the next three years of my life, so if I do get into a school minus an assistantship, I will have to strongly consider turning down the offer. As it stands though, I feel like I've built a fairly competitive case for getting into grad school and earning the right to teach introductory courses. Only time will tell if the admissions boards will see me in the same light. In the meantime, I'm also waiting on interviews for both Illinois State and for SIUC before they make a final decision; I'm thinking of it as a job interview for a three year teaching contract. All I can do now, however, is wait.
Oddly enough, that's proving to be the hardest part of the whole process.
Monday, December 10, 2012
The Price of a Memory: Counting Crows, Emotional Recall, and How I Spent My Summer Vacation
While undergoing the process of filling out statement of purpose essays, autobiographical statements, cover letters, and other assorted requirements for graduate school applications, I find myself needing a steady diet of outlets to push my energy. Granted, while applications are not hard work, I'm discovering that after three years of waiting to hear on job applications before ultimately meeting rejection for big-kid job after job after job, I have gained something of an anxiety with a regards towards finding acceptance. This is nothing new for any twentysomething of this generation: most of us are so used to dealing with failure that success comes as something of a surprise when it finally rears its gilded head. This anxiety has led to my second-guessing nearly everything involved in my applications; whether it be the writing samples I'm providing or the aforementioned statements of my artistic purpose. It's not so much an anxiety that locks me into what I'm doing so much as a newfound way for depression to manifest itself: this school rejects a thousand applicants each year, what's the point? will they even think I'm qualified for teaching? how can I afford this shit, even if I do get in? is this how I really want to commit myself for the rest of my life? is it too late to throw it all away and just start a band?
And so I turn to these outlets to let out my creative anxieties, which are fairly neutered by this by-the-numbers process I've engaged in. The first way is by writing for the Addison Recorder, which is fun in its own way. I get to write about topical subjects I love, a couple dozen people read about it, and life is good. Other ways include working on the outline for my next book. Another way is breaking down As You Like It so that I can turn it into a show next summer.
And then there's the music.
If you know me at all, you know that I somehow missed out on the Counting Crows boat for most of my life, failing to discover them until I turned 24. But as soon as I did, through a clip of the Best Musical Performances of SNL, it was love at first sight. Listening to "Round Here" for the first time actively gave me chills. I remember sitting in my darkened living room, wondering who the hell this guy was with dreadlocks, while becoming enraptured in the vocals of the song. Here was the band I've been looking for all my life, I remember thinking. These guys get it; they know what music is, and what it means to be a band.
(Caveat: I know the gripes against C.C., and that Adam Duritz and his lyrics have a tendency to come across as whiny and self-absorbed. But let's be fair here, I needed to hear these things at that particular point in my life. Plus, they're pretty good at what they do.)
Since finding them, I've devoured their entire discography, and in the midst of being young and broke in the city, pined at being unable to afford tickets for their most recent tour. (When they come around again, make no mistake, I will be there, come hell or high water.) I've been rolling over their songs time and time again (pun intended), listening for new things on each subsequent play. It's no surprise that if I ever go to a karaoke night with friends, I'm probably singing at least one C.C. song. While this may turn out to be a phase of my life that I look back on in ten years and laugh at, I'm enjoying the hell out of it at the moment.
At the moment, I'm embroiled in the midst of their third album, This Desert Life (1999). While my favorite songs do come from their first album, the seminal August and Everything After (1993), as a complete whole, TDL is (at this exact moment in time) my favorite album as a complete entity. Sure, August is fantastic (always), Recovering the Satellites (1996) is more rocking than anything else they have, Hard Candy (2002) is technically brilliant, etc., but there's something about TDL that I just love. Its sense of completeness as a study of dreams. Its melodic composition, the band working in perfect unison. Its perfect backdrop being speeding along a desert highway at night, stars in the sky, windows down, minds drifting over the horizon.
Or something like that.
For me (as for most people I would imagine), listening to music involves emotional recall. There are some songs where I can only imagine listening to them in one singular location. Most of the music I love, however, evokes a sense of feeling, rather than a specific place. That feeling might be from a particular moment in time (listening to Third Eye Blind on the bus to middle school) or from being in a certain place (why I associate Iz with working at Borders), but it's a powerful feeling, and why I love listening to music and especially to Counting Crows. What follows is my attempt to describe what the twelve tracks on This Desert Life inspire in me. More for kicks than anything else.
(Sidenote: I think one reason I like this album the best is because of the cover art and booklet. Featuring art by Dave McKean, the album cover is adapted from his jacket for Neil Gaiman's "The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish", and each song is accompanied by McKean's trademark surrealist imagery. Favorite band, favorite author, I knew there was a reason this was my favorite album at this moment in time!)
1. "Hanginaround"
Obviously, this one makes me wish I was still in a band. I do miss the days of hanging out backstage at The Attic. At the same time, this reminds me of Saturdays after parties in college, the days when we weren't hungover, but felt like getting Pita Pit or pizza out somewhere. Waffle House or Big Boy in the early am hours also comes to mind, the times where it felt like a party and everyone was just laughing the entire time. Nostalgia, in other words.
2. "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby"
This is a Top 5 Counting Crows' song for me. It always feels for me like the start of a road trip, heading out of Ohio to visit Chicago/Cleveland/California/wherever. There's a trace of something being left behind for me, if not carrying along everything with me. Because "there's a piece of Maria in every song that I sing..."
3. "Amy Hit the Atmosphere"
This is my least favorite song on the album, but it's still good. I just don't have any particularly strong associations with it. The most I can come up with is falling asleep on one of the seats in the van that we took on a road trip to Idaho. I hadn't yet listened to this song (or album) before that trip, and didn't acquire it until afterwards, but the moment that strikes it home for me is the wistful background vocals behind the second verse. That's what the space between waking and dreaming feels like: breaking out of one song into an entirely different piece of music.
4. "Four Days"
There's a windmill farm on I-65 between mile markers 191 and 205 that I would normally drive through in the dark on my way between Chicago and Dayton. To me, that's what this song is: the phantom space between departure and destination, filled with promises on either end. "Have you seen Ohio rise?"
5. "All My Friends"
There have been many dances I've attended in my lifetime, be they proms or masques, formals or weddings. This song, while never likely to crack the rotation anywhere, is to me being surrounded by my closest friends, dancing and spinning our way into the night, everyone lost in a trance that borders on poetic. These are moments that I wish would last forever, not associated with any particular conversation, but more on a sense of closeness. It's a feeling that can only arise spontaneously, without any impetus of creation.
6. "High Life"
This is walking back home from the rec center during the months I was trying to get back into shape (and succeeded for a brief time before I caught mono and the whole thing went to pot). At the time, I was somewhat lost in my own personal wasteland, trying to figure out what the next year of my life would be like, making sense of classes and relationships, and what was important to me. It's the time where I started to really trust in just letting things happen without working towards any specific goals; not letting go and trusting to the wind, more like keeping my head above water and trusting in life to take me in a specific direction. This practice worked out at the time, and has had repeated benefits of jolting me whenever my life particularly needed a burst of new energy.
7. "Colorblind"
The mopey-R.E.M. style song to me is pulling off at the first exit in Indiana, just past the Ohio border, on I-70, finding a Speedway to fill up my tank. Drifting along Route 40 in the dark, looking at the lit-up, empty fast-food joints, I started contemplating emptiness and vacancy and its role in my life. You know, the sad-sack, depressed shit you're supposed to think about while listening to stuff like this.
8. "I Wish I Was A Girl"
Having the ability to tell someone that you're "doin' alright these days" when you're really not is something I've mastered over the years. Anytime someone asks me how things are going and I say things are good, there's a 10 to 1 shot that I'm lying to them. These last three songs are all about making a change in your life and the necessity that brings that about. Or maybe that's what I'm projecting onto these songs. (Hmm. Topical.) Either way, for me, this brings to mind deciding to take a break from life, the universe, and everything last March, finding a plane ticket for the cheap and making my way out to California. It also brings back to memory the week right before I left for Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp's 2005 International Jazz Tour, saying good-bye to high school just in time to pack up and leave for Europe. If I could go back and travel Europe, I'd go nuts. As it is, I'm not at a point in my life where I can do that; all my savings went to college and to my internship in New Jersey. That being said, one of these days, backpacking across the country is going to happen again.
9. "Speedway"
For some reason, I can never remember the title of this song, even though it's one of my favorite tracks on the album. Like before, it comes with needing to make a trip/change/difference, only it lies in stasis instead. There's a lot of nights where I've lived this song by lying awake in bed, thinking about needing to get out and make something of myself, but not quite having the drive to do it. AKA, much of summer 2011. (There's a reason that I fell head over heels in love with this band that summer, you know.)
10. "St. Robinson in his Cadillac Dream"
Completing the album's cycle of dreams and movement through inertia, this song brings to mind a very specific time and place for me. It's high school, somewhere in spring 2004, and my friend and I are walking back from lunch to class. My friend stops, whispers my name, and nods towards the front doors, beckoning the idea of cutting the last half of the school day and just getting out and driving. Me being far too responsible for my own good at the time, I shot down the idea. If I instead take her up on the idea and we bolt out the door, this song is the soundtrack to wherever we end up and to whatever adventures we end up going on. There's a small part of me that believes that if we do cut school that day, my life changes in some way that I'll never quite know about. All I can do is dream of driving away in a bright blue Cadillac through the sky.
Anyway, these are some of the things I'm thinking about rather than working on a statement of purpose concerning why I should attend the University of Michigan's creative writing program. At this time, I'm putting in August and Everything After: Live at Town Hall in an attempt to fall asleep once again. But know that I'm dreaming "of ballerinas and I don't know why, but I see Cadillac's sailing..."
Sunday, December 2, 2012
An Erstwhile Explanation: What I Did Over My Summer/Fall/Thanksgiving Vacations
So, it's been a while, hasn't it?
Originally, I started this blog as a means of keeping myself motivated, keeping myself moving forward, and keeping myself entertained back in the days when I was a new immigrant to the Windy City, young and full of ideals.
Then life took a turn, to say the least.
Part of my reluctance at updating this blog in the interim months since has been a fear of having to follow my last posting. I won't lie when I say that the response received from the eulogy I wrote for my mother was thoroughly overwhelming. Many of you reached out to me to let me know how much it affected you, and while it's a bizarre feeling to accept recognition for something entirely personal, I must thank everyone who's said anything in the months since April of 2012. It really does mean a lot, and I am eternally grateful for all of you.
Now, where were we.
In the ten months between now and then, I have finished two subsequent drafts of my novel, as well as given it a title. The Defenders of Avondale: Book One of the Atlantean Chronicles has clocked in at 142,000 + words, 475 + pages (double spaced, 12 point Times New Roman, thank you very much), and several sterling reviews from readers who may/may not be biased to accept my greatness before my ever having demonstrated it.
In all seriousness, I'm quite proud of the book (especially after the most recent edit. The world that I've been creating ever since my freshman year of high school has finally been recognized on the page, and I am continually gleeful about the new twists and turns waiting to be discovered there. So much so that I've already begun the outline for Book Two of the Atlantean Chronicles: Bryls'kin Boogaloo.
(One of these days, you'll understand why that last title is so freaking hilarious.)
The big push now is to get it published/find representation in order to get it published. I am harboring no illusions that this will be a quick process; if I find a publisher willing to give me money for my words by Christmas, I'll be happy as a clam.
That's Christmas of 2013, mind you.
Another major development is my finally directing a (semi) professional show! And it's Shakespeare, no less! Once again, the career of the struggling actor/writer/director takes a turn for the surreal, as I assume the reins of Free Shakespeare!'s summer performance of As You Like It, coming soon to a metropark in the Dayton, OH area near you!
I've worked with the company before, having played Lysander in their 2011 production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. I like to think that the experience was a good one (my first ever unabashed lead/ingenue role!), and that our show was pretty good, too. This upcoming summer's production should be one of much fun, while remaining true to Shakespeare's text, as I have been taught and carefully trained over the years.
Oh, and expect street drumming and hippies.
The final major development in my career life is to seek out admission to graduate school. One of my mother's major wishes, I have reached the end of my third year out of undergraduate studies, a time when I told myself that I would see if my path had prepared me enough for continuing my education. Given the developments of the last several years, I feel that I'm at the very least ready to embrace such a choice, and am pursuing entrance to both Theatre Directing M.F.A.'s and Creative Writing M.F.A.'s.
(I really couldn't choose to prioritize one over the other, so I'm sending out my (semi-considerable) resumes to both types of programs and letting the fates (and funding) dictate where I'll be heading.)
For Creative Writing, I plan on applying (have already applied to some, in fact) to THE Ohio State University, the University of Colorado, the University of Iowa (despite my snowball's chance in hell of acceptance), Iowa State University, that School up North, possibly Purdue, and potentially Bowling Green State University. For Directing, I will be applying to Illinois State University, DePaul University, Ohio University, Purdue University, and Southern Illinois University-Carbondale. I'm not sure of acceptance to any of these places (it could be that my lack of success at finding gainful employment/internships has jaded my views of application processes), but I am committed to following whatever path it is that I'm supposed to.
I've been a firm believer for at least a decade now that everything has a tendency to work out the way that it's supposed to. Whether you want to call that faith or just dumb luck, feel free. I choose not to classify it as faith in a higher power; rather, it is faith that as long as I'm working to better myself, the right situations will present themselves, and it is up to me to embrace them to the fullness of my capacity.
Hopefully, there's cake.
For now, I leave you with the promise that I will be updating this mother-fucker on a more regular basis, and that the content will be somewhat more grounded in nature than it was in the months leading up to February 17th.
("Well, that's a bold faced lie, you fucker!" my associate yells through instant messaging. I forgot to mention him. In the months since, he has relocated to his original hometown of Livonia, MI. This does not limit the damage that he is certainly capable of. Alas, he is right; a potential for manic-tendencies will remain so long as I'm writing this thing, and you'd better believe it.)
At the same time, I will also be continually be providing content for The Addison Recorder, my own personal contribution (along with my three co-editors) to the glut of information and (partially) informed opinions on the Super Highway known as the Internet.
Until we meet again, bonne nuit, gentle readers. Bonne nuit to you all.
Originally, I started this blog as a means of keeping myself motivated, keeping myself moving forward, and keeping myself entertained back in the days when I was a new immigrant to the Windy City, young and full of ideals.
Then life took a turn, to say the least.
Part of my reluctance at updating this blog in the interim months since has been a fear of having to follow my last posting. I won't lie when I say that the response received from the eulogy I wrote for my mother was thoroughly overwhelming. Many of you reached out to me to let me know how much it affected you, and while it's a bizarre feeling to accept recognition for something entirely personal, I must thank everyone who's said anything in the months since April of 2012. It really does mean a lot, and I am eternally grateful for all of you.
Now, where were we.
In the ten months between now and then, I have finished two subsequent drafts of my novel, as well as given it a title. The Defenders of Avondale: Book One of the Atlantean Chronicles has clocked in at 142,000 + words, 475 + pages (double spaced, 12 point Times New Roman, thank you very much), and several sterling reviews from readers who may/may not be biased to accept my greatness before my ever having demonstrated it.
In all seriousness, I'm quite proud of the book (especially after the most recent edit. The world that I've been creating ever since my freshman year of high school has finally been recognized on the page, and I am continually gleeful about the new twists and turns waiting to be discovered there. So much so that I've already begun the outline for Book Two of the Atlantean Chronicles: Bryls'kin Boogaloo.
(One of these days, you'll understand why that last title is so freaking hilarious.)
The big push now is to get it published/find representation in order to get it published. I am harboring no illusions that this will be a quick process; if I find a publisher willing to give me money for my words by Christmas, I'll be happy as a clam.
That's Christmas of 2013, mind you.
Another major development is my finally directing a (semi) professional show! And it's Shakespeare, no less! Once again, the career of the struggling actor/writer/director takes a turn for the surreal, as I assume the reins of Free Shakespeare!'s summer performance of As You Like It, coming soon to a metropark in the Dayton, OH area near you!
I've worked with the company before, having played Lysander in their 2011 production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. I like to think that the experience was a good one (my first ever unabashed lead/ingenue role!), and that our show was pretty good, too. This upcoming summer's production should be one of much fun, while remaining true to Shakespeare's text, as I have been taught and carefully trained over the years.
Oh, and expect street drumming and hippies.
The final major development in my career life is to seek out admission to graduate school. One of my mother's major wishes, I have reached the end of my third year out of undergraduate studies, a time when I told myself that I would see if my path had prepared me enough for continuing my education. Given the developments of the last several years, I feel that I'm at the very least ready to embrace such a choice, and am pursuing entrance to both Theatre Directing M.F.A.'s and Creative Writing M.F.A.'s.
(I really couldn't choose to prioritize one over the other, so I'm sending out my (semi-considerable) resumes to both types of programs and letting the fates (and funding) dictate where I'll be heading.)
For Creative Writing, I plan on applying (have already applied to some, in fact) to THE Ohio State University, the University of Colorado, the University of Iowa (despite my snowball's chance in hell of acceptance), Iowa State University, that School up North, possibly Purdue, and potentially Bowling Green State University. For Directing, I will be applying to Illinois State University, DePaul University, Ohio University, Purdue University, and Southern Illinois University-Carbondale. I'm not sure of acceptance to any of these places (it could be that my lack of success at finding gainful employment/internships has jaded my views of application processes), but I am committed to following whatever path it is that I'm supposed to.
I've been a firm believer for at least a decade now that everything has a tendency to work out the way that it's supposed to. Whether you want to call that faith or just dumb luck, feel free. I choose not to classify it as faith in a higher power; rather, it is faith that as long as I'm working to better myself, the right situations will present themselves, and it is up to me to embrace them to the fullness of my capacity.
Hopefully, there's cake.
For now, I leave you with the promise that I will be updating this mother-fucker on a more regular basis, and that the content will be somewhat more grounded in nature than it was in the months leading up to February 17th.
("Well, that's a bold faced lie, you fucker!" my associate yells through instant messaging. I forgot to mention him. In the months since, he has relocated to his original hometown of Livonia, MI. This does not limit the damage that he is certainly capable of. Alas, he is right; a potential for manic-tendencies will remain so long as I'm writing this thing, and you'd better believe it.)
At the same time, I will also be continually be providing content for The Addison Recorder, my own personal contribution (along with my three co-editors) to the glut of information and (partially) informed opinions on the Super Highway known as the Internet.
Until we meet again, bonne nuit, gentle readers. Bonne nuit to you all.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Elegance of a Eulogy
It's been almost two months since I received the phone call. Much has happened. Much has changed, some for the better, a little for the worse. People's lives have been affected, for good and for bad. Whenever you must deal with the passing of one of the most important people in your life, if not the most important person, it's somewhat shocking to find that there are no blueprints. A whole host of relationships are affected by this feeling, and there's nothing to be done for any of them except to simply forge on ahead.
But weren't we doing that in the first place?
*
2000 - I had been away at my first high school band camp. Even though I was only in 8th grade, our school marching band had suffered so much disinterest under the prior band director that 8th graders were required to join with the high school students. We doubled the size of the band, no small feat when there are 60 students in marching band. It had been an experience, being away from home and getting an inside look at what marching band was like and how high school would be working. For a middle school kid such as myself who was the epitome of anti-social, introverted, and mildly frightened of the world thanks to snippets of bullying since roughly the 4th grade, it was a terrifying time. But then, every middle school kid feels roughly the same. Middle school sucks. Fact of life.
Returning home, I realized exactly how bad a week's worth of sweaty laundry could reek. I dragged my bag full of worn t-shirts upstairs, where I trusted my mother to do the wash. I knew how to do laundry, but tended to "fuck things up" in terms of stray pens, etc. Typical teenage oversights, in other words. It was safer, at that time for my mom to do the laundry. Safer being a relative term.
As I moved my suitcases into my room, my mom came in, followed by my brother. Taking me into my brother's room, she told us that she had some bad news. I recall the chipped, white paint on the closet door behind her that doesn't quite shut, the swiveling wooden latch, hand-made and loosely attached so that it doesn't actually hold the closet shut so much as prevent it from swinging all the way open. The push button light switch against a rusted metal plate. The lights were off, and a few dead flies littered the carpet, signs that vacuuming had been neglected while I was away. Facing me, her hands on my shoulder, she said the words that changed the course of the next twelve years of our lives:
"I have breast cancer."
I froze. "I'm scared, Mom." The year before, my Aunt Laura had died from breast cancer. I was still fuzzy on the details from that ordeal, more out of a middle school kid's desire not to know more. All I knew was that cancer was bad. An invasive disease that slowly crept in and destroyed your life.
My brother chimed in. "I'm scared too." He was still in elementary school at the time. Only 10 years old. He's just 22 now. Over half of his life so far, his mother would be fighting cancer, at risk, or recovering from treatments.
"I know," she replied, "But we're going to get through this."
*
I've struggled with exactly what to write, where to write it, and how to write it. Much of this is intensely personal. Much of it is so personal that it's been shoved down into some filthy black hole inside of me for years, only being released in intense bursts of foul energy that threaten to overwhelm and destroy those around me (or so I fear/have feared/still fear). Much of it is something that I have feared will come across as petulant, whiny, self-absorbed, possibly out of self-preservation, possibly as a defense mechanism against having to experience all of the pain.
After much thinking about it, I've decided that this is something that I can no longer keep bottled up inside, wishing that it would go away, pretending that it doesn't hurt to see one whom you love destroyed, slowly, by inches before your eyes over the slow progression of years.
But there is more to it than that.
*
The initial mammogram was a hard time for her, and for us. I was unaccustomed to seeing my mother without hair, a sordid reminder of her illness. I overcompensated at first after the announcement, doing everything in my power to make life easier for her. I thought that if I could do that, the cancer might go away. I miss being young. I miss my naivety.
Chemotherapy and radiation treatments all but eradicated the disease during the first go round. The first two years of high school were relatively cancer free, although she took up the offer to serve as a counselor for those who were diagnosed with breast cancer for the first time. Anything she could do as a survivor, she was willing to do. She would continue this for several years after that, although she eventually settled back into her own treatments.
The first remission came when I was a junior, just gifted with the ability to drive. I already was depressed at the time, afflicted with all the angst and woes that come from high school, carrying over the traumas of middle school, and with the pain that is the daily life of a high school student. And now here we were, saddled once more with this reminder of my mother's mortality. This time around, it was even simpler than the first diagnosis, and a couple of radiation treatments later, it was gone. No chemo, no hair loss, and no massive drama. However, psychologically, the idea that a remission could happen at any time was planted in my mind.
Friendships during this time have lasted, I am glad to say. People were there for me then, as they would be there in the future, and for this, I am grateful. At the time, the remission was simple enough that the knowledge of my mother as a cancer survivor (2x now) could fade into the background, not taking a prominent role in my daily life.
I do recall one instance, however, where a band member and classmate of mine came up to ask what kind of cancer my mom had. Upon replying that she had breast cancer, she replied with a disdainful look, saying that "Oh, you can't die from breast cancer."
I said nothing to this. I remember seeing red at the time, remembering my Aunt Laura, and thinking that it must be nice to live in a bubble of ignorance, but I said nothing out of a desire to play the part of a good student and classmate. Looking back now, I have forgiven that person's misinformation regarding breast cancer. Many do survive it, and go on to lead healthy lives. Many others do not.
*
Much has been made of my mother continuing to teach throughout her disease, and I would like to take this moment once more to say that at no point during her twelve year treatment did she take any time off from school. Let me say that again: she never took a leave of absence during her disease. She would regularly receive chemo treatments in the morning, teach in the afternoon, and come home to read an entire book during the evening hours. Cancer was just another part of the schedule, another hurdle in her daily life.
I've known people who need to take time off. It's completely understandable. Cancer sucks. The treatments for it are draining, literally poisoning your body and bombarding it with toxic chemicals and radioactivity. These are things that have been known to kill more often than not. It's not a fun time, nor is it easy. Therefore, it still boggles my mind to know that she never took time off from school. Sure, she would cancel class on some days that she was too weak to get out of bed, but more often than not, she was there, good or bad days, she was there.
And I don't understand how, some times, how she was able to function.
*
I went away for college in 2005, and was moved into my dorm with my parent's help. College was a good thing for me. It really helped me grow beyond my shell, opened my eyes to new ways of thinking about the world, and really introduced me to some of my best friends in the world. I'm glad I had the experience that I did, as it opened my eyes to what I really wanted to do in the world, and how I wanted to go about it.
During my sophomore year, in the spring of 2007, I was looking into renting my first apartment with some of my best friends. We all wanted to live close together, and had settled upon a cheap section within the student ghetto of Bowling Green. (A quaint little ghetto, really, and the apartment wasn't bad by any means. But still, relatively slumly, all things considered.) We were at the rental agency, looking over the leases for our new apartments. There was still snow on the ground, just starting to melt, and the sun was out. The chairs in the rental office were exceedingly comfortable swivel chairs, I recall precisely.
Then my phone rang.
My mom's cancer had returned. This time, with a vengeance. Worse yet, it was the kind that had killed my Aunt Laura. Within a year of her diagnosis.
I remember throwing my phone across the room, my worst fears having come true. As I vented out my frustrations, my anger, my fear of the future, all three of my friends were there to comfort me right on the spot. No words needed to be said there. I then began the first of many subsequent efforts to shove it back down inside of me, laugh about it, and move onward as though nothing had happened.
It was something I became particularly good at over the years to come, in an effort to put a brave face on the world. Shoving my feelings down inside and developing a rote speech of condition became easier than actually confronting the facts within myself. I was hurting. Badly. But admitting that would be giving into the disease, I felt. I could not let it win, could not let my mother's cancer beat my family. It became our shared cross to bear, one that would weigh heavily for the next five years.
*
My relationship with my brother has had its ups and downs. Many downs over the last ten years or so, as two adolescent males growing up in close proximity will often find themselves at odds. We've both been at fault for many things, and both had some growing up to do. However, as I look back on it now, it's my belief that my mom's sickness had as much to do with the strain in our relationship as anything else.
It makes sense, to me. Neither of us were/are particularly articulate about our feelings, both taking after our father in terms of burying our feelings down within. With much anger and resentment over our mother's sickness, but no real person to take it out on, those aggressive feelings have to come out somewhere. Surely not at school, where we've been told fighting is wrong. Video games, movies, music, books, they all helped at some point. But not as much as simply taking it out on each other, both in aggressive and passive-aggressive ways.
Do I wish to have those years back? Yes and no. We both had growing and learning to do to get to where we are now, and I am shaped by my relationship with my brother as much as by anything else in my life. It should also be said that family vacations were a continued source of joy for my mother, and that simply having the family home for Christmas every year was probably her most favorite time of the year. I cannot look at Christmas time without seeing all of our holiday staples, whether it be putting up decorations, frosting a multitude of Christmas cookies, watching "A Christmas Story" all day on the 25th, trips to Grandma's, dinner at the Paragon with the family, and so on and so forth.
My brother and I will be fine.We have each other, and we know our strengths and weaknesses. I'm no longer fearing for that relationship.
*
The next years fell into a sort of routine. I would call home twice a week for updates regarding her treatment, which involved taking chemotherapy at home orally (pills) every day. When I asked her how long that would take, she said for the first time (in her patently casual way) "Oh, probably until I die." It was at that point that I realized that the end was in sight, and that there were no alternatives. My mother was going to die.
In hindsight, that was also the first time that I saw my mother's acceptance of her fate. She would continue to fight up until the end, but death was not something she was afraid of. To me, that signifies a great deal of how she lived her life: fearless, stubborn, and willful against all odds. Sure, cancer was a bitch, but there are worse things in the world.
I would call home twice a week, make regular trips back home, and do what I could from afar while continuing my studies. Through it all, she managed to make it to all but one of my plays and performances that went on during my college career. And I was involved with a LOT of plays. I directed three, acted in many more, and was heavily involved with student productions as well. She encouraged me through it all, taking in everything and giving good, solid feedback. The sort of thing any mother would do. She became close with my roommates and friends, asking about them and sending them Christmas cards and other assorted signs of greeting. Even towards the end, she continued sending one friend cards regarding her recent surgery, wishing her well.
Through good and bad, my mother supported me. Through good and bad, I did my best to support her.
*
Writing this has been weird. I find myself telling the story of her time with cancer, yet it's from my perspective entirely. I had intended this to be a eulogy of sorts, a way of honoring her and of remembering her spirit. In truth, however, I cannot really pull what that means. As I stated before, my mother fought cancer for twelve years. Given that I was 13 when I discovered this, that is almost half of my life. I can relate the last twelve years better than the first thirteen if only because I was better able to assume the rigors of life by that point than I was for the first half of my life.
Long story short, I have a hard time reflecting upon my mother without being swarmed by thoughts of her struggle. It has consumed a great portion of my life; I sought out to direct one of her favorite Shakespeare plays while in college so that she could have a chance to partake in the play; it was as much for her as it was for me, in addition to serving as a learning experience. I passionately pursued a life in the arts, working on my skills as often as I was able to. Towards the end, I was (and still am) working to further my career in Chicago, where I might find opportunities greater than those I could find in southwestern Ohio. All because I know she would have wanted me to.
But it has side effects. The mental strain put on by her sickness was challenging. My relationships suffered because of it. I became a giant ball of nerves and sensitive feelings that could go off at the touch of a button. Depression set in, so that the only reason I could get out of bed in the morning was if I had to be somewhere at a certain time. And even that was hit or miss, depending upon the event. Jobs were easy. Groceries were not. Rehearsal was easy. Homework was not.
It settled over everything like a smothering shroud of fog. While fun might be had, it was always with my mother's cancer in the back of my mind. So it goes.
*
My mother missed my graduation from college. She was too sick to make the 2.5 hour drive to the ceremony, and so she had to miss it. She had not planned on going in the first place until I personally requested her to attend, as a sort of rite of passage for me into the world. She'd been there for me over the last five years through thick and thin, and I wanted her to see me graduate as the conclusion to that chapter in my life. Her missing it was painful, and I regret not having a picture of me in my cap and gown with my mother to this day.
Immediately afterwards, I shipped off to New Jersey for my first professional internship. Going out and working in an Equity theatre environment for the first time, I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. Worse, I was plunged right into my assignment as assistant to the director having never worked with Equity actors before, having never really even SEEN an Equity theatre performance somehow, and moderately unprepared for what was expected of me to start.
And then I got another phone call. The cancer was back, and this time it was spreading. In spite of the chemo.
I froze. Completely. This happened right as the show was going into tech week. I remember it happened on the day one of the lead actor's took a sword blow to the mouth and was rushed off for surgery. I had to stand in for her, and fuzzily remember bits and pieces of that night. I couldn't hit my marks, couldn't see anything really, and could barely keep it together. For whatever reason, I buried it down deep again. The director had his hands full with the artistic director breathing down his neck on every move, and I didn't want to add to his worries. So I shouldered on through, afraid of creating a further disturbance.
I shouldered on through the rest of the internship, doing good work in some spots, barely getting out of bed in other spots. I did a good job in the end, I feel, but by the end, I was emotionally scared, fearing the worst. I moved home and got a job in the local Borders bookstore. When that went bankrupt, I got a job as a server. The whole time, I was saving money ostensibly for moving out to Chicago, but it felt safer being at home. Just being at home felt like it was a major psychological lift to my mother, that having her son around to share time with and enjoy life made things better in some small way, as things wound towards the inevitable conclusion.
One day, we were driving back from lunch or some other gathering that escapes me at the moment. Listening to former baseball star Bernie Williams' new jazz CD, we took in his acoustic flamenco performance of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game". As it played, she looked over at me and said that she wanted me to play the song for her at her memorial. My inner hope was that she would continue to live long enough that I could play it at my wedding, whenever that would be, as our song to dance to. Some things will never come to pass.
*
My greatest fear through the entire ordeal was that I would be away from home when the end came. To that end, I narrowed my possibilities for moving out to places where I knew that I could easily make it home on very short notice. New York felt out of the question, as did somewhere like Florida or California. I wanted to pursue my theatrical dream, but I needed to be there for my mom, who was there for me oh so many times over the years.
When the time came, I moved to Chicago. A six hour drive away, I could make time to come home. By that point, tumors had spread to her spine, causing unbearable pain that could only be solved by lying on her back on the floor. Worse, tumors were pressing against lymph nodes, causing automatic body reactions commonly seen in pneumonia patients, in which her lungs would fill with fluid that caused shortness of breath and pain. Draining the fluid from her lungs became an almost weekly occurrence, one in which I would take a book to read while she received the treatment before going about our day.
Moving to Chicago was extremely hard at first, as I still felt that I was abandoning my mother in her time of need. I told myself that this was the best choice for everyone, and that I was well within a distance where I could come home as needed.
As I moved out, her request to me was that I come home for the end, whenever that might be. Between that and my dog looking out of the window the entire time as I drove away to start my life anew, it was impressive that I made it down the hill at all. I thought long and hard about simply turning around, unpacking, and moving in, tearing up the lease, forfeiting my deposit, and damning the torpedoes all to hell. But I moved out. I reasoned that if I didn't do it at that point, I might never take the initiative again. Foresight is not one of my many blessings, and so I drove away.
I managed to come home for Christmas, with fresh news of getting a nearly full time job working in one of the biggest theatres in Chicago, a Shakespeare Theatre to boot. Christmas was had, family met and gathered, and for the most part, every thing was civil. We even took in a movie, the latest Sherlock Holmes atrocity.
That would be the last time I would ever see my mother in person.
*
I worked in Chicago, starting the fantasy novel I'd been dreaming of writing for years. My goal was to finish the first draft by the end of February, print out a copy, and have her edit it in her spare time. Not because it was her obligation, but because she could see that I was doing work on something I loved, and taking steps towards becoming successful. One of our great shared loves is of Lord of the Rings, something I hold very dear and closely to my heart. This was yet another way for me to pay back all of the love and support that she had given me over the years.
I called regularly, checking in and keeping track on everything at home. When I called on February 14th, Valentine's Day, to check in, she was in good spirits, having watched the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, her annual tradition. We talked about the upcoming baseball season, and about the Masters. She told me that one of my birthday presents, a mattress pad, was on its way. The other rested on top of my dresser. Even in her sickness, she never missed a birthday for me or my brother, and always had the energy to send us a gift or two, no matter where we were.
Her pain was extreme, by this point, and to combat it she had been given Vicodin. She refused to take it, on the grounds that it affected her to the point where she was too stoned on painkillers to drive to work. She would rather teach than sit at home free of pain. Again, her determination shone through, in the darkest hour. She would be starting a new chemo on the next day, one that would hopefully shrink the tumors in her spine to alleviate the pain.
*
On February 17th, I was at home by 9:00, writing the next chapter in my book. I had six to go before I finished it, and was planning to come home on the 27th for my birthday.
The phone rang at 10:38 pm. It was my brother.
"Hey, what's up?"
"I got some bad news, man."
"...go on."
"Mom died."
"...it's going to be okay."
*
There is no word to describe the cavalcade of emotions that comes crashing down in such an instance. Grief. Sadness. Anger. Surprise. Shame. Pure adrenaline fuels your actions and decisions. Tears were shed, to be sure. I remember calling my friends, desperate for proximity to someone, anyone. I called my Dad. I ran on the beach and shouted at the waves. I could not write anymore that night.
The weirdest sensation was a feeling of relief that dominated everything else. She was no longer in pain. It was over. This disease that had defined her, a person of so many wonderful qualities unlike any other I have ever met was freed from the shackles of this hideous thing that twisted and corrupted her body so terribly.
Did I feel shame at having not been there for the end? Yes and no. Yes, I would have liked more time with her. But at the same time, I feel that she did not want a long, drawn out death, one where she would no longer be able to teach, to function as a person. It came suddenly, it came quickly, and it came at home, in her bed, just two days after she taught her last class. She went out the way she would have wanted, fighting.
*
When remembering my mom, I remember her love of baseball. Her passion for her classes. Cinema. John Ford movies. Reading mysteries. Shakespeare and his plays, and movies. Watching the NCAA tournament, the Masters, Opening Day, the World Series, the Ken Burns Baseball documentary, the channel always being on ESPN no matter the time of day or year. Her taking me to see the re-release of Star Wars, pulling me from school to go see Shakespeare in Love, the Lord of the Rings movies. Her frenetic driving, her colorful use of profanity for any and every reason imaginable, her fervent love of nature, her love of cardinals, the Reds, the outdoors, time with her family. So many things defined her, things beyond cancer.
That's the way she would have wanted it.
*
At the memorial, I played guitar for her. The Quaker meeting house overflowed. So many people came. Her friends, her students, neighbors, childhood friends and classmates, my friends, hundreds of people. Sitting in the front row of the pews, I looked up to see an empty space on the bench before me, facing me. Seated around that were multitudes of my closest friends, my grandmother, my aunt. Any time I felt extremely sad during the service, I would look towards them and invariably one of them would look at me and smile.
I feel strongly, deep within my heart, that the empty space was my mother. She was there, and she made sure that there were people there for me, my brother, and my dad, smiling in assurance that we would get through the day. An informal bonfire was held that night, at which many of my friends, from high school, college, and past college gathered. It was a reminder that life has been good, and friends will always be there for you when needed.
As the days have gone by, I've wondered about my purpose and what would be the best thing for me to do. I no longer feel so tied to stay close to home. It is as though I have a chance to start anew, and to not stay fixed on one set regimen of functionality. I've thought about moving somewhere bold and new, making a fresh start. I've thought about returning home to what I know. I've taken the time off to think about my direction in life, what matters to me, and how best to honor my mother's memory.
I have finished my book. I've written stories I've always thought about writing. I'm finding my voice and rhythm as a writer, my passion as an artist. I know what I want to do, and rather than find out what I don't want to do, I want to pursue these passions. Writing is a joy to me. The arts are a joy. Nothing else makes as much sense, except for wandering the pathless woods, which remain calling me.
It's hard to write a eulogy, I find. I cannot separate myself from the last twelve years, but what I can say is that they've affected me, but are no longer a cross to bear. Rather, they are simply another chapter in my life, one which has been read and closed so as to move on to the next chapter.
We will be scattering her ashes in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona, the site of one of our family vacations long past. She was still healthy then, back before cancer. The pictures show us all smiling, happy, free from any pain and suffering. Now that we are through this, it's our job to find that happiness once more.
The best thing about that is that no matter what happens, life is still good. Friends are still there, and people still care. Of all the things I've discovered in the last two months, that is the most important: life is still good.
 |
| Elizabeth Sue Willey Cook 1951 - 2012 |
(Postscript #1: You didn't think I'd forgotten these, did you? Well, back to some semblance of normality anyways. My associate has informed me that my previously considered line-up of blog entries has been somewhat...er, marred, by the last two months, and so I will be focusing instead on the chronicles of myself and my associate over the last few years. There is a story to be told, and we shall find it, somehow. In the meantime, stories will be written and hopefully published. I'm awaiting word on three stories as we speak, and constantly writing new ideas. I'm beginning revisions on my book, and am grateful for all of the feedback I've received. In addition, I hope to continue to pursue my theatrical dreams, however that might come. In the interim, stay posted here, faithful readers.)
(Postscript #2: It might strike no one in particular, but after I finished writing about myself and my brother, he called me to see how I was doing. Call it my mom looking out for us. That's what I'm calling it, anyways.)
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