Watch Out For That--

A Public Service Announcement

Manholes. They're more dangerous than you think. Sitting in the middle of the road or sidewalk, they wait for unsuspecting victims to engulf with their ready, wide mouths. They are an unlikely predator, an unmatched terror in a world full of evils. No one is safe.

I can be the first to tell you that these attacks come swiftly and without warning. One spring day, the sun shining in the bright, azure sky, and the verdant grass blowing in the wind, I had been strolling alone, minding my own business and listening to my iPod. I had finally broken out the capris and the flip flips, and was enjoying the refreshing warm weather after a long, cold winter. It had rained the night before, creating large puddles in the unleveled dips in the concrete.

Since I was wearing flip flops, I tried my hardest to avoid stepping directly into any of the scummy rain puddles. I hated the way my feet slid against the rubber soles of my flip flops when they were wet, and I was determined to keep that from happening today--no matter what.

And then I stood before an incredibly large puddle. It was too big for me to leap over, and it took up the entire width of the sidewalk. My only option was to go around it.

The portion of the lawn this puddle sat in front of just happened to have a manhole along the edge, slanted in a tiny incline from the ground. A convenient set up, no doubt. I took a deep breath and placed my foot on the cover, having done this numerous times before with no problems, and slowly began to shift my weight over to that foot. So far so good.

But as I began to lean forward and continue on my way, something went horribly awry. Within seconds, the cover of the manhole had opened up, and down I went. It all happened so quickly. The fact that I had fallen hadn't even registered in the first few seconds. It wasn't until I looked down to see my left leg dangling in the open hole, my arms on the sides holding me up, as my right leg remained outside the hole.

It didn't hurt that much at first, but my left leg had been scratched slightly from the fall. Not to mention any semblance of self-confidence I once had was now sitting at the muddy bottom of the hole. My first thought, however, wasn't "Ouch" or a swarm of curse words. No, surprisingly, as I looked down at my swinging leg, mud caked on my calf and my pants, what first came to my mind was,

'I just washed these pants!'

'Ouch' wasmy second thought.

Slowly pushing myself out of the hole, I checked to make sure that I had everything. Limbs? Check. Purse? Check. iPod? Check. And thank God for that. If I had looked down to see my iPod in the mud, I would have dove in right after it, no doubt.

Sighing, I tried to wipe all the mud I can from myself before looking at the open hole and the cover sitting next to it.

'Great,' I thought, 'how am I going to move this back on?'

As if on cue, a rather attractive male, around my age, crossed the street to where I was standing. He approached me cautiously, probably never having seen a girl fall in a manhole before. But I couldn't really blame him, I guess.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah." I answered quietly. 'Just my pride is wounded.' I thought to myself.

"That looked painful," he said.

I nodded, thinking to myself, 'And your entrance into this scene has officially made this moment in my life the next teen blockbuster.'

The boy knelt down to move the cover back over the hole. "That's strange that it just came off like that."

"Yeah," I replied, bending down to help him move to cover. I could hardly move it, and I am surprised by the fact that it is so heavy, especially since I had no trouble moving it off before. I made a mental note to do 100 crunches as soon as I got back home.

"Oh don't worry, I can get that."

'If you insist.' I thought, standing up. I made an effort to wipe more mud off as the boy moved the cover back over the hole. "Thanks," I said.

"No problem," he replied, standing up and wiping mud off his hands. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah, thanks."

The boy nods and awkwardly walks back to his car across the street. I imagined him with his friends later that evening, laughing as he told the story of the girl who actually fell in an actual manhole. Go figure.

I turned around and made my way, with a slight limp, back home. I was torn between crying and laughing. It was a scary experience, dangling in that hole, not sure of how I got there. But then again, who falls in a manhole? Rather, how does someone who isn't a Looney Tunes Character fall into a manhole? The entire circumstance seemed unreal, and I took the time on my walk back home to reflect on it.

Winter had been a rough time for me, and I had attributed that mostly to the cold weather. Once the sun had started peeking out of the clouds more, and the days had started getting longer and warmer, I had noticed a sunnier, brighter attitude in myself. There were still some rough days, but for the most part, things seemed to be looking up. I had taken my walk to clear my mind and to meditate. It just goes to show that one minute you can be standing, having just pulled yourself up out of a funk, and out of nowhere you're dangling in a hole in the ground. Life was funny that way. I spent the rest of the night inside, and ever since that incident, I have always gone out of way to avoid manholes, even if it does mean earning some concerned glances in the process.

Bird Watch

It's a bleak day, and the weather is strange for this time of the year, even in Nebraska. The sky is an awful grey color, and it's easily below 60 degrees with the slight wind and drizzle occurring outside. It's a stark difference from the 80 degree weather we had just a few days ago. I’m in my friend Jen's apartment, watching her two month old son, Jacob, for the day. After wandering around a bit while Jacob sleeps in his car seat on the bed in his parents' room, I walk back to the bedroom and stand in the doorway.

As I’m scanning the room, Jacob still sleeping soundly, I hear a rustle of noise behind me. I turn quickly, and examine my surroundings. There is a vent above the door; perhaps it was one of those noisy vents that occasionally make peculiar noises or just simply noisy neighbors. I make a mental note to look for a broom, should I be prompted to emulate the little old lady that no apartment dweller wanted to reside above.

I pivot on my foot, leaning backwards slightly and look up only to discover what had really made the noise. On top of the door sat a small, green, love bird. I was definitely not expecting that. I slowly back away from the bird, which stared down at me with its black, beady eyes, and stood in front of Jacob, whom, conveniently, was still sleeping. There was no telling what this bird was capable of, considering that it had appeared, literally, out of nowhere. I had no idea that Jen had a bird. Chuckling at my luck, or lack thereof, I shake my head and think, "Really? Of all the things to go wrong today and you give me a bird?"

Bending over slightly, so as not to give the bird any incentive to attack for making sudden movements, I pick up my phone, dial Jen's number, and press the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" she answers.

"Hi...it's Kate. Doyouguyshaveabird?" I say the last part as quietly and as rushed as I can, still in complete disbelief of the current predicament.

"He got out? Crap! Alright, well, Rick will have to come put her back in her cage. Is she bothering you?"

"Psh. No…no...not at all. Not yet," I reply.

"Alright, well, Rick should be there in just a minute."

"...OK. Bye."

I close my phone and wait. Again, I chuckle. I was being held hostage by a freaking love bird. Go figure. I sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing down the white duvet cover before picking up my book. I kept a sharp eye on the bird, however, just in case it made any move for the infant. Just when I wasn't looking however, I heard the rustle and bustle of wings flapping, and felt a soft tapping on my head as it flew above me.

'It just came at me!' I shout to no one in particular. Jacob stirred in his sleep, but after a smack of the lips, he fell back into his slumber. The two of us made quite the team.

I look up to see the bird clasping to the curtains with its menacing claws. It’s watching me. I’m watching it. Neither of us is moving. I turn my focus to my book occasionally, still glancing up to make sure the bird was hanging on the curtain.

For the next few minutes, every time I hear the flutter of wings, I lift my book and hide beneath it, prepared to swing at the damn winged creature if it came too close to the sleeping baby. I feel trapped. Still, Jacob sleeps peacefully in his car seat, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, as he remains unfazed by the war waging around him.

I make plans to take Jacob into his room next door and close the door before the bird can follow us in. We'd be safe there. Before I can make any moves, however, the bird flies from the curtain back to perch on the bedroom door. He knows I'm trying to run. He chirps loudly, a war cry. He is making sure we don't leave, not for anything.

I glare at the door, thinking bitterly, "Birds. They think they're so high and mighty with their wings. 'Ooh, look at me, look at me, I can fly!' Big whoop, I am not impressed, far from it."

I keep my hand on my hard covered book; as if to send a message to the bird saying, "Wanna try me?"

So we sit like that until we hear the jingle of keys. Rick has arrived to save me. And Jacob, of course. Walking into the room, we, or rather, I must have been quite the sight, sitting next to Jacob's car seat protectively on the bed, a book in hand, ready to strike as I glare up at the door.

"Uh...she's not bothering you, is she?"

My face softens. "Oh no...of course not. We're just sitting here...watching TV..."

Rick catches the bird (or, I notice that it jumps onto his out stretched hand obediently) and takes him into the next room to put her in her cage. Sighing, I lean back onto a pillow and whisper, "Crisis averted."

Lo Siento

Well, I did exactly what I promised not to do, and that's neglect my writing/this blog. I will get better, I promise. My whole Sunday writing thing isn't working out so well, unfortunately. Getting up at 4:30 AM just knocks me out and I tend to just go to sleep and not wake up for 12 hours. Anyways, Parts II and III of Prop Str8 are being edited, my BETA reader is just a bit indisposed with school and a novel of her own, so I am just waiting patiently for her. I am finished with one part of another 3 part fiction story, I just need to have it edited, and I'd rather finish the other two parts before I send it off to be proofread, just because I'm OCD like that.

School is going well, it just seems to drag. Work is work, it never changes. I just wish people actually knew how to order their coffee. I guess the bright side of work is that the longer I stay there, the more material I have for my book. Whenever I think I've seen/heard it all, someone surprises me. I have my classes for next semester, and I'm on the wait list for one. Hopefully I can get it, but I'm sure I will, because there's always at least one person who drops.

Now I'm just rambling. There should be an update coming soon. :)

No Touchy

There's nothing like an epiphany on a Monday morning in July. The sweltering heat mixed with the suffocating humidity that usually comes during Nebraska summers can make someone so lethargic and listless that the only thing that can be done on these days is thinking. And my day came, as previously mentioned, on a Monday morning standing behind the counter of a small Starbucks, which occupied the darkest, dampest (in the summer: it was the stuffiest) corner of a midtown grocery store. There was a lull in the flow of traffic of people on their way to work; to their air conditioned offices and bosses clad in black trousers and suspenders, and that lull had left me bored and lonely.

As I stared out at the store, watching people walk in and out, sometimes through the wrong door, a middle aged, grey haired man walked by slowly, catching my gaze and tucking it into the back of his mind as a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He slowed down even more as he waited, with rapt attention, for me to greet him in some way. It came, in a rather acute form of salutation, when I smiled politely before turning my gaze back to the automatic doors in front of me.

"Morning," the man said, taking a step towards the stand in hopes of initiating a riveting conversation with a strange girl he had never met before.

I nodded, groaning inwardly, as I replied, "Morning."

He kept his eyes locked on me as he slowly walked towards the door, which opened and closed as people passed through with carts loaded with groceries for the week. He finally reached the door, and before walking out, he nodded at me and said, "Have a good day."

"You too," I replied, twirling a pen between my fingers as I anticipated his departure. He finally left, and a heavy sigh escaped my lips. There are too many creeps in my life, and more often than not, they're men who are, or close to, the same age as my father. It was just a little too weird for me, the way that man stopped in his tracks, just to get a good look at a twenty year old female who was a complete stranger. I was all for being polite, working in the customer service industry and all, but it was almost as if this man, like many others, had an ulterior motive to his sudden chivalry. I've found that too many times in my life, I've been the object of affection for middle aged men, a stark contrast to the skaters and preps who have stopped by before to flirt with my co-workers. In fact, it happens so much that often I feel compelled to curl up in a ball in the corner of the store. Or hiring a bouncer.

As I am writing this, the Photo Center manager, Marty, walks across the front end of the store, strolling along to his department, a camera bag draped over his brawny and experienced shoulder. Well into his thirties, with a few gold teeth and a laugh like an eighth grade girl, Marty has made a few moves on me in the past, the most awkward moments being the most recent. Just about a month prior to today, I had ventured over to Customer Service, conveniently placed next to the Photo Center, to retrieve some in-store charge slips, which are crucial in order for us to properly charge customers with Starbucks gift cards, since they are not accepted by the computer system the grocery store uses. I waited in line at the counter just as Marty rounded the corner, carrying a few medium-sized boxes.

Noticing me, he had walked up and asked, "What's going on, Katie?"

"We're out of in store charge slips," I stammered, cowering slightly under his focused stare that seemed to last forever.

"Well that's not good, is it?" he finally asked, as I shook my head, ready to dart back to my dark little corner of the store. He walked behind the Customer Service counter and reached into a drawer beneath one of the registers, pulling out a stack of bright, florescent pink in-store charge slips.

"There you go, sweetie, that should be enough for now."

"Thank you," I replied timidly before walking back to my department, having been thoroughly creeped out by Marty's perpetual stare.

Not even a week later, I had been dusting merchandise on one of our shelves in front of the Starbucks counter when Marty walked over, carrying a few small boxes in his left hand. "Laccie brought me a caramel macchiatto, so I brought you girls some animal crackers."

"Oh, thanks," I replied, taking the box with a picture of a train filled with animals on it.

Marty smiled at me and rubbed my arm gently, causing me to tense up immediately. "I gotta make sure my Starbucks girls have something to snack on."

My insides had gone completely bonkers as that familiar red flag in my head sprung up, alert and forewarning.

"Holyshitthisisawkward. Pleasestoptouching. Pleasestoptouching."

Finally, he dropped his hand and nodded, as if reading my mind. "You ladies have a good night."

"You too," I replied as he turned on his heel and walked away.

Standing now at my register, I am reminded of "Creepy Produce Guy", who also walks by as I am writing this secret testimony under the protective cover of the register, and who just can't seem to turn off the "I want you" vibe-for any female walking by him. I am generally safe from him in the little corner we occupy, but I can't stay back here forever. When I passed him on my way to the shelf in the back not too long ago, he had locked eyes with me, smiling suggestively and asking, "How's it going?"

"Good, thanks," I replied, turning towards the shelf quickly in order to escape an awkward conversation. Sighing, I began to step on the edges of the shelf, climbing up in order to find a hidden bag of espresso. Having no luck finding it, I climbed back down, turning my head slightly to glance over my shoulder, only to find the "Creepy Produce Guy" peering through a stack of bread racks to get a good look at my ass.

'Ugh, time to leave,' I thought as I hurried past him before he could make any remark or comment about what he saw. I know I am not alone in thinking he is creepy, however, and I find solace in the fact that many of the female employees are creeped out by him, and that it's not just me. If only the management could see what we saw.

And then there's Jeff. Or Creepy Jeff, depending on who you're talking to. He has been coming to our Starbucks for some time now, yet he only appears when the object of his affection is working on the particular day he choses to grace the store with his presence. I have had the misfortune of being that person on a few accounts, and I can fervently say that I never want to have to endure any of Jeff's advances ever again.

On one day, my co-worker Laccie and I had been, ironically, talking about how we hadn't seen the elusive Jeff for a while. As if on cue, Jeff walked through the automatic doors in front of our little shop in the corner, and had made great strides toward us, a cheeky and confident grin playing on his lips.

Being the braver of us, Laccie remarked, "Well, speak of the devil!"

Jeff gave her an inquisitive look before Laccie explained, "Kate and I were just talking about how we haven't seen you in a while."

Locking his jaw as his eyes darted from Laccie to me, he leaned on the counter and smirked, "You ladies wanna make out to make up for lost time?"

'Gross,' I thought as I looked down, shuffling papers around in order to avoid looking at him. Since that day, I haven't had any run ins with him, and I am counting my blessings every Sunday when I realize that this has been yet another week without having to serve Creepy Jeff.

My most recent endeavor into the awkward realm had actually occurred outside of the store, at my aunt Muirne's house for a family barbecue. With the rare arrival of my aunt Marg from Seattle comes her old boyfriend and long time pal, Tom. It's an awful Catch-22; the excitement of seeing fun, quirky aunt Moogah again is mixed with the apprehension and worry of standing under Tom's gaze. There's not much I can do about it though, being a quiet person who just couldn't carry the weight of knowing I had broken up a twenty year friendship, all because I had been a little creeped out.

So as we pulled into Aunt Muirne's steep, narrow driveway, I was not surprised to see Tom standing in the backyard with Marg. I rolled my eyes and sighed, stepping out of the passenger's side of the car and trudging my way around the back as slowly as possible, enjoying a small taste of freedom from watchful blue eyes.

"Hi, Miss Kate," Marg chirped delightfully as she embraced me.

"Hi, Moogah," I responded, keeping a safe distance from Tom as I welcomed one of Marg's notoriously comforting hugs. Standing awkwardly next to Marg, I answered Tom's questions of how school was going and how I was enjoying my summer. Once there had been a pause in the conversation and he had started talking to my father, I made my way inside the house, where I would be safe at least until dinner time.

When that time came, I had been lucky enough to nab a spot by my grandpa, aunt Marg, and aunt Beth. It had been an enjoyable dinner, as it always is with my family, and we had finally gotten to desert when my aunts and uncles had started discussing a recent local news scandal involving an embezzling nun, that my family knew and believed to be innocent. In the skirmish of getting the table cleared and ready for desert, Tom had somehow found his way into the seat next to mine. As I was momentarily staring off into space, I had suddenly felt a hand wrap around my arm. Looking over, I saw Tom leaning in to whisper, "This is your problem to fix."

Having my mind go blank at this sudden and intrusive touch, I replied, "What?"

Nodding at my aunts and uncles, who were deep in the throes of cursing our archdioceses, he repeated, "This is your problem to fix. Your generation. So fix it, babe."

He had a point about my generation's task, as I was already aware of the issues we were facing, but I was not his babe. And frankly I was annoyed by the way his thumb was grazing my arm. I glanced around the table and noticed my aunt Beth and uncle Steve staring at the hand on my arm, trying to remain as passive as possible, while also shooting daggers at Tom with their eyes. This was getting uncomfortable for everyone (save Tom), apparently.

I chuckled and subtly moved my arm from Tom's grasp. By now, the conversation had reverted back to the family's recent trip down to Missouri, without Tom, thankfully. In the midst of it all, Tom turned to me and asked, "Did you get any ticks?"

"No," I replied, staring down at the plastic tablecloth.

"Why not?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "I wore a hat."

He leaned in and scratched at my arm, "What about leeches? Did any leeches snatch on when you were in the lake?"

Leaning back slightly as he attempted to imitate leeches, I replied, "Nope."

Dragging his finger along my arm slowly, he continued, "And snakes? Did any snakes slither into your presence?"

I shook my head, looking around the room for someone, anyone, to take notice of Tom's behavior, which was becoming increasingly more inappropriate. "No," I said.

My stand-offish answers weren't causing him to give up, unfortunately. He looked at me one more time before he went back to scratching and tickling my forearm.

"Are you ticklish? Are you ticklish? Tickle, tickle," he squeaked, as if he were talking to my 5 year old cousin Robbie and not twenty year old me.

'I feel so degraded,' I thought to myself as Tom continued to squeak in his patronizing way, trying to get me to launch into a hearty guffaw, often brought on by way of tickling fingers. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't ticklish on my arm. And unfortunately for him, my aunt Muirne, the lawyer, would be hearing about this later. I knew my rights. His behavior was becoming intrusive and I was starting to feel suffocated by his social ineptitude. I imagined myself pushing back my chair, pointing my finger at him while shouting, "NO! TOUCHY!"

This outburst would, no doubt, be followed by a doggy pile tackle by my father, uncles, and male cousins; a genuine Irish brawl. But I knew I didn't have the guts to tell Tom off. Besides, with my grandpa's new wife sitting two chairs down, I figured this family had already filled the drama quota for at least one more year.

So I sat, waiting for a proper segue, as Tom playfully scratched my arm, squeaking, "Tickle, tickle."

Finally, it came, as aunt Marg addressed him, causing him to turn to her, while pointing at me, and say, "Not now, I'm bothering her right now."

Therein lay my cue to leave. I turned towards aunt Muirne and quickly blurted, "I'm going to go upstairs to look at those pictures."

Nodding, she gave me permission to leave the dinner table. I pushed back my chair and, having already cleared my dinner plate, made a bee line for the upstairs bedroom where I know photo albums are waiting for me. I knew I would be safe there. And there I sat, flipping through old photo albums, until my aunt Mydge had come up to check on everyone, while also letting me know that Tom had left and that it was safe for me to go downstairs.

As I trudged down the carpeted steps in the narrow staircase, I reflected on my bad luck with men, in that the only ones that noticed me where the ones that were twice my age. It's a hard fact to face; knowing that the men you're attracting are older, desperate men when what you're waiting for is someone your age, an intellectual with the ability to empathize with the trials that come with young adulthood, and a good sense of humor to boot, like Jonathan, the cute pharmacy technician at the store.

I realize now that, if I do want these advances from older men to stop, or at least become a rare occurrence that I don't have to worry about every time I come to work, then I have to place myself in an environment of people of like mind and age, and come Sunday morning, via the Marketplace Job Ads, I will be throwing myself completely into the task of doing just that. And frankly, it's about time.

Prop Str8 Part One

Part One

“Reporting live from Parker Boulevard, I’m Chastity Clearweather. Behind me are the remains of Club Rico, a dance club and bar known for being straight-friendly.”

I placed my coffee mug on the counter, my eyes zooming past Chastity’s platinum blonde hair to the crumbles of brick and foundation that used to be your favorite place to go.

“Sometime last night, arsonists poured gasoline along the perimeter before setting fire to the club. So far police have no suspects, and there are a reported 56 lives that have been lost or injured in the fire. With me now is James Wright, an outspoken activist for heterosexual civil rights.”

The camera panned out so that James came into view. Chastity stepped sideways as he began to speak.

“This is just another example of the prejudices society continues to put up against straights. They-we-“he corrected, “are no different from yourselves. We have families, friends, dreams, loves. How many more lives need to be lost or ruined before everyone realizes we deserve the same rights given to others?”

Even on camera I could see his tears welling up; I could hear the passion in his words as if he were saying them directly to me. I finally understood, standing there in my empty, cold kitchen, why you had loved him. He was passionate; a fighter. You had always spoken of wanting to be with someone like that; someone to “be brave” for you. I always regretted how I could never tell you that you were brave in your own unique, beautiful way. You were always stronger than you gave yourself credit for, and not a day goes by where I don’t still envy that strength and perseverance you exemplified, even in your dark, final days of life.

It has been a year since you were killed, but each day has felt like a lifetime since the days I was once able to call you at any given time to share anecdotes or qualms, or just to check and see how you were doing. Things moved slower for me without my best friend here to keep things upbeat and lively. Although Alice, the only girlfriend I’ve had that you approved of, had left me a month ago, it still felt like yesterday when I walked sleepily into the kitchen, the diamond ring I had given her sitting on the counter with a note that read, “I’m sorry.”

While life moved agonizingly slow for me, the world you left behind changed, each day growing more hateful and more dangerous for heterosexuals just like yourself. The news today would make you furrow your brow as you bit your lips and crossed your arms across your chest tightly, hugging yourself. As much as you would have denied it, you were a visionary, something that was ignited by your interaction with James. I remember the transformation after your meeting with him, when you began to speak more passionately about a world where you could live freely, marry the man you wanted, get the jobs you applied for, and buy your dream house without hurdling through ludicrous obstacles.

The week before you disappeared, you and James had started planning a peaceful protest that was to take place outside the state capital building. Inside, state officials were warring and arguing over a bill that would end discrimination against heterosexuals. While not allowing them the right to marry, it was a step in the right direction, and I could sense the concern and apprehension in your actions leading up to the protest. You worked so hard for something you never got to see, for rights you deserved but never got to live.

Hate crimes were not nearly as prevalent when you were alive as they had become in the last year, when it became clear to the opposition that it was increasingly more likely this bill would pass. When we were growing up, lying in my backyard as we stared up at the vast, blue sky, dreaming of the women we would marry, the hatred displayed towards straights was never quite so public or twisted into such violent acts.

There were extremists, as there always is for moral issues, that were frightening in their cunning ability to express, violently, their opposition of heterosexual marriage (or heterosexuals in general), and many were able to escape the punishment they deserved for causing the destruction and heartbreak that they did. It started to worsen over months, to the point where people were too scared to leave their homes at night, and the number of shootings rose to an alarming high this spring. It was your worst nightmare; the entire country had polarized itself on the issue to the point of an outright civil battle that turned our country into a dangerous playground for fierce advocates and even more determined adversaries.

The push for heterosexuals right to marry was never so strong, and the fight against this right was just as strong. When we were in high school in the mid-80s, things were more peaceful. We rarely heard of any crimes or riots, at least not of this magnitude. Many Americans thought of heterosexuality as a psychological disorder, and acted as though it was leprosy, something that was contagious and could be spread. Generally, if someone was heterosexual, they would have been pushed back into the moldy, decrepit woodwork of forgotten society.

Even behind the formidable walls of our high school, we started hearing rumors of a movement. One of the most talked about politicians those days, Martin Nelson, was not the slightest bit hesitant of expressing his advocacy for heterosexual rights, not even when it came to publicly announcing his own sexual orientation. When more and more news surfaced of this new social movement (it was our junior year), you started acting differently. Instead of the calm and patient Kennedy I grew up with, you were jumpy and irritable; scared, almost. It wasn’t until your girlfriend of two years, Megan, approached me when I started worrying.

“You have to talk to her, Harper,” she pleaded, her cobalt eyes brimming with tears. “I’m worried about her.”

“Have you tried talking to her?” I shifted uncomfortably as I leaned against the wall. A few years back, I had resolved to never interfere with your love life, after some bad advice on my part landed you in a bewildering love triangle that nearly ended our friendship.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Megan was incredulous now, not that I could blame her. You had only exhibited this behavior twice in the time I’d known you. Once, when your parents were on the brink of divorce, fighting loudly from the kitchen every night as you and your brother tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep. Then, once again, when your beloved hamster, Pebbles, who used to ride in the basket attached to your bike, started getting sicker and sicker. I remember you crying later that your parents had taken him to your Aunt Martha’s farm in Nebraska, and that you would never see him again.

So of course Megan had every right to be worried, but I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to get involved just yet. “She won’t talk to me. She won’t talk to any of our other friends, or any teachers. You have to try, Harper.”

“What makes you think she’ll talk to me?”

“What makes you think she won’t?” Megan shot back.

She continued to stare me down as I mulled over my choices. If you were as distraught as Megan said you were, then I was obligated as your best friend to talk to you. On the other hand, if it was something that had to do with Megan, I would be crossing the lines I shouldn’t be crossing. I could hear my then-girlfriend, Emily, once I had told her everything, saying,“Aww, Harper! Tell me you didn’t.”

As it were, Megan could hold a glare for a remarkably long time, and I eventually folded.

“Ok. Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you, Harper! I appreciate it, I really do.” Megan replied, sighing softly as her tough exterior faded away with her worry.

“Yeah. Ok.” I mumbled before trekking down the third floor corridor to find you. It wasn’t hard-you were in the junior lounge, as always, curled up on the lime green couch in the corner, completely absorbed in your newest book. I glanced at the title. The Power of One. You hadn’t put it down for at least 24 hours, from the looks of it. You had bags under your eyes and your clothes were wrinkled; they were the same clothes you had worn the day before.

It wasn’t exactly strange behavior. You were known to deprive yourself of sleep for a book before, and I didn’t expect it to be any different for this one. You didn’t move a muscle as I sat down at your feet, which is always a sign for me to ‘keep my mouth shut’ until you were finished. So I waited, watching your eyes flicker across the lines of the page with excitement gleaming in their emerald waves. Finally, you tucked your bookmark into the crevasse between the pages and laid the book in your lap.

“How is the book?” I asked casually.

“One of the best I’ve read,” you answered confidently.

“Really? You’ve read a lot of books, Kennedy.”

“Yeah, but this one…this one is special, I think.”

“How so?”

“Well, look at the title, first of all. Right away you know it’s going to be inspirational some way or another.”

“How is it so far?”

You cracked a smile. “Inspirational. Powerful, even.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” I chuckled.

Nodding, you continued. “It’s all about the apartheid in South Africa. It’s told from the perspective of an English boy, Peekay. He has to watch all of his friends, German and African, face terrible prejudices…all because of a nation’s ignorant fears.”

You turned to look at me, and suddenly I knew what Megan was talking about. You had brought your knees closer to your chest, hugging them to your body. There was something that had scared you, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what could be making you so frightened. Before I could think of anything to ease your worries, you surprised me with a question that still haunts me today.

“Do you think there could ever be an apartheid in America?”

I froze. It was a loaded question, and truth be told I had no idea how to answer it. I wasn’t exactly sure there wouldn’t be one, and I didn’t want to give you any false hope. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but it wouldn’t go away, despite my efforts.

“Why are you so scared, Kennedy?” I asked.

“Answer the question, Harper.” There was the irritability again. I rolled my eyes and turned my head to stare at the ground, but I could still feel you shaking against the back of the couch. This was serious, whatever it was.

“No. I don’t think there could ever be an apartheid in America, and I don’t understand why you would think that.”

I could feel you staring at me for a long time. I let you tap your foot against my thigh, a sorry substitute for the floor, but if it eased your worries just a little, it made me feel more useful. I picked at my nails, stopped, picked at the torn rubber of my shoes, and finally sighed as I looked back up at you.

“I met someone,” you blurted.

‘Well, shit.’ I thought. ‘This IS about Megan.’

“Uh…oh yeah?” I asked uncertainly.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I haven’t cheated on Megan, so to speak.”

“So to speak? That’s convincing.”

You glared at me, something you were surprisingly good at given that you always looked so serene. “Would you let me explain? His name is James. I met him at Club Rico-“

“What the hell were you doing at Club Rico?” I asked incredulously. Then, lowering my voice, I asked, “Don’t you know that’s a straight club?”

You puffed up your chest proudly and exclaimed, “Of course I know that! I was….I was just curious.”

I blinked. “Of what?”

You were silent for what felt like an eternity. You fiddled with your fingers, trying to keep yourself occupied in hopes of avoiding the question. I took a deep breath, and then another.

“Kennedy, what is going on? You’re not acting like yourself.”

You looked up. “What if I’m not the person you think I am, Harper? What if I’m acting like the person I’m supposed to be, instead of the person you-others-want me to be?”

Instead of letting me answer, you kept going. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Harper. All this talk of the movement and Martin Nelson, and now, after meeting James, I think I finally know who I am. I only wish I would have known sooner, especially when I think of Meg...and you. I’m worried, Harper. I’ve resigned myself to the fact I’ll lose Meg, but I don’t want to lose you, too. That is what scares me the most, I think.”

You spoke so confidently, so surely, I had no choice but to listen. You were changing. Once timid, you were now, suddenly, outspoken and courageous in ways you had only dreamed of before. I was entranced now by the excitement in your voice and the power behind your words. I couldn’t bring the old Kennedy back, no matter how hard I tried and no matter how many times I told myself it would be easier for you if you didn’t change. This was something I couldn’t stop. I was along for the ride, it seemed, and you weren’t planning on getting off anytime soon.

“Harper,” you said sharply, breaking the silence that had formed after your sermon. “Harper. I’m straight.”

Sunday Kind of Love

***Warning: Long, hopelessly romantic ramblings ahead****


Sunday Kind of Love
A personal essay consisting of theories on what love means and explorations on the fear of remaining perpetually single.

________________________________________________________________
"I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love."— Mother Teresa

What started off as a list for a fake personal ad a friend and I decided to write for ourselves, is now a composition of the questions and musings these lists inspired. Further observations of what society calls "love" and a few mishaps of my own in the dating realm also contributed to the thought processes of this essay. While I understand everyone has their own take on what love is and how to identify it, I'd like to take a stab at it myself, whilst addressing society's skewed views of love and reminiscing on some personal experiences as well.

I understand I may not be the most qualified person to speak on this matter, however, I feel like I have a duty to write it for the people I empathize with the most: for the ones who have nothing less than all the love in the world to give, and have shown, on numerous occasions, how capable they are of loving, and yet they have not found for themselves what they have readily and willingly given to those around them: pure, unwavering love. I write this essay with them in mind (and in heart), and hope they will find solace in knowing they are not alone in feeling the way they do, and that they are more than worthy of the love they dream of.

It's possible that this essay will seem whiney or mopey, with undertones of the "the woe is me" sigh, but that is not my intent for writing this. What my hope for this essay is that more people will begin to understand why these feelings exist, and maybe even begin to sympathize with the ones who feel so lonely and forgotten. After all, that is the job of a writer; to allow for an expression of feelings and fervent beliefs in order to inform others that these feelings do exist, and that they should be observed and treated as gently as any other similar emotions. So that is my intent with this essay-not to gripe or moan about why "I can't have what he or she has"-but to open up a world of confusing thoughts and strong doubts, so that, in the future, we don't look at them with disdain, but with understanding and care.

"I want a Sunday kind of love; a love to last past Saturday night, and I'd like to know it's more than love at first sight. I want a Sunday kind of love "--Etta James

One of the most disconcerting things for me, something that seems to be more prevalent today, is the concept of the material girl, and her "boy toys". Some of the girls I work with, however sweet and innocent they may seem when they're around me, can do a complete 180 and act with malice and thoughtlessness towards a guy they like to either get what they want or to do it just for fun. One night a few years ago, when I was working as a cashier at the grocery store where I now work as a Starbucks barista, I was standing at the express check out lanes with my co-worker, Jade, who would eventually follow me to the damp, hidden corner of the store where the Starbucks is located, and who would, ironically, become a trusted confidant as we worked together more and more.

We didn't talk much in between customers that night, probably because we figured we didn't have much in common (and also due to the fact that I am extremely introverted), and I became even more assured of that when a well-liked bagger, Wade, came over to grab cigarettes for a customer from the large shelves that sat within the express lanes. While Wade was searching for the requested brand of cigarettes, Jade looked over him at me and whispered, "Watch this," a devious smile playing on her lips and a mischievous glint shimmering in her perfectly round, blue eyes. She reached behind her and knocked over a package of cigarettes with her forefinger. Curious, and also out of boredom, I watched as Jade, once Wade had stood up straight after having obtained the cigarettes he was looking for, bat her eye lashes, flash an innocent smile, and swivel back and forth on the balls of her feet as she said, "Wade, could you pick that up for me?"

Aghast, I plead inwardly for Wade to ignore her request; she was perfectly capable of picking it up herself. "Don't do it; don't do it, Wade," I chanted in my head. I realized, in that moment, that it takes only a matter of seconds to lose any respect I might have had for one person, because right after looking down at the cardboard box wrapped in cellophane, Wade sighed as he bent down to pick up the cigarettes before he returned them to their place on the shelf. Jade guffawed victoriously, as I smiled meekly, staring down the manager on duty, hoping, however fruitless my efforts were, that he had ESP and was receiving my signals for a break.

It's not that I thought Jade was an awful, wicked person for getting what she wanted, it was that I didn't understand why she chose to do it the way she did. If I had tried that maneuver on my mother, for example, she would have looked up at me from her word jumble with one of her patented looks that was a mixture of annoyance for being disturbed and the unspoken question: "Are you kidding me?", right before blurting, "Get it yourself. You have arms." I wouldn't have had enough time to even try to bat my lashes or flash a grin, as she would have turned back to figuring out "What the over-worked songstress suffered from" almost immediately--not that I had even the slightest chance in hell of convincing her otherwise.

So when I was told that Jade would be joining the crew at Starbucks a few months later, I thought, "Great. The girl who gets by on her looks. Good luck with that back here." Sure, she's definitely had more luck than I have on that front, but there's something about getting by on your looks that I find....well, unattractive. It's risky, depending on something that can change the next day, however successful you may be with it now. If I had to choose a method in which to "get by", I would rather it be through altruism or perseverance, or anything that gets stronger the more it is utilized, rather than something, like physical appearance, that deteriorates over time, and even sometimes, is taken away in a heartbeat. When you love someone for more than just their looks, beauty is never lost. One look into their eyes, although there may be more wrinkles framing them than when you first saw them, and you can still feel your heart pounding as wildly as ever within your chest and all the butterflies fluttering ceremoniously around in your stomach, dancing to a rhythm they know so well now. True love doesn't fade with beauty, it becomes more glorious and powerful with every laugh line, every stitch or scar, and every aching bone. It becomes immortal.

It's a well known fact that youthful beauty and things like glamour, sex, and money are heavily focused on in the media. It's hard to escape, so it's no surprise to find it in day to day life, as it becomes engraved into the minds of some of the most susceptible targets: single women. One example, something that was also a catalyst for this essay, of this skewed view of romance and love is Patti, from Bravo's reality TV show Millionaire Matchmaker. Claiming to be a lover of love herself, Patti is blunt and crass about how she thinks the millionaires should treat their suitors; with lots and lots of gifts and special treatment. While her intentions may have been good to begin with, and while she may not realize it, Patti is ruining love for the rest of us; the ones who don't need to marry a millionaire to feel loved or desired. Love is more about partnership than it is about showering the woman with material gifts. It's embarrassing for me, as a woman, to hear of such an unfair assumption about what constitutes as love. While it may be a twisted version of monogamy, it certainly isn't love.

"I look up to everything you are. In my eyes you do no wrong, and I believe in you although you never asked me to "-Josh Groban

It feels like, in today's society, if it's just plain monogamy, then that's "good enough". It doesn't matter if the couple can't stand each other, as long as they aren't single or divorced, who cares about the mutual detestation? There is a customer who stops by the Starbucks every once in a while with a woman I always assumed was his wife. Thanks to the omnipotent and all-seeing ladies who ring up the meals at the small diner in the store, I've been notified that I was wrong in my assumption. The woman that is always with him is not his wife, but his mistress. Ironically, I had always really admired how they acted towards each other; like they were still newlyweds. When I discovered this piece of news, however, I was crestfallen.

One of the ladies who does the cashiering at the diner had a seemingly good idea when she decided to walk away from her register when he came up to pay for the dinner he and his lady friend had shared, or, if she couldn't escape, she would over charge him for his meal. Infuriated with this man for taking advantage of having something many others are more than worthy of-monogamy and love-I decided to launch my own crusade against him. However, when he came over one night with his girlfriend, I realized I had forgotten how tall and brawny he was, and how he could probably snap me in half if given a reason. So when they ordered their drinks, I couldn't persuade my fingers to ring up more expensive drinks, and I certainly couldn't convince myself to forget my manners, as I wound up being as sweet to them as I am with any other customer on a good day. I even went as far as to remake their drinks and to open up the espresso machine to change the way it was grinding the beans when they came back to complain about their drinks.

Mad at myself for not being able to retaliate against these perpetrators of love, I decided on a course of action that might have been a bit easier for me to adhere to. Since I was already heavily caffeinated at that point, I decided I would uncover my geeky side and emphasize on that as much as possible. I even managed to launch into fits of laughter at the mere though of leaving them that night with holding my hand up, fingers spread apart, and saying, "Live long and prosper." I wanted to try and scare them off with silliness and a caffeine high, since they seemed to be the types to be put off by that, but I haven't discovered how successful my attempts were. I hope I succeeded, because, as hard as it is for me to stop, I don't want to continue treating them civilly and with the same manners I give to other customers. I disagree so much with what they are doing, I don't think I can serve them again, knowing what I do now.

If the relationship between this man and his wife is so broken that he has to galavant around a midtown grocery store with another woman, then why is he still married? I understand that perhaps divorce can wound a man's pride and his ego, but that seems better than being a liar and a cheat. Yes, divorce must be painful, and I sympathize for his wife, I really do, but this man should at least have the decency to be upfront with his wife, whether it's discussing separation or maybe even couples' therapy. The dishonesty this man exemplifies is just one tiny example of why most relationships fail. There should be a test people take before they're married. Question One: In your own words, describe monogamy. Unfortunately, it's possible that a large number of people would leave this question blank.

"..But for now I'll look so longingly, waiting...For you to want me, for you to need me, for you to notice me"----Dashboard Confessional

This particular man also makes me wonder about another issue: how is it that he can have not one but two partners, when I can think of many people, male and female, who are smart, wonderful, and caring but are still single? That just screams 'unfair' to me, as he is clearly someone who could not answer the monogamy question. So why does he have so much more "luck" than people who are capable of giving so much love and care that it hurts them when they have no one to give it to? What has he done that is so remarkable that he can claim his reward, selfishly and without any regards to others, more than once? There can't possibly be somebody for every one if people like him are taking more than their fair share. His predicament is a catalyst for great self-doubt for the ones who deserve true happiness, and have the most beautiful hearts. They unnecessarily question themselves: "Is there something wrong with me? Am I messing up somehow? Is there no one for me? When will it be my turn?" The kicker is that they have done nothing wrong. As much as it hurts to hear: it simply isn't their time yet.

I like to think of it in terms of a toy workshop. People like the man who is cheating on his wife go through their toys like babies go through diapers; they treat their toys like they're worthless, throwing them to and fro, stomping on them, and even throwing them in a dusty corner, leaving them and forgetting them. Sooner or later the shop keepers will get fed up and stop making these people toys, saying, "If you can't treat any of the toys we've given you already, how can we trust you with any more?" For the people who have lived for so long without any of the toys others have had, or even people who have been blessed, but, through no fault of their own, have lost what they held so carefully and close to their heart, there is a special team. This team of shopkeepers works tirelessly day and night, sculpting and molding at the block of clay that will soon be the most perfect toy for a particular client. A client who has exhibited the utmost patience and who, on a daily basis, works and lives and loves with their entire being, and still have yet to be rewarded for it. The shopkeepers work for these clients, and they will not stop until they have reached perfection so flawless they will have to break the mold once they're done, because no matter how much they work at it, they could never duplicate such refined greatness. No matter how long their clients have had to wait or continue to wait, in the end, it's all worth it.

"I'll follow through, I promise to hold on. I'll never let go; won't let you down. If you can stay proud, I'll be brave somehow."-Gavin Mikhail

When I look back to figure out my own romantic foibles, the first thing that comes to mind is my inaugural dating experience, which may or may not have ended due to American Idol, questionable sexual orientation, or delusions caused by an over eccentric mind. While I often try to forget the mess of mixed emotions, waiting for phone calls that wouldn't come, and being misled, the thing I remember the most, other than the scrapbook of Kelly Clarkson encounters, was how he held my hand. It was simple, but it's probably the only thing that doesn't make me look back at the few months we dated with horror and disdain. It might also have something to do with the next three guys I dated, however brief, who did not express the same care to me as this guy did. Even more than that, whenever he held my hand, I felt safe. Him holding my hand made up for him hardly ever calling, and in one case, after receiving a rather cold interrogation from a friend and co-worker at a company holiday party, when he reached across to hold my hand on the way home that night, it was almost apologetic, as, at that point, we both knew the relationship wouldn't last.

Looking back now, even though I was angry with him at the time, I am thankful, at least, that he had enough courage to be the one to break it off, because while rejection hurts, it doesn't sting as much as silence. Now, I remember the feelings of comfort and security that comes with holding hands. It's a comfort synonymous with the kind that comes when a favorite aunt (or any loved one) winks at you from afar. It's a simple, yet loud, way of letting someone you care know that you are thinking of them, and that you want them to be OK and feel loved. It's simple things like that, I think, that are the things that people who are waiting for love want the most. Material gifts don't matter, as there is no way to put a price on the way you feel when you're holding hands with the one you love. There's no diamond in the world that could ever make you feel the way you do when you catch them staring at you from across the room, and then gives you a playful wink when they realize you've noticed.

I have a roommate who seems to know when I have to wake up early in the mornings, as she tends to bring over her drunk friends to disturb my sleep these nights. I try to ignore it, no matter how obnoxious it is, by covering my head with my pillow or listening to my iPod. One night, however, when I had already been disturbed by her and her inebriated friends earlier that night, I became fed up with the noise and, fumbling around in the dark, grabbed my purse, iPod, and phone, slipped on some flip flops and stormed out the door, her friends grunting drunkenly as they watched me storm out the front door. When I got to my car, however, I realized, to my horror, that my keys were not in my purse like I thought they had been. Leaning against my car, I sighed and glanced at my phone. 4:15 AM. What was I going to do? Where was I going to go? I couldn't go back right after I had stormed past their confused grunts.

So as I leaned against my car door hopelessly, shivering in the cold, morning air and tears running down my cheeks, I realized how very lonely I felt all of a sudden. I conjured up an image of someone who would rescue me; who would answer his phone and ease my sorrows with his soft words like a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders. It was in the parking lot I was standing in that I realized no matter how many groups of friends I may have, it isn't quite as fulfilling as having one, constant best friend who floats with me from group to group and doesn't mind that I call at odd hours of the day, because once he hears the quivering in my voice, the only thing that's going through his mind is finding his way to my side. He is my hero in that aspect. And there is nothing in the world that I want more than him.

I can picture him in my mind, from his actions and considerations at least, if not his looks. I can feel the power of his hugs, without even knowing who he is, because there'll be a day when he knows exactly when I'll need his hugs the most, and I'll be able to mold perfectly to the shape of his body. I can feel the warmth of his brilliant smile, not because I've seen it, but because it will be a testament to the light in his soul. I can picture him looking me in the eyes and letting my name roll off his lips as if he were made to say it. And no matter how hard I'll try I'll never be able to prepare myself for the power of his presence, because every time I'll see him it will be like seeing him for the first time. He'll dance around the living room as if I'm not watching because he won't care, and he'll know that I won't care how stilted his movements are or how his rhythm is always off; as long as he is feeling happy and free, it doesn't matter what his dancing looks like.

And of course there will be the little things that he does, too, that will make my heart sigh with contentment. For example, he won't find it odd or weird that I adore anything Winnie the Pooh and occasionally watch the movies. Although he's not a professional dancer, he'll take the chance to slow dance with me and he'll sing off key (or on) in the shower, and on occasion, will sing me to sleep when I am having a hard time falling into a sound slumber. He'll give wise and knowledgeable answers and advice without coming off as pretentious, and everything he says will be what I need to hear, whether I want to hear it or not. He'll share my love of music and understand it's healing powers, and he'll be able to appreciate the astounding beauty of the Romeo and Juliet theme song. He'll be able to make me laugh as if he's been doing it for years, and he'll have an opinion on the satirical portrayal of Hamlet.

He'll enjoy sitting at the kitchen table with me as we sit, sip and smile at each other over the rim of our coffee mugs, discussing politics, religion, books, music, and anything that comes to mind, no matter how trivial. He'll not only get along with my family, but he'll look forward to the holidays and family gatherings, and won't be put off by the competitive nature that my family puts up when playing our favorite game. More importantly, they'll love him as much as he loves them. He'll want to come to the book store with me, and won't complain if we wind up staying for a few hours, because we are so entranced by the endless rows of books just begging to be read. He'll be brave, honest, humble, and he'll be the best listener in the world. He'll be passionate and sensitive, independent and spontaneous, and, naturally, he'll be more loyal than I could ever hope for him to be.

This is the man my heart longs for, because when you know that you are made to love someone so deeply, not having them pains you so horribly that you'll search for them tirelessly until you find them. Perhaps that is why people, myself included, will ask questions like, "When will it be my turn?" It's not because they are being selfish, it is because they are missing the person that was made for them. The one who will make the time they waited for them all worth it, and the one who will never let them feel the least bit lonely again. This is the love so many people are searching for, and this is the love that so many lost and lonely people deserve. This is the love, I believe, they will find when the time is right. And I will be right by their side, waiting with them, because this is something that only someone who is feeling the same can understand, and so, together, we'll finally find peace of mind and heart.


“And so I tell you, keep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened." (Luke 11:9-10)

Morning Has Broken

The water lapped gently against the side of the ship as we floated silently along the smooth, peaceful surface of the bay. A soft blue sky with wispy, white clouds swirled in to erase the deep, crimson sliver of the horizon. In an hour or two the city would awake, having missed this phenomenon. The flags flapped in the slight, morning breeze, the last bit of night lingering in the air. The buoy ten feet away from the ship bobbed sleepily in the water, preparing for a day of crashing waves and surfers.

The glowing yellow sun crept over the black shapes, a gentle reminder that it was another day of work, play, laughter, and light. The bright yellow invitation would draw thousands out of their homes, a flurry of footsteps hitting the pavement, cars honking, and children laughing. I stood looking out, my fingers curled around a chipped ceramic coffee mug, breathing in the crisp air before it would be tainted by a mélange of exhaust smoke, today’s catch and other smells. The day had begun.

So. I've always been awful at keeping journals, but I'm going to make an effort to update this more often than I did in previous journals. Firstly, I'm going to do some cleaning up and make this baby look polished. I'm working a few new pieces, but haven't been able to really write much this past year. I have issues with being concise, but I am working on it. I will be taking a short story class this semester, and perhaps it will involve some creative writing, which I like much better than literary analysis, at least in the writing process. I have a LOT of short stories lined up on the roster, and I am working hard, taking notes when I can, on getting them finished so I can revise if needed and send them out to get published. *fingers crossed* I appreciate those who have made it this far, and hope you'll stick with me throughout this blog journey.