I'm in the final days of living in my apartment. Over the past three days, I've watched the last few years of my life walk slowly out of my apartment. The chairs, bookcases, tables that I have accumulated over the years have become a snapshot of the past few months of my life. I am blessed that I have friends who care so much about me and have taken so many of these things in trust. I am comforted knowing I can always come home to the things I love the most.
Tonight I sent into that trust a number of things. And tonight I sat at my trusty little table that I've had since 1999 and that my parents had for many years before that with my best friend. We looked around my empty apt, that will become emptier each day, and assessed this year.
Things and people have been lost, in the past 12 months. Friends lost, whose deaths I didn't know whether I would be able to pull myself out from. My job. My apartment. What I first thought was my dignity. And as I sit here in this almost empty apartment, I realize the things I felt were lost, never were. I have this group of people who have risen together to ensure that the things I love have a home, that I have a home. That I can leave this city, but roots still remain. I have a group of gals who celebrate, versus dwell on the past, but who let me love a few material things and promise to keep them safe. Who know that there is history attached to this apartment and the contents of it.
I look around tonight and I am sad. As I sit at my little table that I love so much I am sad that there is an end, but I also know that it signifies a beginning. In my ideal world, I would never have to leave this perch--a place where I have counseled and listened to my gals, where they have held me in my most infinite grief, where I've had endless calls with my sister, mother, brother, cousin and so many more, where HB and I have watched as a snow-globe raged around us. But everything comes to an end, and it's about how you deal with that.
In my little apartment where life has unfolded so significantly and so beautifully, I am sad to leave it, but I know this only means another door opens.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Saturday, January 02, 2010
2010
Happy New Year, everyone.
As suspected, not much has changed. But some things have been reaffirmed. In this new year, I've been reminded of a few important things. One is that jobs come and go, security can fade, but friends never seem to walk away.
New years eve was originally going to be spent with my kitties in my apartment with a six-dollar bottle of champagne, Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper. At the last minute, plans changed, and tickets were purchased for a party at the faux speakeasy The Gibson in D.C. with three other friends. We dressed all sparkly and fun to not necessarily ring in the new year, but to usher the old out with good drinks, good company, and no fuzzy animals to make me feel more depressed than ever.
It was a great time. Lots of laughter, lots of good cocktails, much revelry, and most importantly, great great friends. It was a great way to ring in a new year.
You know, I realized something recently. Most notably after the death of my friend. Each of us are individually blessed to have people. Our people. My people. Some may have many, others few, but we have people. I have a wide group of people. I have my D.C. people, my V.T people, my family people, my U.V.A. people, my Peace Corps people, my Leahy people. I have people who are collectively weaving a safety net for me, who won't guarantee it will hold, but who will do everything in their power to try and make it. I have people who are willing to wait on me, and believe in what I do. My people don't discourage my dreams. They cheer loudly, they push me, they link arms and support me.
I have this buoy of love that allows me to become a similar buoy for strangers. It is the greatest gift I could imagine. I know I talk a lot about friends on this site, but when you're in the trenches you realize who fortunate you are. And I am rich with friends.
And I love them all. Happy New Years, all.
As suspected, not much has changed. But some things have been reaffirmed. In this new year, I've been reminded of a few important things. One is that jobs come and go, security can fade, but friends never seem to walk away.
New years eve was originally going to be spent with my kitties in my apartment with a six-dollar bottle of champagne, Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper. At the last minute, plans changed, and tickets were purchased for a party at the faux speakeasy The Gibson in D.C. with three other friends. We dressed all sparkly and fun to not necessarily ring in the new year, but to usher the old out with good drinks, good company, and no fuzzy animals to make me feel more depressed than ever.
It was a great time. Lots of laughter, lots of good cocktails, much revelry, and most importantly, great great friends. It was a great way to ring in a new year.
You know, I realized something recently. Most notably after the death of my friend. Each of us are individually blessed to have people. Our people. My people. Some may have many, others few, but we have people. I have a wide group of people. I have my D.C. people, my V.T people, my family people, my U.V.A. people, my Peace Corps people, my Leahy people. I have people who are collectively weaving a safety net for me, who won't guarantee it will hold, but who will do everything in their power to try and make it. I have people who are willing to wait on me, and believe in what I do. My people don't discourage my dreams. They cheer loudly, they push me, they link arms and support me.
I have this buoy of love that allows me to become a similar buoy for strangers. It is the greatest gift I could imagine. I know I talk a lot about friends on this site, but when you're in the trenches you realize who fortunate you are. And I am rich with friends.
And I love them all. Happy New Years, all.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Ushuring in the New Year
There is so much anticipation in the New Year. We all want January First to mean something great for all of us. A new resolution, a new goal, a new life. We think that on this day, the whole world is in front of us, we can reinvent, re-imagine and re-do a year, four years, a decade or a life of what has been dealt us.
But in reality, we can't. Instead, we look back with a skewed view of everything good and everything bad we've done in the past, and make inflated and unrealistic goals of what we want to accomplish in the new year. Why do I think that come some random day I will wake up and have some vision about my life that I had never had before? Is it all mental? Do I need simply to believe more in the myth of it all?
In this new year, here's what I've learned:
1) Life is really unpredictable. Even when it seems predictable, it's not. As Heidi Klum says, one day you're in, and the next day...you're out. We can all be out at any time. Don't look down on those who've not had the luck you have had. You never know when you'll be in the same position.
2) It's ok to be vulnerable, and to question yourself. Until I hit North Carolina for Christmas, I basically wept every day for one reason or another, all of them stemming from the same thing. I have one great friend who has listened to the song below with me for hours. It's ok for me to say that I am sad and scared and I do not know what will happen next. And I listen to this for comfort, for some reason.
3) It's ok to rely on family. We all have them, and they're all flawed in some way, but at the end of the day, you can curl up in a fetal position and know you'll be surrounded by some sort of amazing love. And family comes in a lot of ways. It's biological, but it's also the pillars who stand, stoic and concerned in your life.
Most of all, I've learned you get this one great chance in the world. And during that roll of the dice we all succeed and fail and struggle and rage against the things that seem either arbitrary, or entitled or unfair. And there's a lot of uncertainty. And it's scary, unfair and it makes you want to punch someone sometimes. But it's ours, it's alive, it's life.
And so we live. With trepidation, yes. But with purpose. And what scares me is that I am still unclear of my own purpose. I suppose I'll find it soon....
Happy New Year, loves.
But in reality, we can't. Instead, we look back with a skewed view of everything good and everything bad we've done in the past, and make inflated and unrealistic goals of what we want to accomplish in the new year. Why do I think that come some random day I will wake up and have some vision about my life that I had never had before? Is it all mental? Do I need simply to believe more in the myth of it all?
In this new year, here's what I've learned:
1) Life is really unpredictable. Even when it seems predictable, it's not. As Heidi Klum says, one day you're in, and the next day...you're out. We can all be out at any time. Don't look down on those who've not had the luck you have had. You never know when you'll be in the same position.
2) It's ok to be vulnerable, and to question yourself. Until I hit North Carolina for Christmas, I basically wept every day for one reason or another, all of them stemming from the same thing. I have one great friend who has listened to the song below with me for hours. It's ok for me to say that I am sad and scared and I do not know what will happen next. And I listen to this for comfort, for some reason.
3) It's ok to rely on family. We all have them, and they're all flawed in some way, but at the end of the day, you can curl up in a fetal position and know you'll be surrounded by some sort of amazing love. And family comes in a lot of ways. It's biological, but it's also the pillars who stand, stoic and concerned in your life.
Most of all, I've learned you get this one great chance in the world. And during that roll of the dice we all succeed and fail and struggle and rage against the things that seem either arbitrary, or entitled or unfair. And there's a lot of uncertainty. And it's scary, unfair and it makes you want to punch someone sometimes. But it's ours, it's alive, it's life.
And so we live. With trepidation, yes. But with purpose. And what scares me is that I am still unclear of my own purpose. I suppose I'll find it soon....
Happy New Year, loves.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Power of Two
We used to lay out on my parent's driveway, holding hands, looking at the stars, wondering where we would be ten years down the road. We shared ambition and heartache, teen angst, teen love and the uncertainty of the future. We would pull my parent's speakers out by the windows, open the door to the porch to let the music seep out, and listen to hours of the Indigo Girls while contemplating our own course, our own map, laid out in the stars. We would talk and laugh for hours, drinking canned Miller Lite, he smoking cigarettes that I procured for him.
We would spend our days by the pool, in our silly red swimsuits, rotating our shifts as lifeguards to spend as much time as possible in chairs next to each other, a schedule I laid out for us as head lifeguard to ensure that we maximized as much possible time together at the pool as feasible without tipping anyone off.
He wasn't a boyfriend, he was gay, and he knew it for years, but would tell people little by little as he got just close enough to them. We would leave the pool and drive and drive, singing at the top of our lungs, in a truly joyous manner. We laughed, a lot. He had ambitions of performance and would sing like the day was setting just a little too soon, loud and full of emotion, as if he was calling the sun back for just a little while longer.
We spent countless nights curled up on my parent's couch, watching movies, and he was always welcome at our table. He sometimes lived a conflicted and emotional life, but never one that was void of love for those closest to him.
We spent three summers together. I as a boarding school misfit back home and he as an irreverent, loving, misunderstood and free soul. He brought out the wild side of me I never knew I had--I threw my first clandestine party at my parent's house while they were out of town, bought beer with a fake I.D. and ditched the remnants of those nights in a dumpster down town in the early hours of the morning.
After uncountable dinners at my parent's home, he invited me to have dinner with his mother at the close of one summer, Gazpacho from her garden vegetables in their home on the hill where I drove him home so many nights.
We weren't reckless or dangerous, we were kids, bronzed and free, exploring what that meant in Southern Vermont.
He introduced me to a friend who I cherish and love to this day, the same way I did him. To her parents and family, one that is close and loving, and that reminds me so much of my own. He moved to Hawaii, a place that he adored, and that suited him. A place to give him a freedom he'd not known in Vermont.
He always seemed to dance on the precipice of something more. He was a force to be reckoned with. He could be biting, but he was always the kindest soul. He loved fully and greatly. And he protected his friends in the same way he protected himself.
Dan Moore was lovely, kind, complex and a true friend. He forged his life as he wanted, and he was strong. We drove to countless Indigo Girls concerts together, free, happy, and singing at the top of our lungs.
He passed away this week. Too early. And I will miss him immensely.
And to my friend, always remember: We're ok, we're fine, baby I'm here to stop your crying. Chase all the ghosts from your head, I'm stronger than the monsters beneath your bed. Smarter than the tricks played on your heart, look at them together and we'll take them apart. Adding up the total of a love that true, multiply life by the power of two.
He will always be in my heart.
We would spend our days by the pool, in our silly red swimsuits, rotating our shifts as lifeguards to spend as much time as possible in chairs next to each other, a schedule I laid out for us as head lifeguard to ensure that we maximized as much possible time together at the pool as feasible without tipping anyone off.
He wasn't a boyfriend, he was gay, and he knew it for years, but would tell people little by little as he got just close enough to them. We would leave the pool and drive and drive, singing at the top of our lungs, in a truly joyous manner. We laughed, a lot. He had ambitions of performance and would sing like the day was setting just a little too soon, loud and full of emotion, as if he was calling the sun back for just a little while longer.
We spent countless nights curled up on my parent's couch, watching movies, and he was always welcome at our table. He sometimes lived a conflicted and emotional life, but never one that was void of love for those closest to him.
We spent three summers together. I as a boarding school misfit back home and he as an irreverent, loving, misunderstood and free soul. He brought out the wild side of me I never knew I had--I threw my first clandestine party at my parent's house while they were out of town, bought beer with a fake I.D. and ditched the remnants of those nights in a dumpster down town in the early hours of the morning.
After uncountable dinners at my parent's home, he invited me to have dinner with his mother at the close of one summer, Gazpacho from her garden vegetables in their home on the hill where I drove him home so many nights.
We weren't reckless or dangerous, we were kids, bronzed and free, exploring what that meant in Southern Vermont.
He introduced me to a friend who I cherish and love to this day, the same way I did him. To her parents and family, one that is close and loving, and that reminds me so much of my own. He moved to Hawaii, a place that he adored, and that suited him. A place to give him a freedom he'd not known in Vermont.
He always seemed to dance on the precipice of something more. He was a force to be reckoned with. He could be biting, but he was always the kindest soul. He loved fully and greatly. And he protected his friends in the same way he protected himself.
Dan Moore was lovely, kind, complex and a true friend. He forged his life as he wanted, and he was strong. We drove to countless Indigo Girls concerts together, free, happy, and singing at the top of our lungs.
He passed away this week. Too early. And I will miss him immensely.
And to my friend, always remember: We're ok, we're fine, baby I'm here to stop your crying. Chase all the ghosts from your head, I'm stronger than the monsters beneath your bed. Smarter than the tricks played on your heart, look at them together and we'll take them apart. Adding up the total of a love that true, multiply life by the power of two.
He will always be in my heart.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Trying Times
There are times in life that we all go through. They are not fun. They test us to the very core of who we are. Whether it's work or life or love, they hit us now and then. They are our own personal rapids that we have to navigate. Hopefully we do it with grace and skill, but there are times when we flail, hoping for one more minute of breath before we go under.
I seem to have found myself on one of those paths recently. I think of myself in a one man kayak, with very little experience in this line of sport, gritting my teeth while listening to my fans on the bank of the river. Sometimes loudly, other times muted by the sound of the rushing water in my ears. As I gasp for breath, I am comforted by the cheers and support and love, knowing that I am an island and I have to navigate how to return to shore largely solo.
I take my paddle, as futile as it is, and burn into the rapids, knowing that I am nothing against the stronger will that prevails, but also knowing that while I cannot beat them, I can return to an upright position, flustered, but together, with a smile on my face, even if that smile is forced and uncomfortable. I find myself, more often than not, feeling the pull of the current, pulling so hard that all I want to do is give into this stronger current than I could possible ever beat.
But I don't. Because in those brief instances of light and sound, I hear and see the forces that are stronger than the current of which I'm battling. I see flashes of HB who will be my life vest until the end of my days, and feel the necklace the beautiful JDK gave me. I feel the arms of LJD surrounding me, with the smokey kisses that left me so fulfilled and so longing this week. Whenever I go under I feel SG and CB and MI and EA and AW and JC grabbing me for dear life. And most of all, I see WED, Jr. telling me he is proud of me, and wishing he could grab my chin and tell me how he believes in me. I hear CFD telling me I'll always have a place with him and that he loves me. I see KM and JM loving me from afar and I am more than the rapids that take me.
Often times these rapids make me think less of myself. They rip me apart and make me wish I was either 5 years old again or ten years down the road so I know what my furture holds. They do not, ever, make me respect them. I could never respect a river so cold and unforgiving and lacking in such humanity that it would put someone through this trial.
I feel the glorious love of my longest and closest friend, EAS, and suddenly, in the glory of this support, I can be upright. But I still struggle to get to where I am supposed to be. At times, the rapids make me weep looking at a shore that seems so unattainable, but I know where I want to be, so I will paddle diligently in that direction.
And I know I will find the shore.
I seem to have found myself on one of those paths recently. I think of myself in a one man kayak, with very little experience in this line of sport, gritting my teeth while listening to my fans on the bank of the river. Sometimes loudly, other times muted by the sound of the rushing water in my ears. As I gasp for breath, I am comforted by the cheers and support and love, knowing that I am an island and I have to navigate how to return to shore largely solo.
I take my paddle, as futile as it is, and burn into the rapids, knowing that I am nothing against the stronger will that prevails, but also knowing that while I cannot beat them, I can return to an upright position, flustered, but together, with a smile on my face, even if that smile is forced and uncomfortable. I find myself, more often than not, feeling the pull of the current, pulling so hard that all I want to do is give into this stronger current than I could possible ever beat.
But I don't. Because in those brief instances of light and sound, I hear and see the forces that are stronger than the current of which I'm battling. I see flashes of HB who will be my life vest until the end of my days, and feel the necklace the beautiful JDK gave me. I feel the arms of LJD surrounding me, with the smokey kisses that left me so fulfilled and so longing this week. Whenever I go under I feel SG and CB and MI and EA and AW and JC grabbing me for dear life. And most of all, I see WED, Jr. telling me he is proud of me, and wishing he could grab my chin and tell me how he believes in me. I hear CFD telling me I'll always have a place with him and that he loves me. I see KM and JM loving me from afar and I am more than the rapids that take me.
Often times these rapids make me think less of myself. They rip me apart and make me wish I was either 5 years old again or ten years down the road so I know what my furture holds. They do not, ever, make me respect them. I could never respect a river so cold and unforgiving and lacking in such humanity that it would put someone through this trial.
I feel the glorious love of my longest and closest friend, EAS, and suddenly, in the glory of this support, I can be upright. But I still struggle to get to where I am supposed to be. At times, the rapids make me weep looking at a shore that seems so unattainable, but I know where I want to be, so I will paddle diligently in that direction.
And I know I will find the shore.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
A Tribute
In 1995, I was a junior in high school at the Northfield Mount Hermon School in western Massachusetts. I spent four years immersed in one of the most fantastic environments for education. I lived with my teachers and friends in a place where there was never a lack of encouragement and support.
We had choices in the classes that we took, choices that extended beyond what language we decided to study, and we had limited choices in the teachers who taught the subjects we were most drawn to. One of the classes where there was little or no choice was English class. At the start of each year we would tear into our schedules with anticipation to see who we would be spending the next year of the academic year with in English class. Some teachers were infamous for their English classes. One of those women was Audrey Sheats.
Audrey was known as being tough. Really tough. And not just in the assignments she gave, but in a tough love kind of way. I remember my heart sinking when I opened my schedule on an otherwise perfect September afternoon at registration to see that it was with Audrey that I would spend the next year of English class with. Thankfully, my roommate and best friend Erin was also placed in her class so I knew I would have solace in at least her presence.
The first book Audrey assigned was The Sound and The Fury. The first assignment was merely chapter one. Sa-weet, I thought, chapter one? That's it? How can she possibly be as bad as everyone says? But I was young and naive and had never read any Faulkner, let alone a book like The Sound and The Fury.
Walking into her class that first day I saw a group of faces who were equally as confused as I. What, on earth, was that chapter about? And didn't she know we were juniors in high school and not English lit majors in college???? I began to get the sinking feeling that I was in for a year of..well...hell.
How delightfully wrong I was. Audrey lived up to her reputation of being remarkably difficult in terms of how she stretched and exercised our brains. An hour in her class was exhausting, but over the course of the first weeks of the semester, I realized just how lucky I was to be part of this experience. She was hard because she knew just what 16 year old brains are capable of when given the right coaxing. She was hard because she lived and breathed and loved the books she chose. We meandered through the Sound and the Fury, A Yellow Raft on Blue Water and myriad other titles she chose for us that year. Over spring break, we chose our own book to read and do an independent study for. I chose Love in the Time of Cholera, mostly because of her suggestion to me. Gabriel Garcia Marquez continues to be one of my favorite authors to this day.
I found myself, over the course of the year, looking forward to class with Audrey. I knew never to arrive unprepared or I would face the wrath of her stern verbal lashings. Toward the end of the year, when students were deciding whether to apply for some of the AP classes NMH offered, Audrey approached me and asked about my plans for AP English. I remember looking down and saying I had not really thought about it, but didn't think I would get in. Her eyes lit up and she took my hand and told me how wrong I was. That it was in Louise Schwingle's AP English class the following year that she saw me. I lacked confidence in those days, but she reached me. She believed in me, and she told me that. She said it would be a waste of a year if I did not try.
Lo and behold, it was in Louise's class where I found myself the following September. Just as Audrey has envisioned. And it was another breath taking year of a class with another woman who I've come to realize meant to much in my continued education. When I sat for the AP exam toward the end of my senior year, I wrote my essay on Love in the Time of Cholera and scored a 5 on the exam, all thanks to Audrey.
I read, with a very heavy heart, this morning that Audrey passed away this past January. It gave me great pause and allowed me a chance to reflect on the four years I spent at NMH, the people who have continued to influence me, and the profound loss her passing is on the community. Audrey was tough and passionate and caring and intellectual and supportive. She inspired confidence in me and she will be missed.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Friends
We get lost in life. We get lost easily. In work, in relationships, in the grind. We also have those rare nights when we're reminded of just how fantastic life is. We surround ourselves in all of those things that are meant to be fulfilling--everything that makes life...life.
In these hard economic times, we forget the simple things. The beauty of spring, the sun on our faces, coming home after a day of doc review to cats, who, may or may not, love us unconditionally.
Most importantly, we sometimes forget the power of laughter, and friendship, and love.
I've met a lot of people in my life, and I've held on to friends from most phases of growing up. Facebook makes it easier, but the true friends are those who you make an effort to see, to connect with on a basis that exists beyond the world of the internets.
One of my favorite people from law school is back in D.C. this weekend, and we had the opportunity to bring a group of folks together, some of whom I've not seen since graduation. And for the second time in a week, I found myself sitting, surrounded by some of the most astoundingly brilliant people I know, laughing. Good and hard. Hard like a rain that comes after a drought. Hard to the point of tears. Hard to the point of reminding yourself that you are alive.
There is nothing more healing than laughter, particularly that that comes from the heart. And there is nothing more conducive to that than sitting with people who just understand. They understand that we're lucky to have jobs, but hate the jobs we're in. Who appreciate the humor in immoral clients when we were promised that we would never work for immoral people again. Who, at the very core, understand the inner struggle of wanting to make a name for ourselves, but also crave those dusty lands that exist in Kenya, Afghanistan, Darfur and beyond. Who support when they don't even know just how supportive they're being.
Life is good. But it is hard. We struggle individually with things that go unsaid. Family, loans, unemployment, fear of being unemployed, fear of not knowing of this is where we're meant to land.
But collectively, we laugh. And support.
Tonight, I looked up at my group of friends who had gathered, and was touched, and thrilled and giddy in knowing that these people, this fabulous group of people, were mine. Not in a possessive sense, but in a comforting sense. We closed the restaurant down, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and we moved on, jovial, without having the day to day questions running through our minds.
Life can be uncertain, and it, right now, is quite shaky. Most of us wake up unsure of what the next answer will be. But the comfort, the great hope, the overwhelming joy exists in knowing that we are part of a group of people who get it.
I am blessed with the people with whom I call my friends. And I know whatever comes down the line, I will always have them.
In these hard economic times, we forget the simple things. The beauty of spring, the sun on our faces, coming home after a day of doc review to cats, who, may or may not, love us unconditionally.
Most importantly, we sometimes forget the power of laughter, and friendship, and love.
I've met a lot of people in my life, and I've held on to friends from most phases of growing up. Facebook makes it easier, but the true friends are those who you make an effort to see, to connect with on a basis that exists beyond the world of the internets.
One of my favorite people from law school is back in D.C. this weekend, and we had the opportunity to bring a group of folks together, some of whom I've not seen since graduation. And for the second time in a week, I found myself sitting, surrounded by some of the most astoundingly brilliant people I know, laughing. Good and hard. Hard like a rain that comes after a drought. Hard to the point of tears. Hard to the point of reminding yourself that you are alive.
There is nothing more healing than laughter, particularly that that comes from the heart. And there is nothing more conducive to that than sitting with people who just understand. They understand that we're lucky to have jobs, but hate the jobs we're in. Who appreciate the humor in immoral clients when we were promised that we would never work for immoral people again. Who, at the very core, understand the inner struggle of wanting to make a name for ourselves, but also crave those dusty lands that exist in Kenya, Afghanistan, Darfur and beyond. Who support when they don't even know just how supportive they're being.
Life is good. But it is hard. We struggle individually with things that go unsaid. Family, loans, unemployment, fear of being unemployed, fear of not knowing of this is where we're meant to land.
But collectively, we laugh. And support.
Tonight, I looked up at my group of friends who had gathered, and was touched, and thrilled and giddy in knowing that these people, this fabulous group of people, were mine. Not in a possessive sense, but in a comforting sense. We closed the restaurant down, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and we moved on, jovial, without having the day to day questions running through our minds.
Life can be uncertain, and it, right now, is quite shaky. Most of us wake up unsure of what the next answer will be. But the comfort, the great hope, the overwhelming joy exists in knowing that we are part of a group of people who get it.
I am blessed with the people with whom I call my friends. And I know whatever comes down the line, I will always have them.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Review
I don't really re-read what I post on here too often. Occasionally, if I need a dose of perspective I'll take a tour through the posts I wrote while in the refugee camp, but it's rare I revisit my musings.
But I was looking at a program that shows the page views etc of this blog and I noticed a blog that had linked to mine that I had never read. So I went to check it out. It's called likeridingabicycle.blogspot.com and it's a blog of a good blog buddy of mine. I read this woman's post that mirrored my experience with my client that I had shared some of last year. And she linked to a couple of my posts that described the hearing in April 2008 and the fallout from that. I went back and re-read what I wrote, and read what she wrote, and it made me remarkably emotional.
It's amazing how easily you push down past experiences, carrying them with you, and move forward and selectively remember (or forget) the details that are the most difficult. And for the first time, I'm truly grateful I've had this living website where I can go back and read through some of my past, and allow those posts to let me feel like I am back in the moment.
I don't live my life with regrets, and I've been reminded of that today. It's still hard. And it's still sad. But it's life. And the only thing you can do is live it fully.
But I was looking at a program that shows the page views etc of this blog and I noticed a blog that had linked to mine that I had never read. So I went to check it out. It's called likeridingabicycle.blogspot.com and it's a blog of a good blog buddy of mine. I read this woman's post that mirrored my experience with my client that I had shared some of last year. And she linked to a couple of my posts that described the hearing in April 2008 and the fallout from that. I went back and re-read what I wrote, and read what she wrote, and it made me remarkably emotional.
It's amazing how easily you push down past experiences, carrying them with you, and move forward and selectively remember (or forget) the details that are the most difficult. And for the first time, I'm truly grateful I've had this living website where I can go back and read through some of my past, and allow those posts to let me feel like I am back in the moment.
I don't live my life with regrets, and I've been reminded of that today. It's still hard. And it's still sad. But it's life. And the only thing you can do is live it fully.
The News of a Passing
I was walking through Adams Morgan with my friend S on Saturday and we were chatting about the recent plane crash in Buffalo killing 50 people. I had read a little about it, what a tragedy of grand proportions, but had not fastidiously kept up on the news over the past week so only digested the snippets I caught in passing.
S asked me if I had read any of the bios of the victims, specifically the woman who was big into international aid work. I had not, though had heard there was an 9/11 widow on there, I'd not heard about anyone else and I doubted I would have any idea who the international aid person was.
As we walked out of the coffee shop we passed a stack of NY Times, and S picked it up and to my shock and profound sadness, I saw that the woman S was referring to was Alison Des Forges, the leading scholar and activist on Rwanda and a tireless of advocate before, during and after the genocide on international recognition and accountability.
When I was representing my asylum seeking client this past year, we had to build an army of experts to write affidavits in support of our client's story. This meant hours upon hours of research, cold calling, lots of emails, follow up emails, follow up follow up emails, normally resulting in1 out of about 15 responses to our begging for these people to let us explain our client's story. We found Alison's name early in the semester, and searched and searched for a way to find HER. The more we read the more we knew that it would be next to impossible to get someone of her expertise and her notoriety to ever speak with us about our little case, but we vowed to spend the semester trying.
Midway through the semester, we had a meeting with a woman who works for State who had been the acting ambassador from the US to Rwanda at the time of the genocide. She met with us over lunch, and spoke frankly about her experience, while listening to the story of our client. She asked who else we had spoken to, so we went through the list and at the end added the fact that we were trying to get in touch with Alison Des Forges, but we were having no luck finding any contact information.
The woman paused, and told us she would email Alison for us, and she could choose if she wanted to get in touch with us. And lo and behold, a few days later, she emailed us. It was an email explaining why she ultimately could not give us an affidavit or testimony, and wishing us luck, and our client luck. It was a gesture that was generous and at the time, while sleep deprived having only read anything about Rwanda for weeks, it was like getting a communication from God.
When I realized it was Alison Des Forges on that plane to Buffalo, I had to pause for a moment to collect myself. She was a woman to be emulated and her work affected millions of people and saved lives. She was the kind of human being we all should aspire to be, and is certainly the kind I will work to become for the rest of my life.
S asked me if I had read any of the bios of the victims, specifically the woman who was big into international aid work. I had not, though had heard there was an 9/11 widow on there, I'd not heard about anyone else and I doubted I would have any idea who the international aid person was.
As we walked out of the coffee shop we passed a stack of NY Times, and S picked it up and to my shock and profound sadness, I saw that the woman S was referring to was Alison Des Forges, the leading scholar and activist on Rwanda and a tireless of advocate before, during and after the genocide on international recognition and accountability.
When I was representing my asylum seeking client this past year, we had to build an army of experts to write affidavits in support of our client's story. This meant hours upon hours of research, cold calling, lots of emails, follow up emails, follow up follow up emails, normally resulting in1 out of about 15 responses to our begging for these people to let us explain our client's story. We found Alison's name early in the semester, and searched and searched for a way to find HER. The more we read the more we knew that it would be next to impossible to get someone of her expertise and her notoriety to ever speak with us about our little case, but we vowed to spend the semester trying.
Midway through the semester, we had a meeting with a woman who works for State who had been the acting ambassador from the US to Rwanda at the time of the genocide. She met with us over lunch, and spoke frankly about her experience, while listening to the story of our client. She asked who else we had spoken to, so we went through the list and at the end added the fact that we were trying to get in touch with Alison Des Forges, but we were having no luck finding any contact information.
The woman paused, and told us she would email Alison for us, and she could choose if she wanted to get in touch with us. And lo and behold, a few days later, she emailed us. It was an email explaining why she ultimately could not give us an affidavit or testimony, and wishing us luck, and our client luck. It was a gesture that was generous and at the time, while sleep deprived having only read anything about Rwanda for weeks, it was like getting a communication from God.
When I realized it was Alison Des Forges on that plane to Buffalo, I had to pause for a moment to collect myself. She was a woman to be emulated and her work affected millions of people and saved lives. She was the kind of human being we all should aspire to be, and is certainly the kind I will work to become for the rest of my life.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Passion
When was the last time you felt truly alive? Truly passionate about something? Was it yesterday? Maybe a month ago? As long as a year?
I've had the good fortune to experience things that make me passionate almost every....day, dare I say, from coming home from Mali. Passions differ-the intensity, the drive, the reason you want to feel passionate about something.
And I've taken to re-reading some of the things I wrote so long ago in 2006 when I was in Dadaab, and I feel that fire rekindling. I love challenges, I relish in them. I love being told that something is not quite reachable, and finding a way to do it. The opportunities don't come along very often. Peace Corps was one of them. And I persevered to be able to see the beauty in a group of women who had never been given the chance to take control of themselves. Dadaab was even more profound. The stimulation of giving yourself so wholly to other people, to do the very little a single person can do to alleviate suffering..it's euphoric and it's something I've not experienced in a long time.
I believe people individually have a greater calling. I re-read To Kill A Mockingbird this past summer, and I see that my father's greater calling is equality in representation, and compassion in that. I see my mother's being the divine ability to comfort children, parents, her kids and absolute strangers. My sister? My god, where do I begin? Her joy is extends beyond education, it encompasses all that is great and beautiful about human nature. She is a savior, and a kindred soul, and someone who is as generous and loving as anyone else in the world. And my brother, who loves loves loves the way he knows how, and is a protector, and confidante and a really remarkable friend.
And I struggle to find my place in that, even though in my heart of hearts I know exactly where it is. I'm not quitting my job, and I'm not doing anything drastic, but I'm clawing myself back to where I feel my own identity resides, which is in humanitarian aid.
I've spoken about my girlfriends many a time on this blog, and I love them more than any words could convey. And this past week our group has suffered a tremendous loss, a loss of one of our mothers. And my, how sad that journey has been. To see the devastation of one of our closest, our darlings, our sisters. And to know that we have the power to heal only in our own power to love, and sometimes that's not enough. And I am the most at ease, even when in tears outside the National Press Club building, comforting my friend, being an outlet.
The world of corporate law is not for me. I will never complain about the opportunity, or that I have a job, but my goodness does it make me feel vacant, and lonely.
I am the child of my parents. I have been raised in a manner that celebrates selflessness and compassion. And I think I'm just striving to get back to where I'm finally able to feel that within myself again.
I've had the good fortune to experience things that make me passionate almost every....day, dare I say, from coming home from Mali. Passions differ-the intensity, the drive, the reason you want to feel passionate about something.
And I've taken to re-reading some of the things I wrote so long ago in 2006 when I was in Dadaab, and I feel that fire rekindling. I love challenges, I relish in them. I love being told that something is not quite reachable, and finding a way to do it. The opportunities don't come along very often. Peace Corps was one of them. And I persevered to be able to see the beauty in a group of women who had never been given the chance to take control of themselves. Dadaab was even more profound. The stimulation of giving yourself so wholly to other people, to do the very little a single person can do to alleviate suffering..it's euphoric and it's something I've not experienced in a long time.
I believe people individually have a greater calling. I re-read To Kill A Mockingbird this past summer, and I see that my father's greater calling is equality in representation, and compassion in that. I see my mother's being the divine ability to comfort children, parents, her kids and absolute strangers. My sister? My god, where do I begin? Her joy is extends beyond education, it encompasses all that is great and beautiful about human nature. She is a savior, and a kindred soul, and someone who is as generous and loving as anyone else in the world. And my brother, who loves loves loves the way he knows how, and is a protector, and confidante and a really remarkable friend.
And I struggle to find my place in that, even though in my heart of hearts I know exactly where it is. I'm not quitting my job, and I'm not doing anything drastic, but I'm clawing myself back to where I feel my own identity resides, which is in humanitarian aid.
I've spoken about my girlfriends many a time on this blog, and I love them more than any words could convey. And this past week our group has suffered a tremendous loss, a loss of one of our mothers. And my, how sad that journey has been. To see the devastation of one of our closest, our darlings, our sisters. And to know that we have the power to heal only in our own power to love, and sometimes that's not enough. And I am the most at ease, even when in tears outside the National Press Club building, comforting my friend, being an outlet.
The world of corporate law is not for me. I will never complain about the opportunity, or that I have a job, but my goodness does it make me feel vacant, and lonely.
I am the child of my parents. I have been raised in a manner that celebrates selflessness and compassion. And I think I'm just striving to get back to where I'm finally able to feel that within myself again.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Chirp...Chirp...
This is the second post that's starting with "So it's been a long time...". But this time it really really has. And I have plenty of excuses for that...
But none of those will be written about, at least not immediately. I've been thinking a lot of about the trajectory of my life as of late. Thinking is the operative word, because I've certainly not been having deep discussions about it with family or many friends. I've thought about what makes us happy, and what makes me happy.
Doing well at work. Those days are good. Really good. Particularly when you've only been doing something for 5 months and those days are relative dots in the landscape of being lost in the weeds trying to look up and see the light shining through. I've had a couple of those really good days in the last 5 months. But they have yet to be quite prominent in the grand scheme of things.
I've thought a lot about my former client, as well. Her daughter turned one a couple of weeks ago, and I marked the day thinking that it had been one year when the single greatest learning experience of my life began at the same time as what would turn out to be devastating, demoralizing and just plain maddening. I've thought about it because I realize that those 8 months spent representing her, as hard and at time trying as they were, made me feel truly great. I compare it to what I'm doing now and have a sense of...longing, I suppose.
I don't know if any of you guys noticed (or if any of you guys ever check this anymore), but since the last time I wrote our economy is kind of in the toilet. Now is not the time when sane people start looking for new jobs. Now is the time when the people who have lost their jobs scoop those open jobs up and the rest of us shut up, keep our heads down and be thankful that we're still sitting behind a desk. And don't get me wrong, I am remarkably thankful. More so than I could possibly put into words (though, knowing me, I'll likely try at some point). But I've made the decision to start the process of finding a job doing what I love more than corporate transactional work, and I'm pretty stoked about it.
So. There you have it. Not the most earth shattering post from my 5 month hiatus, but we have to start somewhere, right?
But none of those will be written about, at least not immediately. I've been thinking a lot of about the trajectory of my life as of late. Thinking is the operative word, because I've certainly not been having deep discussions about it with family or many friends. I've thought about what makes us happy, and what makes me happy.
Doing well at work. Those days are good. Really good. Particularly when you've only been doing something for 5 months and those days are relative dots in the landscape of being lost in the weeds trying to look up and see the light shining through. I've had a couple of those really good days in the last 5 months. But they have yet to be quite prominent in the grand scheme of things.
I've thought a lot about my former client, as well. Her daughter turned one a couple of weeks ago, and I marked the day thinking that it had been one year when the single greatest learning experience of my life began at the same time as what would turn out to be devastating, demoralizing and just plain maddening. I've thought about it because I realize that those 8 months spent representing her, as hard and at time trying as they were, made me feel truly great. I compare it to what I'm doing now and have a sense of...longing, I suppose.
I don't know if any of you guys noticed (or if any of you guys ever check this anymore), but since the last time I wrote our economy is kind of in the toilet. Now is not the time when sane people start looking for new jobs. Now is the time when the people who have lost their jobs scoop those open jobs up and the rest of us shut up, keep our heads down and be thankful that we're still sitting behind a desk. And don't get me wrong, I am remarkably thankful. More so than I could possibly put into words (though, knowing me, I'll likely try at some point). But I've made the decision to start the process of finding a job doing what I love more than corporate transactional work, and I'm pretty stoked about it.
So. There you have it. Not the most earth shattering post from my 5 month hiatus, but we have to start somewhere, right?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Things to be Said
I've been gone. A long time. Last night doesn't count. I had been out at a wedding a long time.
But that wedding made me think about things. About pure love. And happiness. And here is what I realized: Love does not make us happy, we make us happy. Love enhances the great lives we all live, but it does not define us. Yes, we are complete with the person we love, the one person we choose, but we are not they.
I looked at Karen and Jeff this weekend, and was overwhelmed with emotion. Two people who love each other so dearly is powerful to see. It didn't make me sad for what I don't have, it didn't make we wish for something in the future. It made me ecstatic about right now.
I stood, on the balcony of the Kennedy Center, looking out at the vista, this amazing scene, and I was so happy. And hopeful.
Here is to the couples who love, laugh, struggle, fight, scream and love again. I am blessed to be in so many of your presences.
But that wedding made me think about things. About pure love. And happiness. And here is what I realized: Love does not make us happy, we make us happy. Love enhances the great lives we all live, but it does not define us. Yes, we are complete with the person we love, the one person we choose, but we are not they.
I looked at Karen and Jeff this weekend, and was overwhelmed with emotion. Two people who love each other so dearly is powerful to see. It didn't make me sad for what I don't have, it didn't make we wish for something in the future. It made me ecstatic about right now.
I stood, on the balcony of the Kennedy Center, looking out at the vista, this amazing scene, and I was so happy. And hopeful.
Here is to the couples who love, laugh, struggle, fight, scream and love again. I am blessed to be in so many of your presences.
Anxiety
I don't even know if I spelled anxiety right. But for the loyal readers here we go.
I had brunch with a great friend today. And it was great, and lovely, and sad. Sad because we spoke about the men we loved and lost. Not lost in that kind of "poof, they're gone" kinda way, but poof, wow, they're married. Poof, here we are. Wait, where are we?
Poof, Here I Am. I am an attorney. (no, shut up, I am). Poof, she is the head of Senate Appropriations. Poof. here we are.
I feel like sometimes we do what we don't want...but we learn, grow, and love from it. And we land where we do. I miss being in love. I do. but it will come (I say) and when it does it will be awesome.
I had brunch with a great friend today. And it was great, and lovely, and sad. Sad because we spoke about the men we loved and lost. Not lost in that kind of "poof, they're gone" kinda way, but poof, wow, they're married. Poof, here we are. Wait, where are we?
Poof, Here I Am. I am an attorney. (no, shut up, I am). Poof, she is the head of Senate Appropriations. Poof. here we are.
I feel like sometimes we do what we don't want...but we learn, grow, and love from it. And we land where we do. I miss being in love. I do. but it will come (I say) and when it does it will be awesome.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Acceptance
My representation of my client is now over. It ended in an ugly, no holds barred kind of fight. And it was demoralizing.
My partner and I were accused of many egregious things, most of which I care not to discuss ever again. Many of which hurt me to my core. We clearly lost. But it was a bad loss. One that we could never have predicted. I remain hurt, and distracted. And feeling guilty, for some reason.
In this life, we have the opportunity to help people. To make a difference. We can make a difference in one person's life. And I attempted that, to my own peril. We take chances, we make decisions--we bet our stakes on things. We hope they work out, that there's some payoff to our own sacrifices. But inherently we know that sometimes we lose.
We lost yesterday in court. And we lost badly. We lost in a way that was degrading, and sad and wrong. We lost because of the immigration system. I wondered, as I held my client, sobbing, if risking my passing the bar exam was worth it. I missed classes, didn't write essays--I put my own professional career in peril. And I did it because of the conviction of what we were doing was right.
And I know, in my heart of hearts, I would do the same thing again with no thought. If you want details about yesterday, email me. I can't go into here because it's too painful. But there is something empowering working the hardest you've ever worked for someone other than yourself.
I am sad. And I am hurt. And I might not pass the bar exam. But I will never regret the work I've done to date, and I will never regret working for my client.
Life, I think, is about our relationships with other people. What you gain from them, and what you learn about yourself in the process. Sometimes it's wholly positive. Other times it takes a little more to find the truth. My truth right now is that I made the right decision--I will never regret that.
My partner and I were accused of many egregious things, most of which I care not to discuss ever again. Many of which hurt me to my core. We clearly lost. But it was a bad loss. One that we could never have predicted. I remain hurt, and distracted. And feeling guilty, for some reason.
In this life, we have the opportunity to help people. To make a difference. We can make a difference in one person's life. And I attempted that, to my own peril. We take chances, we make decisions--we bet our stakes on things. We hope they work out, that there's some payoff to our own sacrifices. But inherently we know that sometimes we lose.
We lost yesterday in court. And we lost badly. We lost in a way that was degrading, and sad and wrong. We lost because of the immigration system. I wondered, as I held my client, sobbing, if risking my passing the bar exam was worth it. I missed classes, didn't write essays--I put my own professional career in peril. And I did it because of the conviction of what we were doing was right.
And I know, in my heart of hearts, I would do the same thing again with no thought. If you want details about yesterday, email me. I can't go into here because it's too painful. But there is something empowering working the hardest you've ever worked for someone other than yourself.
I am sad. And I am hurt. And I might not pass the bar exam. But I will never regret the work I've done to date, and I will never regret working for my client.
Life, I think, is about our relationships with other people. What you gain from them, and what you learn about yourself in the process. Sometimes it's wholly positive. Other times it takes a little more to find the truth. My truth right now is that I made the right decision--I will never regret that.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Reading
So, I have this amazing bookshelf filled with wonderful books, many I have yet to read, now that I've fully unpacked. I have received books at every major holiday from friends and family over the past three years, have continued to buy them if they seem compelling, and occasionally get them as random gifts in the mail. However, it's rare that I have time to sit down and read for pleasure-- I was at the beach in May I read "The Other Bolyen Girl" which was wildly entertaining (the movie is horrid), even though it is basically a trashy romance novel disguised as historical fiction (aren't those the best though???!!!).
Anyway--the past month has been a fury of work and very little down time--I feel like I've been moving at warp speed since January, and even when I sleep it's generally quite restless and disturbed. It's hard to wind down when you've been shuffling back and forth between major tasks for 18 hours a day, and I've been trying to find ways to let my brain kind of release before I turn the lights out. I've tried watching a mindless 22 minute tv show online many a time, though that has yet to work.
So the other night, I was perusing my bookshelf just to see all the great books I had to look forward to when I zeroed in on a book my Uncle sent me out of the blue this past semester. I had not had a chance to start it, though he described it as a book that could be read in small intervals and would be highly entertaining. I picked it up and thought I'd give it a shot.
So the book is called Anonymous Lawyer, and it's by a young Harvard Law grad who began a fictitious blog by the same name. The premise is that that book is written by a hiring partner in a major law firm in a major city at the start of the Summer Associate season, and it's written partly in blog format, and partly in emails between Anonymous Lawyer and his niece, Anonymous Niece.
It's HILARIOUS. And frankly, for anyone who has ever been, is currently, or is planning on being a summer associate in a BigLaw firm, it's frighteningly true to life. And for all the non-lawyers out there, if you've suffered through summers or three years with a loved one or friend (or anonymous blogger you've never met who may, or may not, occasionally blog about the trials of law school and firm life) and want a glimpse into some of the ridiculousness experienced, you have to check this book out. While I have been laughing out loud at a lot of different "posts", I've also been silently cringing knowing that there is more truth to his account than there is fiction.
So. While it's not The History of the World in 7 volumes, it's what I'm reading right now. And many thanks to my uncle who sent it to me! The past few nights I've been sleeping better and better after reading before sleep--and be warned, you might just start getting your own emails from Anonymous Niece before too long :)
Anyway--the past month has been a fury of work and very little down time--I feel like I've been moving at warp speed since January, and even when I sleep it's generally quite restless and disturbed. It's hard to wind down when you've been shuffling back and forth between major tasks for 18 hours a day, and I've been trying to find ways to let my brain kind of release before I turn the lights out. I've tried watching a mindless 22 minute tv show online many a time, though that has yet to work.
So the other night, I was perusing my bookshelf just to see all the great books I had to look forward to when I zeroed in on a book my Uncle sent me out of the blue this past semester. I had not had a chance to start it, though he described it as a book that could be read in small intervals and would be highly entertaining. I picked it up and thought I'd give it a shot.
So the book is called Anonymous Lawyer, and it's by a young Harvard Law grad who began a fictitious blog by the same name. The premise is that that book is written by a hiring partner in a major law firm in a major city at the start of the Summer Associate season, and it's written partly in blog format, and partly in emails between Anonymous Lawyer and his niece, Anonymous Niece.
It's HILARIOUS. And frankly, for anyone who has ever been, is currently, or is planning on being a summer associate in a BigLaw firm, it's frighteningly true to life. And for all the non-lawyers out there, if you've suffered through summers or three years with a loved one or friend (or anonymous blogger you've never met who may, or may not, occasionally blog about the trials of law school and firm life) and want a glimpse into some of the ridiculousness experienced, you have to check this book out. While I have been laughing out loud at a lot of different "posts", I've also been silently cringing knowing that there is more truth to his account than there is fiction.
So. While it's not The History of the World in 7 volumes, it's what I'm reading right now. And many thanks to my uncle who sent it to me! The past few nights I've been sleeping better and better after reading before sleep--and be warned, you might just start getting your own emails from Anonymous Niece before too long :)
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Uplifting
This is awesome. And so is this. Not just because I have a special place in my heart for the Kenyan refugee camps after working in one, or because it just goes to show every person who scoffs at more liberal immigration policies some of the remarkable individuals our immigration system as saved, but because the back story, particularly of Lopez Lomong, is a tremendous story celebrating the most remarkable aspects of humanity.
I know--the Olympics are filled with those heart wrenching public interest stories that make millions of people around the world silently tear up behind the pale glow of our televisions for three weeks every couple of years. But read Lomong's story differently this time--read it and ask if you would be that family in Syracuse, NY, or the elder children to the younger in Sudan. It's touching, and made me wonder if American teenagers, or anyone, would act in the same brotherly way if faced with such adversity.
I suppose even if the answer is "no" to all of the above, it's a good story nonetheless. Go USA!
I know--the Olympics are filled with those heart wrenching public interest stories that make millions of people around the world silently tear up behind the pale glow of our televisions for three weeks every couple of years. But read Lomong's story differently this time--read it and ask if you would be that family in Syracuse, NY, or the elder children to the younger in Sudan. It's touching, and made me wonder if American teenagers, or anyone, would act in the same brotherly way if faced with such adversity.
I suppose even if the answer is "no" to all of the above, it's a good story nonetheless. Go USA!
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Roots
I've had a friend staying with me the past 10 days--she and I were in Peace Corps together, and she just arrived back in the states after remaining in West Africa working since we finished in 2004. Since she's been with me, we've gone apartment hunting, furniture shopping, neighborhood sightseeing and we've caught up. And it's been great. I feel like I've been in this town long enough that you forget to get excited about the city, the neighborhoods, the newness of moving to a place after being away for so long. And it's been interesting to see her beginning to adjust to figuring out how to begin to plant roots here, and more important, how to adjust to being comfortable making decisions that will have a semi-permanent impact on where she's residing.
We were browsing the stores on 14th St today looking at furniture and homewares in some of my favorite places in the city. I found a lovely chair that I bought on impulse, she got ideas about how to slowly make her shiney new apartment her own. And as we walked out of one of the stores, she turned to me said "Now I have culture shock. This is the first time it's really set in". I asked her what she meant, and she said "it's the fact that I'm considering all this big furniture, this heavy hard to move furniture. How am I going to move it all?" I breezily replied, without much thought into her comment "Oh don't worry, all these places have delivery services--they move it for you!" She paused and said something more profound that the meaningless way in which I interpreted her comment "No, I mean, I'm buying big things, things I can't just throw in a bag and move when I'm ready to leave--I'm buying things that can't pack and travel--this feels final".
I know the way she's feeling, and I know the feelings she's struggling with. When I started law school I felt itchy and uncomfortable, thinking that this decision I was making meant that I HAD to plant roots--I could not just get up and walk away when I was ready for a new adventure. And I adjusted...until it ended. I cut off my hair a couple of weeks ago. As one unnamed person in my family once told me "honey, you're hair is your best asset". It was definitely time for a trim, it was looooong, and it's not fun to have long hair in this town in the summer because it becomes like a wool blanket. But instead of getting it trimmed, I lobbed off about 10 inches. It was liberating to a point, but it still felt...like something else needed to happen in conjunction.
I have been thinking about my decision since I did it, and was thinking about the last time I made a drastic styling decision. Exactly 6 years ago before I left the city to go to Peace Corps I walked into another fancy salon in town and had them do the same thing--cut it off--new style, new adventure. And I realized this time, the missing link is not having an adventure to go along with the style.
I've become more and more anxious about starting my job in the fall. I don't want to go back to where I'm heading, I don't know if I can live thorugh a year of working for the people who will be my bosses. Over the past month I've slowly realized the importance of joy, and happiness, and contentment in life. So, I've started exploring new options, sent some emails, have begun getting my ducks in a row, just in case I need that escape hatch if things become too bad. But unlike 6 years ago, I've also realized I've matured enough to realize that my roots no longer yank up as easily, and forcing them will merely cause peripheral destruction that is neither necessary or beneficial. But I don't think a change is far from coming-the winds are blowing in that direction as is my hair.
We were browsing the stores on 14th St today looking at furniture and homewares in some of my favorite places in the city. I found a lovely chair that I bought on impulse, she got ideas about how to slowly make her shiney new apartment her own. And as we walked out of one of the stores, she turned to me said "Now I have culture shock. This is the first time it's really set in". I asked her what she meant, and she said "it's the fact that I'm considering all this big furniture, this heavy hard to move furniture. How am I going to move it all?" I breezily replied, without much thought into her comment "Oh don't worry, all these places have delivery services--they move it for you!" She paused and said something more profound that the meaningless way in which I interpreted her comment "No, I mean, I'm buying big things, things I can't just throw in a bag and move when I'm ready to leave--I'm buying things that can't pack and travel--this feels final".
I know the way she's feeling, and I know the feelings she's struggling with. When I started law school I felt itchy and uncomfortable, thinking that this decision I was making meant that I HAD to plant roots--I could not just get up and walk away when I was ready for a new adventure. And I adjusted...until it ended. I cut off my hair a couple of weeks ago. As one unnamed person in my family once told me "honey, you're hair is your best asset". It was definitely time for a trim, it was looooong, and it's not fun to have long hair in this town in the summer because it becomes like a wool blanket. But instead of getting it trimmed, I lobbed off about 10 inches. It was liberating to a point, but it still felt...like something else needed to happen in conjunction.
I have been thinking about my decision since I did it, and was thinking about the last time I made a drastic styling decision. Exactly 6 years ago before I left the city to go to Peace Corps I walked into another fancy salon in town and had them do the same thing--cut it off--new style, new adventure. And I realized this time, the missing link is not having an adventure to go along with the style.
I've become more and more anxious about starting my job in the fall. I don't want to go back to where I'm heading, I don't know if I can live thorugh a year of working for the people who will be my bosses. Over the past month I've slowly realized the importance of joy, and happiness, and contentment in life. So, I've started exploring new options, sent some emails, have begun getting my ducks in a row, just in case I need that escape hatch if things become too bad. But unlike 6 years ago, I've also realized I've matured enough to realize that my roots no longer yank up as easily, and forcing them will merely cause peripheral destruction that is neither necessary or beneficial. But I don't think a change is far from coming-the winds are blowing in that direction as is my hair.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
In Memory of My Grandma
On Sunday, June 1 2008, my grandmother passed away. It was a topic I wanted to wait and address on this blog, because I wanted to let the loss sink in and give my family who are loyal readers of this blog time to process. Today is her memorial service in Phoenix, AZ. My mom and dad are there, but I was not able to make the trip due to my bar exam studying and client representation.
My grandma was a wonderful woman--she was a tough cookie, and she held more love in her heart for her family than anyone I've ever met. She raised 4 amazing children and had 8 grandkids when she died. She will be deeply missed.
I paused this afternoon at 5pm EST, when the memorial service was beginning in AZ. I remembered the last conversation I had with her before my graduation. She never missed a family event, graduation, wedding, holiday, not until she was unable physically to be present. But talking to her made me know that she had the beaming smile on her face we all knew and loved.
I am posting below the tribute my sister wrote and I consulted in, adding my own favorite memories to her work, that was to be read this afternoon by my mom. I see my mom in my grandma, and see her as her own person as well. My mom has the same remarkably elegant grace in everything about her--her smile, her love, her compassion, her skin, her heart. I know I will see my grandma a little bit in my mom, and she will live on in our hearts through her family.
Losing her meant losing my last grandparent. But losing her also meant knowing there is one more angel on my side, and I will never take that for granted.
My grandma was a wonderful woman--she was a tough cookie, and she held more love in her heart for her family than anyone I've ever met. She raised 4 amazing children and had 8 grandkids when she died. She will be deeply missed.
I paused this afternoon at 5pm EST, when the memorial service was beginning in AZ. I remembered the last conversation I had with her before my graduation. She never missed a family event, graduation, wedding, holiday, not until she was unable physically to be present. But talking to her made me know that she had the beaming smile on her face we all knew and loved.
I am posting below the tribute my sister wrote and I consulted in, adding my own favorite memories to her work, that was to be read this afternoon by my mom. I see my mom in my grandma, and see her as her own person as well. My mom has the same remarkably elegant grace in everything about her--her smile, her love, her compassion, her skin, her heart. I know I will see my grandma a little bit in my mom, and she will live on in our hearts through her family.
Losing her meant losing my last grandparent. But losing her also meant knowing there is one more angel on my side, and I will never take that for granted.
Clarice H Johnson
Clair was a lot of things to many fabulous people, but to the three of us she was our grandmother. Although we three were unable to attend this service we are celebrating her life with all of you in spirit. Spirit really should have been grandma’s middle name. Everything she did with us and for us was full of vivacity and grace, from teaching us the fine art of Estee Lauder makeup application (CD was always jealous of our rouged cheeks) to charming the wait staff at restaurants with broad smiles and anecdotes of her life.
She was a traveler who loved a good road trip, especially with her grandchildren. We grew up down the road from our three cousins, N, K and J, and grandma and grandpa took us in pairs on two week adventures over the course of a few summer vacations. CD and I traveled to Virginia theme parks, making stops along the way to visit grandma’s family. It was there that I learned to love the south, a trait that later became associated with my mother, Leigh. There CDand I were introduced to Stuckey’s Pecan Log Roll, sweltering summer heat and the charm of grandma’s southern accent blossoming over iced tea and magnolia trees. But the real treat were the matching shirts grandma ordered for the four of us from the back of a Tropicana orange juice carton. “It’s so we don’t get lost from each other.” She said as she handed us our new theme park uniform. I don’t know who was more humbled wearing the short sleeved- palm tree covered-Tropicana advertising-yellow button downs: CD or grandpa. But we never lost each other.
DLS and KRP went the following summer to Florida, where they canoodled with the Disney characters at meals and splashed among the many pools along their journey. Again, this was a driving trip, and they could always count on grandma to navigate them in the direction of close friends and family. Although this crew was sans matching shirts, they were not for want of good food and lots of laughs. At every restaurant grandma would chat up the waitress and tell her exactly what they were doing and where they were heading; she had an uncanny knack for making friends wherever she went. As you all know grandma was never at a loss to share stories of her four children and eight grandchildren. She also welcomed new arrivals to our family with more than open arms. It was not unusual for grandma to tell our friends that she loved them after meeting them for the first time. This is what our girlfriends, boyfriends, spouses and best friends all remember about grandma. Always the hand being held, a smile so big you couldn’t help but try to match it, and the comfort of knowing she would always love you.
She also shared her passion with us in the form of pie dough. Our mother was never much of a baker, so when grandma came to visit we knew we were in for a tasty baked delicacy. She was a patient and encouraging teacher, virtues that the three of us have come to embrace in our own adulthood. Pie crusts would be made in for hours on our butcher block, gracing the bottoms and tops of only the most deserving of fillings. Some of her signatures were lemon meringue, pecan, apple, cherry with a lattice top, and of course, mince meat. But the pies weren’t what we looked forward to the most, rather the scraps of dough grandma would never, ever waste. Once the dough was in the fridge to chill, the real treat was born into mouthwatering cinnamon pinwheels. In the oven for ten minutes and voila! Scraps transformed into bubbling, flaky treats just for the kids. She was to us what Julia Child was to the world: a passionate cook with secret family recipes who would rather share her love of the art than to squander the recipes in a dark cabinet.
Grandma was like that with everything in her life. She wanted all of us to be a part of what she loved the most, whether it was taking us to Broadway shows at Christmas, sharing coveted board game secrets at family gatherings, or bringing us into her family roots, proudly and passionately. As we grew older we too, wanted Grandma to be a part of our milestones, and she never skipped a beat when it came to graduations and weddings. She was proud of that, and the photos from JDK's wedding in July sparkle with her matriarchal essence and humble pride, which she was so deserving of.
In closing, we would like to share with you some words from CD which he wrote soon after learning of grandma’s death:
“The only thing that I can keep seeing over and over and over again in my head is how happy and smiley and energetic Grandma was for JDK's wedding last year. How she burst forth from her chair like a laughing child, or how she absolutely beamed with pride and joy as Jess and dad made their way down the aisle, and her two youngest grand-kids got to participate in the wedding. She got to see all of her kids, and all of her grand-kids at once, at ONCE (and that NEVER happens anymore), and she soaked up each moment as only she could.
Did we? Did we soak up those moments? Did we embrace the family as she did then, or any other time that we gather together? Do we look at each of these opportunities and grab them and never let them go and think about them for weeks or months afterwards? Or have we been taking for granted the times that we get to see each other, and those other family members that pop in seemingly randomly to our lives. I get sickened by the fact that it takes a moment like this to hurtle me back to the days that I thought were just last year, last week, last month, and really live them again.”
As Grandma would want us to do, capture your moments with family and friends, not just in pixels and paper, but with embraces and stories. Take a good road trip if you must, make a pie or apply the perfect shade of red lipstick, but ALWAYS remember to tell each other how much you love them, even if you’ve just met.
We'll miss you grandma, and love you always.
Friday, June 13, 2008
On This Father's Day Weekend
I assume most readers have not only heard about Tim Russert's death, but have also seen him on TV now and then over the past 17 years.
The sudden death of Mr. Russert has lead me to think contemplatively about my own father, someone who I consider to be a role model, a leader, a confidante and a friend. And it has made me unwaveringly grateful to have this man as my father.
For years, my sister and I shared a bedroom. Our walls were papered with butterflies and sunshine and the two of us slept, side by side, for 12 years, in twin beds. I remember one night when my sister was beside herself. What was it about and how old were we? I have no idea. All I know is that J could not pronounce the word "comfortable". She laid in that bed crying and crying, and none of us understood why. My dad came up, and sat on the edge of her bed. He talked to her, tried to soothe her. None of us had any idea why she was so upset. So Dad came up with a trick. All she wanted was to be able to pronounce "comfortable" correctly. So he said:
J: repeat after me: comfort a cow
j repeated that
Dad: J: comfort a bull
J repeated that.
Comfort a cow
Comfort a bull
After about 2 minutes, J had it. We still talk about comforting a bull to this day. It's a great family memory. But more than that, it's a great memory of our dad.
My father is not one to give compliments easily. He is judging and can be harsh. But he is one of the greatest, most patient listeners I can imagine. He is not emotional, he is rational. He is loving, and he is fair. He has taught me to be the most amazing woman I can be, and he has supported me, without question, in that endeavor.
I graduated from law school last month, and I defended my first client a month before that. My father was present at both events. I do not strive to live up to some image my father has, but rather aspire to embody the lessons he has taught me. Raise my voice. Question everything. Challenge yourself. Embrace who you are. Respect where you come from. Love your mother.
My dad comes from the most noble of backgrounds. Military service has been paramount in his life. None of his children followed in those footsteps, and I can only speak for myself with my reasoning. When my dad encouraged me to go into ROTC at UVA I sheepishly looked at him and said: Dad, do you think they'll have an issue that I have a fundamental issue with guns?" Dad looked at me and said "Hmm. yeah. Maybe ROTC isn't right for you.
But the bottom line is this: every path I have chosen has been embraced and accepted by my father. It has been encouraged. And his support has pushed me to where I am today.
I love my father more than anyone can imagine. And I respect him. If I can be half the lawyer and half the person he is in my life, I will die a lucky and blessed individual.
Happy father's day, dad. I am who I am because of you.
The sudden death of Mr. Russert has lead me to think contemplatively about my own father, someone who I consider to be a role model, a leader, a confidante and a friend. And it has made me unwaveringly grateful to have this man as my father.
For years, my sister and I shared a bedroom. Our walls were papered with butterflies and sunshine and the two of us slept, side by side, for 12 years, in twin beds. I remember one night when my sister was beside herself. What was it about and how old were we? I have no idea. All I know is that J could not pronounce the word "comfortable". She laid in that bed crying and crying, and none of us understood why. My dad came up, and sat on the edge of her bed. He talked to her, tried to soothe her. None of us had any idea why she was so upset. So Dad came up with a trick. All she wanted was to be able to pronounce "comfortable" correctly. So he said:
J: repeat after me: comfort a cow
j repeated that
Dad: J: comfort a bull
J repeated that.
Comfort a cow
Comfort a bull
After about 2 minutes, J had it. We still talk about comforting a bull to this day. It's a great family memory. But more than that, it's a great memory of our dad.
My father is not one to give compliments easily. He is judging and can be harsh. But he is one of the greatest, most patient listeners I can imagine. He is not emotional, he is rational. He is loving, and he is fair. He has taught me to be the most amazing woman I can be, and he has supported me, without question, in that endeavor.
I graduated from law school last month, and I defended my first client a month before that. My father was present at both events. I do not strive to live up to some image my father has, but rather aspire to embody the lessons he has taught me. Raise my voice. Question everything. Challenge yourself. Embrace who you are. Respect where you come from. Love your mother.
My dad comes from the most noble of backgrounds. Military service has been paramount in his life. None of his children followed in those footsteps, and I can only speak for myself with my reasoning. When my dad encouraged me to go into ROTC at UVA I sheepishly looked at him and said: Dad, do you think they'll have an issue that I have a fundamental issue with guns?" Dad looked at me and said "Hmm. yeah. Maybe ROTC isn't right for you.
But the bottom line is this: every path I have chosen has been embraced and accepted by my father. It has been encouraged. And his support has pushed me to where I am today.
I love my father more than anyone can imagine. And I respect him. If I can be half the lawyer and half the person he is in my life, I will die a lucky and blessed individual.
Happy father's day, dad. I am who I am because of you.
Motion Denied
As some of you may recall from April, my experience representing my first client did not end as we had hoped, and as we learned later, did not end at all. The experience has been priceless in showing the power of the court, as well as highlighting the responsibility of representatives in accepting client's cases.
To back pedal a bit...after the debacle that occurred in my client's hearing and after she continued to blatantly lie to us in the immediate aftermath, we filed a motion with the court to withdraw from further representation for a number of highly valid reasons. While we knew there was a chance, as there is with any motion, that the judge could deny our request, we hoped he would not and really believed that we had presented good arguments for our case. More than a month after filing the motion we go the judges order: Motion Denied. After the emotional roller coaster we had all hitched a ride on, it turned out we were not given passage off of it quite yet.
The news came a couple of days after my graduation. We were not wholly unprepared as we had talked about this possibility, my partner's and my responsibilities and rights, and a contingency plan if the worst were to occur. But to actually be faced with this reality had the same effect of having the wind knocked out of all of us. How were we supposed to go back to this woman who we could not trust and try and piece the truth together? How do you have faith in her as an individual?
Clinical programs are interesting--they present myriad choices for the students everyday. Some with distinct right and wrong decisions, but there's a lot of ambiguity to the choices we have to make as well. The first big one that I confronted was: do I stay on this case or do I bow out and let the others take the reins from here? After all, I no longer am a student at the school, our clinical grades had already come out. For all intents and purposes, I was done with the clinic. But then the grey area came quickly creeping in. This was my client. This was not an abstract "real life simulated" project that I could skip away from on a whim. My partner and I, no matter how dishonest our client was with us, had invested more time and work into her case than I've invested in almost anything. And we know her--we know her better than the advisers know her--we were in the position to be more effective than anyone else. The decision was made harder by the realization that her next court appearance is 11 days before I take the bar exam--studying for the bar while trying to fix the egregious issues that the hearing presented was daunting. But when I flipped it one more time, it was also daunting to know that the judge had ordered us to stay on. How do you wade through a choice like this?
I've never been one to easily walk away from a commitment I've made to people. I faced this in Peace Corps at one of my lowest hours, when I was sitting in our regional house, talking to my parents, feeling completely dejected, exhausted and frustrated and wanted to just come home. I had been there a little over a year and the effects of trying to help make change in a tiny village that as headed up by some of the most intensely chauvinistic men one could imagine was draining. I was explaining all of this to my parents and my dad said (and I'll never forget): Listen. You can come home right now if you want. No one will think less of you and no one will judge you. But if you think there is even the slightest chance that you could help make a lasting improvement and difference for this village you owe it to yourself to try. If you don't think so, then come on home. But don't quit just because it's "hard".
Basic advice, but true advice. I stayed and finished a remarkable project that is still highly successful, asserted myself as an individual and woman and made some of the most amazing friendships I could imagine. And I applied that same advice to this situation. Yes, it would have been infinitely easier to step back and hand over my roll to someone else. To walk away and let others sift through the rubble of my client's case. But would that have been the right thing to do? I didn't think so at the time and a month later I am absolutely convinced I made the right decision.
It was hard to sit with my client for the first time since we said goodbye to her and explain the ground rules for this time around. It was hard to look at her without April 11 swirling around in my mind. But I think my partner and I have been grown immensely individually and as representatives with the lessons we learned in round one. Over the past couple of weeks we've started a new foundation with her--one that is based less on the emotional pull of her story and more on the task at hand: repairing her credibility and trying to keep her in the U.S.
There are some members of our team who feel doing the bare minimum is all that's required for her. My partner and I disagree. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it fully and to the best of our abilities. We've made a lot of changes in our representation. Her husband is no longer present while we interview her, or involved in her case at all. We've laid out exactly what is on the line, and how bad it could actually be. But we've affirmed that we will do everything in our power to give her a second chance provided that she no longer is dishonest with her.
We waded through the lies last Sunday. And they don't actually affect her asylum claims at all--they do affect her credibility horribly. So game on. We're not expecting to win, but we're not prepared to fail either. I guess we're prepared merely to give her a second chance and do what we can to help that chance be successful. I suppose in the end that's the only thing any of us can hope for.
To back pedal a bit...after the debacle that occurred in my client's hearing and after she continued to blatantly lie to us in the immediate aftermath, we filed a motion with the court to withdraw from further representation for a number of highly valid reasons. While we knew there was a chance, as there is with any motion, that the judge could deny our request, we hoped he would not and really believed that we had presented good arguments for our case. More than a month after filing the motion we go the judges order: Motion Denied. After the emotional roller coaster we had all hitched a ride on, it turned out we were not given passage off of it quite yet.
The news came a couple of days after my graduation. We were not wholly unprepared as we had talked about this possibility, my partner's and my responsibilities and rights, and a contingency plan if the worst were to occur. But to actually be faced with this reality had the same effect of having the wind knocked out of all of us. How were we supposed to go back to this woman who we could not trust and try and piece the truth together? How do you have faith in her as an individual?
Clinical programs are interesting--they present myriad choices for the students everyday. Some with distinct right and wrong decisions, but there's a lot of ambiguity to the choices we have to make as well. The first big one that I confronted was: do I stay on this case or do I bow out and let the others take the reins from here? After all, I no longer am a student at the school, our clinical grades had already come out. For all intents and purposes, I was done with the clinic. But then the grey area came quickly creeping in. This was my client. This was not an abstract "real life simulated" project that I could skip away from on a whim. My partner and I, no matter how dishonest our client was with us, had invested more time and work into her case than I've invested in almost anything. And we know her--we know her better than the advisers know her--we were in the position to be more effective than anyone else. The decision was made harder by the realization that her next court appearance is 11 days before I take the bar exam--studying for the bar while trying to fix the egregious issues that the hearing presented was daunting. But when I flipped it one more time, it was also daunting to know that the judge had ordered us to stay on. How do you wade through a choice like this?
I've never been one to easily walk away from a commitment I've made to people. I faced this in Peace Corps at one of my lowest hours, when I was sitting in our regional house, talking to my parents, feeling completely dejected, exhausted and frustrated and wanted to just come home. I had been there a little over a year and the effects of trying to help make change in a tiny village that as headed up by some of the most intensely chauvinistic men one could imagine was draining. I was explaining all of this to my parents and my dad said (and I'll never forget): Listen. You can come home right now if you want. No one will think less of you and no one will judge you. But if you think there is even the slightest chance that you could help make a lasting improvement and difference for this village you owe it to yourself to try. If you don't think so, then come on home. But don't quit just because it's "hard".
Basic advice, but true advice. I stayed and finished a remarkable project that is still highly successful, asserted myself as an individual and woman and made some of the most amazing friendships I could imagine. And I applied that same advice to this situation. Yes, it would have been infinitely easier to step back and hand over my roll to someone else. To walk away and let others sift through the rubble of my client's case. But would that have been the right thing to do? I didn't think so at the time and a month later I am absolutely convinced I made the right decision.
It was hard to sit with my client for the first time since we said goodbye to her and explain the ground rules for this time around. It was hard to look at her without April 11 swirling around in my mind. But I think my partner and I have been grown immensely individually and as representatives with the lessons we learned in round one. Over the past couple of weeks we've started a new foundation with her--one that is based less on the emotional pull of her story and more on the task at hand: repairing her credibility and trying to keep her in the U.S.
There are some members of our team who feel doing the bare minimum is all that's required for her. My partner and I disagree. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it fully and to the best of our abilities. We've made a lot of changes in our representation. Her husband is no longer present while we interview her, or involved in her case at all. We've laid out exactly what is on the line, and how bad it could actually be. But we've affirmed that we will do everything in our power to give her a second chance provided that she no longer is dishonest with her.
We waded through the lies last Sunday. And they don't actually affect her asylum claims at all--they do affect her credibility horribly. So game on. We're not expecting to win, but we're not prepared to fail either. I guess we're prepared merely to give her a second chance and do what we can to help that chance be successful. I suppose in the end that's the only thing any of us can hope for.
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