omg.
Let’s Go to St. Andrew’s!
“No way,” I said. “I hate that church.”
Heads raised in surprise. I looked down at my plate of Christmas Eve meatballs, chest swelling and constricting with confusion. I hated that church? Seriously? Wasn’t that an ignorant thing to say? As a Unitarian I’ve always claimed to be open to other ideas and curious about all faiths. I’ve chanted ohm and listened to nondenominational poetry readings, sang in Latin and Hebrew praising different Lords, been baptized twice and for two different religions, claimed to be on the cusp of converting to Judaism and Christianity and Buddhism, all in the space of about two years. I’ve been attracted to boys because I didn’t know much about their beliefs. (All that mystery surrounding your faith! It’s sexy! Oh, tell me more about your customs!)
I’ve devoted my spiritual life to open-mindedness and curiosity, and here I was saying there’d be no fucking way you’d get me three feet the fuck near that church.
“Uh, why do you hate St. Andrew’s?” someone asked.
A reasonable question. The rest of my family liked St. Andrew’s just fine. It’s large, it’s Lutheran, it’s near our house, people sing, there are candles. All nice things, which I usually try to respect.
“Last year they insulted every other belief but their own, and I was offended,” I responded self-importantly. (Also, the preacher kind of had a Billy Graham thing going on that rubbed me the wrong way, but I try not to get wrapped up in aesthetics.) “They went on and on about how obviously, we were only there if we believed certain things, and frankly it just wasn’t very welcoming to newcomers.”
My sister raised an eyebrow, as if to say “whatever, you crazy.” Everyone resumed eating.
Yeah! My brain cried. You hate that church!
It felt amazing to dislike a church, and even more so to say it aloud. I shivered with a strange, foreign glee (which thankfully no one observed aloud), and we continued to debate where we would attend our Christmas Eve services, which faith it would be this year, which pastor — and whether or not we could survive the long, snow-feathered drive into the city without simply falling asleep, slumbering away the birth of someone else’s savior.
Tell Me You Were Anywhere
I.
Here is how it is with you:
Every day I wonder what is missing.
Cracks in the sidewalk. I avoid them, wouldn’t
want to break her back,
smaller things, still
I would not say to you.
You are lovely and white-teethed
and whenever I am around you I feel slovenly,
misplaced
like a garage sale item in a department store.
Sometimes you call, although we have little
to talk about.
We both wish it wasn’t this way. We tell others
we are close.
So here it is. Let me tell you.
How Our Shoes Turned Black
I somehow found myself squeezed into a bike shop in Providence around midnight, dolled up in black tights and a short grey skirt, hair twisted and pinned back with bobby pins. I was surrounded by the kind of people I might be today, had I made a few different choices a few years ago. Unshowered, with self-made haircuts. Bicycles piled outside, tattoos along their calves, food stamps in their pockets, recipes for vegan french toast. They all smiled and introduced themselves to people they didn’t know (myself) as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Five minutes earlier I’d debated just going to bed, slipping away somehow, unnoticed.
Ten minutes earlier I’d been in the backseat of a car with the windows rolled down, the icy December wind tearing through my little grey skirt and thin black tights.
Twenty minutes earlier I’d been sitting on the floor of a taqueria directly in front of five large speakers as some large bearded guy named Chip wailed on his guitar. Ever the square adopted friend in social situations, I wondered if it was rude to plug my ears if they began to bleed. The whole floor was vibrating with sound. Depending on the chord played, the sensation isolated in my calves, thighs, spine, or heart, which would stop beating for a few seconds to resume with a heavy thud. This struck me as kind of awesome.
And much, much earlier that day, we’d been at the bike shop, to, you know, look at bikes. We’d ridden a few around the block, the wind in our hair. I hadn’t been on a bicycle in years. It felt like driving a car for the first time: that same thrill of just growing up. Growing up has been mostly boring for the past few years: it’s made me miss high school, to be honest, just for the drama.
“That’s my stalker!” my pretty friend said. “The lead singer! Man, it’s weird to see him sing. I just know him as my stalker, you know?”
Oh, by the way, a band was playing. In the bike shop. At midnight. Presumably they had started much earlier, because they only played one more song before they disassembled and two DJs took over. My pretty friend disappeared into the crowd, and I was left surrounded by strangers.
Snow in Chicago
Johnny Cash and June Carter got married in a fever, and I flew into Chicago in the middle of a blizzard. It was the mid-morning, and I’d never seen the city covered in snow before: it made it seem friendlier somehow, softer around the edges. I suppose it just felt like home.
Backpacked and bundled, I boarded the empty El to Grand, and the entire ride I remained twisted in my chair, staring out of the window like some kind of alien tourist. “What are you doing,” I would mumble to myself in disbelief as we edged ever nearer. “What are you doing,” I thought as pulled my mother’s woolen hat over my ears at the bus stop. “What are you doing, what are you doing” I’d shout to myself in gleeful terror with each step down the length of Navy Pier. It was completely deserted, hot dog stands shivering in the wind, the ferris wheel creaking, and I couldn’t feel my toes.
I finally arrived at the end of the Pier, standing in front of the building of my new employment. I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer.