albertine

Two posts in one day? Could it be true?

Yes. But only because my last post was long and I didn't want this second, and completely unrelated, post to get lost in the madness (madness. haha. get it, my last blog was on my fear of being seen as crazy... madness... get it? umm....).

Here's a song I've fallen in love with lately. It's by Brooke Fraser, off her CD Albertine, which is the only Christian CD by a female artist I think I have ever bought, and I seriously do not regret my purchase. I could write things about a few of her songs, but this one touches something in me. She wrote it about Rwanda, but her thoughts are so very similar to how I think of West Virginia, and how I know people think about Indonesia, or Ukraine, or India. 

Enough talking, here's the song:

"Albertine"

I am sitting still.

I think of Angelique

Her mother's voice over me

And the bullets in the wall where it fell silent.

And on a thousandth hill, I think of Albertine

There in her eyes what I don't see with my own

Rwanda

Now that I have seen, I am responsible

Faith without deeds is dead

Now that I have held you in my own arms, I cannot let go till you are

I am on a plan across a distant sea

But I carry you with me

and the dust on, the dust on, the dust on my feet

Rwanda

I will tell the world

I will tell them where I've been

I will keep my word

I will tell them, Albertine

unfair, I tell you!

I think of things every day that inspire me to think, "Well, that would make a great blog". Of course I forget them by the time I am sitting in front of my computer at the end of the day, so you never get to experience whatever words of humor and inspiration I have come up with. So just know that somewhere within me is lots of deep wisdom aching to come out... I just tend to forget exactly what that wisdom is.

So here's something that was bothering me the other day. (Isn't that the easy way to start blogs? By ranting about something so ridiculous that no human would ever sit and give you their listening energy to actually hear? Anyway.) So I have just begun the process of applying for grad schools, and part of the application essay is to talk about times when you have struggled with oppression or overcome adversity. I feel like I've faced my share of challenges in my life, as most people have. Problem is, my "adversity" didn't come in the form of someone telling me that I couldn't do something, or growing up significantly lacking in some key element, or having a disease, or struggling with racial or ethnic identity. My struggle has been entirely internal-- and as I've come to find over the past few years, internal struggles, however controlled or in the past they may be, only raise a red flag of "CRAZY!" in many people's minds.

This pisses me off.

The sad truth of the matter is that there is still a HUGE stigma about "mental illness" and all of its relatives. Just because I spent a large part of my childhood struggling with anxiety in a very serious way does not mean that I am incapable of excelling at a job or academic program. Anyone who knows me can testify to my ability to function in society with intelligence, passion, thoughtfulness, and reponsibility. Yet if I mention my past challenges with anxiety, will the nameless entities reviewing my grad school application become concerned about my mental stability and ability to succeed in a stressful environment?

Of course it would be much easier and safer to leave the whole subject out entirely. But they don't understand-- my struggle with such things in my childhood and teenage years helped make me who I am. It is because I understand how difficult and scary it can be to go through something like that and not know where to turn for help that I want to become a social worker. I learned perseverance, my own strength, the kindness of others. I learned how to challenge what I thought were my limitations. I learned to appreciate the issues that other people face. Wouldn't all these things make me a better social worker? But I fear they won't be able to see past the bright red Crazy flag flying all over my application...

Argh. It isn't like the anxiety was my fault. Yet people see "mental illnesses" as a flaw in someone's character, unlike how physical illnesses are viewed. I guess I'll just have to lose my job, sell all my belongings, walk barefoot across Washington and then write about my time spent in nature with nothing but physical pain to keep me company, just to prove that I'll be a good social worker.

graham cracker mornings

Whenever my phone rings and wakes me from whatever sleep I have managed to obtain in my frigid bedroom, it always takes me a few minutes to convince myself that it is, in fact, a phone call and NOT my alarm and therefore, I should answer it. So once I got that fact straightened out this morning, I heard the voice of one of my coworkers tell me that I needed to go into work and cover for her since her car wouldn't start. I yawned in the early morning darkness-- I swear I could see my breath, by the way-- and told her it would be no problem. Then I hung up the phone and contemplated my new reality of going in to work much earlier than anticipated. And get this... I was EXCITED.

What's not to like about a job where I can stumble in wearing pajamas, if I need to, and eat breakfast while I'm there? Where I get to say "Good Morning!" to kids who I have come to really love and care about? Where I can spend an hour getting beat at Mancala and playing a never-ending game of War, and it's my job? Seriously. If I have ever had a job that I don't mind spending extra unplanned hours at, this is it. As I said goodbye to the kids as they left this morning, adding the "See you after school!" tag (since I will), I felt very mother-ish. It is kind of an interesting responsibility to be the last one a kid sees before they go to school and the first one they see when they are done. It is a realm normally inhabited by parents, and I feel like it fits in a sort of "off" way-- like a jacket with shoulder pads, or something. But I like it, and I like these kids. And no matter how many hours I am NOT getting between my two jobs and how much economic logic dictates I should try to find one FULL time job that provides a more reliable income... I'm not leaving. Not yet. 

So to all of you with your office jobs and nice paychecks and business casual attire, I say this: Have fun with your swivelly desk chairs, and your computer monitors, and your coffee breaks. I'm happy spending my days sitting at a table covered in marker, eating graham crackers while I lose yet another game of Mancala to a nine-year-old.

back again

It's been a while since I have posted anything in here. I often think about posting something, but then the pressure to write something good hits me, and I am afraid that there is no way I can make my day to day activities and thoughts as interesting as everyone else seems to. I mean, I was an English major, right? I should be able to churn out an interesting blog entry every once in a while. Every other SPU English Department alum seems to. Well, anyway. This blog is about my life, not theirs. 

So I'm getting married. About, uh.... 62 years too early, according to the estimation I swore by until a little over a year ago. Sometimes this makes me feel old, like when I talk about cooking in "my kitchen" and look at couches at Crate and Barrel. And sometimes, this makes me feel young, especially when I meet with potential vendors and become acutely aware of how much I resemble a preteen. But both ways, getting married is equally terrifying and amazingly exciting. No one ever talks about how scary being in love is. You've been given something incredible and you can't imagine your life ever being without it again, and suddenly, you've got something to lose. The stakes are higher. But at the same time, it's great. Okay... I'm starting to ramble. My point: being in love is scary but only because of how much the person means to you. Alright.

So now things like centerpieces and wedding dresses and favors have entered my life. I have watched enough episodes of Bridezillas to know what not to do, and I think I have a good enough attitude about it being just one day that I won't go all crazy. Still, the wedding industy is a large and tempting monster. Sometimes it looks friendly, but then I back up a little bit and see teeth and saliva and realize I am staring straight down its throat-- and that it has really bad breath. So then I run. So I think I'm okay. 

This is my life now: stalking wedding blogs instead of facebook, watching past seasons of Lost, checking out world music from the library to expose my kids at work to other cultures, and driving from Ballard to Burien. Life is different now than I expected it to be. Not such a bad thing, I think.