They will know we are Christians by our Love, by our Love

Today, I sat down with my first graders in a circle and prayed.


For them.

Bust mostly, for me.

the bus

Who is this woman sitting across from me on the bus? She weighs about 125 lbs, pregnant, and has a tattoo on her neck. Of a name. Propobly a lover. Maybe the father? Her face, pointy, and beautiful. Do you know what I mean? Perfect skin, that pulls tight against her little skull, filled with some kind of ideas. She's ghetto or something. I get the feeling she's ghetto. A ghetto princess, riding on this bus, her chariot, everyone is looking at her, staring at her, because she is like a vision. Well at least I am staring at her. I wish I could be her, or be with her, or become her.

She has these three tear drops tattoed near her right eye. She's crying. Forever. Imagine yourself crying forever.I want to hold her.I want to make her stop crying .

Is that normal, is that normal that I want to follow this woman I don't know at all off the bus and ask her who made her pregant? What if she knew that some flighty 20 something was talking about her weeks after seeing her?

Crying forever.

Maybe there is a reason we should all be crying forever. Life hurts, it hurts sometimes. And even it doesn't hurt us in the moment, somewhere, somewhere in the world someone is hurting. Maybe she's crying for them.

The Smell of Poverty

This afternoon, Lance Briggs, a line backer for the Chicago Bears came to my school.

Kevin, one of our second graders, has leukemia. Briggs was there to see him.

The kids were very excited. I was excited for them.

I got Briggs' autograph, and stuffed it in my pocket.

On the bus ride home from work, a young boy, about 11 years old, sat next to me.

He smelled poor. 

He had a Bears' jacket on, two sizes to big, and very old.

I didn't think.

I took the autograph out of my pocket and presented it to him.

# 55? I said.

He nodded.

He came to my school today, one of my students has cancer.

Do you want the autograph?

I gave it to him.

He stared at it the entire bus ride, almost in awe, almost expecting me to take it back, his mother and younger brother asleep on the seat in front of his.

I folded my eyes and sat silently. 

"This little light of mine..."

This Sunday, I was asked by Amate House to go and speak at St. James' church, encouraging their parishioners, to donate food to our 25 Ton Food Drive.


I went over to the mass with my roommate Ryan, expecting this to be a typical mass, a typical congregation, a group of people falling asleep as I gave my inspiring five minute talk about my students, the work I did, and how we needed their help to reach our goals.

We were greeted outside the door by Father Edward, a middle aged priest with an inviting smile. He introduced us to a church organizer, a young African immigrant, who enthusiastically helped us to set up the food bags and pamphlets to be given out after mass.


Inside, the church was beautiful. It had a large lobby area that looked like a European courtyard, and gorgeous white pillars and decorations flying high into the top of the building. The choir was practicing, a mosaic of young and old parishioners, of all different races and backgrounds, singing gracefully to the lead of their young and handsome music director. One choir member was playing the bongo drums in the background.

I looked around me and noticed a tapestry of different cultures. Their were African Americans, Indians, Hispanics, Asians, Italians, Irish, Immigrants, young, old, families, singles, poor, wealthy. I looked around and saw an actual picture of Christ's face.

A young girl with blond hair, about four years old, danced to the choir, while her father looked on. As the mass began, her and her friends, took the bible to the back of the church with their Sunday school instructor to learn about the readings.

An older woman, with an Obama pin on her jacket, warmly smiled at me.

In front of me sat a young deacon, with an alter boy, intently focused on the mass.

The homily was a strong presentation about letting your worry go, and about voting for the person that you believed in your heart was the best person to lead our country. To not be bullied by Christians telling you there was a right answer. The right answer was your own.


The music was like angels singing, the smiles and warm hellos astounding.
During the Lord's prayer the entire church held hands, and came to the middle together.
At the end of mass, the Priest announced a "Celebration of Light," a special program welcoming the Indian members of the church, in which Indian dancing, music, and food would be part of the celebration.

When I went up to give my talk, I was overcome with joy. I told the people of the church that this was a special place, with a sincere and welcoming energy.

They all clapped.

As we passed out bags, many people came up to me to thank me for my words, encoring me to come back, and even to join the choir.

As Ryan and I laughed with smiles on our faces, we noticed a Cricket game going on across the street, with people of varying backgrounds playing together.

My heart truly sang.

I believed I had truly found my place of faith.

Obama Rama and a Lost Passport

I went downtown to vote today.

To vote for Barack Obama.

It was a grace period voting sessions for all new Illinois residences.

The energy inside the voting room was inspiring.

People from all walks of life had come to participate in our elections.

Something about the room made me feel a real equalization of humanity,
at least in that moment.

Something in that room made me believe in America again,
at least in that moment.


On my train ride home, an older man, African American, sat down next to me.

"St. Ignatian?"
he read from my jacket.

Yes, I went to a Jesuit school.

"Where are you from," he asked.

I told him, and we started talking.

He handed me a booklet about the mistreatment of Mexican workers in America.
We talked about Europe, how I felt more alive there.
He said his best friend, a man from Greece, had a daughter my age who felt the same way.

We talked about how we worried about the future of our country, worried about our leaders, hoping they could find the strength to bring us to a better place.

He was so happy to find out I was an art teacher, telling me art truly taught people acceptance. That our children needed to learn about love and expression.

I felt alive to be near this man.

When my stop came up, he tipped his hat to me.

I hoped I'd see him again.





Later that day....



Although I was planning on heading to the North side of the city to watch my students play soccer this Saturday, I realized I probably would not make it on time.


Instead, I asked a few of my roommates to accompany me to an art walk happening a little ways down the road.

I did not feel like carrying a bag, so instead, I took out the hot pink muff that the costume designer at the O'Neill gave to me as a present this summer.

Upon reaching a large warehouse, we soon discovered that the art walk was not happening, and instead, there was a large warehouse sale of primitive art, as well as complimentary refreshments and a man dj'ing the event with some odd rhythmic beats. He sat near a collection of Asian woodwork, tapping his feet enthusiastically.

As we began to bore of the smell of maple and dust, we began a trek to a local coffee shop.


My roommate Angi and I found ourselves behind the others, chatting and taking in the odd Halloween decorations of our neighborhood. I was kind of dressed, oddly, and we wondered if people may think her and I were part of a "Professionals and Prostitutes" program.

About half a block of our destination I stopped and screamed.

"MY PASSPORT!!!!!"

"Laura, why do you have your passport in a muff with no pockets?"

"I DON'T HAVE IT IT's GONE! ANd so are my credit cards, and identification card."


Yes. that's right. I dropped my entire idenity, and anything someone might need to become me, on a sidewalk in the south side of Chicago.


Angi and I turned around and began to walk back, looking for my lost item. I wasn't really that worried, as this sort of thing happened to me bi-weekly, but none the less, I hoped that we'd find my items.

Four blocks down, I noticed a small spanish man in his 40's holding my passport.


"Are you Laura?" he asked in broken English.

"Yes! Thank you Thank you!" I said.

He didn't seemed that convinced, and slowly handed me the passport. I noticed that the credit cards and id card were not inside of it and gave him a hard look.

"Ok. Here."
He slowly opened up his pocket and gave me the rest of my items.

I thanked him again and turned to walk away.

"If you ever need anything, this is my house, you come by!" He said.

"Uh huh."

"Do you want to smoke weed???"

"No thanks."

I kept walking, amazed that my passport had been returned, wondering if he expected some sort of reward, or worse, if he would have walked right passed me, had I not already noticed the passport in his hand.


Just as we began our journey back down the street, a few men jumped out of the backseat of a car.


"Here, this is the way to heaven." one of them said, handing me a yellow piece of paper, with some sort of map on it, and a few bible scriptures. I could not help but giggle. I turned to my left and noticed a sign on the door of an apartment building that said "HardScrabble," and the name Sebastian written below it.

I stopped at the door and yelled in "Sebestian!"

A man immedietly appeared at the door. "Yes?"

I just sat there hysterically laughing, wondering why such odd happenings seemed to follow me around.

I promised to sew a pocket in my muff that evening, maybe even with a zipper.

"My face is going to hurt because i'm smiling so much"

While watching third grade for the afternoon, one young girl came up to me with a curious look on her face.

"Ms. Laura, do you think I'm fat?"

I must have seemed startled by the question, because it took me a moment to respond.

"No, why do you say that?" I managed.

"Because when I look in the mirror, I see fat."

I tried to race in my mind back to when I was eight years old. Did I think about being fat? Was that the year that my doctor told me to stop eating too much peanut butter? Was that the year my best friend told me I wasn't as pretty as I thought I was ? I couldn't remember.

"How old are you, Casey?" 

"Eight."

"Casey, I want you to know that you are beautiful. You have so much growing up to do, and you should eat the foods that you love that are good for you, and play outside with your friends, and be happy!"

"I don't eat any junk food, Ms. Laura."

"It's o.k. to eat junk food sometimes! It's o.k. to have fun!"

"Thanks Ms. Laura."

I carried a heavy heart for the rest of the afternoon, even heavier than when I discovered my eighth grade boys had found a nude artistic magazine in my classroom, or when my favorite sixth grader told me he thought his father hated him.

I was going to go home early and figure out some of these feelings, but I decided to stay after school and help with the 2nd grade movement class.

The first grade teacher and I encouraged all the students to walk around the stage barefoot. We started to float to the music, interpretive dance, and sing out loud. 

The children were giggly at first, but soon they grew right into their expressive souls.

"My face is going to hurt because I'm smiling so much!"  one second grader yelled.

This magic, this art, this is what these girls needs. They don't need Miley Cyrus telling them they have to be a size two. They need their art teacher crawling on the ground to Irish music and laughing with them. They need to know they are beautiful.

And they are. So. very.

!9 Dollars

While I was walking by the office, I saw one of my favorite second grader's bouncy brown hair fly past me.

"Brianna!" I called out.

She stopped, turned around, and I noticed a red bump on her forehead.

"Sydney hit me with the broom by accident."

I quickly went to the freezer to get Brianna some ice for her head, and to sit and chat with her for awhile.

I asked her what she did this weekend.

"Well, Saturday we went to a birthday party for my brother Michael, umm Miguel's, friend's baby. There was a jumpy thing, but while all the kids was jumping in it a dog ran in and it got a hole in it and then we had to blow it back up and patch it and then we kept going. And then Sunday we went to church we seen my Aunt (the woman I wrote about a few posts down) but my Mom called to her and she didn't answer and they've been fighting for awhile cause Auntie got Grandpa's house, and he and my grandma had to go back to Mexico but my mom wants to sell the house cause she only has 19 dollars for the rest of the month."

Brianna is one of seven children.

I tried to hold it together as Brianna asked me what I did for the weekend. I told her I went on a retreat to learn about simple living and not spending more money than I had to, and being a good steward of resources to help the world....to help her family, and my family, and all the people at St. Ann school, and all over.

I told her it was very important that she learn as much as she could because no one can ever take away her mind. They can take away her clothes, her house, her money, but not her mind. This was what my grandfather, a child of the Great Depression, told me when I was very young.


I told her she was lucky to have a mom who loved her so much, and that she should always remember that she is beautiful and unique and that with the love of her family, things would be ok..even when they were hard.

Communion

A Friday Morning Mass at St. Ann School, a celebration of the Feast of the Guardian Angel.

The Kindergarten class holds the hands of the eight grade class, participating in the motions of our faith.


Tears stream down my face as David, a rambunctious fourth grade student, smiles at me after receiving the host.

I am thankful for his life.

a new deal

Yesterday afternoon, I lay on my bed, and looked out the window.

The leaky rainy roof the convent covered the immediate landscape with a gray crystallized sheen, and the cross at the fore front of the building outlined the cloudy sky ahead.

I was tired. Tired of thinking, of feeling, of being, of living.

Since the day of my birth, I have never stopped living, nor stopped dieing.

It is a constant existence, and the struggle never goes away, the nature of it simply changes.

It is a joyous existence, sprinkled with true light, and the realization that happy things really do make you cry, as the F lamming Lips once reminded us.

In the last few days, I had been thinking about the country I was born in, how the reality of the greater existence of government and policy had always indirectly effected me, but never actually touched me or moved me, especially as a young child.

Was the government around me even important at all? Was it not my mother's hands, my father's heart, and God that had kept me this long?

I smiled and frowned at the memories of my childhood that slipped in front of my mind's eye, and then gasped at the sight of three balloons , one red, one white, and one blue, floating above the cross outside my window.

Faith, country, nature.

Faith, a cross that exists sturdy on the outside of our houses, silently blessing us, encouraging us along when the screams and cries inside become overwhelming, when psychological, financial ,or emotional problems become to overwhelming. When we need something to thank for the small miracles that happen in our living rooms but are too proud to thank one another, or moreover, ourselves!

Country, a vision passing by our windows, perhaps holding us together, but never participating in the love and passion that existed within our homes. A presence that oversaw, but did not convince, or change, a distant hand, even when it was right in our mailboxes asking for our hard earned dollars.

Nature, the sky that framed the cross, the wind that pushed the vision, the breathe in our lungs, the reason we were there at all.

A simple picture outside my window that brought meaning to me, a young woman falling asleep after a long day of living and dieing.

Democracy?

This is what I feel about this year's election


I use to want to let Alessandra, the four year old I babysat for, dress herself in whatever way she felt like. Her mother would say, no Laura, that will cause confusion. Put to outfits on the bed for her, one's you approve of, and let her pick from those two. That way she will think she has a choice, but really, you are making the choice for her.....

The logic behind Mrs. Grambs' idea was this...

When you allow a child to dress himself in the morning, you give him a choice between the red shirt and the blue shirt. This way, you create an illusion that he is allowed to dress himself, but in actuality, you have controlled his choice so he won't get out of hand, ending up with a mismatched outfit that was the result of his creative choosing.....


who is to say his creative outfit is wrong? You are. the power to be. Who is the reason more parties have not been able to formulate in this country?

think about that....

and while you are at, think about becoming a socialist...

Imagine all the boys, and the girls, and the strings, and the drummmmmmmms

What a specifically marvelous week...and it's only Wednesday!!!

Monday- Meet with Spiritual Companion at hole in the wall, yet enchanting, Mexican cafe for dinner. Have an arousing conversation about graffiti as an art form, teaching art in Chicago, and the multiple reasons it may be time to get off the grid and run into the wilderness...Wonder into Harrison Park Field House after dinner...find swimmers, boxers, gymnists, and a flyer for a new Art school opening in September 2009....put it in my backpack..

Tuesday- Track practice with the girls. Tell them about the little dramas of my life, and get insightful pre-teen advice on major problems. Run a good mile and half. Witness a pretty serious car accident while we are running. Stop to say a prayer and watch the sun come out beyond the rain clouds...

Wednesday- Have a good morning with 7th and 8th grade art classes, as they continue to design sport centers....Mention the Art HS to Arturo, a student with extreme artistic ability, but also a learning disability...find out he is very much interested and wants to work with me on his portfolio...realize this is a challenge considering my limited background, but know I can find him the help he needs.....end the day with 6th grade, all of which are sad when they leave my class because it was "so much fun!" Realize God put me in the right place...



: )

and this is why...

In first grade, I stood in front of a few girls, not proudly, rather shyly, and told them about my family's beach house. I told them how much fun it was to go to the beach with my grandmother, go surfing with my father, to frolic until the fire flies came out and the street lights came on.

Although I was simply trying to share with my classmates something that I truly loved, in hopes that they would find enjoyment and happiness in my enjoyment and happiness, I had girls make fun of me, and worse, some claim that I was nothing but a big liar.

As a seven year old, I was quite hurt. I went home and cried to my mother, telling her there were an awful lot of mean people in my class.

Nearly 16 years later, I realize that these girls were simply jealous. envious. and cruel.

In sixteen years, I still remain awfully innocent and naiive to the ways of people, the ways of the world.

I often share my stories with others because I want them to be happy.

I was raised very well, and I am extremely comfortable with myself, often beaming with confidence, energy, and generally positive attitude.

I love myself.
I really love who I am.
And I believe if I didn't, than no one could love me, and I in turn, I could love no one.

Still, this confident energetic` demeanor ` is often regarded by some individuals as being boastful, careless, and some cases, concieded.

These thoughts that people have about me are often so deeply hurting that I question my healthy self love, and ask if maybe I should be more insecure, maybe I should tone down my behavior.

The truth is...I should not.

No one should.

Insecure people see me as a threat because although not the most attractive or intelligent person in the world, I genuinely love the gifts I have been given by God, and use them each day to love others.

I think the reasons I wrote this entry today are many, but for anyone reading this, know that I will not stop loving myself, no matter how hard you try to get me to!

And that is final!

Holy Sunday

This morning, after spending a marvelous night in the intoxicated streets of Chicago with my invigorating roomates, I drove over to St. Ann for the monthly children's mass.

My students were in the church, dressed in their best, ready to take the alter and recite the readings they had practiced with me on Friday afternoon.

They were a little nervous, especially because the Bishop was going to be saying the mass, since Father Felipe (the most attractive parish priest I have ever met!) was on vacation.

While the Bishop was giving his homily, after the children had read, he commented on on how wonderfully they had done, and that many times he can never understand the readings when they are done by youth. My kids were smiling, and so was I.

After mass, we went over to the small cafeteria to have some cake and refreshments. Many old women lined up to get blessed by the Bishop, and a multitude of mother's helped to serve the refreshments to the congregation.

I sat down at a table with Louie, Memo, and Brianna, three of my all stars, who happen to be brothers and sister, and their cousin Christopher, a very awkward 7th grader. It was funny to be to see how these children were all related, as the Villasenor siblings were so well adjusted, and their cousin was shy.

I began to talk to Christopher's mother. She was extremely well spoken, and loving. She seemed highly educated. I had the idea that she must have a very good job. She seemed like she had so much to offer the world.

I shyly asked her where she was working.

" I am out of work right now. I am looking, but there is nothing."

She said this with a smile. I smiled too, but couldn't understand how this wonderful woman could be out of work, and worse, I wondered how she managed to pay her bills or send her son to St. Ann.I worried because she had a Breast Cancer awareness t-shirt and bracelet on, and wondered if she was a survivor, and how she paid the hospital bills. I wondered if that is why she lost her job? I wondered why God would give so many hardships to just one person...

We began to talk about her son.

"He wants to go to De LaSalle for High School" she said. "I am looking into what kind of aide is offered."

I told her I went to a LaSalle school, and that my grandmother paid for it. My parents, full time working teachers, could not afford to send me to LaSalle, and I wondered how this woman would ever be able to send her son.

The kids' smiles and laughter around the table allowed me to not focus on the small tragedy that was joining us at the table, and then I remembered the gospel from Mass that morning.

"The first shall be last, and the last shall be first."

I knew there was terrible injustice in the world. I knew that this woman should have a good job, and should have whatever she wanted.

But I remembred her smile, and that God's ways are not mine. This woman was a wonderful mother and aunt. She was a good person, and her son Christopher was surrounded by love each day, at home, and at our school.

I remembred that her reward would be in heaven, her rewarded would be something much greater than I could ever offer.

I remembered we are all taken care of somehow.

Why I'm Here...

"only rich people don't have Link cards..."

Link cards are food stamps.


The fifth graders had a discussion in my class today about how it is only the very rich who do not have to use food stamps.

This broke my heart. It is certainly true that rich people do not use food stamps, but neither do people who are making enough to provide for their families, whether or not they need the extra help.

I started to realize there was a reason why I am at St. Ann school, and not another type of school.

At the end of the, kids are kids. They have similar likes, dislikes, dreams, and desires.

But what sets my students apart from the white kids living on the North side of the city is the problems they face when they go home: absentee parents, empty tummies, gang violence, and a multitude of social disparities.

It is hard for me to not take their problems back with me at night, to wish that I could somehow guarentee that each of them would have a bright future.

It is hard to hear that some of them don't see their mothers all week, because she leaves for work before they wake up, and comes back after they are sleeping. Although this is a reality in many social classes in America, it still turns my stomach.


It is hard to hear that a school down the street recently just lost two of its students, one 4th grader and one 2nd grader, because their father shot them to death.

It is hard to watch them eat the governement provided lunches, even if it's something they hate, because it might be the only meal they get that day.

However, these are the reasons I strive to find the stregnth to shine brighter and last longer in the classroom. To step outside of my comfort zone, to eat those government lunches with them, to get in touch with my imagination, to really give 110% of who I am to these kids everyday.

This year is for them. It is all for them.

Teaching

Well ----
I have realized today that not having money to spend is something i could certainly get use to...

Last night, I rearranged my small Chicago bedroom because it was beginning to feel unlivable

I put the bed along the wall, so now I sleep horizontal to Lake Michigan

The roof outside my window, that I often climb outside on at night, woke me up, loud with the splashing of rain against the concrete.


I rolled over on my side to look at the beautiful mess outside.

I thought about my Grandmother. She suffered a stroke this week.

I thought about the day before, the blessing I had received...

At school, one of my responsibilities is to organize the Children's Mass.

I was running late on Friday morning, and I reached the school as the kids were coming into their classrooms.

I met Father Felipe, the parish priest, at the door, to tell him that my Grandmother was sick, and to pray for her at mass. I wouldn't be able to attend because I had to help out with the pre-schoolers.

The day went on. I was pretty considered about her, stopping at moments to hide away in the teacher's lounge and let tears stream down my face. Being away from my Grandma was hard enough, but being away from her when she was sick, very sick, was impossible.

I don't teach any classes on Friday, so I went around to visit my students.

I stopped into third grade.

I walked around and greeted the children who were working on a math problem.

"hi Louie, how are you" i asked one of my favorite little spit fires.

"Ms. Laura, is your grandma sick?" he looked up at me.

"Yes, she's in the hospital," I answered.

"We prayed for her at mass, I hope she feels better Ms. Laura."

I smiled all over my body, and felt connect to this child. My student.

I went back up to my room and began to make galleries of the best paintings from the week.

I covered two whole walls of the third floor with beautiful inspiring pieces.

I sat in my office, and watched after the bell, as the kids gathered around their work, proud and beaming.

I saw the color in their hearts.

chicago...

So i have moved in..
and many things have happened...

I was back in Rhode Island for a few days, as some of you may know..

I got a free box of pizza, folk danced in a parking lot, swam with fish that were electrified, and my favorite bohemian man.

I found a friend...but perhaps lost him again...

I came back to Chicago....
Yesterday, as I was leaving work, my sandal broke.

My friend Brett, a young man from Kansas that I met on the "beach" of Lake Michigan
tried to fix it with some string. But it didn't last more than three blocks. The two of us drew one another at the bus stop, me bare foot, waiting for the number 50 to bring me back to my small little room.

Brett ended up spending the night with my housemates and I. We went to see a movie in the park, and took in the fantastic Chicago skyline, noting the vagina shaped buildings.


I woke up in the morning and briskly rushed to work. Upon arrival to our meeting room, there was a new librarian teacher named Patrick. He looked awfully handsome, but more importantly, awfully familiar. I of course could not place where I knew him from.

As the day went on, I got to having a conversation with Patrick.

"have you ever taught before?"

"yea for a year in south america."

"what country?"

"Ecuador."

"what city?"

"quito."

"THE CENTER FOR THE WORKING CHILD?!"

"yes, yes, I KNEW YOU LOOKED FAMILIAR!"

And so it just happens that Patrick and I had met in South America while doing service. We had had a long conversation there about the importance of living free and following your heart more than two years ago.


Here we were now , following our hearts to St. Ann School in Chicago, teaching right across from each other on the third floor.

Patrick and I parted ways at the end of the day, and I made my way back to South House. Upon walking in my bedroom I found Brett, covered in paint, creating a beautiful mural on my wall.

I laid down the floor, put on some soothing music, let some of the paint drip on my feet, and said a silent prayer of thanks in my heart.

The Jersey Shore Drive

In typical Laura Marie fashion, I decided to leave for a three hour drive to the New Jersey shore line at 1:00 PM, even thought I knew I'd have to be back by 10Pm that night.

I stopped and got gas, and got on the road, and all of those other small getting started details I don't recall. It was an extremely hot day. Hell Hot. The kind where your mascara melts off into your eyeballs and turns them bright red and your skin starts to peel off from the solar abuse it's been taking from you all summer.

Where was I going? To a friend's graduation party. It wasn't going to be held at her house, however. It was a wealthy friend of a family's. Wealthy, I thought. Hmm. Probably an in ground pool, perhaps a tennis court, a pool house, a pony?

The drive was relatively easy. A bumpy pass through the Bronx, an exciting thrill going over the George Washington Bridge. The under side. Martha.

I hit some traffic about an hour away from the house. But only on one side of the median. You see in New Jersey they have two highways going in the same direction separated by the "Jersey Barrier." Of course, on my side, there had been a major accident, and so I watched my fellow travelers to my left drive by with ease, some making "nana nana boo boo" faces at me as they drove by. Sound effects and all.

Soon I reached the point of the accident. Nothing left except one cop car and a glass canopy spread across the freeway. I drove through it nonchalantly, hoping no small piece would pop my already damaged tires.

And so on. I took the exit and drove down a long long long long American road. There were plenty of family own ice cream shops and teenage girls with ripe tans and beach blond highlights driving red mustangs. There were fruit stands, gas stations with attendants, seafood shacks, and quaint little raised ranch houses. No New England Salt boxes, no white New England fences. Just raw tri-state America.

I crossed a bridge. It was a white bridge with people fishing on either side. Fishing with perfectly painted toe-nails (perhaps with rhinestones on them?) and people driving around in their motor boats, spewing oil into the already polluted ocean. Ocean? Sound? River? I don't quite know what the water source in New Jersey is.

Past the Bridge I reached my turn into the neighborhood of a popular New Jersey Senator where the party would be held. His house was the last on a small street. I drove down that street with my mouth WIDE OPEN. Gasping. My childhood home could fit four times into any of these homes, and by God, these were only SUMMER HOMES. I decided right then I needed to get over my prejudice against rich people, but when you grow up in a working class family, where your heart breaks on Christmas and you have to open your presents in the freezing cold, it never fails to shock you when you see how the other half lives.

I stop in front of my destination. I am afraid to go any closer. Will they even let me in such a place? Am I dressed appropriately. I don't know. I walk in the front door, even though there is clearly a sign that says go around back. I walk in.

This is not a summer home. There are marble tiled floors, and a large wrap around staircases leading up to multiple bedrooms. There is a fucking hole in the ceiling to let in the moon and the sun and the stars. There is a living room and a dining room and a sitting room and dieing room!
There is a SMOKING ROOM! where no smoke can exit from. There is an indoor bar, and outside, I see my friends. They are dancing. And swimming. Swimming in a perfect swimming pool that is surrounded by the real ocean around them, a few fire pits, and a tiki bar. There is music playing from speakers that look like rocks. Everyone was smiling. I begin to cry.

I get over it quickly. And walk outside. I greet my friends, whom make me feel a little bit more human, but I can't help but think the whole time that no one should live like this. Not when there are whole families sleeping in small dirt filled rooms on the other side of the planet. Or maybe even down the street.

The senator, a robust man with a greesey tan and small black swim trucks ask me what my plants are for the year.

"I'm going to do a year of service." I sweetly answer.

"Ohhhhhh, I did service too, but it was a differen kind!" he laught at himself.

I am sure he is the nicest man, a tall glass of something resting in his well accomplished hand.

There is one girl that makes me feel most human. She is sitting alone, spreading her toes wide in the clorinate pool. She has a t-shirt on over a bright blue speedo style bathing suit, and she has shorts on too. Her legs aren't shave. Her hair isn't brushed. She is smiling at me. She is doing o.k.

She's a friend from school, younger by three years, and I offer to drive her home, back to where she's staying, three hours away from our accidental paradise (which for the record, took me five hours to reach.)

And so we say goodbye to our friends, to the perfect paradise house on the New Jersey Shore, we drive home. She is now bundled up in a man's flannel shirt ,and I put the top down on my beaten up convertible so we can take in the American air.

We drive back down the long road. There are families riding their bikes with bright reflectors, and lobster dinners smelting on outside grills. There are left over fireworks blasting in our ears, and big muscle cars zooming down side streets, races between the locals.

I feel at peace. I feel American. I feel like there are a hunder million trillion human stories brewing all about me, and the most interesting one, brewing right next to me.

She is quiet for most of the ride. We listen to 90's rock music. She belts it out into the air, bouncing off the low riding stars. She sings with a low low low voice. She tells me how she felt alone this year at school. She tells me how she always feels so different. She tells me her mother thinks she is a lesbian.

Then , without warning at all, she tells me some awful things about her past, that make me want to stop the car.

My heart has slightly stopped inside.

"No, don't feel bad," she smiles. "Everyone has a tough life." "Don't feel bad!"

No one has a life like this. I want to vomit.
We find ourselves in New York stuck in back to back traffic. She sits next to me beautiful, drawing in a notebook.

I look around at my fellow travelrs. They all look entirely miserable. Miserable. They look as though they will drive off the bridge we are traveling on in any moment. I look at her. She is smiling. I lose it.
WHY AREN'T THEY SMILING!
Maybe they have reason to not be smiling. Maybe their lives are horrible and lost. Maybe all our lives are.

I search the radio. I find an upbeat techno beat. I can't help but dance to it. She begins to dance as well. We dance. in the night. and we decide to recruit others.

So we make eye contact with those around us. If there windows are down they can hear our music too. Some of the miserable ones, smile. Some of the men begin to bop in their seats. Some, who had been leaning over their steering wheels, finally sit back and relax.

I feel better. I feel like I have done something. I feel like she is some sort of angel and I have no reason to complain. I feel like maybe I do. But I shouldn't. We shuoldn't.

We are all in this together. No matter how rich, or poor, or happy, or miserable. No matter how cookie cutter our life has been, or how absolutely tragic. We are all in this together, and we can all feel the beat of a drum. We can all dance.

Compassion

I am thinking about a few of my friends who left a few days ago to travel to the Philippines on a service trip.


I am thinking it's the first few days of uncertainty, wondering if there may be another typhoon coming there way, wondering what the hell they got themselves into, wondering if at the end of the month, their lives will actually be changed.



And then I am thinking, these kids are fucking great.

Because, they are getting on a plane, traveling twenty four hours away, to help children, they have never met.


And these same kids, my friends, are the types of people who question compassion on a daily basis: not whether or not they should give it, but why more people are not?


Have we begun to live our lives afraid to reach out to the people right next to us, let alone, half way across the world?

Has being nice become creepy, or annoying?

It takes .7777 seconds to look someone in the eyes when you address them. to acknowledge their hummanity.

it takes but a few moments to remember someone's name.

these things REALLY MATTER.

At the end of our lives we will not be remembered by what we did, or what we said, but rather, how we made others feel.

When I say things like that, people tell me I am crazy, impractical, and full of nonsense.

I do not think that treating others with dignity and patience and love is nonsense.

I think this is the only way to exist.

This World.

I think that sometimes the most sincere of angels, watched by all, are the ones who suffer the greatest.



I'd like to encourage you to continue you to put your heart out on the line, every chance you get.

I'd like to encourage you to tell people how beautiful, and wonderful, and lost, and dark, and human they really are.

I'd like to encourage you to live instead of pretending to, to think that we all are equal, on the same level, ready to explode, or make babies, or trust and die.


But after the first day of Kindergarten, the first broken heart, the first situation where being you isn't good enough....


It starts to get tough to make you believe that these things are going to work.

The first day of the rest of my life

I have avoided being a blogger for the past ten years. Well, actually, I am not quite sure that blogs existed when I was twelve, but if they did, I have been avoiding them.

To be honest, really honest, I did have another blog before. Maybe someday I'll provide the link to it here, but I'd rather my past remain a secret for now. This blog is about the future--my future--one day at a time.

I just graduated from college a little over a month ago. I don't know how it feels yet. Right now it feels like summer.

I have a B.A. in Creative Writing. I think that means I have nothing. But people always seem to nod in half admiration half "what the fuck are you going to do now?"

I am working at a theater for play development in CT. Apparently it is a big deal kind of place, because musicals like Avenue Q were first developed here, and Tracy Letts brings his behind around one in awhile, and legend has it that Michael Douglas use to cut the grass on the rolling hills that surround the campus of the theater.

To me, it is just like one big summer camp for theater freaks---A place where adults who never want to really grow up can come and re-live their youth over and over and over again until they are convinced they are 20 years old again, having their first homosexual experience in the back of a 69' Chevy with the captain of the football team.

Did I mention EVERY MAN here is a friend of dorthy?

I think it is quite good for me to be around so many openly gay people. I have always been told that I am color blind because I grew up in such a diverse neighborhood. Now, I am going to be come sexually orientation blind, or at least have a better frame of reference when trying to understand and support the people in my own inner circle who find them selves batting for the other team.

I wish I knew how it felt. Is that weird? I try so hard sometimes to just try and see how it would feel for one day if I knew I was going to be with a woman for the rest of my life. I think I could be a lesbian if it meant I could still really love men. But that's not what it means, and so I digress.

Personally, I believe that no one should have any preferences. We are all humans who need to be touched and loved, but I suppose we can not help who we love.

I mean in theory, it makes sense that we should just all be left to our own devises and live in little love huts and love men and women equally, but this isn't actaully going to happen, and most people actually do have a preference. Including myself.

I prefer pineapples.

Anyway, anyway, life here has been interesting.

My office is the little elixir of hope and existence up on the third floor of the Mansion. The literary office.

My boss is Martin. Perhaps one of the most charming people I have met in quite sometime. He is quite intelligent, and yet he keeps alot of it under the brim of his hat. What is most exciting about him is his open mindedness. He really is concious of cultural differences, and speaks elequently and with a thread of equality in his thoughts.


John , Martin's right hand man, is a perfect angel of a person. John just finised grad school a Iowa University, studying dramaturgy. That means John studies life. He knows everything. I think so anyway. And when you feel bad, he looks you in the eye and tells you it's going to be ok and you believe him.

John is dating a lovely man named Sam Hunter whom he talks about with such spark and glitter that it makes me believe in love again. Sam is John's "mountain man."

Heather is our office cordinator. Heather is warm, a little spark about to burst with the slighest ignition, something one might not notice right away under her shy exterior. She is brilliant, and different, and everything that the world should probably be, they just don't know it yet.

I don't think she knows it either.


Then there are our interns. My fellow interns. Michael, Alex, Andrew and Walter.


Alex is my lost twin soul. She looks like Lindsey Lohan and has the humor of Lucille Ball. Yeah, Yeah, she has red hair. You would want to date her if you knew her.

*~*

Last night, the entire theater staff had a bonfire. On the beach. A bunch of young people, and some not so young people, mostly beautiful young women and fabulously gay men, standing around a pit of fire that had been burning because of the technical directors ease in re-applying wood when necessary. Those techies, so good to have around.


I found myself talking a lot with some man who is apparently famous? I dunno, I talked to him cause he spent some time in Providence, and I really miss it.

Anyway, we took a walk and talked about the threshold of happiness.

What is it that makes someone happy? Is it reaching their goal, doing what they always planned to do, or being with someone that they can not breathe without, that feeling being returned indefinitely.


Hmm.

I was intrigued by this person. I was intrigued, most likely, because he has lived in the real world for 10 years, and I am just a hatch ling to the jungle.

Maybe when he said cosmically that we were all the same age, or having an old soul was not a bad thing. or that older people were simply scared of what the younger people were going to do.

or maybe because he's made it some way, and he's still able to be real, take off his expensive leather shoes, and walk in the sand.

Something about him put me at peace, that there were people who "got it"...whatever "it" is.


I don't think I mind famous people. or people who could be famous.

I think they are just searching.


I'm always searching.