Not a Wasted Word

{This week’s focus was memoir and the assignment was to capture a memory from childhood, one that holds a strange fascination even today. This is what I wrote.}

Oasis

The sun bounces joyfully off the still surface, imposing flashes onto my vision that follow my gaze and dance before the curtain of my eyelids.

How is it here? How have I never been here before? The entirety of my childhood is rewritten, gaping holes where this place could have been–a palpable absence in every memory. No amount of coming here can make up for all the times I could have come before. The regret sits like a weight on my chest, already burdened by the oppressive heat of the day and the considerably exertion of the climb.

The air is thick and hot, a wet blanket draped over my shoulders and face, threatening to suffocate me. Beads of sweat defeat my body’s natural (and inadequate defenses), expertly invading my eyes.

My tennis shoes, dingy and worn, toe the smooth boulder below my feet. In front of me sits a perfect swimming hole, sparkling in the crevice of red and orange rocks. This oasis sits in a path of widely strewn rubble, scooped hands cupping perfectly clear, exquisitely cool water. I’m not sure if these rocks are the remnants of some long forgotten excavation or the product of natural erosion of some kind. I hardly care.

I stand there, mouth agape, pondering its beauty.

To find something like this, to just happen upon it, is unheard of. On this rock island of almost six million people nature exists almost exclusively in small, manicured, installments. There are no fields and very little grass. The opportunities to explore places overrun by nature are few and far between.

And yet here one exists, on the mountainside directly behind my apartment complex–a daunting vertical presence jutting dramatically beside my bedroom window. I’d never wondered what treasures it might hold. Its rocky expanse, swallowing my field of vision in all directions, suggested nothing but shrubs and crumbling earth.

I had only touched the side of the mountain a few times before, in the strange forbidden space at the back of my building, tucked at the end of a labyrinthine stretch of outdoor hallways between the middle towers of the complex.

If you managed to arrive there, at the room that wasn’t a room, you could trespass by pressing your body between the thick concrete slab of the building’s foundation and the sharp rocks of the mountain’s jagged façade. Why the management did not extend the building the mere inches required to wall off the space completely I would never know. I guess they underestimated the curiosity, determination and stupidity of their younger residents. Perhaps they didn’t care.

The room that wasn’t a room held a cavernous space, at least two stories tall, with ceilings that sent your voice ricocheting back to you. The floor was littered with towering mounds of concrete debris, the odd plastic bucket or cracked beer bottle thrown in to break the gray monotony. The space was simply a room that wasn’t, an emptiness carved by structures on three sides and the mountain towering along the fourth.

These dark, forbidden spaces, forged at the intersection of human achievement and the earth supporting it, were not difficult for us children to find. On the far side of the complex, if one were so inclined, it was possible to jump over the railing of the parking garage stairs and scamper along the gutter between the building’s outer foundation and the mountainside. Turning the corner there was a slim opening between two buttresses, just wide enough for narrow hipped children to slip through. The opening was so tight and so long that it inevitably engendered panic, but if you could push forward (despite the overwhelming urge to turn back) you would end up in the shallow crawl space between the parking garage and the ground below it. The ceiling was so low that crawling along on forearms and stomach was required. To the left, the ground sloped steeply and the smooth concrete of the foundation quickly gave way to dirt and gravel. The only light came through thick and tightly woven screens at the far side and it was impossible to see much, even after your eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

I hated that space, under the parking lot, even more than I hated the room that wasn’t a room. The juxtaposition of the true mountain and our man-made imposter inspired a haunting mixture of fear and dread.

Standing at the edge of the swimming hole I am struck by the beauty the mountain is now offering me. Every thing about this space sharply contrasts with my previous encounters: the bright sun, the spaciousness, the leaves rustling gently in the breeze. There are even birds here, singing sweetly as the flitter in and out of the shade.

I sit down on the sun-baked rock and the heat immediately penetrates the flimsy protection my shorts fail to provide. I jerk up, swearing under my breath, and brush at my backside as if to provide some relief. I bend down to unlace my tennis shoes, but something stops me.

Do I jump into the water? I want to say yes. I can’t imagine that the answer is no, and yet this memory is tinged with regret. I reach into the past and can’t determine what happens next. I see the water so clearly, but I don’t feel it kissing my skin. It’s more a promise, an idyllic vision bleached by the sun, tinged with anticipation, and strangely marked by remorse.

I will be back here again. I am sure of it. Standing at the edge of the water I want nothing more than to jump in, but something is stopping me. Surely not the lack of a swimming suit, maybe it’s someone who is with me. Maybe plunging in has been forbidden.

But I will be back again. I promise it to myself.

Except now, looking back, I know that I won’t. I never go back.

I can’t remember why.

This is the second paragraph of Joan Didion’s “Why I Write,” which was originally delivered as a speech at University of California, Berkeley and was later published in the New York Times Book Review (in December of 1976). I read it in Douglas Hunt’s The Dolphin Reader (6th Ed).

This piece wasn’t actually assigned but I love Joan Didion and so I read it anyway. Now I can’t stop considering it.

In many ways writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind. It’s an aggressive, even a hostile act. You can disguise its aggressiveness all you want with veils of subordinate clauses and qualifiers and tentative subjunctives, with ellipses and evasions–with the whole manner of intimating rather than claiming, of alluding rather that stating–but there’s no getting around the fact that setting words on paper is the tactic of a secret bully, an invasion, an imposition of the writer’s sensibility on the reader’s most private space.

I read this quote through the lens of the last few years of writing. I know there were times when my writing was aggressive, when I was a not-so-secret bully. There were times when publishing my words was a hostile act. I didn’t recognize my actions as such then, but I do now. So I know that Didion is right, some of the time. But is she always?

I think one of the reasons that I have a hard time making friends is I share too much, too quickly. I’m not sure if it’s the loneliness that lurks constantly, or a fear that eventually I’ll be found out so I might as well confess of my own volition, or if I’m just desperate to be really and truly accepted for who I am, but no matter the reason, I hoist unfair burdens on unsuspecting acquaintances all the time.

It’s something I’m desperate to stop doing. I’ve been somewhat successful in my attempts.

I struggle with authenticity and over-sharing. I want to be honest, but I need to be respectful. I refuse to share falsehoods or half-truths but I suspect that is what people ultimately want. How do I navigate the sometimes parallel, most times divergent paths of authenticity and social expectation?

This is especially hard in my writing.

I’m fascinated though, by the suggestion that it doesn’t really matter which path I choose, that no matter what I say, the simple acts of expressing myself on the page is, in some ways, aggressive. That just by writing, and therefore insinuating that I want others to read, I’m thrusting myself upon them. I can argue that others are free to choose, that they can read my words or leave them be, but maybe that freedom is not enough to negate the intention I establish by writing in the first place.

I am less fascinated by the idea that I return to participate in this act of possible aggression, that I’ve engaged in it tens of hundreds of times in the past five years. That seems fitting somehow–outlining the parts of the picture offered by interlocking pieces I didn’t even realize were missing. What fascinates me is that everyone else continues to participate. That people come here to engage in this possibly hostile exchange, that they listen as I ask them “listen to me, see it my way, change your mind.” I’m fascinated that I do the same on other people’s blog.

Perhaps that is what society is all about. We intrude upon each other, upon our sensibilities, simply to avoid being alone. We participate in this exchange, we allow ourselves to be imposed upon, because the alternative is solitude, and it scares us. To avoid being left alone we open ourselves up to invasion, by other peoples thoughts and opinions, by their words.

Sometime we will feel attacked. Sometimes we will feel vulnerable. But sometimes we will feel understood, validated and less alone. And for that reason we participate in the exchange. We return, again and again, despite the aggressiveness of the act.

What do you think of Didion’s suggestion? Do you believe writing “is an aggressive, even a hostile act”?

{Our most recent writing assignment was about unpacking the different identities that we feel define us. This is what I wrote.}

Woman

First and foremost, I identify as a woman. Or maybe I’m aware that everyone else first recognizes me as a woman. Immediately upon seeing me, my gender is identified and assumptions are made, assumptions about what I should look like (attractive, put together), how I should act (polite, gracious, quiet), and what I should want (a man, children, a nice house). In many ways, I am defined by society by what’s between my legs.

My vagina is also a prerequisite for most of the roles I identify with. One cannot be a mother, wife or daughter without checking the “female” box on overly detailed forms. My womanhood is the foundation upon which everything else is built.

Mother

Is there a role that has been more exhaustively showcased, discussed and debated in our culture than that of “mother”? Do we hold any other person to such impossible standards, require such elaborate selflessness and demand such unattainable perfection? Do we ask anyone else to shoulder such a heavy burden as the raising of well-adjusted, content, productive people? The very future of our society rests in the hands of mothers (at least that is what the headlines would have you believe).

I am acutely aware of all that we expect of mothers because I fail at most of the responsibilities. I don’t often offer my children fresh, organic, well-balanced meals, partly because I know they wouldn’t eat them and partly because I don’t want to make them. I don’t maintain an immaculately clean house, in fact most of the time it’s a chaotic mess. I read to my kids regularly and expose them to academic language every day, plus I provide appropriate emotional support, but most of the time I feel like I’m failing at motherhood in all the ways society deems most important.

Wife

There are repeating themes woven into the roles women inhabit and the most common is that of caretaker. Mothers care for their children and wives care for their husbands. I’ve already admitted to the myriad ways I fail to care for my children (healthy meals, clean house) and I suppose I’m failing as a wife in those arenas as well. That said, my marriage is a happy and fulfilling one. My husband and I have worked through some considerable challenges and grown stronger for them (cliché, but true). And while I don’t cook or clean much for my husband, I provide ample support, give him the alone time he needs (an impressive feat these days) and recognize all his efforts with our children and around the house. The fact that things are good between us, despite the constant challenges posed by two young children and two full time jobs, convinces me that I’m doing pretty well in the wife department.

Daughter

My mom makes it pretty easy to be a good daughter, because she is an almost perfect mom. My mother excels in precisely the ways I fail at motherhood. She has been cooking fresh, well-balanced meals since we were kids and she still brings me delicious, home cooked leftovers for lunch on occasion. She cleans my house about once a month and still buys me things that I want but can’t really afford (ahem, Dyson cordless vacuum charging in the next room). She provides free childcare and manages to make me feel like I’m the one doing her a favor for bringing over my kids. In return, all I have to do is be her friend. The relationship is so ridiculously lopsided in my favor that it’s embarrassing and I wonder constantly if I’ll ever be half the mother to my kids as my mother was, and is, to me.

Teacher

I’ve been teaching for ten years and that part of identity has become more prominent and important than I ever expected. Teaching is a hard profession but in many ways I have it really easy. I teach Spanish at a middle school in an upper middle class suburb with dedicated, involved parents and well funded Ed Foundation. As an elective teacher I can fly under the radar of standardize test stress (my subject is not tested by the state) and I can avoid conflicts with other staff because I don’t have to collaborate much with others (which is a shame because that is one of my strengths). Over the last ten years I have created a truly dynamic, comprehensive and effective curriculum that I’m quite proud of, and I’m increasingly aware of how much I value my professional identity.

I observe the national debate about teachers with great interest, but I rarely make my own voice heard. I am acutely aware of how poorly teachers are regarded, how we are often not seen as professionals and how our extended breaks seem to delegitimize the hard work that we do and the long hours we put in. I’ve noticed that people tend to believe they are as well versed in educational philosophy and practice as teachers who spent many years studying in post-graduate institutions. It is frustrating to feel devalued on a professional level and it plays into a theme in my life of suspecting that I’m not getting the credit I’m due, which floats precariously above a deeper, more upsetting suspicion that my station in life–an upper-class, white woman in the wealthiest nation on the planet–renders null and void anything I ever accomplish.

Friend

In the wake of a recent friendship implosion I can’t quite unpack this one. This part of me is “under construction;” I hope to be unveiling my new “great friend 2.0” identity soon. In the meantime, I’ll just say that I take friendship very seriously, and I want desperately to be a good friend, though I seem to be struggling with it.

Depression, Anxiety and ADD

How to title this section? I wasn’t sure. I thought about it for a long time. Am I sufferer of these ailments? It honestly doesn’t feel that way anymore. I am them, and they are me. I am never sure where I end and they begin. I’m not even sure where one of them ends and another begins. My anxiety interacts intimately with my depression; they are partners in a sad, frenetic dance and it’s hard to tell who is leading. My ADD is the shoes on their feet, distracting everything with its incessant tapping. I’m not even sure what the medicine I take is treating, as it’s prescribed to me off-label for ADD but mostly it treats depression. Is life less overwhelming when I take it because my ADD symptoms are managed, which keeps my depression at bay? Or is my depression lessened so my ADD symptoms don’t grate as much? All I know is that after almost two decades of therapy and medication I have come to understand that I cannot manage my life alone. I have not yet determined if medication and exercise are crutches on which I hobble through life, or tools that grant me a mobility I couldn’t enjoy otherwise.

I briefly considered shoving “Cohabitator” in front that list above but it’s not actually a word and I wasn’t sure if I should create it with an “-or” or an “-er” because spelling doesn’t come naturally to me and I don’t feel well equipped to mold the rules to my own purposes. I’m not sure the sentiment is correct either, though that word seems the closest fit. I live with these things; they are a part of my life. Their threads help design and color every aspect of my life’s tapestry–it is impossible to tease them apart without the whole thing unraveling–so I mention them here (as a footnote? an aside?) because to omit them would be disingenuous, and I refuse to be that.

Which identities define you?