January 28, 2015
January 8, 2015
Most days, Kigali is bursting at its dusty seams with activity. It’s busiest in early evening, when ‘rush hour’ means triple the amount of motos weaving in between SUVs, cars that are missing dashboards, and pick-up trucks hanging so low to the ground that sometimes whatever is down there scrapes the road with a very loud screech. (I know I should know what is happening there—I still have a lot to learn about cars.) The honking is incessant, but nearby, birds perching on the power lines chime in to the cacophony. The sounds of Kigali traffic can be accosting, but I’ve come to depend on the evening’s crescendos and diminuendos, the way the city revs me up before letting me down easy.
On Christmas, my mom and I have one of our spontaneous dance parties, doing our thing across the tiled living room floor while singing—belting, really—“Sweet Caroline,” her favorite. When my parents leave a few days later and it’s just Katrina and me, we stay up late catching up on months of being apart. We paint our nails and eat spoonfuls of peanut butter and watch Friday Night Lights. The chiding begins immediately: she slaps my hand every time I crack a knuckle and I growl stop biting when she nibbles on her nails. We settle into our sister routine, which I’ve been missing more than I realized. There are almost always thousands of miles between us; sometimes I forget how well she knows me, how we know each other better than anyone else.
It starts pouring in the middle of our hike in Nyungwe rainforest. The water comes down hard and fast and within seconds I learn that my waterproof jacket is not, in fact, waterproof, but my brand-new water-resistant hiking boots repel water like it’s the one thing they were brought into this world to do. I blink my way through the rain, breathing hard through my mouth. The rain never lets up and we never stop walking.
It is heavy here. The weight of the worst things humans can do to their fellow humans is pervasive. Twenty years ago, after Rwanda’s genocide left over a million people dead, the bullet holes in the walls of the Parliament building were left as a reminder. Bodies were dug up around the country—skeletons of mothers and husbands and grandparents and babies, their bones preserved with limestone—and placed delicately on display on top of wooden tables to serve as reminders, too. So their surviving relatives and countrymen can come see. So the world can come see.
In her book The Empathy Exams, Leslie Jamison wrote: “You’re just a tourist inside someone else’s suffering until you can’t get it out of your head; until you take it home with you—across a freeway, or a country, or an ocean.” The stench of the skeletons was overwhelming, but I couldn’t bring myself to cover my nose and mouth. To know inside the heart is difficult, Fidel said to me. Maybe the difficult part is realizing we too often try not to know.
It is light here. Light enough to put a million tiny cracks in the armor you and I and everyone builds up after difficult times. Light enough to let the Rwandan sunshine pour through. Light enough to melt resistance. When you are riding on a moto at 60 miles per hour and all you see are the city lights painting the hills and all you feel is the warm night breeze tucking you in and all you want is to be tucked in, by this air and place and even by that feeling of your stomach in your throat when the moto driver doesn’t break hard enough for the speed bump and you’re airborne, light for a weightless second and all you can think is, I trust this.
Last night, I made a simple dinner. I roasted garlic and sautéed a couple red onions. I cooked a sausage and a bit of rice. I cut up fresh vegetables—cucumber, carrot, tomato—and put them on a plate with pieces of ripe pineapple. It was a simple, fresh, colorful meal, made in a small, breezy kitchen on a small plot of land in a small but tremendous country.
Today, like usual, I woke up under my mosquito net and lay listening for a while. Cars and motos were scuttling down the street, their horns punctuating the morning. The birds outside my window were having full conversations. The caretaker, Felician, was doing some kind of gardening that entailed hitting a metal tool repeatedly against the brick. I smiled, remembering many mornings waking up in Ghana and Sri Lanka, where I learned how in some parts of the world, when your neighbor is up, it means everyone else should be up, too.
And so I’m up, opening all the doors and windows in the house because I can’t get enough of this country’s breeze and sunshine, all 70-something degrees of it. I start boiling water for coffee and walk out into the yard. I decided a long time ago that if I could go barefoot for the rest of my life, I would. The earth under my feet, the grass and dirt between my toes—this is what grounds me. After coffee, I take my time hanging things on the clothesline because in the history of chores, this is one of my favorites. When I was young, I helped my grandmother hang clothes in the backyard of my grandparent’s home in northern New York. The line stretched from the patio to the grandkids’ tree house and I’d stand on a chair, stretching up to secure the clothes, hanging on to every word Grandma said. Years later, in Ghana, hand washing and pinning up clothes was a sweaty, tiring, three-hour ordeal. I loved it so much I saved all of the clothespins I bought there to use again in the backyard of my future house someday.
Felician walks by with his loud metal tool. “Mwaramutse,” I say. Good morning. “Amukuru?”
The light, heavy day begins.
1. a stack of plastic chairs
2. a Christmas tree
3. a stack of mattresses
4. house plants
5. a wooden bed frame
6. milk jugs
7. an astounding number of bushels of carrots
8. a goat
9. a fence
10. three men.
January 9, 2015
The mother is wearing a bubblegum pink shirt and tight jeans. The toddler is barefoot and perched on her hip, staring at me with his fist in his mouth while his mother orders at the counter. The father, a large man with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, is wearing Adidas sandals and socks. The couple is disagreeing about what toppings to get on their pizza. The father starts to lecture the teenager behind the counter about something that, judging by his confused look, the teenager does not understand. That makes two of us. I’m standing in a noisy Domino’s in a suburb of Shanghai, blinking into harsh fluorescent lights, my ears buzzing and full of a language that, frankly, I am tired of not understanding.
A small, tan-and-white Chihuahua lives near a fire hydrant I pass every day. I think he belongs to whoever owns the shop across the street from the fire hydrant—I’m not sure. But I know that he is there every morning when I walk to school, sniffing around the peeling red paint and licking the cracks in the sidewalk. When I turn the corner at 8:50 a.m., coffee in hand, he is there, smelling and tasting the morning. He is my one daily constant in a city of constant chaos, a city I feel like I’ve been crowd surfing in for many days.
I can say two things in Mandarin: “Good morning” and “I am a tiger.” I learned that second sentence from one of my students, Frankey, after I heard how lovely the word ‘tiger’ sounded. I tried to explain to Frankey that it was metaphorical, that in Shanghai I felt like I had to adopt the fierceness of a tiger just to step onto the street. That to be a tiger in this city helps me face the accosting traffic, the men constantly spitting on the sidewalks, the people who push and frown their way past me.
I did not say all this to Frankey. I thanked him for teaching me a little bit more Mandarin.
I am in Shanghai to teach a leadership course to Chinese high school students. I’m part of an instructional team put together by Duke University, and for the most part, teaching is going well. Our students are as fascinated with my co-instructor’s bald head and my tattoo as they are with the leadership curriculum we are teaching. They are talking sponges, absorbing and questioning everything. The days are long here, but I love being in the classroom.
What I am not loving is Shanghai. And I can’t stop analyzing why that is and why I feel guilty about it. I have loved almost every new place I’ve ever traveled to—why is this place different? Have my travels hardened me, made me less accepting of the discomforts and annoyances here that I would normally greet with a shoulder-shrug or a head bobble? Am I resisting this city because my new home, New York City, is waiting for me? I sense a shift. For years now, I’ve felt compelled to explore the U.S. more, to put down some semblance of roots in a place I can commit to for an unknown period of time—a place to call home on my own terms. This is what New York will be for me, I hope. And I think this is why I feel so pulled to the new adventure that’s about to begin there.
I know that many of the things I don’t like about Shanghai are things I am sure to encounter in New York. But in cities like Shanghai, speaking the language is everything, and my two sentences of Mandarin do not help me order dinner or decipher street signs or ask to whom my Chihuahua friend belongs. I rely on my Mandarin-speaking colleagues constantly, and this lack of independence does not a happy traveler make. I look forward to returning to China someday to explore other parts of this vast country, away from its congested cities. For now, though, I am realizing it’s okay to not love every new place I travel to. This does not make me a picky traveler or a close-minded person. It just means I am discerning what I value and most enjoy in my travels, and what I do not.
I’m not sure why it took me this long and so many new places to learn this.
Our last day of the leadership course was my 25th birthday. It was a fantastic day. For the past 10 years, I have been lucky enough to celebrate my birthday each year in a new place, almost always in a new city or country. My students made my birthday in Shanghai very special, surprising me with gifts and snacks and even a chorus of “Happy Birthday” in both Mandarin and English. I was fortunate enough to spend my birthday doing something that always brings me joy: teaching.
Most of our instructional staff flew back to the States the next morning, but I stayed an extra night in Shanghai. I had just turned 25. I was coming off of an intense summer, one of many highs and lows, and was about to move to a new city and begin graduate school. I decided to take to heart what my best friend told me to do on my birthday: “Treat yoself.” So I checked into a hotel for a day and night of luxury.
I immediately changed into workout clothes and took the elevator down to the hotel’s gym, where I ran and ran and ran on a treadmill, sweating out Shanghai’s smog. I practiced yoga in a quiet, dark room. I swam laps in the hotel’s huge pool. I indulged in the steam room and the Jacuzzi. I read. I ordered room service. I took a bubble bath and when the suds began overflowing, I let them. I sat on the king-size bed and looked out at the water and skyscrapers. I read some more. I took a stroll on The Bund, enjoying a bustling Saturday night in Shanghai, and then fought the crowds to enjoy a delicious $5 dinner of spicy noodle soup with sides of kimchi, seaweed, and boiled peanuts. When I came back, there was a slice of chocolate birthday cake and a glass of champagne resting on the bed, courtesy of the hotel.
Looking back, I realize that day and night was one of restoration. The treats were nice but what I really relished in was taking time to just be. I had forgotten what it felt like to be still, to not be constantly on the move and onto the next thing. I had been running from the busyness of the spring and the sadness of the summer, running to different cities and countries and new experiences. And now I was about to run and dive headfirst into a new life chapter in a new city.
But first: an immaculate king-size bed to jump on. A bubble bath to soak in. And a piece of chocolate cake with a single candle for me to light, make a wish on, and blow out with a big, deep, grateful breath.
January 8, 2015
Leading 25 high school students throughout Ireland last summer was one of the most challenging and rewarding teaching jobs I’ve ever had. My co-leaders—a fun-loving, extremely skilled photographer and a smart, witty poet—and I barely slept for those two weeks. But we loved (almost) every minute engaging with these talented teenagers, teaching them what we know about writing and photography and helping them create and adventure their way through a new country.
Every evening, our three groups came together for a big family meeting. One of our nightly traditions was writing down and sharing an “I remember” statement, encapsulating a memory from the day.
On our last night in Dublin, the students put on a reading and showing of their writing and photography at a venue in the city. They weren’t just teenagers that night but artists, artists with incredible stories and brilliant detail. What I’ll always remember most from that evening was how enthusiastically they clapped for one another, all evening long.
Below (interspersed with a few of my favorite photos from the trip) are some of the “I remembers” from our final meeting.
I remember hearing beautiful words and seeing striking photographs at tonight’s reading.
I remember feeling like a family when my group sang “Imagine” in a circle.
I remember having the most fun and loudest walk home ever.
I remember when I had afternoon tea with pastries stacked high on silver platters.
I remember the amazing feeling of finishing my pieces of writing this morning.
I remember the first day, when we stepped off the plane, like it was yesterday.
I remember feeling at home surrounded by so many like and talented minds.
I remember bonding with Sydney and Katie over dinner, through nerdy pick-up lines, which was really great.
I remember being blown away by all the talent at our show.
I remember bittersweet: presenting a tiny piece of myself to you all here, who I’ve truly come to call friends, and at the same time knowing that, yes, I will be home tomorrow, but as for the temporary home I’ve built here in Ireland with the help of all of you lovely people, that will be sorely missed.
I remember being shocked seeing a fox roaming the streets of Dublin.
I remember visiting The Little Museum of Dublin. It was unlike any museum I’ve ever been to.
I remember having some hard times. I remember a lot of support. I remember feeling and receiving a lot of love. And I remember a rad Bruce Springsteen duet with Patrick.
I remember eating multiple scones at afternoon tea.
I remember linking arms and laughing walking back here tonight.
I remember walking the streets of Dublin for the last time, watching all the places we visited pass by.
I remember feeling relieved after finally showing my photos.
I remember today being the best day ever.
I remember everyone’s amazing writing and photography and making new friends and memories that I’ll never forget.
January 2, 2015
After coming painfully close to not obtaining my new passport in time and then missing my flight to Dublin, I wasn’t so sure I was going to make it to Ireland last June. Which really wasn’t an option, since I was set to lead twenty-five students throughout the country on a National Geographic Student Expedition starting in a few days. But thanks to my Uber driver’s lead foot and a really nice Delta agent, I got my passport and a seat on a different flight, headed to Shannon. From there, I took a long train ride across the country to Dublin, checked into a hostel, and walked around the corner to a pub, where Guinness stew, a pint, and a copy of The Irish Times welcomed me to Ireland.
The week I spent traveling around south and southwest Ireland before starting my National Geographic duties was one of my most memorable weeks of 2014. I travel often, but almost never alone—the countries I have spent time in over the past several years are, for the most part, not ones in which I felt safe traveling around by myself.
Like many other women (and men), in my travels I’ve been grabbed at, pushed down, robbed, and verbally harassed. I dealt with these things when they occurred and moved on. The more one travels (no matter where), the more likelihood that bad—as well as wonderful—things will happen. And yet. It is hard to talk about getting hurt. As time passed, I began to see how those ugly occurrences have made me a more hyper-aware and anxious traveler. When I spent time traveling around Turkey with two good friends in July 2013, I was shocked to see that compared to them, I was far less trusting of strangers, of sketchy interactions, even of nightfall. This deeply bothered me. When did I become so jaded? I wondered resentfully. The three of us had spent a semester abroad in Ghana together in college, where we were eager and adventurous almost to a fault. Ghana opened us right up and we drank it all in, approaching every weekend trip and kind stranger and power outage and bout of malaria with overwhelming optimism and a healthy dose of innocence. When I think back to those months, I remember a sponge-like curiosity. I remember saying yes to almost everything. I do not remember feeling afraid.
So when the opportunity came the following summer to fly to Ireland early so I could travel before my co-leaders and our students arrived, I jumped at it. I felt sure I would be able to explore Ireland safely on my own, without worrying too much. I wanted to reclaim part of that carefree spirit, my modus operandi that guided me through Ghana. And so after one night in Dublin, I headed south to County Cork.
On my second night in Cork, my mother called from the States to tell me my grandfather had died. I was expecting the call, but not this soon. I had said a last goodbye to him in his home a few days earlier and knew he would pass away while I was gone. But knowing someone you love is dying does not make it easier to accept when it happens. I left the pub where I had been watching U.S. vs. Belgium in the World Cup and went around the corner to sit on the curb and listen to my mother tell me the details of Granddaddy’s death: who had been with him, what happened after, what would happen now. I felt guilty. I should be there, not here. This, surely, was why it had been so difficult to get to Ireland. I am supposed to be there, not here. When I hung up, I hugged my knees to my chest. Cars whipped around the traffic circle and I watched their headlights and cried.
The next morning, I took a bus to Blarney Castle and spent the day in the sprawling green gardens. For the first time in my life, I grieved alone. And so my week of solo travel became a time to honor my grandfather, the most traveled man I’ve ever known. That week, I explored with a sense of abandonment I had been sorely missing. I kissed the Blarney Stone. I explored the Titanic’s last port of call in Cobh. I tucked a wildflower behind my ear in Killarney National Park. I rode around the Ring of Kerry. I took an unhealthy amount of pictures of sunsets and pet many stray cats.
In Kerry, the night before I bussed back to Dublin, I took a taxi back to my hostel after having dinner in town. The driver, Joe, was so quintessentially Irish I couldn’t help but grin at every word that came out of his mouth. (And there were many words. But as Paul Theroux wrote, “To be in the presence of talkers is a gift to the writer.”)
“Here’s something for ya,” Joe began. “The other day, I was waiting for the bus. It was taking ages to come. And I was enthralled with this piece of paper flying about, getting brought up and brought down. And I said to someone, ‘How long will it stay up there?’ I couldn’t stop thinking about that little piece of paper. So when I got home, I wrote a poem about it.”
He began reciting:
Paper blowing in the wind
Is like a sailor fighting sin.
The only time that he can win
Is when he rests in heaven.
Joe smiled and looked at me through the rearview mirror. “I think everyone has a story in them, a poem in them,” he said. “It’s natural. You just gotta reach in and pull it out, ya know?”
I smiled back. I thought of Granddaddy. I thought of where I was: a small town in southwest Ireland, full from a hearty meal, the summer air streaming through my hair. I’d soon be falling asleep in a small bunk. Stars were beginning to pepper the evening sky. I was alone, and I was so far from alone.
January 1, 2015
One of the things I love to do with this blog is share writing that is not my own. I habitually turn to other people’s words for inspiration and support; I love when I read or hear something and think, “Yesyesyesyesyes.” And so on this first day of 2015, I’m sharing words others have shared with me over the past few years. Almost all of the following sentiments were written to me by people I am very close to; a couple were written or spoken by writers I admire. I keep these words close, always. They bolster and illuminate and, above all, speak to the resilience, the light of all lights, that pulses within each of us.
“When you have it in you, take some time to reflect on the ups and downs of the last year, dear one. It’s incredible. Like riding on the river rapids (so I’m told…as you could guess I’ve never done such a thing), so high and so low. You held on and let the ride happen with all the fragility of your beautiful soul – that’s all you could ever ask of yourself. You’re building resilience and spreading love in spades. Don’t ever forget it.”
“Home isn’t one place all the time. Home is what you are doing and how you are living these days. Look at what your life is about, your values. That’s home, too.”
“Be personally excellent and interact with people from your heart, and all the rest will take care of itself.”
“Please believe that you are not only beautiful, but a beautiful person. When the time comes for you to have to fight something awful in your life, know that.”
“…I think I would go back in time and give myself a message about patience, humility, and the importance of listening—not just in a literal way but a grand scope way…I would say, ‘It’s going to be okay. It’s also going to take some time. You have a lot to learn, and it’s okay that you don’t know it. You can’t force yourself and you can’t hurry into it.’”
“And don’t forget that you are ______ ______ and you do it your way. So if you want to turn this day around, you just go right ahead and do it.”
“…and I think life isn’t so much about the mistakes we make but how much faith we put in the better, brighter energy that is always lingering by them.”
“Maybe one day we will cross paths again. But until then, keep living your life with curiosity, adventure, and love.”
“You’re in the middle of a gift even if it doesn’t feel like it. It takes strength to make it through these times with centeredness and acceptance. Strength is your forte.”
“After all these years, I can say this: as we go through life, it’s the efforts and the accomplishments we remember most. The disagreeable fades away.”
“You’ve given much and you’ve received much in return. You now have so many exciting times and adventures ahead. Go for it! Go for it all! Who knows where it will all lead, but since it’s you, I know it will be good for you and good for others.”
“Whatever your shift is this year, I honor where it takes you. If your path is easy, may it be easy like a river is easy, because some innate pull leads you around obstacles. A flowing that has outgrown resistance. And if your journey is hard, may it be hard like the breaking open of a seed pod when the tendril curls toward the sky. A natural releasing.”
“Hey. You. Go disturb the universe.”
December 24, 2014
When I moved back to the U.S. from Sri Lanka a year and a half ago, I was given a warning.
“Your passport is full,” the oily-skinned U.S. customs agent said. He glanced at my short hair and round cheeks, then back down at a picture of me taken 26 countries and a lifetime ago. “You are not permitted to leave the U.S. again until you get a new passport.”
“That’s fine,” I said, adjusting my heavy backpack straps. I’d been back in the States for 17 minutes. “I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
I will recall this moment almost a year later while running barefoot through downtown Boston, on a sweltering Friday afternoon, in a cocktail dress. HOW did I forget my passport was full, I cannot stop thinking. Moments earlier, I was gripping the backseat of my Uber driver’s seat, head bowed. “I can’t look, I can’t look. I’m going to be sick, I’m so nervous I’m going to be sick,” I said. He’s hurrying, he’s a Southie and lives and breathes these streets, but even his flagrant disregard for red lights cannot get me through Boston’s summer traffic fast enough. Taking off my heels, I tell him to pull over. I jump out of the car. The sidewalk is hot, hot, hot and I start running, dodging tourists—a skill that will prove useful a few months later, when I am living in New York, navigating my way through evening runs on the city’s streets.
I am officially panicking. What if I don’t make it to the Boston Passport Agency by 4:00 p.m. in time to retrieve my new passport, the one I paid $250 for earlier that day, the one I need in order to fly to Ireland on Sunday to start my summer job? What if I make us all late to our friend’s wedding (why we’re in Boston in the first place)? What if my best friend’s boyfriend is not successful in his efforts to buy a tie from someone off the street before we get on the road? What if my date forgets his guitar in the hotel room and isn’t able to play at the reception? (Which would leave everyone disappointed, especially me, but this is no time to be selfish.)
Finally, finally, I am running up the stairs of the Tip O’Neill Federal Building, breathless, sweating through my dress, leaping through the security screening machine. Up the never-ending staircase and past the uniformed customs agent and there it is, my new passport, all 52 stampless pages of it, pushed against the Plexiglas by a pursed-lip woman who, I’m sure, sees this panic every day. It’s 3:59 p.m. I catch my breath. I put my heels back on. I kiss my passport.
How is it that the most stressful and most happy moments of my life have always, without fail, revolved around travel?
Six months later, I am sitting on a couch at Plot 28 in Kigali, Rwanda, my sister’s home for a year. Katrina, Mom, and Dad are sprawled out next to me. We’re eating popcorn and watching the series finale of The Newsroom. Mom’s already finished her bowl of popcorn—we always divvy up our portions because when it comes to homemade stovetop popcorn, none of us are good at sharing—and she’s trying to steal some from Katrina’s. Dad is in his pajamas, hands behind his head, feet propped up on the coffee table. There’s a small Christmas tree across the room; Katrina rode home with it on the back of a moto the other day. “You should’ve seen me,” she said. “I can now eat, text, AND carry Christmas trees on the back of Kigali motos.” She says Kigali with a slight accent, elongating the l sound with her tongue between her teeth. In Kinyarwanda, the country’s principal language, words are pronounced phonetically. Except, of course, when they are not.
The power goes out.
“I knew that would happen,” Katrina says. Since the speakers connected to the computer no longer work, the three of them lean forward to listen to the laptop. The crickets begin to chirp a little louder. Somehow, the lights on the Christmas tree are still shining.
The last time I posted a blog from this continent was May 16, 2010, the day I left Ghana after living there for several months.
What do we take with us when we go, and what do we leave behind? I’m flying home tonight with pockets full of sand, uneven tan lines, and a mosquito net that I refuse to part with. My Bradt guidebook has seen better days but I suspect the next traveler I pass it on to will find its worn edges and scribbled notes inside endearing. My bookshelves will soon be home to many more books, my walls home to woodcarvings and paintings. I’ve got gifts of glass beads, traditional kente cloth, pottery, more fabric than I know what to do with, and sounds on my voice recorder to remember forever: popcorn popping on a stove in a small village in the Eastern region; hours of conversation between eight great friends on a tiny beach on the Atlantic coastline, shooting stars passing us by overhead; the start-up of a motor taxi; the clapping of Model UN delegates; the wind right before a huge African downpour.
It was a difficult goodbye. I thought I was used to it by now, I wrote. But nothing compares to this.
And now, four-and-a-half years later. Rwanda. Kigali. Kicukiro. Plot 28. It’s raining softly. There are presents around the Christmas tree. We’ll all be sleeping under mosquito nets tonight.
It’s been a while since I’ve posted regularly on this blog, a place I’ve loved coming to over the past few years. So much has happened this year—much of it thanks to the sweat and tears that went into obtaining that new passport—and I have so much I want to write about: traveling around Ireland, teaching in China, moving to Brooklyn, starting graduate school at NYU, being accepted for an internship at the New York Times, spending the holidays here in Rwanda. It’s been a year of exciting, challenging experiences, and I look forward to writing about them here in due time.
In times of major transitions, it can be difficult to stay grounded, to remain loyal to the things we value most. I’ve missed writing in this space, keeping in touch from various corners of the world. But I’m glad to be back—and somehow, writing to you from this cozy corner in East Africa feels just about right.
My second day in Kigali, it starts pouring. Katrina’s tiled roof is known to leak, so the four of us run around her small house placing bowls under drips and moving furniture away from the wall. I spot a few bugs but leave them for the geckos that will soon come in from the rain. Later, when the rain lets up, we hop in a taxi to head into town. I’m eager to chat with our driver, Fidel. (“Like Castro?” I asked when I met him. “Thank you,” he replied.) We talk about Rwandan politics and holidays and family. Fidel is single, waiting for “the best” woman to marry.
“It is difficult, you know?” he says as he shifts gears and swerves around motos, a few trucks, a man carrying a stack of mattresses on his head. “To know inside the heart is difficult.” I tell him I understand. I tell him I am so very glad to be here.
September 16, 2014
How To Like It
by Stephen Dobyns
These are the first days of fall. The wind
at evening smells of roads still to be traveled,
while the sound of leaves blowing across the lawns
is like an unsettled feeling in the blood,
the desire to get in a car and just keep driving.
A man and a dog descend their front steps.
The dog says, Let’s go downtown and get crazy drunk.
Let’s tip over all the trash cans we can find.
This is how dogs deal with the prospect of change.
But in his sense of the season, the man is struck
by the oppressiveness of his past, how his memories
which were shifting and fluid have grown more solid
until it seems he can see remembered faces
caught up among the dark places in the trees.
The dog says, Let’s pick up some girls and just
rip off their clothes. Let’s dig holes everywhere.
Above his house, the man notices wisps of cloud
crossing the face of the moon. Like in a movie,
he says to himself, a movie about a person
leaving on a journey. He looks down the street
to the hills outside of town and finds the cut
where the road heads north. He thinks of driving
on that road and the dusty smell of the car
heater, which hasn’t been used since last winter.
The dog says, Let’s go down to the diner and sniff
people’s legs. Let’s stuff ourselves on burgers.
In the man’s mind, the road is empty and dark.
Pine trees press down to the edge of the shoulder,
where the eyes of animals, fixed in his headlights,
shine like small cautions against the night.
Sometimes a passing truck makes his whole car shake.
The dog says, Let’s go to sleep. Let’s lie down
by the fire and put our tails over our noses.
But the man wants to drive all night, crossing
one state line after another, and never stop
until the sun creeps into his rearview mirror.
Then he’ll pull over and rest awhile before
starting again, and at dusk he’ll crest a hill
and there, filling a valley, will be the lights
of a city entirely new to him.
But the dog says, Let’s just go back inside.
Let’s not do anything tonight. So they
walk back up the sidewalk to the front steps.
How is it possible to want so many things
and still want nothing. The man wants to sleep
and wants to hit his head again and again
against a wall. Why is it all so difficult?
But the dog says, Let’s go make a sandwich.
Let’s make the tallest sandwich anyone’s ever seen.
And that’s what they do and that’s where the man’s
wife finds him, staring into the refrigerator
as if into the place where the answers are kept—
the ones telling why you get up in the morning
and how it is possible to sleep at night,
answers to what comes next and how to like it.
September 13, 2014
I’m walking from the subway, passing through Fort Greene Park on my way home. This park is my favorite thing about where I live. It’s a two-minute walk from my apartment and has a runner’s loop that seems to have been made for me; a playground made for children but that I like to pretend was made for me; and, arguably, the best sunset views from this side of the Manhattan Bridge.
I just “pulled over” to write these words, because that’s what happens when it’s a Friday evening in early autumn and you can’t help but write it out. I spent the morning reading and studying in NYU’s main library. When afternoon hit, I walked across the street to Washington Square Park to lie in the grass, under the sun. I tell myself I’ll keep working but as soon as I close my eyes and begin listening to Friday in New York City unfold around me, I am pulled in to the worlds of the students, the sunbathers, the lovers, the locals, the tourists, the musicians—even the well-trained and almost cute pit bull playing with a Gatorade bottle next to a man who is clearly not his owner. The man is deeply tan and wearing a Speedo, so he’s probably a German tourist, but he seems unfazed by strange dogs, so I can’t be too sure. This city is full of nuances that challenge every small thing I thought I knew about the world to this point. I think this is a good thing, but time will tell.
There are already small piles of leaves building up under the trees that line my daily walk to and from my Brooklyn apartment. I wonder how these trees will change during my first autumn, winter, spring here. I wonder how I’ll change during my first autumn, winter, spring here.
Walking these streets that comprise my new home, I can’t help but feel something close to whole. Last year at this time, I didn’t quite know up from down. Today, though, I’m composing poetry in my head. I’m reeling from graduate school classes, books I already can’t put down, conversations I could stay up all night having. There’s a bar—called “Bar”—two blocks from my apartment that serves the best egg-white-whisky-sours I’ve ever had. Every few days I buy fresh fruit from three different street stands because I don’t have to pledge loyalty to just one, not just yet.
I say “thank you” often enough that people can tell I’m not from these parts. In the notebook I carry around, I’ve started a list titled “Strangest Things I’ve Seen in New York.” I don’t understand the classifications of grocery stores—convenience, deli, bodega, market, “that corner one”—and I have yet to determine how to exit the subway station at West 4th Street without walking for ten minutes through a creepy underground tunnel maze that I’m pretty sure is a setting in a John Grisham novel.
But, there’s this: a slice of NY cheese pizza in my bag cozied up to a bottle of Montepulciano wine. A stranger asking for directions because he’s sure I know my way around. And this whole grad school thing, which is both harder and more thrilling than I anticipated. It’ll be a challenging, uphill climb for the next two years, but I am exactly where I am supposed to be. And that, more than anything, is why I’ve been grinning this entire walk home.
July 26, 2014
You would have been 96 years old today. You wouldn’t have wanted to celebrate, but you probably would’ve wanted an extra dessert after dinner.
Last year, we celebrated your 95th and Dad’s 59th with a small party at Mom and Dad’s house in Virginia. What a special celebration that was: family, friends, memories, and many extra desserts.
I sat down to write you a couple of nights ago. It was pouring rain, and I had seen the storm coming in. I was standing outside of the grocery store; drops were falling. I wanted to be dancing in the storm. I should have danced in the storm. In the car—the car that you drove up until a few months ago, the car that still smells like you—Gillian Welch’s silky voice sang about peach trees and Mama’s wedding gown. Somewhere that night, there was a delicious bottle of Grüner Veltliner being passed around.
I want to dance in this rain.
I’m not dancing in this rain.
It’s summer, it’s raining, it’s North Carolina. It’s all these silky tunes and maybe, maybe, all I want are the people I lost this year.
A year ago today, I returned to the States after almost a year living in Sri Lanka. I remember wanting to touch ground on your 95th, knowing I’d be celebrating with you and seeing you as soon as I could after I landed. I was welcomed back by everyone I called home; it was one of the best homecomings I’ve ever had. You kissed my cheek when I greeted you and told me you were so glad that I was home.
I was in Ireland when you died a few weeks ago. I was in a pub in Cork, watching the U.S. get beat by Belgium in the last game we’d play in this World Cup. The morning after you died, I visited Blarney Castle and kissed the famous Blarney Stone. I spent the afternoon in the beautiful gardens surrounding the castle, breathing in the flowers and touching the trees. I sat under a huge oak tree for hours, relishing the peace and quiet of this tucked-away sanctuary in southern Ireland.
You died 5 days after your wife—my Grandmommy—did, 21 years ago. You died 2 days before what would have been your 68th wedding anniversary. You died 25 days before your 96th birthday. You died at home, in your own bed, with family around you. You died how you wanted to die.
What a rich and fulfilling life you led. 95 full years. You gave and provided so much. You loved and were so loved in return. And now, you’re reunited with the love of your life, after so many years of being apart.
I’m going to miss your stories, Granddaddy. I’m going to miss your laugh and your slightly off-kilter jokes. I’m going to miss how you held your cigarette while you were driving and how you took your hot tea with lemon: at IHOP, at Bob Evans, at Outback, at all the places we had our dinner dates and caught up over the years. I’m going to miss your advice about tires and courtship and love and the importance of hard work. I’m going to miss how you always called it “coca-COLA” and how you insisted I follow your fail-proof rinsing regiment when I washed your dishes. I’m going to miss your always capable hands. Hands that helped move your family into numerous homes over so many years; hands that fixed appliances older than I am; hands that traversed six continents; hands that held my face when I kissed you goodbye, and goodbye, and goodbye.
Your hands are home in Nebraska. Nebraska has you back now.
I read this at your burial service in Lincoln last weekend:
What if it rains the whole time you bury him?
The world buzzing with a dull roar, soft like suds
in your ears. You’ll wonder how to keep moving
when ninety-five years of life have just
stopped. You’ll watch the dew drip
down a single blade of grass on the family plot,
a tiny, spiraling snow globe holding the morning.
What if the sun breaks through the dark sky
the whole time you bury him? I’m ready
to be with the love of my life again, he said to you,
tears in his eyes and a cigarette dangling in his hand.
Ashes dropped to the ground, embers glowing
until the very end. In Wyuka, notice dandelion seeds
germinating according to the wind’s whims—
dust-inspired goodbyes, nature always taking back what it gives.
Remember these things when you leave Lincoln
for the first time, or for the last time,
traveling the battered highways
cracked, dry, and wanting. The late afternoon
sun will drip and rest easy on Nebraska’s hayfields—
hayfields he plowed, hayfields that are home to the bones
of so many who helped give you life—
and you’ll realize how some things fall so simply
and what it is to be laid down in the copper-colored earth.