Sometimes it would appear that microcosms only appear in the construed confines of literature, television, and movies, but if you look into any given room, you'll probably find a pretty good real life example. Though we can't all be the Breakfast Club, I've noticed a little bit of a college microcosm in my place of work, a tutor center.
Sitting idly at the well-worn but sturdy tables, waiting for the confused masses to seek our help, the tutors turn to discussing their life stories.
There's the middle-aged woman, proudly boasting of her kid's accomplishments and grumbling about her husband's inability to stick to a diet (as she shoveled chicken and gravy into her mouth), while grasping an anatomy book in her other hand. She tutors between singing in the college and church choirs, and has taken it upon herself to be the mother hen of the center. She councils one tutor about his less than perfect four year relationship for an hour after she's supposed to be off work, and even inquires into the nature of my relationship with another random tutor, who I actually only met three days ago. She's only known me a week but insists upon checking on my safety.
Then there's the college party movie walking stereotype. He failed out of a four year university and is now enthusiastically tutoring science and math. He walks around the school with music forever blaring from one headphone, which only parts from his ear during class and while tutoring. At all other times, he loops it up through his shirt for a constant stream of tunes. It often causes him to speak a little louder than necessary, but the volume matches his strange vibrancy in what seems to be a disappointing situation. But he's always all smiles, except for eight in the morning, when he slouches over his laptop, half-asleep. Ipod blaring.
Then there's the hesitant fatherly, criminal justice program types who usually just come in, do their jobs, and leave. But occasionally the social environment gets the best of them and they stay to chat about their latest parental woes, or gesticulate wildly about their hunting trips or NASCAR races.
And there's the guy who is always, always there, whether tutoring with extreme patience and skill or entertaining young (and, let's face it, dorky) students with his quick wit. He appears to tutor half the school as well as attending school himself, but is never frazzled. He's a regular staple of the place and everybody jokes with him because he takes it all so well. It's hard to tell how long he's been at the college (he randomly mentions so many different institutions of higher learning, including my beloved Chapel Hill) but he seems very content on his computer in the back corner of the room.
And of course, there are the fearless leaders. One always, always tutoring, and occasionally popping in to crack a joke at an understanding employee's expense. But the other one is full of surprises. Seemingly mild mannered, but in downtime conversation, he'll random through in a detail about being on probation in his younger years, a pop culture reference to Twilight, or mention how hyped up he gets on caffeine, with a maniacal glint in his eye.
And me. My friend and I are the youngest and most inexperienced, technically still being in high school, and we sit quietly off the side and watch the others interact, only joining ourselves at opportune moments.
The room to the tutor center is tucked away in the rarely trodden upstairs region of the library, unobtrusively going about its business. But inside, a whole separate social circle teems, representing the student body in the best ways possible.
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 22, 2010
A Cop Out
Here I go again, super failing at posting regularly! But inspiration simply cannot be forced... unless of course I scour the internet and find random writing exercises and use them when I don't have any independently generated thoughts. I must begin doing this when I have writer's block or else I'll never touch this thing again! So here I go...
I found these. They are not entertaining to anyone but me, so if you're one of the two or three unfortunate souls reading this, I apologize in advance.
1.Describe a landscape as seen by an old woman whose horrible old husband has just died. Do not mention the husband or death.
The birds splashed about in a puddle to the right of the sidewalk. Their pleasing chirps were like background music to Myrtle's life as she hobbled along, taking in the surrounding sights of pleasant suburbs in the evening. She was heading to her daughter's for supper, since her own house seemed vacant nowadays. The sidewalk was the dark, familiar gray of slightly wet concrete and blades of grass drooped with the burden of raindrops weighing them down. Yet the sun shone brightly, unaware of the recent downpour, promising to evaporate the water.
Alright, so that's not a landscape and the imagery isn't horribly subtle, but at least I avoided including the rainbow, only suggested the environment in which one would appear. And it's not really a landscape, but I prefer smaller settings. It's supposed to represent a new hope, as opposed to the "dark, familiar gray" of life with her "horrible old husband." How very Kate Chopin.
2. Describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just murdered someone. Do not mention the murder.
The moon was the only light now, and the house disappeared in the dark behind him as he approached the lake. There was not a single living creature to be seen, nobody witness his late night walk, but the quiet surface of the lake hid a teeming, hidden colony of probing eyes and ears. The sky was overcast with the grayish clouds of nighttime, making the lake look almost a sinister black. He tried to picture the freedom of happy vacationers skiing on top of the water, laughing and splashing in the gentle wake, but the images remained hazy and distant in his mind. Only a deep, cold abyss laid at his feet.
How dramatic! I tried to include some feelings of guilt and paranoia and hopelessness. Nothing says hopeless like a big ole black body of water. But it seems very much like a werewolf should come out of the woods at any moment and gobble him up. I sort of was picturing how I picture the lake at Hogwarts, also, which might have affected my vision. haaa
3. Describe a landscape as seen by a bird. Do not mention the bird.
The mountains peaked through the clouds, emphasizing the alluring mystery of exclusive mountaintops. The snow remained untouched and untainted, a pure white blanket concealing the years of geographical history underneath. Trees stood defiantly in the seemingly uninhabitable terrain. They appeared almost impertinent. How dare the trees reach even higher than the mountains? How far above sea level is far enough?
That's all I got for this one. Like I said, I don't like big areas. It overwhelms the reader and the writer both, trying to envision so much makes each description less powerful. Even trying to describe an entire mountain range (which I've never seen in person and there's none in Harry Potter except perhaps when Hagrid visits the giants) is quite an undertaking, and so I personified a small detail--the trees--and left the rest pretty vague and cliched.
Well, my writer's block remains a formidable foe, only granting me a few mere paragraphs. But it's better than nothing and allows me to feel less blogger's guilt.
I found these. They are not entertaining to anyone but me, so if you're one of the two or three unfortunate souls reading this, I apologize in advance.
1.Describe a landscape as seen by an old woman whose horrible old husband has just died. Do not mention the husband or death.
The birds splashed about in a puddle to the right of the sidewalk. Their pleasing chirps were like background music to Myrtle's life as she hobbled along, taking in the surrounding sights of pleasant suburbs in the evening. She was heading to her daughter's for supper, since her own house seemed vacant nowadays. The sidewalk was the dark, familiar gray of slightly wet concrete and blades of grass drooped with the burden of raindrops weighing them down. Yet the sun shone brightly, unaware of the recent downpour, promising to evaporate the water.
Alright, so that's not a landscape and the imagery isn't horribly subtle, but at least I avoided including the rainbow, only suggested the environment in which one would appear. And it's not really a landscape, but I prefer smaller settings. It's supposed to represent a new hope, as opposed to the "dark, familiar gray" of life with her "horrible old husband." How very Kate Chopin.
2. Describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just murdered someone. Do not mention the murder.
The moon was the only light now, and the house disappeared in the dark behind him as he approached the lake. There was not a single living creature to be seen, nobody witness his late night walk, but the quiet surface of the lake hid a teeming, hidden colony of probing eyes and ears. The sky was overcast with the grayish clouds of nighttime, making the lake look almost a sinister black. He tried to picture the freedom of happy vacationers skiing on top of the water, laughing and splashing in the gentle wake, but the images remained hazy and distant in his mind. Only a deep, cold abyss laid at his feet.
How dramatic! I tried to include some feelings of guilt and paranoia and hopelessness. Nothing says hopeless like a big ole black body of water. But it seems very much like a werewolf should come out of the woods at any moment and gobble him up. I sort of was picturing how I picture the lake at Hogwarts, also, which might have affected my vision. haaa
3. Describe a landscape as seen by a bird. Do not mention the bird.
The mountains peaked through the clouds, emphasizing the alluring mystery of exclusive mountaintops. The snow remained untouched and untainted, a pure white blanket concealing the years of geographical history underneath. Trees stood defiantly in the seemingly uninhabitable terrain. They appeared almost impertinent. How dare the trees reach even higher than the mountains? How far above sea level is far enough?
That's all I got for this one. Like I said, I don't like big areas. It overwhelms the reader and the writer both, trying to envision so much makes each description less powerful. Even trying to describe an entire mountain range (which I've never seen in person and there's none in Harry Potter except perhaps when Hagrid visits the giants) is quite an undertaking, and so I personified a small detail--the trees--and left the rest pretty vague and cliched.
Well, my writer's block remains a formidable foe, only granting me a few mere paragraphs. But it's better than nothing and allows me to feel less blogger's guilt.
Aug 5, 2010
Growing Pains
On the first day of sixth grade, I sat beside a girl in homeroom. We talked. We became friends. We talked on the phone endlessly, even though I always hated talking on the phone. We killed half the Amazon Rain Forest writing notes, including one of the true cementing factors to our friendship: The Notebook. We passed the The Notebook back and forth every day at school after writing in it each night. We made up symbols for the names we didn't want exposed in case it fell into the wrong hands, and confessed our deepest worries in that black binder.
Always a private person, I found I could open up to her, and even now seven years later, I still tell her things I can't tell anyone else. Even though we never really had the most in common, we've remained friends through it all.
I don't know what I'd do without her. But the realization came crashing down tonight--I might have to.
I know there's the internet and letters and telephones, but it's not the same. It's not the same as being able to meet up at Talquepaque for lunch and the rain that always seems to accompany these trips. How do I survive without seeing her name pop up on my messenger list every day, and the typing style I've come to know so well spill out the worries of her day?
Even though I'm 18, applying to college, and generally on the threshold of adulthood, it never really seemed that real to me until my best friend from sixth grade tells me she's contemplating marriage and moving halfway across the country, away from everything she's known, away from me. I told her a million times in middle school that her beloved would come around and see her for the amazing girl she is, and now my prophecy is coming true to a dizzying degree.
But I'm also so excited for her. I'm excited that she gets a new and exciting life. Truly, there is not much here for her. She could reach her higher potential somewhere else, and maybe help her maybe-husband reach his too. There is room to grow outside of the little world she's always lived in, and it would be a shame if fear kept her from inhabiting this new life.
Just last week, we were sitting in my floor playing board games, one of which was Life. As we moved the cars through the rapidly progression lifetime, I never imagined her real life would move as quickly so soon.
But I wish her a little plastic husband who is devoted and loving, a career card that she enjoys with a salary card she doesn't want to trade, Life Tiles full of things she's always dreamed of, and maybe, someday, a plastic car full of beautiful plastic peg children. And when she gets to the end of the gameboard, I hope she takes it all at Millionaire Acres.
But most of all, I hope we can still mail back and forth our secrets and dreams and hopes in a proverbial The Notebook.
Always a private person, I found I could open up to her, and even now seven years later, I still tell her things I can't tell anyone else. Even though we never really had the most in common, we've remained friends through it all.
I don't know what I'd do without her. But the realization came crashing down tonight--I might have to.
I know there's the internet and letters and telephones, but it's not the same. It's not the same as being able to meet up at Talquepaque for lunch and the rain that always seems to accompany these trips. How do I survive without seeing her name pop up on my messenger list every day, and the typing style I've come to know so well spill out the worries of her day?
Even though I'm 18, applying to college, and generally on the threshold of adulthood, it never really seemed that real to me until my best friend from sixth grade tells me she's contemplating marriage and moving halfway across the country, away from everything she's known, away from me. I told her a million times in middle school that her beloved would come around and see her for the amazing girl she is, and now my prophecy is coming true to a dizzying degree.
But I'm also so excited for her. I'm excited that she gets a new and exciting life. Truly, there is not much here for her. She could reach her higher potential somewhere else, and maybe help her maybe-husband reach his too. There is room to grow outside of the little world she's always lived in, and it would be a shame if fear kept her from inhabiting this new life.
Just last week, we were sitting in my floor playing board games, one of which was Life. As we moved the cars through the rapidly progression lifetime, I never imagined her real life would move as quickly so soon.
But I wish her a little plastic husband who is devoted and loving, a career card that she enjoys with a salary card she doesn't want to trade, Life Tiles full of things she's always dreamed of, and maybe, someday, a plastic car full of beautiful plastic peg children. And when she gets to the end of the gameboard, I hope she takes it all at Millionaire Acres.
But most of all, I hope we can still mail back and forth our secrets and dreams and hopes in a proverbial The Notebook.
Aug 2, 2010
Applying in Pajamas
Today was an ordinary day. It's kind of overcast outside, the kind of sky that leaves everything looking a little gloomy and a little sad. The kind of day that makes you want to curl up with a book all day, or watch that list of movies you've been putting off watching, and certainly the kind of day that never provides enough motivation to change out of your obnoxious pink-flowered pajama pants.
But today was not an ordinary day. It was the day I began my application to my dream school.
Everything I've done in my life for the past four years, possibly the last seven, was at least partially motivated by the promise improving my college application. A far away mysterious and hazy goal, it hovered in front of me like a carrot dangling by a string, begging me to chase it through my adolescence. I would get frustrated with all the club meetings, events to coordinate, class load to bear, but I just kept those blank application fields in mind and kept plunging through.
But now it's over and I've sealed my fate, good or bad, and I'm documenting it all in those indifferent, character-restricting boxes. There is something about it that hardly seems fair.
I need twelve word documents, 10,000 characters, more checkboxes, to explain. I need to explain why I need Carolina, why I'm worthy, what I've been doing with my life, what I want to do with my life. I can't sum up myself in these confines!
But I must. I haven't got a choice. I have to find a way to squish myself into the tiny boxes without losing any of the desire, personality, and competency I hope I have and wish to convey. Every word I type onto that application carries so much meaning. I feel the weight of each one in my typing-wearying fingers, in my blurring eyes, in the knot forming at the back of my neck.
The whole time, I felt this weird feeling that I should sit straighter. I should dress up. I should comb my hair. This apple juice wasn't fancy enough for the occasion. I was half-listening to "VH1's 100 Best Songs of the 90's." That isn't fitting. I should be sitting in complete, immaculate silence, dutifully focusing my attention on deciding my fate.
But alas, it was no production. Just a gloomy, overcast, pajamay day. The day I began the process that seals my fate.
But today was not an ordinary day. It was the day I began my application to my dream school.
Everything I've done in my life for the past four years, possibly the last seven, was at least partially motivated by the promise improving my college application. A far away mysterious and hazy goal, it hovered in front of me like a carrot dangling by a string, begging me to chase it through my adolescence. I would get frustrated with all the club meetings, events to coordinate, class load to bear, but I just kept those blank application fields in mind and kept plunging through.
But now it's over and I've sealed my fate, good or bad, and I'm documenting it all in those indifferent, character-restricting boxes. There is something about it that hardly seems fair.
I need twelve word documents, 10,000 characters, more checkboxes, to explain. I need to explain why I need Carolina, why I'm worthy, what I've been doing with my life, what I want to do with my life. I can't sum up myself in these confines!
But I must. I haven't got a choice. I have to find a way to squish myself into the tiny boxes without losing any of the desire, personality, and competency I hope I have and wish to convey. Every word I type onto that application carries so much meaning. I feel the weight of each one in my typing-wearying fingers, in my blurring eyes, in the knot forming at the back of my neck.
The whole time, I felt this weird feeling that I should sit straighter. I should dress up. I should comb my hair. This apple juice wasn't fancy enough for the occasion. I was half-listening to "VH1's 100 Best Songs of the 90's." That isn't fitting. I should be sitting in complete, immaculate silence, dutifully focusing my attention on deciding my fate.
But alas, it was no production. Just a gloomy, overcast, pajamay day. The day I began the process that seals my fate.
Aug 1, 2010
Faith and Santa Claus
I heard a song today that included the line "I don't really miss god, but I sure miss Santa Claus."
And I thought, I don't really remember ever believing in either. I'm sure I did believe in Santa Claus at some point though, before I could remember. I wish I could remember.
That kind of excited, ardent faith is something I'm not sure I've ever felt. The only thing I remember regarding my feelings toward the existence of Santa Claus was laying awake at night, listening to parents argue about what they bought for who, because they thought I couldn't hear them. I was slightly insulted by the ruse. I was probably ten or eleven, but they still treated the event like I was younger. That was probably because my brother was still that young.
It's actually kind of amazing, like a worldwide conspiracy, to keep kids believing in Santa as long as they can. They didn't work very well on me, I guess. Always a skeptic.
I remember when I caught my mom snapping plastic eggs together on Easter. My dad, always the more sly, secretive parent, was TDY in Saudi Arabia, leaving Mom to man the holiday alone. I was still in elementary school, so I guess she assumed I still believed in the Easter Bunny and that I went to sleep instantly when my head hit the pillow, like my then-toddler brother.
My bedroom and hers shared a wall, and I could hear the plastic eggs and rustling of paper and her cussing when she dropped something that rolled all over the floor. When she came near the door, I slipped out of bed and cracked my door open, leaning against the frame with my hand on my cotton, Pikachu-adorned nightgown. "Hello Mom."
She froze in the hallway and threw her hands behind her back to conceal whatever bounty she was toting to the living room. "The Easter Bunny, uh, I scared... why are you out of bed??" She fumbled in the hallway like I was her mother and she was a teenager caught sneaking back home after breaking curfew.
I laughed, smiled knowingly, and went back to bed, leaving Mom confused with her bags of egg-shaped chocolates. It wasn't like I'd reached a milestone in my childhood or anything, but looking back, I think maybe it was the first time Mom noticed me growing into my own person, a doubting and thinking individual. And Dad wasn't there to deal with it.
The next morning, I reprised my role as the excited, gullible kid for the sake of my little brother's enjoyment and my mother's sanity, but it kind of sucked a little magic out of the whole deal. Maybe I was gypped too young, cheated out of a few more years of believing, or maybe I never really did believe and just pretended all along.
Maybe I'm still just pretending, always pretending.
And I thought, I don't really remember ever believing in either. I'm sure I did believe in Santa Claus at some point though, before I could remember. I wish I could remember.
That kind of excited, ardent faith is something I'm not sure I've ever felt. The only thing I remember regarding my feelings toward the existence of Santa Claus was laying awake at night, listening to parents argue about what they bought for who, because they thought I couldn't hear them. I was slightly insulted by the ruse. I was probably ten or eleven, but they still treated the event like I was younger. That was probably because my brother was still that young.
It's actually kind of amazing, like a worldwide conspiracy, to keep kids believing in Santa as long as they can. They didn't work very well on me, I guess. Always a skeptic.
I remember when I caught my mom snapping plastic eggs together on Easter. My dad, always the more sly, secretive parent, was TDY in Saudi Arabia, leaving Mom to man the holiday alone. I was still in elementary school, so I guess she assumed I still believed in the Easter Bunny and that I went to sleep instantly when my head hit the pillow, like my then-toddler brother.
My bedroom and hers shared a wall, and I could hear the plastic eggs and rustling of paper and her cussing when she dropped something that rolled all over the floor. When she came near the door, I slipped out of bed and cracked my door open, leaning against the frame with my hand on my cotton, Pikachu-adorned nightgown. "Hello Mom."
She froze in the hallway and threw her hands behind her back to conceal whatever bounty she was toting to the living room. "The Easter Bunny, uh, I scared... why are you out of bed??" She fumbled in the hallway like I was her mother and she was a teenager caught sneaking back home after breaking curfew.
I laughed, smiled knowingly, and went back to bed, leaving Mom confused with her bags of egg-shaped chocolates. It wasn't like I'd reached a milestone in my childhood or anything, but looking back, I think maybe it was the first time Mom noticed me growing into my own person, a doubting and thinking individual. And Dad wasn't there to deal with it.
The next morning, I reprised my role as the excited, gullible kid for the sake of my little brother's enjoyment and my mother's sanity, but it kind of sucked a little magic out of the whole deal. Maybe I was gypped too young, cheated out of a few more years of believing, or maybe I never really did believe and just pretended all along.
Maybe I'm still just pretending, always pretending.
Jul 26, 2010
Another Letter
Dear Aunt Janice,
I didn't know you very well, and now I never will, but I'm not sad about it.
I know this sounds horrible, but you never did anything to deserve my tears.
All my life, your name was synonymous with fights, grudges, petty family feuds. You tortured my grandmother, and you did it on purpose. As my grandma likes to put it, you sunk your claws into my uncle while he was too young to realize what he was getting into, and you didn't release him until yesterday. But worst of all, you tore apart her relationship with her brother.
They were once very close and you very jealous. She even named one of her children after him, a child who probably won't even bother making the drive to your funeral. Having two Uncle Dougs, I distinguished between them by "the one with the mean wife" and the one without.
As I grew up and learned more about your conflicts with the rest of the family, the more you became a picture of what a life shouldn't be. When I die, I don't want my nieces and nephews to bow out of my funeral. I don't want to only be remembered for the grief I caused.
I've always thought that grudges are a waste of time, and you prove that. Months and years of silent treatment is ridiculous and immature, especially when you're over twelve years old.
I hate to say it, but the world might be better with you not in it. You've shunned your children and cut your husband off from his family. Maybe now my grandmother and her brother can renew the relationship you tore away, and forgiveness can mend the wounds you caused.
But I'm afraid the scars you left on Grandma's fragile conscious will be hard to erase. She will feel guilty for the nature of your relationship, even if it was your own fault. That is because she is a better person, a bigger person, than you ever where.
So I guess I should thank you for leading by example and showing me how not to be. I hope you're happy now.
Samantha
(This is my 100th post. I wish it were happier.)
I didn't know you very well, and now I never will, but I'm not sad about it.
I know this sounds horrible, but you never did anything to deserve my tears.
All my life, your name was synonymous with fights, grudges, petty family feuds. You tortured my grandmother, and you did it on purpose. As my grandma likes to put it, you sunk your claws into my uncle while he was too young to realize what he was getting into, and you didn't release him until yesterday. But worst of all, you tore apart her relationship with her brother.
They were once very close and you very jealous. She even named one of her children after him, a child who probably won't even bother making the drive to your funeral. Having two Uncle Dougs, I distinguished between them by "the one with the mean wife" and the one without.
As I grew up and learned more about your conflicts with the rest of the family, the more you became a picture of what a life shouldn't be. When I die, I don't want my nieces and nephews to bow out of my funeral. I don't want to only be remembered for the grief I caused.
I've always thought that grudges are a waste of time, and you prove that. Months and years of silent treatment is ridiculous and immature, especially when you're over twelve years old.
I hate to say it, but the world might be better with you not in it. You've shunned your children and cut your husband off from his family. Maybe now my grandmother and her brother can renew the relationship you tore away, and forgiveness can mend the wounds you caused.
But I'm afraid the scars you left on Grandma's fragile conscious will be hard to erase. She will feel guilty for the nature of your relationship, even if it was your own fault. That is because she is a better person, a bigger person, than you ever where.
So I guess I should thank you for leading by example and showing me how not to be. I hope you're happy now.
Samantha
(This is my 100th post. I wish it were happier.)
Jul 21, 2010
Fate
When my mom gets drunk enough (I can usually tell when this point has been reached because her left eye closes.), she likes to talk about fate. It has annoyed me most of my life, but I have to admit, there's some interest in it for the sober person.
My mom has never been completely happy with where we have lived. She always finds something wrong with it. With the exception of one place, I've always tried to find the good parts about the area and embrace them. In our current town, she swears the people "are just weird here." I try to tell her that people are weird everywhere, and the people of this town closely resemble those of her beloved and often romanticized hometown, but she'll have none of it.
Anyway, during her fate conversations, she always wonders what would have happened if Dad, while in the Air Force, had gotten orders somewhere else, or other things that would change the course of events that led to me sitting here in this house, in this town, in this state, in this country. Playing with what ifs is kind of fun.
What if my grandfather hadn't fallen dangerously ill in the months preceding my birth? Living in Japan, Mom wasn't qualified to fly or something while she was pregnant with me, and couldn't come home to Virginia and her ailing father, but I was born three months early and they were able to fly home with me to see him in his last months. If that hadn't have happened, I might have grown up in Japan. How different my life would have been! Perhaps if my grandpa hadn't smoked all his life, or worked in the coal mines, or had a better genetically engineered heart, I would live in Japan right now.
Or what if my dad hadn't joined the Air Force? I would still have been born, but I would reside in my parents' hometown. I wouldn't have the childhood I'm now grateful for. I would have been subjected much more strongly to the religious throes of my grandmother. I would probably be sheltered and devout and slightly redneck.
I could sit here all day and play out the what ifs. A lot of things had to happen in order for me to arrive here the person I am. It's easy to say I'm glad what happened happened because I'm grateful of any good qualities I've come to possess and can tolerate all my faults.
But perhaps there's a far better version of myself lost to the hands of chance.
A song goes "some believe in destiny and some believe in fate, but I believe that happiness is something we create, and you best believe that I'm not gonna wait." I love that line. It's so true, and something perhaps my mother should embrace. It's not about where we moved to, the people and places that shaped me. It's about what I choose to do with what I have, and creating my own happiness. I'm only doomed to be unhappy if I condemn myself to it.
No fate about it.
My mom has never been completely happy with where we have lived. She always finds something wrong with it. With the exception of one place, I've always tried to find the good parts about the area and embrace them. In our current town, she swears the people "are just weird here." I try to tell her that people are weird everywhere, and the people of this town closely resemble those of her beloved and often romanticized hometown, but she'll have none of it.
Anyway, during her fate conversations, she always wonders what would have happened if Dad, while in the Air Force, had gotten orders somewhere else, or other things that would change the course of events that led to me sitting here in this house, in this town, in this state, in this country. Playing with what ifs is kind of fun.
What if my grandfather hadn't fallen dangerously ill in the months preceding my birth? Living in Japan, Mom wasn't qualified to fly or something while she was pregnant with me, and couldn't come home to Virginia and her ailing father, but I was born three months early and they were able to fly home with me to see him in his last months. If that hadn't have happened, I might have grown up in Japan. How different my life would have been! Perhaps if my grandpa hadn't smoked all his life, or worked in the coal mines, or had a better genetically engineered heart, I would live in Japan right now.
Or what if my dad hadn't joined the Air Force? I would still have been born, but I would reside in my parents' hometown. I wouldn't have the childhood I'm now grateful for. I would have been subjected much more strongly to the religious throes of my grandmother. I would probably be sheltered and devout and slightly redneck.
I could sit here all day and play out the what ifs. A lot of things had to happen in order for me to arrive here the person I am. It's easy to say I'm glad what happened happened because I'm grateful of any good qualities I've come to possess and can tolerate all my faults.
But perhaps there's a far better version of myself lost to the hands of chance.
A song goes "some believe in destiny and some believe in fate, but I believe that happiness is something we create, and you best believe that I'm not gonna wait." I love that line. It's so true, and something perhaps my mother should embrace. It's not about where we moved to, the people and places that shaped me. It's about what I choose to do with what I have, and creating my own happiness. I'm only doomed to be unhappy if I condemn myself to it.
No fate about it.
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