Beneath the ribcage lies the heart

I am graduating from high school soon. The spring time fever. Everyone is excited for the summer, for their travels onward. The animals perform rites of migration and mating. I watch the sanderlings toddling about getting ready to breed, the soft budding of elk antlers. Soon the trees will fill with nests of loud, hungry babies. This fever is paralleled by hormonal teenagers in pairs; they walk holding hands with ripped jeans and find quiet basements to push their tongues and hips into eachother. Inevitably several girls will get pregnant because the conception roulette was not on their side and they will bring the drama of abortion or teenage motherhood to the hallways. The way I see it, you either pair up like mating birds, group up like herding deer, or end up a loner, like me.

The plants push out bright healthy green shoots, stretching upward and outward. I wonder if I myself will grow at all this year. I stand and look at my reflection with no shirt on. Pretty worthless. Thin arms and a ribcage that expands noticably when I breathe. My hair is dark and messy, sideswept bangs over my forehead. My jeans are black and my converse shoes are scuffed to the point the white is a mottled brown. I picture the several tattoos I plan on getting once I turn 18. Several of them based on artwork I created, some of them based on native art. I imagine the needle dipping in and out of my thin stretched skin around my ribs, taut like a hide drum. Dark ink spreading like an oil spill into the deeper layers of my dermis. I turn away and back to my canvas.

I paint the springtime colors in bold, sure strokes. A cloud temporarily covers the sun, dampening the light coming in through the window. My mother opens the door. “What are you doing?” She asks with a bored inflection. I put my shirt back on. “I’m self-injecting a massive dose of opium into my veins and coordinating an international violent uprising. What are you doing?” She sighs and tells me I have to come help her do some yard work. “Why?” She doesn’t answer me but walks away with the door open. “Shut the door, Janine! The cops could arrest me for all this illegal activity!” I dump the paintbrushes into water and follow after her.

Our yard is ugly. No, wait. The whole neighborhood is ugly. The rain has left muddy puddles all over. The grass in most yards is patchy at best and non-existent at worst. Trash blows in alleys and gathers in huddles around fence corners like gang members on the prowl. A large, shiny black raven sits on a roof gutter and eyes us suspiciously. They act and move like bodyguards, staring from the corners of their eyes, stalking with exaggerated movements, loudly announcing their indignations. I grab a rake and poke at the soggy leaves. I look over at my mother.

She has given up on herself. The man she fell in love with in high school got her pregnant and left her. She found someone else, and he did the same thing. She tried on men like bad sweaters at a thrift store, endlessly trying to find someone to help raise us boys into strapping young men and to keep her company. What she found was a tattered string of abusive relationships. See, a lot of the men here either drink, hit their family, or both. Some academics refer to is as “group cultural trauma.” The oppression of an entire culture, much like the white oppression of native alaskans, will create a ripple effect of oppression in a community. The men have lost their power, so they in turn enforce their power over their wives and children. Or over their livers with a dose of whiskey or twenty. I ponder this as I watch my mom tuck her hair behind her ear and pull the dead iris leaves, jerking them in a backward thrust. “Janine. What are you looking for in a man?” She hates it when I call her by her first name; a sign of disrespect for an elder. Why is it so irresistible for me to do this to her? I of all people know the value of a respectful name. If I was smart, I would look at myself in the mirror, and open the door of my ribcage and look inside. I would find the age-old inherited wounds and poke at them until they bleed. Then I would be able to recognize my own need to assert power and control, cut it out of me, stitch up that hole and start healing. But instead, I poke and prod at anyone and everyone else.

 

Error: The world is frozen and still

I was really looking forward to this weekend. I had so much planned. I was going out to dinner, really going out and getting dressed up. I was meeting with a few chair members to discuss plans for a big fundraiser coming up this summer. And of course I had all the usual engagements: time with my personal trainer at the gym, my therapy session, some errands to run, a hair appointment, and always work to catch up on.  But. We had about 3 feet of snow come down all at once, faster than high speed wireless; accompanied by a huge drop in temperature creating a very heavy crust of ice over everything. It started coming down late yesterday afternoon and didn’t stop. The kind of snow where you look down and get involved in something and when you look up, you think you have time traveled to a different era.  One in which everything is varying shades of white and all living things have become statues.  Kids around town were cheering even more than the usual sugary Saturday morning.  But I can’t stop the frown that has formed at the corners of my mouth. Everything is down. Internet’s gone, phone lines gone, roads are impassible, power is out.  The world is closed for the day, come back later.

It’s at least a moment to reflect on how amazing the internet is.  A way to break down our false sense of isolation, of living on an island and instead to realize that Croatian farmers have as much in common with Japanese woodworkers as elderly hospice patients have in common with mural artists in Central America. Before, maybe no one I know has anything to say about, oh, the best way to prepare a cup of coffee. But then you go online and hundreds of people are sharing their methods, their recipes, their love for a particular style of coffee. It’s like traveling all over the globe to as thousands of people one question; you can simultaneously have a conversation with women in Nicaragua and France as if they were neighbors you could just walk over and ask any old afternoon. Maybe I am pushing the point to far, waxing too poetically the beauty of the world wide web. But think about the abstract shift in thinking this creates. Suddenly, you can be in two places at once. Our barriers to language are over because online translating requires just the click of a button. People who have never breathed the same air can have a conversation together. Our lines of separation are disappearing- there is literally a way to connect everyone together. History and the future come together in a place where time does not have to be linear. Our illusions about separation are crumbling as we realize the common threads we share. And the greatest part about it is that there is no one creator, dictator, leader organizing this web. The internet is not stored in some big warehouse with a lock and key. It is made up of all of us – all of our computers and cds and thumb drives contain more information than could possibly be contained and erased.   But at this moment, my access to this magic cloud is cut off and it’s as if my lungs are crushed by the weight of it.  I can hardly breathe.   I live outside town, a four mile walk to the nearest bus stop, gas station, local grocery store. Great. Well. I guess I will just have to re-arrange my schedule. I still have my iPhone. Errands can wait. If the internet comes back (it always comes back!) then I can have the meeting become a virtual conference; I can call and re-schedule our dinner date, and I can always get work done for next week. I sit and make notes and memos for a while. Clean out old e-notes and re-organize my apps and calendar. This isn’t so bad.

 

Life is Like…

To me, this is the beauty of the united states: the glorious opportunity for a mismatched group of people to find peace together. For diversity and coexistence to come to life. There are so many beliefs, so many interests, so many personal ideals all living under one “roof.” Life is like a record store, Forrest: everyone’s vinyl is a different vintage. Some folks are jazzy, others full of metal rage. There are soft-spoken crooners and exploratory concept bands. And due to luck, fate, alphabetics, they might all be leaning against each other in the “C” box. Coltrane. Claw Finger. Crosby. Cooper. I discuss this concept with one of my favorite housemates, a grad student named Hank who does the New York Times crossword every morning. He disagrees. No man, life is like a fridge with magnetic words all over it. Sometimes they come together and make a sentence, and sometimes it’s just non-sense. But the point is, green and mother and moon are all on the same playing field. It’s just a matter of who will notice and put them together. It’s the divine spirit, the god and goddess writing a giant, ever-changing fridge poem. We contemplate this, as we drink fair trade organic coffee from chipped thrift store ceramic mugs.
“Hank. I know you have all the good mugs in your room, dude. Time to share or prepare for a raid.”
He smiles says, “Ten letters. Tom Cruise Mission.”
Impossible. I laugh as he walks away with a pen, newspaper, and yet another cup to his room. Jen and Lars come down from the attic in their pjs, which consist of a giant Steve Miller band T-shirt and a silk robe, respectively. I ask them what life is like. Lars slides next to me on the bench.He says, “It’s like some modern abstract painting: no one fucking knows what it means. Even the artist makes up some bullshit ethereal contemplation, but he doesn’t know, man. It’s all these colors and lines and shadows. Fucking beautiful.” Jen likes this because she’s the modern abstract artist. She slides onto the bench too, with two steaming cups of tea and honey. They sip gratefully, the warmth wet on their lips. Her eyes wander up and to the left, meaning she’s thinking of something good to say. Hmmmmmmm. Her eyes then close. She purrs, “Life is like a library.” She’s quiet again, as if she will keep her revelation to herself. And incredulous Lars comments that she probably hasn’t been in a library in years. She ignores him and explains: “There’s non-fiction and fiction separated into different rooms. Magazines and movies and newspapers get divided. Allende and Alcott make it so South American spirits sit next to young Victorian heiresses. Homeless men sleep in corners and yuppie kids play chase around bookshelves. Chaos and order in the same place all the time.” As she says this, Adam comes in and asks if she’s talking about our kitchen. And then he sighs because there are no more mugs in the cupboard. I stretch and pass him mine as I stand to face the day.

The day of Turkeys, remembered

Oh ho.  Thanksgiving is the best holiday if you ask me, even better than Christmas. We do sort of a “progressive dinner” for Thanksgiving, as they call it.  Since so many of us live close to each other, we each host a different part of the feast at different houses. So, we start at my Aunt Jean’s house. Appetizers and snacks and the parade and football on tv. It’s hard not to get too carried away with all the good hot artichoke dip and cheese on crackers and the like. All the kid cousins get together and play games and put black olives on their fingers and pretend to be frogs. Then, we bundle up, get in our caravan of cars and trucks, and head over to mom’s house for the main part of the dinner. The kids and adults alike lift their noses, the turkey smells fill the house. We stomp the snow or rain off our boots and hang up a hundred wet, cold jackets and hats and mittens and scarves and they hang all crooked and dripping in the now-abandoned entry way. Everyone is talking and hugging and laughing at once, even though we already did that, but it’s like we have started over again and are all happy to do so. The kitchen is a tornado of people stirring mashed potatoes and getting more forks and pouring wine and slicing bread. Most of us have the good sense to stay out of the way and watch, or talk about nothing in particular, as we all wait for the moment that golden-brown bird comes sizzling out of the oven. Dad has to cut it up, it’s tradition. And furthermore, we all have to stand and watch. Heck, tradition is the name of the whole day. It’s funny how we all get such a kick out of the idea of doing the same exact thing on the same day every year. As if we are all tired of the ups and downs of life, so we pick a time and place and say, ‘This day will never change.’ Weeks before, we get excited just thinking about eating the same dishes, having the same conversations with the same people, feeling the same way as last year. Anyways, the kids get their own table, and the adults take turns keeping an eye on them. As forks and napkins and plates and cups all migrate to the tables, we follow close behind, knowing that the moment is near. We all hold hands. Matt says a prayer. He starts off with the ever classic grace before dinner: Blessusourlordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttorecievefromthybounty. (Either it just rolls off the tongue like water over a dam, or everyone says it as fast as possible to get to eating.) He then says the same prayer committed to memory- a psalm about giving thanks. Some of us hardly listen because we can’t wait to take that first bite of a forkful of turkey dipped in mashed potato and covered in gravy. I look sideways at Calvin squirming and licking his little red lips. We shout amen! and the quiet calm before the storm is over, as we rush the plates of food, a chorus of oh mys and this looks greats and I’ll have some more of thats. During the dinner, we usually go around and everyone says something they’re thankful for. Steph squeezes my hand anytime someone says ‘and a roof over my head…’

And we’re not even done yet because after everyone has gotten seconds and thirds and whined about eating too much; we clean up and prepare to make one more journey. We shove into the entry way and grab for our coats and fight over mis-matched gloves and shove into those old boots and we all slowly pour outside. It’s a shock to the system- the difference between inside and outside. Grandpapa gets a little quiet to listen to the snow fall off tree branches. Adam and Molly stand holding hands, marveling at how the white covered lawns reflect the soft window glow of the neighbors’ houses. Everyone in this neighborhood is still inside their homes, absorbed by good food and traditions. It feels illegal to be walking outside- like we are the only ones who know there’s a world out here. We only have to walk about six blocks to my sister’s house. It feels great to stretch and breathe in new air. We link arms or hold hands as the kids run a little ahead. When we arrive, folk’s glasses steam up as they cross the threshold. Kate’s dogs bark and jump, excited to see us. We beeline to the kitchen, to see many shiny pies lined up. Apple, cherry, pumpkin, cheesecake, mince meat, pecan, merengue. It’s better than a bakery. We take slices of our favorites, pour strong cups of coffee, and revel in the goodness of the day, with the pie being the icing on the thanksgiving cake. The youngest ones get sleepy and end up in a big pile of blankets and pillows and arms and legs and puppies on the living room floor. Everyone I love and the best food you can imagine, all in one day. It’s the best. Even better than Christmas if you ask me. When it’s my turn to say what I am thankful for, I often feel overwhelmed because I have so much to list off. I make sure to say thanks for the cooks, the dish washers, whoever invented tryptophan because it works better on kids than cough syrup, and the seamstress who made pants that will fit all our expanding bellies! I probably couldn’t say anything too serious anyways.

He had a hard time closing his eyes…

All I can keep thinking is: I’m here!  Wow, it’s great to be here.  Wow.  It’s only day two of training and I have several new best friends and have fallen in love with this lush country.  The airplane ride was even great- the view as we got closer was a vibrant green, and the ocean lying next to it a bright blue.  Although, I did have to strain to lean over and see it from the isle seat.  Usually I pick the window seat no matter what.  I did, actually.  And then this kid and his dad sat next to me.  And the kid crept farther and farther over my lap,bouncing in his seat to see out the window; he looked so excited I couldn’t help it: I offered to trade. His eyes lit up and he bounced even more and then about three minutes later, before  we even got on the runway, he pulled down the shade and started playing his nintendo.  Great.  I stared at the kid for a while, his round features lit up by the little LED screen.  And then I turned back in my seat and closed my eyes and tried to focus on arriving.  Which of course, now I’m here and everything’s, just, well, great!

At the airport I was greeted by a tall bald man and two girls that looked to be about my age.  The man’s name is Richard, or Rick, he’s the program assistant.  He’s Scottish and has a hysterical accent when he speaks Spanish.  The girls are fellow volunteers, so that explains the big eyes and big smiles- fear and excitement covering their faces as if they had it slapped on with wet paintbrushes.  The one girl had about six bags- two of them big enough to fit all four of us in.  The other girl just had one (apparently stuffed) backpacking backpack, like me.  I smiled at her as we helped heave all the luggage away.  I looked around the airport.  There were huge posters espousing the various tours and locations one should go to.  And absolutely the most enormous ads for a beer company I had ever seen in my life.  It was yellow and red with a medieval-looking dragon/bird.  Imperial.  For some reason, this does not connect with the images of rainforests and beaches and wild jungle animals.  As we passed the souvenir shop I saw the logo all over the t-shirts, mugs, etc.  Does a beer company run the airport or tourism department?  We walked outside into the warm humid air and a bus passed by with an ad for Imperial too.  Maybe they run the whole country.  The four of us got into a van and excitedly introduce ourselves.  The driver’s name is Esteban, and he refers to Rick as Ricardo.  We are told he is the driver/ maintenance/ fix it guy of the volunteer office.  The girl with a lot of bags is named Kailey, and the backpacker is named Jenn.  Jenn says she can’t wait to get out of Touristville and see the country.  Kailey looks wistful- like she’s ready to stay where half of the people speak English.

We were taken to the building that will be home for the next two weeks.  Inside there’s a lounge room complete with sagging green couches and a 1990′s tv set; a classroom full of chairs and a white board; a dining room that looks like something from elementary school; and two rooms full of bunk beds- one for girls, one for guys.  It’s like summer camp all over again, which makes me wonder: at the time it was such a big deal to be away from home (for a whole week!) without mom or dad and all these people I didn’t know.  In hindsight, summer camp was fun and passed by so quickly it’s but a blink in my past.  I am eager to discuss this idea with the other volunteers.  We put our stuff down and say Hi to the four or five other volunteers who are already here.  There were two more airport runs and a total of six more people coming.  Eleven of us total.  That night, when everyone was here, we sat in the lounge and had an informal introduction.  Rick said that tomorrow we will meet the director Shelley, and the two teachers Kris and Maria.  The first week is intense language immersion training, the second week is orientation to the area and some down time before we are each taken to different sites to start our assignments.  A couple of us squirmed at the word assignment.  I did because it makes me feel like a reporter or secret agent, which is kind of a bad frame to put on what I hope to be doing here.  But the faces on the others squirming showed a look of discomfort prior to vomiting.  Luckily, they didn’t.  That night, a few of us stayed up late talking about our projects and hopes for the year and the reason we came.  Jenn would be working on a community environmental education project in the same town as my orphanage! I immediately daydreamed about meeting up at the local bar to drink the national advertising beer.  Drunk with the joy of finding like-minded people in the world, we all felt the instant solidarity we were looking to create- and in subtle ways, we all promised each other support to visualize our ideals.  Phrases like “the hardest time of our lives” and “difficulties sure to arise” made no sense right now.  Life was opening it’s arms to us and we were vaulting to embrace it.  We all went to bed knowing sleep would be hard to find because we had charged ourselves up too much with anticipation and fervor.  Gnashing of teeth and ripping of clothes has never  made as much sense to me as it did now.  I felt like an atom bomb at the moment just before the protons split.  The potential energy was building like pent up kids with cabin fever.  I saw myself as a lion in those old school nature documentaries.  I crouch in the grass and the narrator’s voice is hushed and feverish.  And suddenly like a spring exploding, I bound and leap and chase- the release!  Through the grainy film, you see the lions eyes blazing like white holes.

The word memory reminds me of…

There was a great story I read once about a man who had permanent short term memory loss- he literally could not keep an idea in his head from longer than two minutes. Which meant conversations, going for walks, cooking- anything that lasted longer than two minutes- became impossible because he would forget what he was doing and get confused. In the same story, representing the other extreme, was a woman who could never forget anything. If you mentioned any date or time her mind would paralyze her with memories, overriding her ability to stay focused on the present. I identify with that a lot more. Amnesia seems almost freeing by comparison- like you can’t ever be sad or get bogged down with a memory because it simply flushes away before you have a chance to take responsibility for yourself. But never forgetting…

I went to lunch with some friends a week ago. They all danced and jumped and sang for Mexican food. I rolled my eyes but didn’t want to be the stick in the mud. Carly claimed to have discovered this really authentic place, so we go. And the instant we walk in I am overtaken with memory. The smell of cilantro, the steam rising above a stack of hot tortillas, the over-the-top-cheesy rrrrrradio musica and rapid chatter of commericals en español. Carly is studying spanish so she’s all eager beaver about speaking spanish to everyone- the servers, the old men sitting at the counter. She nudges me to get involved but I smile weakly and order in english and walk to the table. She was right- the food is authentic. Menudo, queso fresco, tamales (only on the menu for special holidays), soda jarro. Memories memories memories. I try and turn the conversation to winter break, but then they all start getting this idea that we should go to Mexico to experience some culture and lay on beaches and eat mexican food all day. I try not to lash out about how dumb that is. Like every day in Mexico is always a party for everyone- no one experiences pain or sickness or loss. “Been there done that,” I say and promptly spill my coke all over the table due to an over-exaggerated sweeping hand motion. Not cool. As we wipe it up, Kat hisses at me, “What the hell is with you today? Just chill. We all know you’re Mexican and nobody cares.” I blush and flick my hair to the side and spend the rest of the afternoon nodding and smiling.

Nobody cares. Words like that never echo in my brain, like they do in movies. In stead they stamp themselves into my thoughts. I can hardly get through thinking a full sentence without being interrupted by nobody cares. I turn back to my research assignment.” The use of hyperbole and foreshadowing in combination—nobody cares—creates a sense for the reader….” The problem with the phrase nobody cares is it can be multi-interpreted. Does it mean they don’t mind who I am? Or does it mean they really don’t have a care for the issue that concerns me? I ask Kat later. She seems irritated- “Luce,” she tells me, (pronounced Loose, as in I should Loosen Up) “you just need to learn to let go of the things that bother you. Who the hell cares about their past? It’s passed. Groovy? Life is about the present moment and right now, life rocks. You’re smart, you’re independent, you’ve got killer dance moves and a sense of adventure. Go with the flow. We are your friends, we love you. The Lucia Gutierrez-Alvala we know is proud of herself and ready to tackle anything. Mmmkay? If you don’t like your family history, erase it and move on. But don’t keep turning your head back and forth like some owl. Owls are ugly.” I sit on her bed as she tells me this, and watch her curl her hair in front of a mirror. She really is the sister I never had. I just had two brothers- complete with strange macho haircuts and an unhealthy obsession with cars and WWF wrestling. So they’ve grown up a little since then. But I’m sure they’re still the same- punching as a way of showing affection, doting on mamá like she’s god because she cooks her chicken with lard. I thank Kat and head back to my laptop, but before I cross the threshold of her room she stops me and makes me take a shot with her. We giggle and she says You don’t find yourself. You create who you are, girl. And she turns up the music and picks up a tube of lipstick.

To move is human; to walk, divine.

-AUTHOR’S NOTE: Thanks for the poll responses!  As the writing progresses, I have many new thoughts about formatting and the overall layout of the novel.  Things might change up a little bit here and there, as I settle in to the tone and direction of the stories.  Thanks for your patience!  And for those of you who are interested, I have simultaneously started writing about the writing process as I do this.  Feel free to read alongside! http://theblankpagedwriter.wordpress.com/  Cheers!-

-

-

-

He came home, opened the door, as if he knew (and he did know) that the dog was right behind the door, tirelessly wriggling his whole body in anticipation of that door.  They didn’t skip a beat; after a jolly reunion they headed straight for the thin but well-worn footpath.  

            What a particularly annoying day at work, and an extra loud day on the bus.  Thank god for this walk, just two minutes in and my heart starts to beat faster in happy exhilaration from moving my legs, from breathing crisp air, from escaping the squeeze of man-made things.  I’ve got to get a new doctor- that shmuck doesn’t even know what’s good for me.  High blood pressure. Bah. 

The afternoon sun is lower on the horizon.  The nights are producing more and more dew, until one morning we will wake up to white-edged frost painting every jagged leaf and pine.  Makea runs to the right somewhere, her wet nose just barely skimming the surface of the padded ground.  Shafts of sunlight stand tilted between trunks of douglas firs and pasty aspens.  The trees have mostly dropped all their cones, as if they were women tossing handkerchiefs at a military parade.  Clay looks at them, and lost in recounting the day, the leaf litter blurs behind his thoughts.

 Pine cones. That little kid kept asking me questions about pine cones today.  He just had to ditch the family outing and interrupt me while I was raking. Reaching into my piles of leaves and needles and holding up a cone, asking me what tree it was from.  Asking what they were for and why they were shaped that way and why some were different colors and why why why why until I shouted at him to go buy a book about pine cones.  His eyes got big and he looked like he might cry and then- I can’t believe it- he started asking more questions!  Where do you buy books about pine cones and do I have one he could borrow and do I like my job and…I mean, I guess the kid had some good questions.  But it was as if his parent’s had never shown him a tree before.  And I’m not about to give the kid a lesson in plant reproduction. 

            He continued hiking up to one of his favorite spots- a grove of aspens in the folded v of a valley.  It was almost perfectly hidden from the trail, and from where he sits, the buzz of the town has completely faded to silent.  He savors the quiet, as if it were a tangible thing to taste on his tongue. His fingers soak into the spongy moss; and he smiles at the sensation that the ground softly gives way to his weight.  The breeze pushes the leaves into making a shushing sound and  gently tumbles through his hair. 

              It’s amazing the things I miss even when just walking on the trail.  As soon as I stop moving I hear the chick-a-dee-dee-dee singing and I see a nuthatch hopping in curls around a thick branch. Alright, so a plane flies overhead, you can’t completely escape.  But this is where I fit.  Every living thing around me knows its place and purpose and the good sense not to ask why or try and take more than what they need.  No more, no less- this is my definition of equality.