Posts Tagged ‘Sarah Lawrence College’

25
Jan
2018

party girl

categories: me

I did my best to participate in the debauchery and depravity that is college life. In all honesty, I went to college to…you’ll never guess…get an education! Really. No one forced me to be there. There were no parental units guilt-tripping me into attending. The cocaine-toting, binge-drinking party-goers sort of swirled around my book-reading, homework-doing college self.

I am definitely not trying to paint some picture of a good girl. That, I was not. But, I was studious. And, I took college seriously because I was genuinely interested in learning. I had always loved school. As an escape from home but also as a place to learn about the big, wide world outside of my small-town life. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to experience everything.

I spent much of my high school career focused on extracurricular activities — college was the place for learning, I decided. College was the place to finally get a sense of the world around me. The history, the culture, the literature. I was a product of shitty, small-town schools, with the occasional incredible teacher but mostly a sea of small-minded, right-leaning, mostly white, mostly christian people. I was caught in the middle of the conservative reality of the town I called home and the liberal, commune ideology I’d grown up around.

College was, for me and for many others, a place where I could finally be myself. Or, rather, be the self I always wanted to be. I could shed the reputation I had earned/inherited, get labeled with all new adjectives, stick myself into the categories and groups I felt best defined me or supported me, and make all new friends. Friends who knew nothing about my background. People with whom I could start fresh.

It was exhilarating for me. Moving 3,000 miles away from where anyone knew my name was the most important gift I could have given my adolescent self. The gift of anonymity–where I could feel safe and free and normal.

22
Aug
2015

i’ve never heard my father’s voice on the telephone

categories: me, new york

“That’s a poem. Right there. What a strange thing,” my poetry professor said, breathing heavily, leaned forward in his gray, ikea swivel chair. We sat in his windowless office, each of us sucking in the same stale air. Beads of sweat ran down his balding temples as he wrung his hands, wiping them on his slacks every few minutes. It was the beginning of September but it was still hot. Swelteringly hot. And humid. Cicadas still whistled outside, the grass was limp with heat and I swear there were some confused fireflies still flitting about in the early evenings. Fall had not yet fallen in New York.

Why haven’t I taken a writing class? I wondered as I flipped through the course offerings the summer before my senior year. “You should really think about seeing one of our writing tutors,” my Environmental Studies professor had said after reading my first paper. I ignored his recommendation but continued to double or triple-load my coursework for the next three years. I agonized over which classes to take. I read and reread course descriptions, desperately trying to figure out which classes would be best suited to my particular interests at the time (environmentalism, social justice, policies and politics, latin american studies).

The start of my senior year of college hadn’t been easy. Summer had ended with the realization that my on-again, off-again boyfriend was a covert heroin addict. By mid-year my mother was actively dying from early-onset Alzheimers and I had undergone unsuccessful back surgery which left me in more rather than less pain. So, an easy course load, I decided, was the only way to get through the year. Poetry, photography and one more sociology course for good measure. One entitled, Protest & Art: How art has birthed movements and movements have birthed art. Or something to that effect. In my four years I had established myself as the social sciences darling. My professor had even asked me to sit in on the interviews and help him pare down the admittance list. But, this would be the year to take an art class, finally. And, a writing one too.

I spent my first few weeks of classes lying on the ground, having received approval from the office of Students with Disabilities. I hobbled in, explaining that lying prostrate on the floor was the only way that I could cope with the pain. I hadn’t responded well to the pain meds and was hesitant to pop pills anyhow. I’ve never been much of a medication person. I blame it on my hippie upbringing. A sacred physical vessel and all that.

“How is that possible?” Jeff asked, puzzled. “You have a relationship with him, right? By that I mean, he is in your life. You speak to him. You visit him when you’re back in California, yes?” he paused. “So, how do you make plans? Do you email him?”

“No,” I explained. “He doesn’t do anything directly.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. His interest piqued. I could see him floating ideas for his own poem. My strange upbringing and experience perfect fodder for his dark, human-experience poetry. “So…what would happen if you were to call and ask for him?”

“Well, I suppose that if he were available…and wanted to talk to me…that he would speak through one of the women.”

“Speak through them?! Like, a medium? Speak through them metaphysically?”

“No, no. Speak through them, literally,” I said, regretting having mentioned it at all. “No one would go and get him. But, if he happened to be in the main house when I called and felt inclined — for whatever reason — to say hello, then it would go something like this:

‘Say hi to dad for me.’

‘She says hello.’ the woman would say aloud to my dad who would be sitting down for lunch.

‘School’s going well. I’m really enjoying my poetry class,’ I might say.

‘She says she’s liking her poetry class,’ she would relay. Then she would either hold the phone up near my father so I could hear his response — provided he had one — or he would reply and she would paraphrase his words back to me. This would go on until our (very short) conversation came to a lull. At which point I would lie and say that I had to go and they would know that I was lying but be more than happy to oblige. And, I would say goodbye and they would yell ‘goodbye’ and that would be that,” I explained.

“Hmm,” Jeff squinted as he caressed his stubbly chin. His brow furrowed, hunched forward, dripping with perspiration.

“Yep. That’s what I meant when I said I’d never heard his voice on the phone. I don’t know, it’s just one of those weird quirky things, I guess. Not a big deal. I’m not sure how that gets worked into a poem. But, then again, what do I know about writing,” I admitted, biting the inside of my cheek and tasting the sweet metallic flavor of blood.

“Fascinating,” he continued. “Just fascinating. Do you have other stories like that? Other, as you say, ‘quirky’ tales from your childhood?”

“Um…I don’t know. Probably. Honestly, it didn’t really occur to me that it was weird until I said it out loud and you told me how strange that was.”

“Right. Right. Well, keep digging. Think back to a specific time in your life. Remember a smell. Or, a sensation. One word someone said. Poetry can come from anywhere. Read tomorrow’s headlines. Start there if you can’t come up with something from your own life. There’s always an interesting story. A beautiful headline. I want five poems by next week. Let’s pick back up in our conference next Wednesday.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I said with a half-smile and backed out of his door, winding my way through the dim corridor and out into the orange September sun.

28
Jul
2015

the power of sound

categories: me, new york

Cicadas.

Have you been hearing them lately?

Not those periodical, magicicada broods that only emerge every 13 or 17 years but the regular old East Coast annual cicadas who sing their mating songs in the late summer.

God, they are beautiful. At first I assumed they were sprinklers. “Damn, these East Coasters use their automated watering systems a lot,” I thought.

I moved to New York in August of 2001. My soon-to-be college roommate and I decided to meet up and road trip our way through New England two weeks before our first semester of college. Get to know one another and see the sights while we were at it. You know, the thing naive kids plan. And their parents probably say things like, “Two weeks?! You’re going to spend two weeks with a girl you don’t even know? What if you hate her? You’re going to have to spend the next year with her whether you like her or not. Better to just meet her in the dorm. There’ll be other people around, you’ll have a whole shared dialogue, a shared experience. Don’t do this. It’s not a good idea.” I don’t know. I mean, my parents didn’t say anything. But, that’s probably what hers said. Smart folks.

I got into Penn station around noon, dragged my giant, purple backpack to the closest wall and sunk down into it. It had never been this stuffed, this unwieldy when I lugged it through Europe the year before. I’d carried that thing everywhere. Rode trains illegally spilling wine and god-knows-what on it, sprayed a bus full of Scottish riders with pepper spray (accidentally), broke into the coliseum (purposefully — I plead young and stupid) with it waiting outside, ate pizza in Rome with it as a table, drank Whiskey in Drumnadrochit while it sat emptied and sad on my shared hostel floor. My pack had perched silently in the seat next to me when I was craving the English language and went to see Charlie’s Angels in Berlin. It had provided cushioning from the cold sidewalk when I ended up with nowhere to sleep in Barcelona in January (before scooting off to a warmer Valencia) and a perfect barrier between my body and the creepy french man wearing the trench coat in my train car (why are trench coats still so creepy and molestor-y?) on the way to Paris. And, here it sat. With me. Again. Ready for my next adventure. Ready to meet the girl with whom I would share a bedroom for an entire year.

We’d been talking for weeks over the phone. Her name was Lisa, she was from Florida, she liked Cat Power and Bob Dylan, she had a car (road trips, donut runs, weekend adventures!) she was an artist and had a cute, round face, two giant puppy-dog eyes, dyed black hair and a boyfriend who was a vegan photographer.

She loathed all things processed (my cheese-doodle eating really freaked her out) and had about twenty pair of low-top chucks. Actually, they were purchased as high-tops but she cut the tops off to make them more punk-rock looking. You know, I bought these new but they look used, kind of a vibe. Her family was loaded. Really loaded. She showed up in a bright green 2001 Volkswagon Jetta, fully loaded, black leather seats, moon roof, the whole deal.

She was so ashamed of that car. She was so ashamed of her wealth. Don’t get me wrong, she took full advantage of it. But, she was incredibly embarrassed. In college, or at least at Sarah Lawrence College, it was NOT cool to be wealthy. It was way cooler to be the poor kid on scholarship. So, you know, me. Except, it wasn’t actually cool to be that kid. It was just cool to seem like you were that kid and then go out and buy things and live a life that is only possible with lots and lots of money.

By the time I got to college I was pretty much done with my hard-partying ways. Small town, no rules or restrictions, I got into a lot before reaching legal adulthood. I’d taken some time off between high school and college to travel and take care of my mom so I was significantly, sigNIFICANTLY older than my peers. Okay, I was two years older. But, I will tell you right now, the difference between 18 and 20 is big. Giant, even. I was practically an adult. I had a dying mother, an abusive boyfriend and I’d already had alcohol poisoning twice.

I didn’t know what to make of this rich girl who acted poor. At first it was charming. She has money but she’s like me. Then it was confusing. She buys expensive clothing but cuts the labels out so no one knows it’s expensive? Then, I just got pissed. Why is this bitch pretending life is hard when it is so fucking easy for her?

I know now that money doesn’t make life better. But anyone who says it doesn’t make life easier has never been dirt poor. Having grown up with no money doesn’t make me an expert on poverty but it makes me an expert in my own experience. And, what I can say is that listening to people with money talk about how, “money doesn’t buy happiness” is super frustrating. I mean, I agree. But, it’s too simplistic a statement. Life is hard for everyone. We all have our very own, unique struggles. But a hard life and no money makes for a really hard life. There’s just no getting around that one.

This was all before the days of facebook and social media. I barely had an email address. There was no way to cyber-stock your future roommate. Seeing her in that bus station was seeing her for the first time. She’d described herself over the phone and I spotted her as soon as she approached the depot. We had an agreed upon meeting place because, that’s what you had to do back then. Make decisions and then stick with them. Decide things ahead of time and follow through. Dark days, they were.

“Oh, wow. So, you’re like really punk, huh?” she had said upon seeing me.

“Um, yeah. I guess so. I mean, not really but I kinda look the part, I guess,” I responded, trying to decide if she was really cool for just laying it out on the table. Or, kind of a bitch for being so weird about what I look like.

“Hmm. Okay. So, should we get going or…this place totally creeps me out. Let’s just get out of here and get on the road. Cool?”

“Cool,” I replied. “Let’s go.”

The first day was all pleasantries. Back stories.

Day two was filled with compromises. Sure, I’m happy to visit that teensy artsy town you really want to go to. I concede. I’d love to drive the extra-long scenic route, she lies. And so on.

By day four it’s clear we don’t like each other. By day six it’s starting to feel possible that we might, in fact, hate one another. We have nothing in common, aside from a few bands. We don’t understand one another’s life experiences and we are both completely devastated that we will have to cohabitate for any amount of time.

Days pass. There are fun moments. Laughs and what would later become inside jokes, good food (mostly vegan), some nice people along the way, quaint towns and gorgeous beaches. We journal and read and listen to lots and lots of Cat Power. We do our own thing, we make loads of phone calls (from pay phones because…that’s how long ago it was) and we just sort of get through the next week.

As we pull off I-80 into Stroudsberg, Pennyslvania we are miserable. We hate each other. We know we hate each other. The secret is out. School hasn’t even begun and we have nothing left to talk about. We’ve pretended for too long (12 whole days!) and neither of us has any patience left. It’s all out on the table. She’s a rich girl pretending to be some eco-friendly, street-savvy artist. And, I’m a small-town fuck-up with a giant chip on her shoulder, too heartbroken to be open and too jaded to be forgiving.

We just have to get through one more night. Bronxville is on the horizon but it’s late and we can’t check into the dorm until the following morning so we have to find one last place to stay before…before an entire year of this begins.

“Let’s just pull in here. This looks promising,” I say. It looks cheap and I’m broke. I know if I don’t suggest something she’ll have us staying in a Marriott.

“Why don’t you just let my parents pay for us to stay in a nice hotel?” she pleads.

“Lisa, not everyone can call their goddamn parents and ask them to subsidize their lives. I can pay my own way. I’ll cover my half but we’ve gotta stay here. Deal with it.”

“Shit. Fine. This place looks like a rape motel. If I get raped, I swear to god I am so suing you.”

“You’re not going to get fucking raped, Lisa. Jesus, you are so dramatic. It’s dark, it’s cheap. There’s cheaper and darker. Believe me. We’re fine,” I say. “Just back the car into the space so it’s harder to open the trunk if someone tries to steal our shit. And put your fucking cd’s in the glove compartment. You can’t leave them lying out like that.”

“Fine. But, I’m super uncomfortable with this. Just for the record.”

“Great. Your grievance has been recorded,” I mutter under my breath. I hear the car doors click loudly just as the cracked glass door to the front desk area swings shut behind me.

Lisa quickly unlocks the doors when she sees me coming. Doesn’t want me to know she’s scared, I think. “I got us a second floor room. No one will even bother with the second floor. If anyone’s getting raped it’ll be some first-floor fool,” I say with a smile.

She chuckles. Just a bit. But, enough to break the tension and lighten the mood. Maybe this will work, I start to think. I stop and let her walk ahead of me. She’s carrying three heavy bags and limping under their weight. Maybe she just needs a little bit of reality. And, time away from her folks. She’ll come around, I think as she turns the corner.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lisa screams.

“What is it?” I ask, running to see what’s the matter. The light is out in front of our door. The ground is moving. The door is humming. The wall is alive. “What is THAT?” I ask.

“Cicadas,” she explains. “They’re disgusting.”

“Whoa! I think they’re beautiful. Holy shit, listen to them. I’ve never heard anything like it,” I say. “They’re amazing. They look like a cross between a Mystic and a Skeksis. Right? Like, before they split.”

“What are you even talking about?” she hisses.

I can’t believe she’s never seen the Dark Crystal, I think. I fucking knew I didn’t like her.

“How do we get in?” Lisa asks. She’s starting to look genuinely scared. And pissed.

“They’re like tiny dinosaurs. Holy shit. They’re so creepy. But cool. And, that sound. It’s like music. It’s dreamy. I feel like they’re hypnotizing me. They’re magical. These things are magical, right?”

“You are such a weirdo.”