If you find yourself in bed, crying now
No room to breathe
Know that pictures of your seemingly mundane life will soon make sense in the context of pictures of your future travels
You will look back at it all
Just when you think you're being complacent
Just when you think you are stuck
Songs of melancholy will turn into songs of depth
Perspective will rise from routine

You will see these photographs that are now melancholy, mundane, just evidence that you are stuck
You will see them in black and white and sepia
These, that seem so common place to you now
As they age, these will increase in value
And you will treasure their cracks and folded over corners

Food

I ate 7 Starbursts today--or maybe 10. One typically looses track of how many Starburst he/she eats after you pop that first one.
Oh, and I ate bread. And it wasn't even whole grain!
And best of all, I ate a buffalo chicken wrap. Out of all of the bad things I ate today, I look back at this item of food with the least regret because, to be honest, I didn't enjoy it. Especially not the blue cheese. But the Starbursts. Those were good. And so was the bread.

Question: Why exactly are you happy about the fact that you didn't enjoy the buffalo chicken wrap in all of it's cheesy glory? Answer: Because this is indicative of the fact that my body is learning to love itself and my taste buds are totally riding that wave-length and learning to love vitamin-filled vegetables .

People are telling me I look thin. And when I look at myself, I am happy. Best of all, I feel comfortable in my own skin.  But the fear of going back to a place where my hips protrude and my thighs rub together hangs over me with every Starburst and piece of white bread that enters my mouth. As soon as I taste the sugar and the starch I feel my thighs expand slightly and think about how much yoga I must do to get the fat to turn into muscle.
And as you hear me, you may think this is anorexia. But no, my friends, sadly, this is what women think about. All the time. Especially when you're not naturally a size 5.

Good morning

It's morning and the air filling my room is crisp and cool-like fall. And fall soothes me in a way no other season can. I wish there was a newspaper to pick up on the front porch so I could read it with tea in the kitchen or living room. Except we don't use those common areas in this house. We still haven't kicked the college dorm room habit, so we drink tea and read the imaginary newspaper in our rooms. My room is mustard yellow and beaming with the highlights of the sun that come through the curtains. 


It is morning and everything is fresher than it was towards the end of yesterday. Wait, why was I mad last night again? Now, I'm slightly embarrassed that I ever felt negative feelings at all. 


It's Saturday and the thought of have tos came into my mind briefly in my sleep. 
-"Have to get up and go to yoga...." 
-No, you don't have to. Have to's are for Mondays, and Tuesdays and Wednesdays. 


Saturdays are for sleeping and feeling the coolness of your sheets on your skin; for letting the sun greet you in place of a loud annoying alarm.
-Why, hello Mr. Sun. Come in. 

I haven't felt this way in a while

There are some things I mull over like a dog reluctant to give up the frisbee she's been biting for 7 minutes. "But puppy,  Charlie wants to play with the frisbee." 
And puppy stubbornly bites harder, refusing to relinquish. The following is one of those things in my life. I should just let Charlie play with the damn frisbee, but I am stubborn. So I'll let you know when I become more refined and less dog-like. But until then...



It's like that scene from "Save the Last Dance" when Shanille rips on Sarah and says something to the effect of "open up your pretty blue eyes and look around you, Sarah."  Sarah looks around the free clinic to look at all of the Black single mothers holding their crying babies with no Black men beside them, and Sarah, all the while, has Derek-the only Black man who seems to be doing something with his life in their neighborhood. And of course, he goes for the only white woman in an almost entirely Black community.

It's like when a suburban white girl cries about shit I think is trivial and everyone cancels plans for her and she's more than OK with their sacrifice. When she turns around so that I can see her puffed up face and go "awww....what happened?" Frankly, during times like that, I am not moved.

I am moved when a mother gives everything to buy her daughter a small cupcake for her birthday because that's all they can afford. I am moved when a Dominican family in bumfuck Dominican Republic living off of so little  prepare a large meal for their American guests.

I am not moved, however, when you want the world to revolve around you. I am not moved when you say "I would be fine with living in poverty for the rest of my life" when you can't even begin to scratch the surface of what that even means or looks like. And I am definitely not moved when you have every support system in place, financial and emotional cushions and when you have the luxury of "rebelling" against your parents and yet still find reasons to try to get me to pity you.

In fact, I'm going to be honest here: I have little compassion for people who cry and complain when things get tough when at the same time they have looks, smarts, the favor of everyone in their path and a constant flow of affirmation. And do you know why? Because I don't have all of that all the time, and I don't have the support systems. I do not have the luxury of throwing a fit and asking people to forgo their plans for me. They will most likely respond, "Ok. Annery. We'll be back later. Call if you need anything!" No one planned my birthday. No one showers me with affirmation. And for certain, no one would do my homework should I be in a state of utter chaos.
 I can't just become a barista if I want to because there is no one to rely on. When I'm broke I don't mean I have $600 in my savings account and a trust fund. I mean I have $0.53 in my savings account and -$2.00 in my checkings.

"No other assets?"
"Well...call your parents to see if you can borrow."

First of all, I'd never have to borrow money from my mother. She would gladly give me every penny she had at no cost. And secondly, I would never do that to her because I have more than she does. So, basically,  all I have is me--whether I am crying in my bed at night or shivering with fear--ain't no one going to come to my rescue.

So when little suburban girls want me to pity them-I'm sorry. Ain't gonna happen.
And then I feel like a bitch. You see me with my neck roll, finger raised and scrunched eye brows next to poor white beauty with tears and a red nose. Who do you think looks more affable and approachable?
I am sorry that your life has been so tough, little white girl. Welcome to the fucking world.

The GRE's

Ever since I could remember I always wished I was "that girl"--someone over there who I wasn't and could probably never be.

In 4th grade, I wished I was my best friend, Melinda, who (in my eyes) had everything an 8 year old could want: Good clothes, untangled long dark hair, the admiration of her peers, a family the size of the Camden family of 7th Heaven-except much cooler, with a love for Jamin' 94.5 and a wealth knowledge of Hip Hop on and off the radio (so they knew Foxy Brown and Tupac's songs that were off the radio waves that only the cool people with cable had access to).  These things were of upmost importance then. And these people who told hilarious jokes and were young--in their mid to late 20's showered her with gifts and attention. I wished more than anything I could be her.  Family was at the core of my longing here, and instead I would go back to my lonely room as an only child to make up stories and find creative ways of entertaining myself. 

In the 6th grade, I wished I was Maria. Petite and beautiful with everyone's attention. She was charismatic with a large personality and high cheek bones. I longed to look like her and talk like her and have the authority of those popular people who command everyone's attention in the room.  Affirmation was what she had that at 13, could have come in handy and done wonders for my self esteem. 

Then, my role models became more academic in form. I longed to be like my Harvard-attending family-a distant family that I only really saw on holidays when they extended pity invites to me and my mom because, frankly, we had nowhere else to go on Christmas, and the thought of spending it alone just us two was foreign and uncomfortable. I saw my cousin and her friends arduously study for the SAT's, dropping words like copious and ephemeral and nonplussed every chance they got. The Princeton Review SAT prep book accompanied her everywhere she went-from the pizzeria we hung out at after church with the youth group folks to the car on the way to church sometimes (when I happened to be there, by chance). I was there wishing I, too, could see the fruits of my labor on trees of Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Brown and Stanford. Instead, I got Gordon. My attention span was too limited to bring SAT prep books everywhere and actually focus on them. My support system was more of a collage of random people I had pulled from mentoring programs, begging them to help me study. I turned the pages of my review guides with confusion, not knowing where to start or what it took to get a 1300. But, God, did I want it. I never had a problem with passion. This, I had in copious amounts. 

These days I find myself in a similar place, way more content with myself than I was before and looking upon friends as flawed role models. Yes, they may have diligence and a discipline that I long to have, but do they have passion and a resume as long as mine? Yes, I might be an anomaly that co-workers and colleagues have a hard time understanding, but do they have my innovation and creativity? However, as I find myself studying for the GRE's I long to be like my cousin and like my friends who will do well enough to get into the programs of their choice. I may have to struggle a little more. I wonder if this time around I've developed the appropriate tools to study well and perform well.  I'll let you know when I take them. 

But, there is one thing I'll never forget. Professor Barthold, a philosophy professor I sought to talk to after one of her talks in chapel during my time at Gordon told me, "Well, Annery, don't you think that the story of the person who got straight A's all their life is a boring one? The story of the person who struggled and made it, makes for a much more interesting narrative, don't you think?" 

Yes, and these words changed my life. I've always been unconventional, a little rough around the edges and hard to understand, but perhaps one day I can say that all of my awkward struggle towards achieving dreams that seemed so far away and distant paid off. And that, perhaps, will encourage a young awkward, rough around the edges, mini-me to keep struggling even when you lack a strong family, a strong academic support system and a natural talent for test taking. 

The All-Too-Familiar Dishes in the Sink

I use the last bit of paper on the toilet role. As I'm about to leave the bathroom I look at it and think: That brown cartonesque cylinder really doesn't add much in the way of beauty to our bathroom. But what actually makes me remove the bare toilet role and throw it into the trash is the thought that follows: I hate it when my roommates just leave it there for the next person, who is most likely an innocent victim of someone else's procrastination. He/she most likely rushes into the bathroom after holding it in for the entire car ride back home, to face a big surprise after their release--no TP.

I  am cleaning my room, and in doing so, I usually remove all of the empty cups that were filled with water at some point. I am tempted to leave them in the sink, but then I think: God, I hate it how whenever I come home the sink is full--the sink if full of manifestations of background stories:

• A cup I found in the living room that wasn't mine so I left it in the sink
• A dish and two pans I used to make myself lunch quickly and then ran out the house
• Utensils that I keep forgetting to wash because they're smaller and less obvious than dishes
•  I rather sit on my computer for the five minutes I have left before I have to go to work than wash my dishes or clean the counters my peanut butter, jelly and water residue mixed to create

And there we have it: The accumulation of 7 hours of procrastination on sticky tables, a full sink and a dirty floor.

But the point of writing all of this is not to complain at all. It's to draw attention to this bizarre phenomenon. We've all been there....Or am I alone?
Your dishes in the sink irk me, my dishes in the sink are fine.  Or...better yet...the blame game:  Maria says, "Katie never cleans her dishes " (without noticing that 3 of those dishes are hers).

What is this all about?

Well, it seems as though it is easier to not do the dishes than to do them. Doing them requires a consistent vision for a clean house. And if this isn't on your mind or on your list of priorities, it is much easier to toss a dish in the sink and then forget about it than it is to take the 43 seconds it takes to wash your cup. It requires mental energy.
If, on the other hand, your mind is plagued by how many people might have written on your wall in the last 15 minutes or what Focault might say next about the role of historical perspective in counteracting war as the foundation of institutions of power in "Society Must Be Defended," you won't clean that dish.  Because doing so requires you to put Focault on pause or your email compulsion on hold to take a whole other mental direction.

So what helps turn this around?

When I began reading Real Simple magazine and uncovered the real reason behind my laziness and reluctance to cook, I began to clean up after myself on an exponentially more consistent basis than I had before. I envisioned a nice apartment, opening my fridge and being able to see all of its contents instead of guessing that the soy milk might be sitting in the back somewhere between the old cilantro and the dry carrot. Visions of myself waking up in the morning to the fresh scent of laundry sheets and to a bathroom ready to offer me my toothpaste, brush, cleanser and moisturizer without having to tip toe over accumulations of lint.  I envisioned myself actually wanting to get up in the morning because I don't have to sort through everything on top of my desk, inside my closet and in my dresser to find it, I'll just know where it is.  And this has virtually changed my life.
The problem is that not everyone followed me in this vision--probably because the people I live with are not as complex as I am and can live with a smaller set of requirements than I can.  We must also note that I live in a hippiesque situation reminiscent of the communes of the 1970's with compost bins and everything.
But the point is what motivates me, what motivates us. A vision of a nice place is the bigger picture, but what keeps me from leaving that one dish in the sink to go check my email for the thousandth time? It's the thought: I hate it when my housemates do this.

So what would it look like to inspire this vision, if you will, in my housemates? Because if you think about it...I probably would have left that dish there had it not been for the fact that I hate when other people leave their sticky things behind. Maybe inspiring others to clean up after themselves requires a certain level of frustration and exposure to the messes others might leave. If you are frustrated when people do it to you, you won't want to do it to them. If you don't care when people do it to you, you'll probably do it to them. And if no one ever does it to you, you don't know how it feels to live in someone else's mess, so you may never even get the opportunity to "not want to do it to them."

Family

I remember the first time I attended a summer program. It was junior year of High School, and for the first time, I felt loved. Sure, I felt nostalgia for the people that knew me best. But, to be honest, those people who "knew me best" didn't always love me best--doesn't mean they didn't love me as best they could.

That month in the program, however, made me feel belonging for the first time in my life. I ate with these people, woke up with these people, slept in bunk beds and sleeping bags next to, read and joked with these people. We spent 24 hours a day together and they soon became my family. We experienced life changing moments together-like when we hiked up Giant Mountain in the Adirondacks and I was tired to the point of fatigue, we encouraged each other through.

This experience had taught me that the thing I had longed for all of my life was possible: family. And not just any family, but a family that embraced me, encouraged me and was present on a constant basis.
When the program was over I cried. I cried as I walked to the car, and reluctantly placed my bags in the trunk. I was depressed for weeks, and when I hiked Mount Monadnock a month later with "the people who knew me best" I cried-we bickered all the way up the mountain, and it just wasn't the same.

And I guess living in the commune is kind of like this. I have lived here for a year already and these people have become like my family. But I must admit, there is a level of mistrust here--like I don't actually feel like they can replace the stability that a family provides.
A family is committed to you no matter where in the world you are. Your primary allegiance and devotion is to the people who reared you. When you don't have this, how might this affect how you see yourself?

Whenever I see fathers walking their daughters down the isle, I cry.
I get knots in my throat when I see families-dads and moms and sisters and brothers-going out to dinner together.
I look over attentively when my roommate calls her parent for advise in a desperate situation.
And these tears come from a different place than the ones that come out when I am frustrated with work or with achievement-related things. These tears come from a place of deep fear- that I lay on no real foundation; that family is not something that exists for me, in the typical sense of the word.