eunice ann

tales of a girl trying to make sense of it all.

self made.

by

When I started fifth grade, only one thing mattered to me: it was finally time that I could join the school orchestra. I had been dying to learn violin since the third grade, when a sleepover at my friend’s house introduced me to the smell of rosin. I couldn’t wait.

I knew that as soon as the day came, I would march right into that orchestra room and lay claim to a spruce beauty so that I could learn to make music with it. I knew my family would dismiss me as just making noise as I squeaked my way through my scales each day and night, but they wouldn’t mind because someday, I would play a solo on stage and get a standing ovation. My violin and I had big dreams.

Those dreams were dashed when an ill-timed job transfer moved us to the middle of nowhere New Mexico to a school so tiny, there was only one class per grade. I still hoped for an orchestra program and a violin with my name on it, but the school and its budget only had room (and people) enough for a band.

I couldn’t tell you the name of the band director any longer. She instantly became my nemesis. Since I couldn’t have my dream of someday being a concert violinist, I was hoping to get to learn flute. She greeted me and smiled as she grabbed my by the shoulders, looked into my eyes and said, “you have lips that were made to play French horn.”

I had no idea what on earth she meant by that comment. Was she saying I had no lips? Every brass player I knew of (which, let’s be honest, at the age of ten wasn’t that many) left much to be desired in the lip department. Except maybe Dizzy Gillespie, but he also had that cheek thing going on.

I was relegated to the brass section. The only thing that could have been worse would have been percussion.

I hated the French horn. It was big and awkward. The bus driver always gave me the side eye because I couldn’t lug it home with me without taking up a whole seat if I wasn’t going to block the aisle. He’d get so angry about it, as if I had a choice in the matter. Seriously mister, I was aiming for the flute. I’m just as disappointed as you are in this.

Not only was French horn big, it was gross. Although it has a little valve on it to let out all your spit that’s congested the pipe, you had to spin it around a few times to get it all out. God knows what would happen if you didn’t do that.

It was incredibly hard to learn. It has three paddles to change the pitch of the notes you play. Everything else is controlled by your embouchure. The slightest shift in your lip position makes all the difference. In addition, unlike Dizzy, you’re supposed to keep your cheeks nice and tight. It hurts.

Unlike most things in life, I never desired to get any better at French horn. I constantly tried to get the mean band director to let me change instruments, but she kept insisting that the French horn and I were meant to be.

I gladly left it in the band room when summer rolled around, happy to have it out of my sight for a few months.

When school resumed in the fall and we headed to band class, I was delighted to see that we had a new band director, Mr. Smith. (It’s funny that I remember his name and not the other one, but you’ll understand why in just a moment.)

As the class filed in, he called us one by one into the equipment closet to check out our instruments for the year. When it was my turn, he asked what I played. This was my chance, I knew it. I looked him dead in the eye and said, without hesitation, “clarinet.”

“Well I don’t have any clarinets left for you, but I do have a bass clarinet.”

“I’ll take it.” I smirked as I turned away, praying that no one would rat me out and I’d be stuck with French horn again. Thankfully, no one did. They probably knew how much French horn sucked too.

The problem was, I didn’t know how to play clarinet–bass or soprano. Before class ended, I swiped the fifth grade fingering charts and lugged my giant clarinet home, determined not to have my fraud uncovered.

Unlike with the French horn, I practiced day and night. The bus driver disliked me less because I could get my instrument into the seat with room to share. I really came to enjoy it and I was excited to continue learning this instrument.

When sixth grade was over, we moved back to Arizona and I enrolled in band as a clarinet player. I had missed the auditions to get into the honor band, so I started the year as fourth chair in the intermediate band.

I quickly moved to first chair, and embarked on a constant battle for the title with my friend. That summer, I attended my first music camp and I ambitiously double majored–I played both soprano and bass clarinet (and secured a spot on the handbell choir).

That summer was when I really fell in love with my clarinet. I practiced for hours every day, and I was proud of the performances I gave. In 8th grade, I took second chair in the All State band, and I remember being so excited I burst into tears trying to tell my mom.

I spent most of my high school years in the band hall, whether it was marching band or concert band. I was section lead, still playing tag for first chair with the same girl from seventh grade.

Our band director was a hard ass and often had us playing college level music so that we could challenge our skill set. I appreciated it (until I got to college and we were playing the same exact music) because he always pushed us to be our best, even if he was a huge dick about it (I have no doubt that some of my former band mates have PTSD from dealing with him). We traveled a lot and were one of the top bands in the state. So many of my best memories happened on those trips. Even the one where we got mooned by the cheer squad after a football game in Kingman.

I surrendered my first chair seat my senior year to become a peer counselor. The classes met the same hour so I had to choose. It was a tough choice—setting my love aside to explore a different passion was not something I was prepared to do.

I continued practicing every day and selected one of the most technically challenging pieces I’d ever played for my college audition. I taught myself the whole piece, practicing for hours upon hours for months.

When the day came, with nerves in my belly (and a raging hangover from my first adventure with alcohol the night before), I stepped in and played my last audition ever. I’m still amazed I was awarded the scholarship.

I haven’t played since those days in college, over 20 years now. Sometimes I wonder if I could pick it back up again. One thing I know for sure is that my dad was right: I can do anything if I put my mind to it.

the courthouse.

by

Until 2017, I’ve only had to appear in court once. It was for a traffic ticket, and it wasn’t one I could just pay the fine and be done, I had to appear. I had a little bit of anxiety when I arrived, but only because I knew that the ticket I was there for (driving without insurance) could have meant jail time and/or a huge fine that I couldn’t afford.

I arrived and crammed myself into a tiny elevator with six other people, all headed to the third floor.  I waited my turn to speak to the prosecutor; we made a plea deal. I sat in the courtroom until it was my turn to be admonished by the judge for my poor choices. I entered my plea, she let me off with a small fine, and I was sent downstairs to cash out.

It was all fairly simple, and a day I haven’t thought about until today.

Showing up at court when you’ve been the victim of a crime is a completely different story. 

I arrived at the Jefferson County Courthouse, known in Denver as the Taj Mahal because it is a huge six or seven story building with a round atrium at the center and two arms stretching to either side of it. It also appears to have this pinkish hue when the sun hits it just right. You wouldn’t know looking at it, that a structure so beautiful would be the place where I would experience the most pain. 

I walked up with a feeling of anticipation. You know, the kind that you have before a job interview that you’re really excited about, but you’re not sure if you’ll be impressive enough to get? I have butterflies in my stomach, but I feel confident. I have my favorite boots on and I walk through those front doors fully expecting a positive outcome for the day.

I had been in this building twice before—once to procure property records from the building department and once to ask the sheriff to serve legal papers on the father of my child. Both of those departments are in the wing to the left of the entrance, beyond the coffee shop and up a couple floors. 

To the right, a pair of metal detectors secure the entrance to the other hall, the one that all of the court proceedings in the county take place in. I set my bag on the conveyor belt and passed to the other side. The detector beeps and the officer stops me to wand me down. “It’s probably my boots,” I laugh. They have a lot of buckles, of course it’s them. He makes me remove my boots to run through the x-ray machine and go through the metal detector again. It was the boots. “They sure look dangerous,” he jokes. 

The first officer that responded to the call after the incident is going through the adjacent metal detector. “I know you! I bet you’re here for me!” I smile. He doesn’t return my smile. He didn’t when I made the same joke three months prior. We both turned to walk down the same hall. I stopped and feigned adjusting my boot to let him get ahead so we didn’t have to walk together awkwardly. 

The hallway was lined on one side with windows. It was bright and cheery. You could see into the courtyard as people waited anxiously or nervously smoked. The wood paneling on the opposite wall shone in the sunlight. Dockets were posted along the wall. I glanced at them. Not mine. 

I arrived at the victims’ advocate office, which was unsuspectingly tucked in between two courtrooms. I caught the eye of the second officer that responded on the day of the incident. She smiled when she recognized me. I immediately felt better. I announced myself and an admin ushered me into a waiting room. It had ugly chairs and ugly carpet and was sadder than a doctor’s office waiting room. The admin brought me a cup of coffee that would make gas station coffee feel like gourmet. 

I waited impatiently, not sure if I should pick up a magazine to read or journal. I’d wished I had thought to bring a book. My advocate, Linda, appeared in the doorway and motioned with me to follow her. We walked back down the bright hallway to the elevator bank and ascended to the floor our courtroom was on. We walked down another hallway that had windows all on one side like the first, but it wasn’t nearly as bright and cheery. She asked if I would prefer to sit in the courtroom or in the conference room adjacent to it. She told me that it could be a while before our case was up, and she didn’t like to make victims face their perpetrators if they don’t feel comfortable. 

I hadn’t seen the face of the man who had hurt my child since the night I had slammed the door in it two weeks prior to the incident. I was in no hurry to look him in the face. I chose to sit in the conference room. It was a small room, cluttered with stacks of forms. There were so many filing cabinets lining one wall that it made the room feel even more cramped. My advocate popped in and out while I sat and journaled she told me it would be a while. The longer I waited, the more sick I felt. I wasn’t sure if I could will myself into the courtroom at all.

The DA came in to talk to me about our options and to hear a little more about the case. She was prepared to offer a plea deal. I just hoped he would take it. When it was time, my advocate brought me into the courtroom and we sat a few rows behind the father of my child. I liked that he didn’t notice me. The DA whispered to his attorney, a man I would come to loathe, and she pulled me back into the conference room. 

“They are going to ask for a continuation,” she told me. “They are claiming they have new discovery.” 

“What new discovery could they possibly have?” My boots were no longer holding me up. I got flushed and nauseous and I had to sit down.

“I have no idea. But this means we have to continue. You never know, it could help our case.” She made an attempt to be encouraging, but I wanted to get out of there. I knew that I could leave at any time and it wouldn’t matter, but I knew it was better for us if I stayed. 

We went back into the courtroom and waited some more. My advocate held my hand because I could not stop shaking. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t want him to see it. I was furious. I was scared. I was heartbroken. 

As he stood before the judge and was giving the continuation he asked for, I took the deepest breath I could muster and put on a neutral face. As he turned to walk out of the courtroom, he locked his eyes with mine. As my heart raced inside my chest, I didn’t dare blink. He needed to know that he didn’t scare me, and that I would fight every step of the way. 

I walked into the building that morning for justice. I expected that I would come and go the same way that I did when I dealt with my traffic ticket. I left without an ounce of relief.  I did not know that building would change me forever.

pen pals.

by

Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

I grew up as a forestry brat, moving every few years to whichever sawmill my dad was managing at the time. It was never easy for me to leave the friends that I had made. I was only in elementary school, but I constantly felt like my peers were being ripped away from me, never to be seen again.

Long distance phone calling was expensive, so that was reserved for family members only. My dad was on the road a lot, so he would often send postcards to me and my sister from wherever his travels took him that week. They always included a short anecdote about something funny that happened and a reminder to obey our mother. 

As a kid, getting mail is so much fun. Whether it’s a birthday card (hopefully with a crisp $5 tucked inside), or a package, there’s a delight to getting something in the mail. I honestly don’t think that elation ever goes away, now that we also get non-fun things like bills and jury duty summonses.

My friend Amy moved to Nevada in fourth grade. I was devastated. My mom suggested writing her letters. We wrote back and forth regularly for a while. I really enjoyed it and was sad when I noticed that I no longer got any letters from Elko, Nevada. I was never sure if she had moved or just had nothing to say. 

When we moved to New Mexico at the beginning of 5th grade, I was determined to stay in touch with my friends. I left everyone with our new address and sent updates from the middle of nowhere, sharing how weird it was to live in such a small village, and going to a school that had as many students in the whole school as the entire 5th grade class I had left behind. I got a packet of letters from my entire class at one point, and that was delightful. After a period of time, those letters stopped as well.

When we moved back to Flagstaff a couple of years later, I left again with two pen pals—my best friend Odelia and my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. T. Given my previous experience with pen pals, I didn’t expect that either of these would last for too long. I think Odelia and I kept in touch through 7th grade and when her dad passed away, I stopped hearing from her all together.

You might think it’s weird to be pen pals with a former teacher when you’re all of twelve years old. But Mrs. T. and I had a very special relationship. I never felt like I belonged in Reserve. Compared to where we were living, I was a “city kid.” I had a group of friends, but even that seemed to change from week to week. Although I’ve always been in advanced classes, in Reserve, I was hailed as some sort of genius. The reality was that I had already learned most of the things the school was teaching when I arrived.

Mrs. T. saw that. She always made sure that I was challenged by the work that she was assigning. She definitely noticed my affinity for books and was always suggesting new things to read. She was really cool in that she was always encouraging us to follow our natural curiosity. I have to say my most memorable lesson was when she caught a scorpion at her house and brought it in to see how it would fare against our classroom vinegaroon (Vinny). I’m sorry to say that Vinny put up a valiant fight, but ultimately succumbed to the sting of the scorpion.

Basketball was a big part of life in Reserve, so we spent a lot of time at basketball games. From what I can remember, I usually sat with Mrs. T. and her husband (which may or may not have had anything to do with the ginormous crush I had on their son, who was on the team). I had come to see her as more than a teacher, she was a friend and mentor.

When sixth grade was over, both my family and the T’s knew that we would no longer be in Reserve. When I moved, I sent letters to their ranch about the books I was reading and she would send postcards from home or wherever it was that their vacation took them. I’d send letters about school and marching band and she’d send letters about teaching at the University of New Mexico.

I still have one of my favorite postcards she ever sent me: a slab of redwood that was imprinted with the quote, “We don’t inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children.” It had gotten completely destroyed by the post office in transit and showed up at my house in a baggie, splintered to bits, but it was nothing that a little wood glue couldn’t fix. 

We’ve shared our life’s moments over the years. She sent me pictures from her son’s wedding. I invited her to my graduation, which was the first time I’d seen her since the end of sixth grade. We exchanged letters when I went off to college, and when I moved to Seattle. I heard about each of her grandchildren when they were born. When I moved to Denver, they happened to be in town for March Madness and UNM was playing, so we got together for breakfast. We hadn’t seen each other since I graduated high school, but it was like no time had passed. 

When I had Alissa, my life got increasingly more chaotic. We moved around a lot and I stopped writing letters for a few years. One Christmas, I was home visiting and my mom gave me a stack of mail. In it, I was quite surprised to find a Christmas card from Mrs. T. The familiar handwriting brought a smile to my face and I was excited to respond.. 

We exchanged email addresses and sort of kept up our correspondence for a bit that way, and then she retired from teaching. We had connected on Facebook when it first began to get popular, but it never really became a way for us to keep up with each other. Sending letters always had a special magic to it that digital communication just doesn’t have. 

Several years passed and we lost touch. When my parents got divorced, I was going through a box of photos and came across an old letter from Mrs. T. It brought me a sense of joy I didn’t know I needed to feel at that moment. Knowing that she was retired and probably traveling the world, I took a chance that maybe, just maybe, the address I’d had memorized for 20 years was still good. I dropped a letter in the mail to say hi and send a few updates. 

A few days later, I received a response in return. I couldn’t believe it. I was overjoyed. We caught up on life’s changes over the previous years and have stayed in touch ever since. Although it’s been somewhat irregular on my part, it’s nice to be in touch. In fact, we’ve exchanged several cards and postcards since the pandemic rocked our world, and when I heard that the theme this month was letter writing, I knew exactly who I was going to write about. 

Susan and I have been exchanging letters for nearly 30 years now. Over the years, her letters and postcards have ignited my love of travel, helped me discuss world events, and most importantly, maintain an unlikely friendship. I never expected that, after all this time, my sixth grade teacher would be my best pen pal. 

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

Please check out these amazing writers and their posts on this month’s theme: Letter Writing

Everything is “A Lot” Right Now by Kristin Rouse
A Letter to Who I Used to Be by Mia Sutton
To My Son by Sarah Hartley
To the Man Who’ll Carve My Headstone by Liz Russell
An Open Letter to People of Color by Amy Clark
The Lost Art of Letter Writing by Amy Rich
Returned Letters by Jenny Surgenor
A Letter to You by Mala Kennedy
When I Remember This Summer by Ashleigh Bowling

i always wanted an abuela.

by

Nonna. Babushka. Grams. Oma. Yia Yia. Bibi.

I never had a grandmother.

Sure, each of my parents were borne from their mothers, so genetically speaking, I have two grandmothers in my lineage. But I never had someone that I related to as my grandma.

My dad’s mother was taken away and put into a mental institution when he was eight years old. This was in the sixties, when those who struggled with mental illness were hauled off and hidden from society. In the beginning, she was allowed to come home on the weekends to see her kids, but eventually, she was tucked away and forgotten until her death in 2007. My dad didn’t even get so much as a phone call when she passed.

My mom’s mother chose a life as a free spirit instead of motherhood. She often abandoned her three children to run off with her flavor of the month for a time and would come back and collect the girls when she felt like settling down for a moment. My mom decided she’d had enough at the age of 12 and stayed with her grandparents from that point on. My grandmother was a void in my life until I was about 8 years old, when she moved from the east coast to our small town in Arizona with my two cousins in tow. She died about a year later and my cousins moved in with us until we could reunite them with my aunt. The official cause was a heart attack, but what really killed her was the fact that diabetes and alcoholism just don’t mix.

I always envied my friends who had deep and meaningful relationships with their grandmothers. The Nanas that taught them how to sew while they shared stories from the war. The Bombas who would sit and go through old photographs, passing on a piece of the past to future generations. The Amá Sání who would help a girl learn the intricacies of beading a bracelet. The Abuelas who would pass down a tamale recipe that had been perfected over generations.

I wanted an Abuela.

I ached to learn more about my roots–not because closest thing I have to Hispanic blood is Portuguese, but that’s because that’s what Abuelas do. They teach their kin about where they come from and share stories and recipes. I wanted to sidle up next to her, my tiny legs boosted by a dining room chair, while I watched her wrinkled fingers work through a ball of tortilla dough, kneading until it became smooth and supple. I would help her roll each one out, and she would say, “thinner, míja.”

I wanted to hear her stories of how she met mí Abuelo, and how maybe it wasn’t love at first sight, but they grew to love each other over the years. I would watch her stir a pot of red chile, deeply inhaling the aromas and adding a little more seasoning to highlight the flavor. She would mumble something in Spanish and reach for the spice rack. She might have been adding more cumin, but I was certain she was sprinkling in a little extra love.

We would shuck corn together as the air filled with the scent of pork roasting in the oven. With every yank of a husk, she would tell me tales of being a little girl in Mexico. She would share funny stories and heartbreaking anecdotes. I would drink every sentence in, thirsty for every colorful detail of my family history—even the ugly ones.

I would memorize every story she told me, one after the other, so I could savor them the way I savored her empañadas. I would hold every detail of every word so I could savor it, just like the flavors in my mouth. Her stories and her recipes would be catalogued in my brain so that I too, could pass them along to my children and grandchildren when the time came.

Our relationship would be forged in the kitchen, where she would share pieces of herself, one recipe at a time, while I helped and watched and listened. I would hang on every word, even after Abuelo would come in and say, “that’s not exactly how it happened,” before embracing her in a warm hug and delivering a soft kiss to her lips.These memories would bring me to tears as we said goodbye to her and laid her body to rest. Mí Abuela would continue to show up every time I was in the kitchen, cooking through the recipes she taught me, she would be whispering over my shoulder, “a little more salt, míja.”

This post was inspired by a writing prompt from Writers in the Woods. Follow them on Instagram and join the community every other week where readers from all over the world share the written word in a virtual open mic format.

time is irrelevant right now.

by

I wish I could press pause right now, I really do. That might seem crazy when the whole world seems to be on a collective pause, thanks to this crazy virus and our even crazier government that can’t seem to get a handle on it.

But life hasn’t slowed down for me since COVID came crashing into our lives. Very much the opposite, in fact. While I am unbelievably grateful to continue to have a steady income, I really wish that I could lighten my load, just a bit. I have so much going on that I don’t know what day of the week it is most days. And the serial entrepreneur in me just keeps throwing irons into the fire left and right.

I don’t think I even know how to slow down. I really have no idea why I seem to be functional only in light speed.

Alissa and I (well, I) have been in an intensive therapy program since early February. It was a court-assigned response to her running away at the beginning of the year along with all of her other behavioral problems. And oh boy, have I been grateful. We’re supposed to wrap up next week, and I’m really sad. I’ll get three hours a week of my life back (which I’ve already re-allocated to new commitments). But those 90 minute sessions really are a time out from this world that seems to be whizzing by me. 

Every week, Chelsea (our therapist), asks me what I’m doing for self care. I get the same question from Alissa’s regular therapist (whom I haven’t made time to visit with, despite her offering me a couple of 1:1 sessions after Alissa threw her computer through her bedroom window in April) as well as my own therapist. They ask me often. I shrug and mumble something about having too much going on to stop for a moment.

They say that self care can look like a lot of things. I don’t think that they’ll agree that my form of self care is to overwhelm myself with commitments and to-do’s that leave me little time to sleep, eat, or think. I’m sure they’ll tell me to slow down; to stop overscheduling myself. Truth is, I don’t know how to do that. My time seems to be like quicksand – pull one thing out, and the rest backfills to erase the void.

When Denver first recommended social distancing in early March, I was the last one on the train. I spent my final days before quarantine celebrating a friend’s birthday, going for walks with my dad, and squeezing in all the happy hours and spa afternoons I could afford. I justified this by saying that it was only a matter of time before we wouldn’t be allowed to do such things, and I needed to support my favorite small businesses and enjoy my friends while I still could. 

Within a few days, the deadline was looming like the Grim Reaper over our city. It was only a matter of time before quarantine orders were going to become a part of life. And my response was to fit as much in as I could before it became real. (To be fair, at the time, it was still believed that you could not be an asymptomatic transmitter of the disease.) I stopped commuting to the office, but I still spent as much face time with my friends as I could.

Once stay-at-home orders went into effect, I eagerly agreed to every virtual happy hour invite that hit my inbox. I worked all day, I drank virtually with friends every night, “quarantine won’t be so bad,” I thought. “I can do this.”

But a weird thing happened. I started feeling burned out on video calls. And phone calls. And human connection of almost any kind (Instagram and Marco Polo were about my only exceptions). So I unplugged completely. As soon as my work day was over, I docked my phone and retreated to the living room for Netflix or tried to read a book (why did I expect that I was going to binge read through this pandemic?).

I realized just how much my life outside consisted of happy hours and doing things with friends. After a few weeks, I had to start deleting things from my calendar. With sadness, I deleted my Mammoth games. I deleted brunches that had been planned months ago. I deleted orthodontist appointments for Alissa and reminders to do regular adulting chores. 

My weekends suddenly became free. It was a feeling I hadn’t experienced in years and I didn’t know what to do with all that time. It lasted a couple of weeks before I found ways to occupy my time, and my weekends and weekdays started to blend together. The only way I had a clear grasp on the day of the week was to complete my morning ritual of writing down all of my tasks and appointments for the day in my planner. 

I started working when I felt most productive, which were not always during regular work hours. My afternoons bled into evenings, and my mornings became just as foggy. I finally understood why I hate the movie Groundhog Day so much. 

Monotony and routine is a drag.

And yet, I still wake with feelings of anxiety and like time is running out. I stress about meeting deadlines and getting work completed in a timely manner. If I save too much work for when I feel productive, I get overwhelmed and nothing gets done. My pre-pandemic self is still in there, fretting about time and wishing it would slow down, yet doing nothing about changing my circumstances because that feels too uncomfortable.

Even though January was arduous for me and March felt like eleventy-billion years long, I’m still convinced that April doesn’t exist. The month came and went, as did my birthday, with little fanfare and without a trace. I’ve lost track of what week of quarantine we’re on, although I think stay-at-home orders expired a week or two ago.

School is out now. My kid is officially a high-schooler, and even that seems impossible. The past 9 weeks of school were brutal and yet non-existent; I’d like to strike the first half of her 8th grade year from the record completely. And all of that is crazy when Kindergarten felt like a year or two ago. Then again, so did 1999.

As summer approaches, I’m not sure if it will feel long or unusually short. I haven’t deduced whether or not monotony makes time drag on or speed by. Maybe instead of pausing, we can just push fast forward on 2020 and try again next year.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

Please check out these amazing writers and their posts on this month’s theme: Slow Down

Being in the Moment by Mia Sutton
Slowing Down by Jacey
On Chasing Slow by Sarah Hartley
It’s Time to Slow Down by Mala Kennedy
A Way to Practice the Pause: Grounding Exercise by Amy Cook
On the Front Porch, Looking in by Liz Russell
Planning Slowly by Kristin Rouse
Can a Busybee Slow Down? by Ashleigh Bowling
Still Spring by Jenn Norrell

honoring a child’s instinct.

by

Image by Knight Light Photography

The gut instinct–it’s something we are born with. I’ve been told that the reason our gut is so connected to our heart and brain is because these are the first three organs that form when a new human is developing. Our gut has literally been our safe-keeper, not only nourishing the body with the nutrients we feed it, but alerting us to potential danger so that our limbic system can jump into action and protect us.

Our gut has saved our lives for hundreds of generations. So why do we struggle with listening to it?

Because we’re taught as children to ignore it.

When kids are put into social situations, it is quite common for the grownups to expect the kids to interact with adults in a respectful manner. We are taught how to politely introduce ourselves (make eye contact, offer a hand to shake) and any hesitation to do so is generally greeted with an apology to the adult and a forceful urging to the child not to be rude.

Have we ever stopped to think that children are not being shy or rude, but rather, that their gut is telling them that this stranger in front of them is making them feel like something isn’t right? As adults, it is our responsibility not to shame our children into feeling okay with someone that makes them uncomfortable.

The earliest memory I have of feeling my gut telling me something wasn’t right was when my dad allowed one of his employees to park his fifth wheel trailer on the side of our house and take up residence. My mom drew a clear boundary that Phil would not be allowed in the house when my dad wasn’t home, and that he absolutely was not permitted to shower in our home under any circumstance. I was twelve or thirteen and I’m certain that my mom was feeling a need to protect her two daughters from whatever wayward thoughts had entered this man’s mind.

Phil always made me uneasy, but as a child who didn’t yet understand what a gut instinct was, I couldn’t put a finger on it. He was someone that I was always very cautious around and I made sure to keep a pulse on how things were going between him and my dad. I had watched enough America’s Most Wanted by that time in my life to know that a bad day could end up with all of us massacred. That was what my gut was telling me about this guy.

My dad advocated for Phil, saying he was a family man and a good worker who just needed to get a leg up in the world. Phil was a recovering alcoholic and was committed to bettering his life and my dad decided that Phil was a project worthy of taking on. When Phil spoke of his own daughter, I often wondered why it was that he didn’t see her, even though it was clear that he had a desire to. Was he not allowed? Did something happen? No matter what uncomfortable jokes we made at Phil’s expense, my dad always came to Phil’s defense. The gut feelings that my mom and I clearly had were called bogus. Phil was a “decent guy” and we were overreacting.

Fortunately, nothing ever happened with Phil. He worked for my dad for several months, living in a trailer in our side yard. I steered clear of him as much as possible, but was always aware of what he was doing. He disappeared one night and we never saw him again. The relief my mom sighed was a collective one. In hindsight, my dad was able to recognize that something wasn’t right with the guy and he recently apologized for putting us through that.

—

My daughter was sexually assaulted at the age of seven. By a classmate. When I first heard the news, I was taken aback. Her assailant was a child that was the resident bully. According to her, this kid made “everyone, even the teachers, feel nervous.” This insight was shared with me when she was in kindergarten and I didn’t even think to say anything to my child about what her gut was telling her about him.

Story after story piled up about how he was bullying the other boys at school, all of which were relatively violent. One boy was angrily shoved off the monkey bars and broke his arm pretty badly. No one wanted to play with him any more, and that only made him more aggressive as he fought to be included. His mom always defended him, giving excuses about him struggling at home for his acting out. The principal tended to fall into classic patterns of victim shaming, reminding the students that if they were uncomfortable with this kid, they should simply avoid him.

When my daughter came home from school one and let me know that she had spent the day with the school counselor because this boy had put his hand in her pants. I was really confused as to what she meant and as she described what happened to me, I started to get angry.

A few hours later, the school counselor called me and by the time she did, I was livid that I hadn’t gotten a call from the school first and ripped into her before she could tell me what happened.

At an unknown point in the recent past, there was an incident in the classroom where this boy had maneuvered himself so that he could intentionally put his hand down the back of my child’s pants and squeeze her bottom. Several students witnessed it, but no one said anything when it happened. The school only found out about it because a teacher overheard some kids teasing my daughter about it during early morning care one day.

The school immediately investigated the situation and, after interviewing all involved, both the principal and the mom brushed the incident off as no big deal. Irate, I reminded them that touching a person in their private area without their consent is sexual assault and while these kids were only seven, it was clearly a very intentional act. I was told that I was overreacting and got asked if I really believed that a seven-year-old had any idea of what he was doing (I did).

I remember thinking what on earth had happened to this kid that he was assaulting others in such a predatory manner.

I escalated the situation to the school district and filed a formal complaint against the principal. The principal was reprimanded and the kid disappeared for a couple of years (we had believed he’d been expelled, but he was just sent to live with his dad for a bit). The school counselor quickly responded by booking a seminar with KidPower, a curriculum designed to teach children personal safety from a place of empowerment, not fear. It was amazing.

The moderators took the kids through fun exercises where they were always the focal point, not the “grownups you came with.” They taught the kids that a stranger is someone you haven’t met yet and then they launched into something completely unexpected: teaching the kids about gut instinct.

They talked about the feeling you get in your tummy that makes you feel a little weird. They explained to the kids that sometimes, they will get that feeling in their tummy when they meet some strangers, but not all strangers. And most importantly, they taught the kids to heed that feeling and what to do if they are around a stranger that makes them feel uncomfortable.

Their message was fairly simple: sometimes you will meet people that don’t make you feel right. It’s okay to feel that way, and if you do, speak up and be safe.

As we left that night, I kept thinking about all the ways we enable the idea in our kids that they need to suppress their gut feelings. When kids do find the courage to speak up, it is often met with a dismissal or a defense of the person in question. My dad rewarded our courage by defending the guy. When a small child hides his or her face against their grownups body, they are prodded to turn and “be polite.” When a child brushes off a hug and says, “don’t touch me!” in frustration, we respond by insisting that they accept.

What inevitably happens is that they grow up not understanding that “no means no” and that it’s okay to make someone else uncomfortable if you really want something. They also learn that there is shame in feeling uncomfortable and they learn not to speak up. This is the dangerous gateway to rape culture.

It’s how they learn not to be their own advocate and use empowering phrases such as “I want…”, “I need…” and “I expect…” when asking for something. It’s where feelings of shame and doubt creep in and they grow into adults that cannot function in the harsh reality of the real world.

What would it look like instead, if we taught our kids to listen to their gut and then supported them when they did? Would they become adults that are riddled with shame, or would they become adults that are confident in their skin and willing to speak up when something isn’t right?

In order for us to teach our children to respect the instinct their gut is giving them, we must learn to respect their instincts too.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

threadbare.

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Photo by Trym Nilsen on Unsplash

My favorite pajama pants are nearing the end of their life. I discovered a series of small holes along the seam of the crotch and it made me a bit sad. I’ve had these sweats for several years and I’m not quite ready to part ways with them yet.

When I first bought them, they were so soft. The fleece lining was fuzzy and felt like it was wrapping my legs in a hug. The hem was just the right length for my long legs, something that is an elusive requirement for any pair of pajama bottoms I buy. For the first few washes, I worried that they would shrink just enough for me to hate them and have them relegated to the reject pile.

They didn’t.

They became my go-to comfort clothing. Something that I put on after returning home from a long day at work. Something that I slipped into when I was staying the night at my boyfriend’s house and we were snuggling on the couch. Something that I wore to the grocery store, not caring if someone I knew would see my slovenly appearance. Something that I would wear all weekend long, slipping them off only for a shower, just to pull them back on again when I was finished. 

They traveled with me on my many trips for work. They became that portable item that allowed me to bring my routine from home to practice while I was away. No matter what hotel I was sleeping in that week, I had the amenity of my favorite comfort with me. When I slipped into them before I made my morning coffee, they were the familiar thing when I was surrounded by strange. 

On laundry day, they are always in the last load so that I don’t have to go too long without them. The feeling of slipping them on again, right out of the dryer is incredible. The warmth of the fabric delights my whole body and brings an indescribable pleasure to me.

As the years have worn on, so have my pants. The soft lining has pilled, but the tiny balls of matted fuzz are no less cozy than they were in their prime. They no longer provide the physical warmth they once did, but the emotional warmth continues to grow. The fabric has gotten thinner, as Alissa pointed out to me the other day when she noted she could see my underwear through them.

I guess my pants are no longer suitable to wear in public.

This isn’t the first pair of pajama pants I’ve worn until they literally fell apart. I had a pair in college that lasted me long after I turned in the key card to my dorm room. I even tried to salvage parts of them to sew into a quilt I was working on.

I guess I have a hard time letting go when I’m attached.

There’s a sense of beauty that comes with loving an item of clothing so intimately. It becomes a part of you in a way that’s unexplainable. The familiarity and comfort that something so simple can bring is simply amazing to me.

I’m not yet ready to part with my pajama pants. I have a feeling that they will be ready to part with me before that happens anyway.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

on death and loss.

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I have to admit that I used to believe that I didn’t have a lot of experience with death. I’ve had family members pass away in my lifetime, sure. I attended both my maternal grandmother (I was 9) and great-grandmother’s (I was 27) funerals. A maternal cousin passed away early this year at age 35. My paternal grandmother passed away when I was 28 or 29, we’re not exactly sure because the family wasn’t notified when it happened. All of these events were sad for me, but none of them were life-changing. 

I had a harder reaction to the loss of two of my dear high school friends within months of each other (melanoma and a car accident). Both of those deaths took the wind out of me and I cried for days. It has been almost 7 years since Christina passed and I am still upset that I wasn’t able to make it home in time for her funeral because I was in the middle of moving and I couldn’t afford to delay the move by a few days. 

We had a series of deaths the fall of my senior year of high school. I was a peer counselor and we hadn’t quite finished our training on grief counseling when Pat, a friend and classmate, committed suicide by shooting himself in the head a week before Halloween. I couldn’t bring myself to go to his wake, but I was haunted by the images my classmates painted for me of what they saw. The following week, his girlfriend, Kara stepped in front of an oncoming train. The week after that, another classmate was accidentally killed after being hit by a car at a party. Later that year, one of my good friends from elementary school died in a similar accident. 

As peer counselors, we were among the first to be notified when these things happened so that we could be prepared to talk with others when we arrived at school. That weekend, I told my mom I wasn’t answering the phone on Sunday night ever again. I couldn’t handle all of this death. 

I remember feeling that if the pain of losing all of these classmates, most of whom fell into the “acquaintance” category, was so challenging, how would I feel when I lost someone that mattered to me?

A few years ago, I found out that my ex-father-in-law passed away from MDS, a rare form of leukemia. Steve’s passing was definitely the death that hit the most close to home. Even though I hadn’t seen or spoken to him or their family in 10 years, this one was the hardest news to hear. I sent my condolences to both my ex-husband and ex-mother-in-law, and never got a response. I was sad and angry that I wasn’t able to properly say goodbye to someone I had loved so much. I realized that it didn’t matter if I got to say goodbye in a formal manner. I could still send him my love. 

I kept remembering back to when Steve’s father passed away and the beautiful remembrance of life we did as a family. A commercial fisherman his entire life, we spread Tom’s ashes into the ocean off the Oregon coast. That night, the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen graced us as we ate dinner and shared stories about him. We knew that Tom was responsible for that. The loss of both of these men hit me harder than my own family members that had passed on.

In the past week, I have learned of two deaths of people that I knew. One was a former colleague and one of the most incredible human beings I’ve ever met. Todd was always funny and sarcastic and his son was no doubt his greatest accomplishment. The other was a friend I met at church and haven’t seen or talked to in nearly a decade. Adam was an inspiration to everyone around him and was on a mission to save the world. Both of these men are gone far too soon and will be greatly missed. 

Their deaths made me realize that I have been far more in touch with death than I previously believed. It always causes me to pause and think about both the inevitability of death and how the ability to accept it is easier when someone has lived a full life. I notice that when someone is gone in our measure of “too soon,” it seems to hurt far more and far longer. I suppose our time on Earth is what it is, but it makes it so much easier to accept when they’ve hit the average life expectancy. 

The lesson to be learned when anyone dies though, is that you never know when your last day will come. We need to remember to live our lives with love and hope for the future. 

lingering.

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onion on chopping block

As I was in the midst of my bi-weekly refrigerator purge and pantry clean-out, I discovered a couple of moldy onions hanging out in the middle of a bag, threatening to spoil the whole bunch. I always thought that it was a bad apple that was notorious for this task, but I digress.

After tossing the offenders, I decided that I would heroically save the rest by chopping them up immediately and freezing them. My hasty decision left our entire apartment reeking of onions for hours. 

I made the mistake of putting a couple of them in a container in the fridge, expecting that I would be using them within the next day or so. Despite my best efforts to rid the house of onion odor, every time I open the refrigerator, I am knocked over by the smell of raw onions again.

Onions are weird. In their raw form, they are pretty offensive. They smell bad, they make you cry, and they come wrapped in a skin that is simultaneously paper thin and impossible to remove. 

The experience of breaking an onion down into something useable is so miserable that there is an entire industry dedicated to mitigating the pain of doing so. Rather than deciding that we cannot deal with onions, we’ve simply managed to find a better way to be around them. Side note: onion goggles are legit the best thing ever invented.

onion goggles at Rivers and Roads
I am no rookie when it comes to cutting onions by the bushel. Rivers and Roads Coffee.

But once they are peeled, chopped and cooked, they add a unique dynamic to any dish. Leave the onion out of something and the difference is noticeable. The flavor just isn’t quite complete. These awful little buggers have managed to worm their way into necessity. 

They are also no stranger to being turned into life metaphors either. From their many layers to the way they survive such a thin skin, it seems that onions are constantly being compared to something in life. 

As the faint odor of onions permeates my home, I think about pain and the way it lingers long after the offense has been committed. There are some pains that still hurt me as much as they did when they first happened, like breaking up with my boyfriend earlier this year, or the way my mom treated me as a teenager. In their memories, those moments are likely all but forgotten, but I can remember the sting of their words as though it just happened. Tears prick my eyes the same way an onion does the moment my body realizes what is happening. 

I think about how hurt and betrayed I have been by Alissa’s father and his family and all of the abuse we have endured the past two years. It is bitter in the same way an onion tastes when you bite into it raw. Like the onion, they have no idea how distasteful their behavior has been to me. 

As much as that lingering pain still reminds me of the hurt I’ve endured, it also serves to remind me that something better is coming. 

When you cook an onion down, the smell begins to change. The fumes stop hurting, but they are still there. Although the lingering scent of cooked onion isn’t much better, the way the onion has changed makes a difference. It adds flavor and texture. It gives character to the foods that you make. So many of my favorite meals begin with sautéing an onion. It’s no wonder that I am able to draw this parallel with life.

I think back on the most painful times in my life and wonder if I would change them. I almost always come to the conclusion that I would not. If we remove the pain from our pasts, we become flavorless and flat. The experiences we have, both good and bad, are what build our character.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

forgotten, or maybe just ignored.

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One of my favorite things about being a member of the H & L Writes group is that each Wednesday, the editors ask us to share what we’ve written in the past week. One of my fellow writers posted about disappointment during the holidays and it really resonated with me. Or maybe the better term is that it triggered me. 

When Alissa’s dad first decided to be involved in her life, he really struggled with a lot of the parenting things that seemed to come naturally to me. Granted, he didn’t get the five year head start I had on him, but some of his parenting missteps really threw me for a loop because they seemed like common sense.

She started kindergarten that fall and I was struggling to save money so we could move out of our friend’s basement. One thing I had been looking forward to, however, was taking Alissa for her very first back to school shopping experience. It was a tradition that my mother and I had when I was little with (mostly) good memories. (There was one year in high school where there were not a pair of jeans in a hundred mile radius that I liked. There may have been screaming and pouting.)

He agreed to join us and offered to buy the clothes that we picked out. It was a win-win. I could have the shopping experience with my daughter and I didn’t have to stress about how to pay for it. He would have the opportunity to bond a little with the child he had only come to know in the past two months. 

When he canceled on me once, then a second time, I got really frustrated. We needed to get this done because school was starting in just a few days. When could he realistically meet us? A big fight ensued and later that evening, he dropped by a huge bag of new clothes that he and his friend had picked up at Kohl’s. 

I was livid and he didn’t understand why. He had taken the one thing out of that experience that meant the most to me: taking her shopping to pick out her own outfit. It hadn’t even dawned on him that how I felt mattered.

When Christmas came a few months later, I took Alissa shopping so she could pick out gifts for her dad. I assumed he would do the same. He and I exchanged texts, coordinating what we were getting her so that we didn’t overlap and so we could agree on an appropriate “Santa” gift. I was really excited for Christmas. 

He came over to our house early in the morning and tucked the gifts under the tree. When she woke up, we enjoyed breakfast together and began opening gifts. One by one, the gift paper was torn open and I sat and watched, waiting for there to be one for me. 

There wasn’t. 

I chalked it up to the fact that he was a new dad and probably wasn’t thinking. He had never had to take a kid shopping for presents before, so it just must not have occurred to him. 

The next year, we went to his house. She opened present after present. Nothing for me. Although this year was even more awkward because I didn’t have the buffer of the gifts from my family to lessen the blow. As we drove home that afternoon, I cried. I wasn’t sure if I was more upset or frustrated that I didn’t matter enough to shop for. 

The following year, it was the same. Although he did give me an envelope with $50 shoved inside. That was even more upsetting than not opening a gift from my daughter. It wasn’t about not getting presents, it was about not being important enough to even consider when he was doing his shopping. Don’t get me wrong – I never expected him to get me a gift, even though I always got one for him. It was that I expected him to teach our daughter about the spirit of giving and to think about someone other than herself. 

I never said anything to him about it. I didn’t want to pick a fight because I knew he wouldn’t understand anyway. I just sulked and tried to figure out if there was a way that I could teach Alissa how to think of everyone special to her when planning her Christmas shopping. 

A year later, my dad took up the slack after I told my parents about it. While it was nice not to sit empty-handed, that was also the year that Alissa’s dad joined me and my family for the festivities. My parents both got him gifts, and miraculously, he bought me a new coat, which I desperately needed. And I didn’t hate it, which was a friggin’ miracle. But he didn’t help Alissa shop for me and that dashed my short-lived hope that things had finally changed. The coat was just a bonus.

There was one more Christmas that he celebrated with Alissa before he lost his rights to see her. I wasn’t there. I didn’t want to be and I was fine with it. He still didn’t take her shopping for me and I finally stopped caring. I had learned that I just wasn’t important enough to him to consider teaching his child how to give.