Elevator Linguistics

Tags

babies, baby, children, city, conversation, culture, English, ethnicity, experience, family, language, Latin, life, men, New York City, NYC, people, pregnancy, pregnant, relationships, sex, social security, spanish, urban

The woman who was in line ahead of me at the social security office is ahead of me, still, at the elevators to exit. We stand with another woman and her stroller.

“How old?”

Silence, the most brief.

“Cuantos anos?”

“Tres meses.” The woman from the line gasps and peers into the stroller, then cups her own belly, which I hadn’t noticed beneath her layers.

“Oh my God! Seis meses,” Rubbing her belly, still, the elevator lights up, dings, opens. We all climb on. In Spanish, now, the women coo and laugh about their children. Unmarried, each with more children at home and small children in strollers or bellies right here at social security, the elevator fills with beautiful Latin linguistics. They don’t know that I know.

Another ding, door opens, we exit. She turns to me, the bellied, vibrant one, not in Spanish, but accented in a way she can’t help.

“I hardly gained a pound, you see? You can’t even tell I’m pregnant.” She pulls back her vest and shows her belly nested in a thermal as we walk.

“Wow.” I’m smiling, but unsure of what to say. I can’t understand the comment she makes next, but assume it’s in English. Then,

“You can’t depend on a man these days. Have to do it all yourself.” So matter of fact, she makes her last statements. And with a wave, hustles out the door of the social security first floor and around the corner, skinny jeans hugging pregnant thighs.

I stand perfectly still in the sunlight and cold air at the intersection wondering at the impossible gap between our two lives. Yes you can—should I have told her? And, no—you don’t have to.

Butter Pecan

Tags

butter pecan, choices, coping, death, family, father, flavors, grief, groceries, ice cream, Jonathan, memory, parents, remembering, son

When you went through the grocery store today,
your mind was stuck on your dad.
When he was around, alive, yours.
Before he died
when you were small.
Before it was just you and mom,
two sisters, that’s all. All women,
no dad. Smiles, but sometimes nothing but sad.

In the freezer aisle, long glass doors, sealing sounds as they close and keep in the cold, you swing your basket, half full, not heavy. Near the frozen treats, you tap the toe of your shoe and scan the flavors. Don’t usually keep ice cream in the house where there’s only you. Mint chocolate chip, moose tracks, cherries jubilee, you see a label shouting fat free. Vanilla, French vanilla, vanilla bean, something else vanilla-y but not quite so vanilla-ish. The labels are giving you a headache. Maybe popsicles, you consider. But before you move on, your eyes fall on butter pecan—dad’s favorite flavor. A pint of the creamy flavor falls into your basket, halved shells of soft nuts, cold from fossilizing in the ice cream, buried deep like treasure.

It becomes a butter pecan week.
For Dad.

Traincar

Tags

city, culture, distance, downtown, family, life, Metra, noise, observation, people, religion, suburb, summer, train, travel, world

Sit by me and say nothing. Just whiten this noise. Deafen these railroad tracks metal sparking on metal these sun-kissed shrieking children these shrouded mothers sleeved modestly to their wrists edged in sweat these fathers with strollers like cargo these coolers these suitcases. Punches and chads, dollars and change. Crackling speakers with nothing but stale terrorist caution to say. Sit near me so I’ll hear only you while we see the world move.

the ring [3/5]

Tags

Chicago, engagement, family, frugality, grandma, heirloom, history, love, marriage, money, proposal, relationship, summer, symbols, tradition, value, wedding ring

the waiting [1/5]          the clues [2/5]

While on the phone, approaching the border of Michigan and Indiana the other day, I learned the possible difference between cheap and frugal.

It was suggested to me that frugality is interested in a good deal, in the best value for the product purchased. Frugality likes to own nice things, things that don’t break because they’re mass-produced or put together with soft plastic pieces, things made with durable fabric, things that will last and look beautiful. Things that will flatter. Things that have worth but are also on sale. Cheapness has interest only in the price tag. When the price tag is as low as possible, cheap wants in. If there is a chance ice might melt in the Arctic and the price could drop a few quarters, cheap would prefer to wait.

I would like to be frugal, I said. But I fear I fall into the trap of being cheap. I could dance around the semantics of the issue, but the truth is, I’m cheap.  And I’d prefer not to be.  This lesson in definitions flipped a switch for me. I have to tweak my price tag obsession some days.

On the tail end of this DNA malfunction inside of me is the idea of value. In our early conversations, I didn’t value wedding rings at all. Wasn’t interested; wouldn’t even window shop if it were up to me. But there are two of us in this conversation, and I was open to talking about it, exploring my aversion to what I perceived as an empty tradition. Open, yes; but remaining uninterested, true.

I researched a number of hours. Found unique designs, sought after the origin of the ring, the meaning behind the ring finger and the circular shape, browsed photos of thousands of precious metals, even wooden rings to get ideas. Visited discussion boards as an unassuming guest, extracting the opinions of strangers.

As I chewed on the idea of value months ago, I mentioned as an example, passing down fine jewelry from someone like my grandmother. My grandma and I were very close; she died about five years ago from breast cancer that she’d been battling my entire lifetime. I hadn’t seen grandma’s ring since I sat on her daybed, making mountains of her wrinkled skin, twisting her ring around her emaciated finger. The thought left my head after being said and I moved on to wooden rings, which were becoming my favorite. I was actually taking to the idea of rings. Everything I was learning was lodging in my heart, finding a way to actualize the tradition.

My husband-to-be must have known since the moment I mentioned it that he would seek Grandma’s ring. I’m ashamed, for such an intuitive person, at my ignorance. He’d called Mom, she’s contacted my aunt, they’d gone over to Grandpa’s to find the ring in an old jewelry box, where it had been sitting for years. Now I, naive and never wanting to wear a ring at all, am wearing my Grandmother’s wedding ring during my engagement. A ring she wore for over 50 years of marriage to my now-sick grandpa.

In that, there is value. In this ring there is history and storytelling. There are two little rubies and a single-cut diamond framing the main stone. There is an illusion setting, popular decades ago to make a smaller diamond look bigger than it actually is. The diamond was important to Grandma. Without Grandpa even knowing, she had her ring reset years into their marriage with the diamond from her mother’s wedding ring because that diamond was bigger! That story, told to me in a joint format by my mother and aunt, makes me laugh. That’s my Gram. She would.

All of this life is on my finger. It tells the world how Brad asked me to be his wife. And how in history there is value. Life is so much more than frugality. And symbols aren’t empty if you fill them.

When the Lights Go Dark

Tags

alzheimer's, birthdays, dementia, family, feelings, grandpa, grandparents, life, love, memory, visting

He didn’t know my name when I walked through the door and greeted the old man who’s always been my Grandpa. Tick, tick, tick. Empty chatter.

The broken television.
The buttons on the remote control.
Don’t ever touch the green one.
He does, repeatedly, forgetting to read the directions my dad writes and rewrites.

The telephone, with an old recorded message,
From before Grandma passed away.
Bowling today.  He remembers how to bowl
But can’t remember that his bowling ball is in a bag in the closet.
Doesn’t know what we mean when we say bowling ball.

He stands behind me and I know he’s looking at a fridge magnet. A chart with our first names, the grandchildren, and our birthdays beside. His hands fall heavy on my shoulders, and after this half hour has passed he finally says, It’s Linda, right? Yes, Grandpa, you’ve still got it! I say it in jest. I don’t mean it in jest. I’m selfish and harbor hurt feelings.

Three Sleeps

Tags

anticipating, counting, epic, family, friends, friendship, home, life, love, Maxston, past, self-esteem, sleeps, travel, waiting, Walker, weekend, Whitney

Back when Whitney and I were friends, her family would rejoice in my cross-state visits. They were a close-knit bunch and the kinship buoyed my self-esteem (a side effect which wouldn’t be currently unwelcome). Her little cousin Maxston was just a tyke, maybe four, maybe six, then. He took to me in a way my memory covets now that it’s been years since. He’d see me across the church when I met them all there and he’d come running, wrap his arms around my neck–a hug with little arms, the kind that made you feel like family when words and things paled in comparison.  Empty against little squeezy arms like these. I digress.

Maxston, in his six-year-old simplicity, couldn’t rightly handle upcoming excitement. He couldn’t count the days on his hand, couldn’t methodically cross off Mondays and Tuesdays on a calendar before bed, nothing was enough. The days waned too slowly when he had to wait. Patience is an adult game. He couldn’t sit in front of the television without legs shaking, without a burst, a sprint to Mom in the kitchen, asking When? When? when something better was creeping closer with every tick of the clock.

So Maxston starting counting things in six-year-old sleeps. If Whitney was coming home in three days, he would have to go to sleep three times before he could wake up and see her. So, three sleeps. That was easy to understand. I can close my eyes one more time and then the thing I’ve been waiting for will be here before the next time I close my eyes. That’s so soon!

I understand the logic because I, at twenty-five, am resorting to it.

Is it the drag that these current patterns are pulling me through, the weight of responsibility that I want to come out from under, the itch to press fast forward and search for apartments in a new city too soon? The future beckons in all kinds of shapes and colors this Spring and counting in sleeps is the only way to keep things grounded.  And so, too old, I count in sleeps to stay sane.

One more sleep until the only city that’s ever been home.
Two more sleeps until my high school best friend, if I can be so archaic with the term, until a gal I’ll  take any day as my sister, though she’s not, until long-distance gets a break, praise God.
Three sleeps until a day that needs to last forever.

If No Hope

Tags

Africa, Congo, faith, family, future, Grand Rapids, healing, hope, hopeless, life, love, memory, past, rape, redemption, repair, violence, woman

If the Congolese woman cooking rice, crouching down, her dress furling curls of dust into the humid sky loses hope—

If when her khanga splits in two and they thrust an assault rifle where only her husband had ever nestled in—

If the whines, the whimpers, the hiccups, spring blossoms of hatred brighter than the patterns hugging her thighs cry—

If the cries escaping from her pursed, parched lips will never sing notes of forgiveness—

If her baby boy, frozen in fear, his toes in the mud outside the hut, holding an army jacket, colonial of the third rank, the man with his rifle inside mama, can’t forget—

Then hope, too, once was lost in the grid of Commerce, Bartlett and Division where the prostitutes stand and the Catholic schools, fatefully or ironically, cluster on the corner—

Then the deck of cards, slick with alcohol corners, which slipped from my fingers before choosing the suit, before the staircase, after the sofa—

Then the scavenger hunt, clothes on the floor, every third stair, the carpet, callous, knees meeting each step, is missing a clue, missing a map, missing a girl—

Then the jeans that are torn, ride the bus with no pants, will always be frayed, never sewn, never patched, no hope of beginning again.

His Name on My Caller ID

Tags

cell phone, communication, dementia, dissapointment, distance, family, hardship, hurt, life, love, memory, mother, phone call, rejection, struggle, text message

My Grandpa wasn’t feeling well today. I know because Mom told me so. My phone’s been broken for two weeks; I was only able to talk to Mom because she’d been the last to call and the only working button on my phone dialed her by some miracle of the universe.

So, Grandpa. He called while I was on the phone with Mom. This was strange, you see, because Grandpa isn’t even always sure who I am (pardon his dementia.)  He doesn’t typically know that he can call directly to my cellphone (cellphone?, he would say with a quizzical look) or that I’m living three hours away in Michigan (he’s unsure whether Michigan is a state or a city, sometimes whether it’s a place or a person.) I can’t drive him to the bank from here, which is what he often desires why he feels crummy like he did today. But, it’s possible that he doesn’t understand my distance in a comprehensive way.

Hours later–my phone on the road to fixage–I listen to Grandpa’s message. His voice is low, almost sleepy, like he just awoke. Hello, Donna, he says.  Donna is my mom. Mumble, mumble, something about golfing–no bowling–he corrects himself and trails off until I hear the click and the voicemail lady asks me to delete the message by pressing seven.  Slowly, I do press seven.

I sent Mom a quick message to let her know that Grandpa was calling my phone, thinking it was hers. I didn’t tell her how it felt to see his name on my screen as an incoming call. Didn’t tell her how I wondered what made Grandpa think of me in the midst of his constant brain fog and confusion. Didn’t share with her the list of things I’d brainstormed in case we ran out of things to talk about.  Just said, he was calling to talk to her.

The Recipient of Our Thanks

Tags

annual, family, God, gratitude, holiday, thanks, Thanksgiving

We’re all about to be very thankful people according, politely, to Western traditions and patterns. Thursday is Thanksgiving. And my family, they’re good people. Most anyone would say so. And they’ll truly be thankful tomorrow; they will. When we’re sitting around card tables smashed together and hidden under fall-colored tablecloths, passing the gravy boat, they’ll really be thankful.

Grandpa is the biggest proponent of the toasts or monologues of thanks that tend to circle up and appear around the holidays. He’s always thankful for family, thankful for health, we all say Here’s to a good future.

I realized, in studying the first chapter of Paul’s letter to the church in Philippi with my community last night, that our thanks—don’t worry, I won’t put it lightly—is a big, fat, waste of time. It’s piles of broken and often empty words that sit, rotting, not unlike the way we throw our garbage in toxic piles in other countries. Thankful, thankful, thankful, we say. To whom?, I am now wondering.

If words of thanks just tickle the ears of others, or fulfill the should-be’s on this particular holiday, we may as well skip the toasts and the once-a-year prayers. I don’t reckon it pleases God and, frankly, the mechanism and ritual of it is quite frustrating for the likes of me.

Don’t get me wrong, I give thanks, and tomorrow with be no different. I give thanks, though, to my God, the author and perfector of my faith, the Savior of the world, the Creator of mankind. A recipient for our thanks gives meaning, relevance, worth.  Without, your thanks are vapors, disappearing like steam in this November chill.

My Story

Tags

affair, brokenness, consequence, drinking, drugs, family, history, love relationship, past, poverty, shame, sin, struggle, trailer, trial, turmoil

This is not my story. I didn’t grow up in a trailer with rusted hinges on the only door and a perpetual creaking noise every time the wind groaned outside. I never had so many clothes that they only fit in one drawer, a drawer with no runners or tracks, a drawer without even a dresser. A drawer that would lie on my bed when I wouldn’t and sit on the floor while I slept.

In all of my choices, the bad ones were kind to me. I can tell of blackouts and poisonings, sickness and day-long sleeps only through hearsay. But of rehab or arrest, I yet cannot begin to tell the story. I have none of those stories, none that are mine. Of the loneliness of being without siblings or without the care of parents, I cannot tell nor can I imagine empty days such as these.

Never did I live only with Mom. Never for more than a few weeks, maybe months. Never only with Dad. Never did I fake love for one or the other for years. My mom didn’t leave me, fight for me, leave me, make the front page of the newspaper for sins too deep to share, an affair, leave me once more only to welcome me home with unassuming arms.

No turmoil of this degree built messy character in me. This is not my story.