Thanksgiving for me this year took place in the same home it always does: my own. I have been living at 24 Parish Road in Georgetown for the past ten and a half years. We moved into the house on July 9th, 2001, a mere six days after my sister Alivia was born.
I had never even seen the house before we moved in, so the driveway we arrived in and the brand new place that was going to be home from then on was a scary and exciting experience. I can still remember going around to the back door of the house and climbing up the basement stairs to the big, open kitchen. Up a half-flight of stairs from the kitchen was the enormous, practically empty family room, with a peaked ceiling that even the tallest ladder didn’t seem to be able to touch. The entire house seemed huge, enormous! Certainly more than enough room for a family of seven.
Nowadays, I’ve become quite used to the space. After ten years in the house, what else would one expect? The vast emptiness of the family room is now well-furnished with sofa, loveseat, recliner, and ottoman, and is cluttered with Barbie dolls, Webkinz stuffed animals, Pillow Pets, board games, books of all reading levels, and more DVDs than you could name. The peaked ceiling is still as high as it ever was, and the air above our heads is now the only empty space left in the room.
The room emulates our hold on the house; vast as it once appeared our living in it and spreading our space out has made the house seem much smaller than it originally was. Even so, the house has become home through ten years of living. Our four bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths, messy though they tend to be, absorb the love in the house. If walls could talk, I can only imagine what the walls of our house would say. Though there has been more arguing, fighting, and yelling in our house than one could sum up in words, there has been even more love. Ten Christmas mornings spent with one another, seventy birthdays and the joy that gets wrapped up in each gift, ten Mother’s Days and ten Father’s Days complete with breakfast in bed, ten years of success, failure, and working through troubles as a family.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Maresy Doats: A Nostalgia Trip
I can distinctly remember sitting in my car-seat in the back of my dad’s big van on the way to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I couldn’t have been more than four years old; the adjacent seat was occupied by another car-seat, and that in turn was occupied by my younger sister, Alyssa. Dad sat in the driver’s seat, and Mom in the passenger’s seat, and the familiar scenery flew by the right-hand window of the van.
My mother sang to us both from the front seat, a song that we had both heard several hundred times before and had come to master: “Maresy doats, and dosey doats, and little lamsy divey, a kiddley divey too, wouldn’t you?” Alyssa, being about two or three herself at the time, probably didn’t quite understand the song, as I knew I hadn’t at her age. But I, oh, I was grown up, a full four years old, and knew that the words of the song were scrambled. I continued to sing with my mother the rest of the song. “If the words sound queer, and funny to your ear, a little bit jumbled and jivey: mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy!”
I felt so powerful singing that song, and the words felt so funny and strong on my tongue. I was manipulating where the words ended, and completely changing how the song went! The lyric flow of “Kiddley divey” rolled off my tongue like fire – warm and smooth – and was always my favorite part in the song. We sang the song, and others like it, all the way to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, and all the way back home. Though I loved to sing “I love you a bushel and a peck,” and (what I would discover later was my mom’s new take on a song from Bye Bye Birdie using our names) “We love you Manda/We love you Lyssa”, my favorite was always “Maresy Doats”.
My mother sang to us both from the front seat, a song that we had both heard several hundred times before and had come to master: “Maresy doats, and dosey doats, and little lamsy divey, a kiddley divey too, wouldn’t you?” Alyssa, being about two or three herself at the time, probably didn’t quite understand the song, as I knew I hadn’t at her age. But I, oh, I was grown up, a full four years old, and knew that the words of the song were scrambled. I continued to sing with my mother the rest of the song. “If the words sound queer, and funny to your ear, a little bit jumbled and jivey: mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy!”
I felt so powerful singing that song, and the words felt so funny and strong on my tongue. I was manipulating where the words ended, and completely changing how the song went! The lyric flow of “Kiddley divey” rolled off my tongue like fire – warm and smooth – and was always my favorite part in the song. We sang the song, and others like it, all the way to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, and all the way back home. Though I loved to sing “I love you a bushel and a peck,” and (what I would discover later was my mom’s new take on a song from Bye Bye Birdie using our names) “We love you Manda/We love you Lyssa”, my favorite was always “Maresy Doats”.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Seeing Sparks
A 'character' portrait of a good friend of mine for a class this semester. Enjoy.
I unfold the letter for the thousandth time and look at the small, familiar, neatly-written print on the cream-colored lined paper. I can hear Caroline’s soft melodic voice as I read her words in my head, just as she’d have spoken them aloud:
“I’m lying on the couch with three dogs and two cats. It’s a rainy day in Florida, so we’re all enjoying down time. I miss you. We kicked the summer off together with ice cream, Walker’s house, Friendly’s, crashing Sparhawk, and getting lost on the road. When you left for camp, I waited for your first letter. There was a period when life went at a gentle pace and lulled New England into a sleepy daze. Your letter arrived and a few days later the world burst into life.”
Her letters were the thing that was sustaining our friendship for the time being. Being so far away from each other most of the year, visits were more or less out of the question, and I have known Caroline long enough to realize that expecting her to respond to text messages, phone calls, and the odd Facebook post would be pure fantasy. Becoming pen-pals with one another was the best way that each of us knew of to keep in contact. I opened the following letter and scanned for my favorite little chunk from it. The snippet was her closing, full of love and small inside jokes, as well as the colorful language I’ve come to expect from Caroline’s writing:
“Many flowers in Florida bloom in the fall and mimic the colors of the changing foliage in the North, so it’s beautiful here. I miss you very much. Fall reminds me of school and school is less exciting without your hugs and giggles. In fact, life in general is less exciting without you.
I wish you many safe car adventures, ample opportunity to boy scout, and spontaneous escapades that lead to friends gathered together and good tea. Take care of yourself and be well.
Love, Caroline.”
I glance out the window and I grin widely as I put the letters away. With a quick goodbye to my mother and sisters before leaving the house, I bolt out the door. The bronze BMW has finally pulled into the driveway; I’ve been ready to fly out to the familiar old car for a while now, since Caroline is always late picking me up. The still-new, shiny look of this tank of an SUV I’ve been in a thousand times is tribute to just how well-off the Sparks family is, but all I care about in that moment is seeing the driver. She has turned off the car and gotten out of it just in time to receive an enormous bear-hug I’ve been waiting ages to give. We both squeal a bit in our girlish way at the sight of one another. It has been several months since we have seen each other.
“How are you?” I ask her excitedly, releasing our embrace. She looks well – her wavy, medium-brown hair has been growing out again, and her healthy Florida tan is, of course, still quite intact. She’s wearing her usual loose t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops in preparation for a casual day. She still exhibits her slim and simple – yet astounding – beauty (the kind that I’ve envied since I have known her), but still manages to maintain such an open and friendly air that it is of little consequence.
With an enormous grin she replies, “I’ve been great. There is so much we need to talk about!” Without any hesitation we both climb back into the SUV and begin our adventure for the day. “So, Friendly’s?”
“You know it!”
We drive off down the road, and after just a few minutes get onto the highway. As per usual for our car trips, we make an enormous deal out of merging lanes (an inside joke that has been alive for years now), and Caroline proves to me once again that the nickname “Screaming Frog” was incredibly fitting for her. Many drivers I know would not condone nearly as much playful shouting and jumping from their passengers as Caroline did, let alone follow through with the actions themselves. I fear no danger; I’d driven with her enough times to know that only spontaneous lakes and unexpected two-lane highways could dampen our fun, and that even these would become the subject of jokes later on.
We arrive at the Amesbury Friendly’s restaurant before long. A feeling of nostalgia comes over us both as we gush about how long it’s been since we’ve eaten in our Friendly’s. The amount of confessions, shenanigans, dancing, laughter, and accidental spying that those booths and tables had witnessed of us both is immeasurable. We sit in one of the back booths and continue to talk.
“So, how has life been? Things seemed to be going well from your letters,” I say to her as we sit down.
“Life has been good. I’ve been taking online classes, volunteering at the animal shelter, and working at Planned Parenthood on the island, as I’ve told you. Also been trying to keep things good with Mum. The divorce was rough on all of us, but it’s better now than the way things were.”
“How’re the animals?” I ask. “I still haven’t had the chance to meet Wyatt, you know. Plus I miss Luna and Mr. Darcy…and Zoe, too, even though that dog has a wild tongue.” I chuckle in remembrance of the many times I had stayed at Caroline’s, and found her mother’s small energy-ball of a dog furiously licking my ankle as I sat at the breakfast bar in the mornings.
Caroline smiles and nods, and gives me one of her signature flat-lipped grimaces. “Honestly, that dog…she’s a little honey badger or something…she just licks everything!” At that, our waitress comes over to get our drink orders. We both order chocolate Fribbles – our Friendly’s tradition. After a toast to dragons, dancing, and safe car adventures, we giggle and continue to chat. She shoots me several of her signature facial expressions throughout our discussion: a crinkled nose here, a furrowed brow there, sometimes eyes wide open, sometimes squinted in an inquisitive glance. Her unique facial expressions are part of what I missed most about her, and it makes me happy to see them again. We finally receive our food and, since I’ve gotten fish and chips, do our ceremonial “Seafood Requires Dancing” finger-jive and shoulder-shake.
“I really want you to meet my friend Alison,” I say to her. “At some point, I’d like you two to meet. I think you’d really like her.”
“I remember, you’ve told me about her in your letters. She’s the pagan reiki healer, right? The one with Pan.”
“Yes. That’s her,” I confirm. “She’s helped me through a lot this past year, and is part of the reason I’ve still kept with all that sort of thing. She’s gotten to be one of my best friends at school.”
“She sounds amazing. I’d like meeting her. And, it’s my obligation as your friend to do so, you know.”
“She reminds me of you talking about Rael and Mr. Wilburs when she talks about spirits,” I explain, “And she just oozes Brian and Mary when she talks about crystals.”
At this, Caroline bursts out laughing. It’s a full, loud belly-laugh, and is contagious enough that I begin to laugh, too. “Now I have to meet her!” she says amidst fits of giggles. I nod with a smile and assure that it will happen sometime in the future.
“She plays D&D now, too,” I add, putting more fuel into the fire.
“Are you sure you’re not replacing me?” Her tone of voice, the position of her eyebrows, and the smirk on her face all exude sarcasm.
I reply in all seriousness, “Caroline, really. How could I ever replace you?” I chuckle and add a joke. “After all, who else is going to have scooter races with me in the retirement home when we get old?”
“Very true!” she says, laughing again.
We continue our meal in this way for a while, revel in our Fribbles, and take our ice creams to go. We drive back to my house, and she leaves me with a promise of texting me later. Out of experience I don’t believe her, but promise her in turn that if she doesn’t, I’ll contact her for plans for the next day. I’m determined to make the most of the little time I have with her. “Not to mention,” I add, “we still need to sit down with Tara and Mary and tell them about what happened to you this summer…”
She shoots me a knowing glance and replies, “I can’t wait. Movie night sleepover at the Kelley’s, it’s going down.” We both laugh, and wave wildly to one another as the BMW backs out of the driveway and drifts away.
I unfold the letter for the thousandth time and look at the small, familiar, neatly-written print on the cream-colored lined paper. I can hear Caroline’s soft melodic voice as I read her words in my head, just as she’d have spoken them aloud:
“I’m lying on the couch with three dogs and two cats. It’s a rainy day in Florida, so we’re all enjoying down time. I miss you. We kicked the summer off together with ice cream, Walker’s house, Friendly’s, crashing Sparhawk, and getting lost on the road. When you left for camp, I waited for your first letter. There was a period when life went at a gentle pace and lulled New England into a sleepy daze. Your letter arrived and a few days later the world burst into life.”
Her letters were the thing that was sustaining our friendship for the time being. Being so far away from each other most of the year, visits were more or less out of the question, and I have known Caroline long enough to realize that expecting her to respond to text messages, phone calls, and the odd Facebook post would be pure fantasy. Becoming pen-pals with one another was the best way that each of us knew of to keep in contact. I opened the following letter and scanned for my favorite little chunk from it. The snippet was her closing, full of love and small inside jokes, as well as the colorful language I’ve come to expect from Caroline’s writing:
“Many flowers in Florida bloom in the fall and mimic the colors of the changing foliage in the North, so it’s beautiful here. I miss you very much. Fall reminds me of school and school is less exciting without your hugs and giggles. In fact, life in general is less exciting without you.
I wish you many safe car adventures, ample opportunity to boy scout, and spontaneous escapades that lead to friends gathered together and good tea. Take care of yourself and be well.
Love, Caroline.”
I glance out the window and I grin widely as I put the letters away. With a quick goodbye to my mother and sisters before leaving the house, I bolt out the door. The bronze BMW has finally pulled into the driveway; I’ve been ready to fly out to the familiar old car for a while now, since Caroline is always late picking me up. The still-new, shiny look of this tank of an SUV I’ve been in a thousand times is tribute to just how well-off the Sparks family is, but all I care about in that moment is seeing the driver. She has turned off the car and gotten out of it just in time to receive an enormous bear-hug I’ve been waiting ages to give. We both squeal a bit in our girlish way at the sight of one another. It has been several months since we have seen each other.
“How are you?” I ask her excitedly, releasing our embrace. She looks well – her wavy, medium-brown hair has been growing out again, and her healthy Florida tan is, of course, still quite intact. She’s wearing her usual loose t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops in preparation for a casual day. She still exhibits her slim and simple – yet astounding – beauty (the kind that I’ve envied since I have known her), but still manages to maintain such an open and friendly air that it is of little consequence.
With an enormous grin she replies, “I’ve been great. There is so much we need to talk about!” Without any hesitation we both climb back into the SUV and begin our adventure for the day. “So, Friendly’s?”
“You know it!”
We drive off down the road, and after just a few minutes get onto the highway. As per usual for our car trips, we make an enormous deal out of merging lanes (an inside joke that has been alive for years now), and Caroline proves to me once again that the nickname “Screaming Frog” was incredibly fitting for her. Many drivers I know would not condone nearly as much playful shouting and jumping from their passengers as Caroline did, let alone follow through with the actions themselves. I fear no danger; I’d driven with her enough times to know that only spontaneous lakes and unexpected two-lane highways could dampen our fun, and that even these would become the subject of jokes later on.
We arrive at the Amesbury Friendly’s restaurant before long. A feeling of nostalgia comes over us both as we gush about how long it’s been since we’ve eaten in our Friendly’s. The amount of confessions, shenanigans, dancing, laughter, and accidental spying that those booths and tables had witnessed of us both is immeasurable. We sit in one of the back booths and continue to talk.
“So, how has life been? Things seemed to be going well from your letters,” I say to her as we sit down.
“Life has been good. I’ve been taking online classes, volunteering at the animal shelter, and working at Planned Parenthood on the island, as I’ve told you. Also been trying to keep things good with Mum. The divorce was rough on all of us, but it’s better now than the way things were.”
“How’re the animals?” I ask. “I still haven’t had the chance to meet Wyatt, you know. Plus I miss Luna and Mr. Darcy…and Zoe, too, even though that dog has a wild tongue.” I chuckle in remembrance of the many times I had stayed at Caroline’s, and found her mother’s small energy-ball of a dog furiously licking my ankle as I sat at the breakfast bar in the mornings.
Caroline smiles and nods, and gives me one of her signature flat-lipped grimaces. “Honestly, that dog…she’s a little honey badger or something…she just licks everything!” At that, our waitress comes over to get our drink orders. We both order chocolate Fribbles – our Friendly’s tradition. After a toast to dragons, dancing, and safe car adventures, we giggle and continue to chat. She shoots me several of her signature facial expressions throughout our discussion: a crinkled nose here, a furrowed brow there, sometimes eyes wide open, sometimes squinted in an inquisitive glance. Her unique facial expressions are part of what I missed most about her, and it makes me happy to see them again. We finally receive our food and, since I’ve gotten fish and chips, do our ceremonial “Seafood Requires Dancing” finger-jive and shoulder-shake.
“I really want you to meet my friend Alison,” I say to her. “At some point, I’d like you two to meet. I think you’d really like her.”
“I remember, you’ve told me about her in your letters. She’s the pagan reiki healer, right? The one with Pan.”
“Yes. That’s her,” I confirm. “She’s helped me through a lot this past year, and is part of the reason I’ve still kept with all that sort of thing. She’s gotten to be one of my best friends at school.”
“She sounds amazing. I’d like meeting her. And, it’s my obligation as your friend to do so, you know.”
“She reminds me of you talking about Rael and Mr. Wilburs when she talks about spirits,” I explain, “And she just oozes Brian and Mary when she talks about crystals.”
At this, Caroline bursts out laughing. It’s a full, loud belly-laugh, and is contagious enough that I begin to laugh, too. “Now I have to meet her!” she says amidst fits of giggles. I nod with a smile and assure that it will happen sometime in the future.
“She plays D&D now, too,” I add, putting more fuel into the fire.
“Are you sure you’re not replacing me?” Her tone of voice, the position of her eyebrows, and the smirk on her face all exude sarcasm.
I reply in all seriousness, “Caroline, really. How could I ever replace you?” I chuckle and add a joke. “After all, who else is going to have scooter races with me in the retirement home when we get old?”
“Very true!” she says, laughing again.
We continue our meal in this way for a while, revel in our Fribbles, and take our ice creams to go. We drive back to my house, and she leaves me with a promise of texting me later. Out of experience I don’t believe her, but promise her in turn that if she doesn’t, I’ll contact her for plans for the next day. I’m determined to make the most of the little time I have with her. “Not to mention,” I add, “we still need to sit down with Tara and Mary and tell them about what happened to you this summer…”
She shoots me a knowing glance and replies, “I can’t wait. Movie night sleepover at the Kelley’s, it’s going down.” We both laugh, and wave wildly to one another as the BMW backs out of the driveway and drifts away.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Interpersonal Conflict-Resolution
In his book The Sovereign Soul – Sufism: a Path for Today, Phillip Gowins talks on the subject of solving personal problems, particularly on those stemming from disagreements with others. His two steps to solving those problems are 1) to change your perspective by getting into the consciousness of the other person and understanding their point of view, and 2) to find the cause that produces the cause of the problem. Once one can accomplish both of these goals, the problem is more or less solved. Of course, the specifics of each problem in particular are a major impact on the complexities involved with solving the problem.
For example, one would take a very different approach in an argument with a loved one than in an argument with a teacher. With a loved one, it is far easier to see from their point of view. I know that I personally know my loved ones and what goes on in their lives far better than I know my teachers (life teachers, professors, or otherwise), making it far more easy for me to get into the consciousness of my loved ones to understand exactly what they are going through to cause their end of the argument. This ease, coupled with the given understanding with siblings, parents, and friends alike that we will argue at times, makes the resolution of these problems far simpler.
It is also far easier to see the causes behind the causes if an open mind is kept; considering all of the possibilities and solutions helps in any kind of problem solving, but particularly here. Because our minds tend to be so limited, opening them and broadening them is a necessity, and makes the solving of problems far easier. Novel ideas for solutions and compromises are the mark of a good and imaginative problem-solver in all other aspects of the world, so why should conflict-resolution be any different? Just imagine how different the world could be if its leaders could think of new and novel ideas for solving international conflicts other than war, weapons, and death! After all, international conflicts do seem to simply be interpersonal conflicts, just on a much larger scale. If we were to apply the same rules that we do to interpersonal conflicts to all the bigger conflicts in the world, imagine the compromises that could have come about! Of course, I do not expect any world leaders to come to such a conclusion anytime soon, for it is far too big an idea to ask all of them to consider the points of view of their “enemies.”
Perhaps we will someday get to that point, though I am certain it will not be for quite a while. Perhaps someday politics will become about benefitting the people, rather than simply benefitting the country, and perhaps someday international interactions will reflect the similar types of interpersonal reactions between family, friends, and acquaintances. Though, in truth, perhaps that is simply my naiveté speaking, and I put too much faith in other people to think such things. For now, I will stick to keeping these conflict-resolution guidelines myself, and will put them into action in my own life. With hope, there will be those that will follow this lead.
For example, one would take a very different approach in an argument with a loved one than in an argument with a teacher. With a loved one, it is far easier to see from their point of view. I know that I personally know my loved ones and what goes on in their lives far better than I know my teachers (life teachers, professors, or otherwise), making it far more easy for me to get into the consciousness of my loved ones to understand exactly what they are going through to cause their end of the argument. This ease, coupled with the given understanding with siblings, parents, and friends alike that we will argue at times, makes the resolution of these problems far simpler.
It is also far easier to see the causes behind the causes if an open mind is kept; considering all of the possibilities and solutions helps in any kind of problem solving, but particularly here. Because our minds tend to be so limited, opening them and broadening them is a necessity, and makes the solving of problems far easier. Novel ideas for solutions and compromises are the mark of a good and imaginative problem-solver in all other aspects of the world, so why should conflict-resolution be any different? Just imagine how different the world could be if its leaders could think of new and novel ideas for solving international conflicts other than war, weapons, and death! After all, international conflicts do seem to simply be interpersonal conflicts, just on a much larger scale. If we were to apply the same rules that we do to interpersonal conflicts to all the bigger conflicts in the world, imagine the compromises that could have come about! Of course, I do not expect any world leaders to come to such a conclusion anytime soon, for it is far too big an idea to ask all of them to consider the points of view of their “enemies.”
Perhaps we will someday get to that point, though I am certain it will not be for quite a while. Perhaps someday politics will become about benefitting the people, rather than simply benefitting the country, and perhaps someday international interactions will reflect the similar types of interpersonal reactions between family, friends, and acquaintances. Though, in truth, perhaps that is simply my naiveté speaking, and I put too much faith in other people to think such things. For now, I will stick to keeping these conflict-resolution guidelines myself, and will put them into action in my own life. With hope, there will be those that will follow this lead.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Amanda Avoiding Alcohol
In his essay “In Quest of Beer,” Frank O’Connor describes the different ways that alcohol affects the people that he spends time with, and the cultural aspects of alcohol in Ireland. Never having been a drinker myself (the only alcohol I’ve ever ingested is from Eucharist at church), these themes are a bit difficult to comment on. I am known amongst my friends as one of the “clean” ones; no drinking, no smoking, no drugs of any kind (not even prescription or over-the-counter, if I can help it). My personal philosophy on alcohol is mostly simple: I don’t really mind anyone else drinking, so long as they aren’t hurting themselves or others, but I won’t drink for three reasons.
The first of these reasons is that I am underage. This is probably the reason that least affects me, but it is one of my reasons nevertheless. For me to obtain alcohol would be illegal, and though that doesn't matter quite as much to some people, I like to be able to say that I have a clean record. I really don’t have any particular need or desire to drink at this stage of my life, so waiting until I am of legal age to do so is something of little consequence that happens to coincide with my other reasons.
The second reason that I have not to drink is that I really have no desire to. I do not know how the alcohol would affect me, and don’t particularly want to take any chances. My mother tells me that after getting my wisdom teeth taken out and still being a bit loopy from the medicine, I informed her, “If this is how it would feel, I don’t ever want to drink! I have no idea what I’m doing!” I tell this story with humor, and the sentiment I gave my mother does not surprise my friends in the slightest. In truth, knowing how little control I had over my actions in such a state of altered awareness makes me uneasy, and willing to wait for the comfort and safety of a calm evening in with my close friends or family to start drinking.
My third, and perhaps most compelling, reason not to start drinking is that I have seen instances and heard tales of times where the bottle has gotten out of hand, and lives have been changed because of it. The amount of abuse of the substance in this country is astounding (and to be perfectly honest, scary), and the amount of friends I know who have either turned to alcohol or have had loved ones turn to alcohol for “self-medication” is even more astounding. A particular friend of mine from years ago, who shall remain nameless, got herself into trouble after she began to drink. She got herself into more than one serious jam with guys who were supposed to be her friends, and even showed up to school drunk and hung-over more than once. She started a downhill descent that chills my bones to this day, began self-inflicting behaviors, dropped out of school and, eventually, off the face of the earth. I have not heard from her since then, but remembrance of what she and others like her have been through is the most significant reason for me to avoid alcohol.
I do not want to sound pretentious, or like I’m feeding out a load of bull by writing about all of this (as I’m sure perhaps I might), but I do want to convey my own opinion. Despite all of what I have said above, I am not opposed to alcohol in general. Moderation and responsibility are both key. As long as the drinker is safe to themselves and to those around them, any of the arguments I could have against them are void. Eat, drink, and be merry by all means, just be safe.
The first of these reasons is that I am underage. This is probably the reason that least affects me, but it is one of my reasons nevertheless. For me to obtain alcohol would be illegal, and though that doesn't matter quite as much to some people, I like to be able to say that I have a clean record. I really don’t have any particular need or desire to drink at this stage of my life, so waiting until I am of legal age to do so is something of little consequence that happens to coincide with my other reasons.
The second reason that I have not to drink is that I really have no desire to. I do not know how the alcohol would affect me, and don’t particularly want to take any chances. My mother tells me that after getting my wisdom teeth taken out and still being a bit loopy from the medicine, I informed her, “If this is how it would feel, I don’t ever want to drink! I have no idea what I’m doing!” I tell this story with humor, and the sentiment I gave my mother does not surprise my friends in the slightest. In truth, knowing how little control I had over my actions in such a state of altered awareness makes me uneasy, and willing to wait for the comfort and safety of a calm evening in with my close friends or family to start drinking.
My third, and perhaps most compelling, reason not to start drinking is that I have seen instances and heard tales of times where the bottle has gotten out of hand, and lives have been changed because of it. The amount of abuse of the substance in this country is astounding (and to be perfectly honest, scary), and the amount of friends I know who have either turned to alcohol or have had loved ones turn to alcohol for “self-medication” is even more astounding. A particular friend of mine from years ago, who shall remain nameless, got herself into trouble after she began to drink. She got herself into more than one serious jam with guys who were supposed to be her friends, and even showed up to school drunk and hung-over more than once. She started a downhill descent that chills my bones to this day, began self-inflicting behaviors, dropped out of school and, eventually, off the face of the earth. I have not heard from her since then, but remembrance of what she and others like her have been through is the most significant reason for me to avoid alcohol.
I do not want to sound pretentious, or like I’m feeding out a load of bull by writing about all of this (as I’m sure perhaps I might), but I do want to convey my own opinion. Despite all of what I have said above, I am not opposed to alcohol in general. Moderation and responsibility are both key. As long as the drinker is safe to themselves and to those around them, any of the arguments I could have against them are void. Eat, drink, and be merry by all means, just be safe.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Brotherhood and Sisterhood
On Nancy Mairs' "Ron Her Son":
The amount of emotion that Nancy Mairs shows in “Ron Her Son” is monumental. I can also relate to the feeling of having someone not biologically related to you become part of your family. Though, in my case, the person is not legally a part of my family, either, and even has a biological family of their own still. Even despite all of this, I view him as my brother, and I love him just as much as I love my other siblings.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived under the impression that I should have grown up with an older brother. At age four, I asked my parents if they could give me one for Christmas, not fully understanding the impossibilities of the situation. My parents, being creative as they were, bought me a Cabbage Patch Kid doll that was modeled to look about five or six – certainly old enough to be a big brother – and named him Michael. In high school, now the oldest of five girls, I learned that my mother had been pregnant before me, but miscarried. She swears that the child she lost would have been her boy, had she carried it full-term. As it is, though, I was her firstborn, and that I oddly knew from that young an age, without actually knowing, that I might’ve had an older brother.
As it is, I began high school without that knowledge, and met the young man whom I would soon begin to consider my brother. I cannot for the life of me remember how it was that we were formally introduced, but I do remember that I was in three different classes with him that semester – Essentials of Literature, Essentials of Art, and Biology – and that he was the stage manager for the school show that season. We began to talk more and more, and had many of the same friends. The next semester we were in a play together and two or three classes the same. We were both also involved in the school’s gaming club (in truth, it was the prospect of spending more time with him that was the deciding factor in determining whether I’d join or not, though I’d never have admitted it).
It was not until my sophomore year that we really began to get close, and I came to the realization that he was more than simply a friend to me. Before you get any ideas, no, he was not anything romantic to me (that short-lived phase had long since passed). I did know that there was something more than I had with other friends in this particular friendship, though I did not exactly know what. I knew that I trusted him more than I trusted anyone else I was friends with, and felt like I could open up to him. I wanted to be that person for him, as well. We were not best friends, as we spent much of our time separate, but that same trust and openness was there. I realized after opening up to my biological sister that the relationship that I had with her was nearly the same as that which I had with Brian. Though much of our time was spent separate, there was a sort of understood love and openness between us that continues to this day.
I hesitate sometimes to call him my brother to other people, because I know that there are many who will not understand this connection that we share. I do know, however, that it is a real connection, and am (and will always be) an advocate for the sentiment that a person does not have to be related to you by blood or by law to be your family. Brian will always be my big brother, and I his little sister, just as Ron will always be Nancy Mairs’ son.
The amount of emotion that Nancy Mairs shows in “Ron Her Son” is monumental. I can also relate to the feeling of having someone not biologically related to you become part of your family. Though, in my case, the person is not legally a part of my family, either, and even has a biological family of their own still. Even despite all of this, I view him as my brother, and I love him just as much as I love my other siblings.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived under the impression that I should have grown up with an older brother. At age four, I asked my parents if they could give me one for Christmas, not fully understanding the impossibilities of the situation. My parents, being creative as they were, bought me a Cabbage Patch Kid doll that was modeled to look about five or six – certainly old enough to be a big brother – and named him Michael. In high school, now the oldest of five girls, I learned that my mother had been pregnant before me, but miscarried. She swears that the child she lost would have been her boy, had she carried it full-term. As it is, though, I was her firstborn, and that I oddly knew from that young an age, without actually knowing, that I might’ve had an older brother.
As it is, I began high school without that knowledge, and met the young man whom I would soon begin to consider my brother. I cannot for the life of me remember how it was that we were formally introduced, but I do remember that I was in three different classes with him that semester – Essentials of Literature, Essentials of Art, and Biology – and that he was the stage manager for the school show that season. We began to talk more and more, and had many of the same friends. The next semester we were in a play together and two or three classes the same. We were both also involved in the school’s gaming club (in truth, it was the prospect of spending more time with him that was the deciding factor in determining whether I’d join or not, though I’d never have admitted it).
It was not until my sophomore year that we really began to get close, and I came to the realization that he was more than simply a friend to me. Before you get any ideas, no, he was not anything romantic to me (that short-lived phase had long since passed). I did know that there was something more than I had with other friends in this particular friendship, though I did not exactly know what. I knew that I trusted him more than I trusted anyone else I was friends with, and felt like I could open up to him. I wanted to be that person for him, as well. We were not best friends, as we spent much of our time separate, but that same trust and openness was there. I realized after opening up to my biological sister that the relationship that I had with her was nearly the same as that which I had with Brian. Though much of our time was spent separate, there was a sort of understood love and openness between us that continues to this day.
I hesitate sometimes to call him my brother to other people, because I know that there are many who will not understand this connection that we share. I do know, however, that it is a real connection, and am (and will always be) an advocate for the sentiment that a person does not have to be related to you by blood or by law to be your family. Brian will always be my big brother, and I his little sister, just as Ron will always be Nancy Mairs’ son.
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