I felt defeat. My eyelids were heavy, but my thoughts were fully formed and my speech was still intact. I wasn't beyond the ability to drive further into the night, toward a safe place to sleep, preferably with a friendlier face than the stuffed shirt who stared at us while we each formed an opinion about what to do next.
L sat on the loveseat across from the desk. She sighed and said, "The Lord provides."
The stuffed shirt's eyes widened. You could see the flicker of recognition light up his face.
"That he does," he said. He pulled a phone book from behind the counter and handed it out toward me. I resented the assumption that I was a believer; that because my traveling companion had made mention of her faith, I must share the same compulsion. I resented that it took a reference to the popular deity to get the man, who by all means should have been kind to us before because it was his job, to be nice and helpful to two lone travelers on a dark road in a foreign state. If he was a Christian, then wasn't it his duty to be kind in the first place? I felt myself start to seethe a little. Instead, I took the phone book.
"You'll have to drive on into Minot," he said, pronouncing it "My-not." I'd been saying, "Minnow" since I saw the word on the map. Hearing it said aloud by people who'd been there gave me a sliver of insight into what the place was like. French words Americanized meant one thing. I knew it closer to home in Kentucky. Versailles was "Ver-sales." It was deflating, but at least a little more familiar. Like my anger.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
ND 2
We pulled over at a local motel. There was a bar attached. Before either of us even checked the front desk to see if there was a vacancy, I went straight to the restroom. L wandered into the bar.
I looked at myself in the dim light, poorly reflected against dirty white walls. I felt very far from Los Angeles, but closer, right then, to home. I looked tired, but not like myself. My hair was short and my stomach rounder than usual. Once I'd made the decision to leave LA, I started to fill up and fast. I ate all the food. I stopped pacing myself. Instead of a night out for cuban chicken one week and an Indian food feast the next, I started packing them in night after night. By the time I started to drive east, my favorite jeans didn't fit. But, that seemed fitting.
L was standing outside the door, scowling at the petite blond bartender. The girl's eyes were far apart, practically on the sides of her face, and when she turned to look at me, she seemed to be glancing far behind me. Then she scoffed.
"What?" I said.
L shrugged. "She did the same thing to me," she said. "I asked her what was on tap and that's the answer I got."
We walked back into the lobby where the night manager was stood and looked at us. He didn't say "welcome." He didn't say "hello." I was less than a week gone from working for one of the top hotel brands in the industry and this guy couldn't greet two potential guests.
"We'd like a room," I said.
He shook his head. "No," he said. "All booked."
I didn't understand how a motel off an interstate could be booked on a weeknight. There weren't many cars in the parking lot. We'd been one of three people in the bar. I made a face, and the manager sighed.
"The owner of the gas station's wife passed away and everyone's in town for the funeral," he explained.
L and I looked at one another. She sat down on the brown sofa in the lobby. Everything in the room was brown. The light was brown. The mood was brown. The night manager's eyes were brown.
It's true that I was headed home, to live near the small town in which I'd grown up. I'd traveled far and wide. But I'd never felt as foreign as I did in that unfriendly motel off the 2 in North Dakota.
I looked at myself in the dim light, poorly reflected against dirty white walls. I felt very far from Los Angeles, but closer, right then, to home. I looked tired, but not like myself. My hair was short and my stomach rounder than usual. Once I'd made the decision to leave LA, I started to fill up and fast. I ate all the food. I stopped pacing myself. Instead of a night out for cuban chicken one week and an Indian food feast the next, I started packing them in night after night. By the time I started to drive east, my favorite jeans didn't fit. But, that seemed fitting.
L was standing outside the door, scowling at the petite blond bartender. The girl's eyes were far apart, practically on the sides of her face, and when she turned to look at me, she seemed to be glancing far behind me. Then she scoffed.
"What?" I said.
L shrugged. "She did the same thing to me," she said. "I asked her what was on tap and that's the answer I got."
We walked back into the lobby where the night manager was stood and looked at us. He didn't say "welcome." He didn't say "hello." I was less than a week gone from working for one of the top hotel brands in the industry and this guy couldn't greet two potential guests.
"We'd like a room," I said.
He shook his head. "No," he said. "All booked."
I didn't understand how a motel off an interstate could be booked on a weeknight. There weren't many cars in the parking lot. We'd been one of three people in the bar. I made a face, and the manager sighed.
"The owner of the gas station's wife passed away and everyone's in town for the funeral," he explained.
L and I looked at one another. She sat down on the brown sofa in the lobby. Everything in the room was brown. The light was brown. The mood was brown. The night manager's eyes were brown.
It's true that I was headed home, to live near the small town in which I'd grown up. I'd traveled far and wide. But I'd never felt as foreign as I did in that unfriendly motel off the 2 in North Dakota.
Monday, December 1, 2014
ND One
It was dark when we crossed the state line into North Dakota. At least, that's how I remember it: out of Montana and into the night. The road seemed to narrow and the landscape widened and our headlights were wholly inadequate to show us what lied ahead.
We kept driving without any idea whether or not we'd stop. I suggested an overnight haul straight through the state. But, my eyes grew heavy and orange barrels and road construction made the narrow road feel smaller, scarier, something almost impossible. We stopped at a gas station to study the map because the dashboard light was too dim to illuminate a useful route. We were still on the 2, that much we knew for certain. We did not deviate. The plan was to continue on. It was a straight shot in the dark, but with pesky orange cones peppering the way. I thought we could get through it. I thought we could make it all the way to Minnesota and skip a night in the wide, blank state between destinations that I cared about.
Ultimately, it was my bladder and my terrible night vision that made us stop. We'd gone to the sun and came back down and then spent the day driving further and further away from the glory. When we stopped at a motel off the only exit for miles, we were about as far away from anything majestic as two girls could get.
We kept driving without any idea whether or not we'd stop. I suggested an overnight haul straight through the state. But, my eyes grew heavy and orange barrels and road construction made the narrow road feel smaller, scarier, something almost impossible. We stopped at a gas station to study the map because the dashboard light was too dim to illuminate a useful route. We were still on the 2, that much we knew for certain. We did not deviate. The plan was to continue on. It was a straight shot in the dark, but with pesky orange cones peppering the way. I thought we could get through it. I thought we could make it all the way to Minnesota and skip a night in the wide, blank state between destinations that I cared about.
Ultimately, it was my bladder and my terrible night vision that made us stop. We'd gone to the sun and came back down and then spent the day driving further and further away from the glory. When we stopped at a motel off the only exit for miles, we were about as far away from anything majestic as two girls could get.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
WSHB One
When I was sixteen years old, I stood on a bridge near the city limits line and watched a small, street-sign be unveiled by the mayor. He was gregarious man who enjoyed his status and his accessories. He was easily recognizable by the sash he wore constantly, embossed with the word "Mayor." It was the middle of the day, and the "Sash Mayor," as some people called him, had commissioned the road signs for all the ways in and out of the city. I was there with a journalist from the community newspaper. I was a senior in high school and participating in a program in which I shadowed the journalist. She was sent to cover the signs. I went with her. We stood on a bridge near the city limits line with the mayor in his sash and a sign that said, "Welcome to Portsmouth, Ohio. Where Southern Hospitality Begins."
I read the sign and for the first time was aware of the slogan that spoke volumes about the town. I remember thinking, "Huh," when I first read it. It seemed just about right.
By the time I saw the sign, I'd been through the South several times. Every family vacation was spent walking a battlefield or a cemetery or both. On our way to Florida, we stopped to see cousins in Alabama. I read a lot of southern literature. Carson McCullers especially interested me. She seemed to know what life was like in towns like mine. People were lonely, they projected personalities onto you, they were odd and twisted and sometimes kind.
I loved the grand decay of the South. I loved the preserved houses - both grand and average. I loved the manners. I was too young to understand the underlying issues of class and race...that would come later. I saw that sign and I started comparing. I had a small inventory of southern values...
I read the sign and for the first time was aware of the slogan that spoke volumes about the town. I remember thinking, "Huh," when I first read it. It seemed just about right.
By the time I saw the sign, I'd been through the South several times. Every family vacation was spent walking a battlefield or a cemetery or both. On our way to Florida, we stopped to see cousins in Alabama. I read a lot of southern literature. Carson McCullers especially interested me. She seemed to know what life was like in towns like mine. People were lonely, they projected personalities onto you, they were odd and twisted and sometimes kind.
I loved the grand decay of the South. I loved the preserved houses - both grand and average. I loved the manners. I was too young to understand the underlying issues of class and race...that would come later. I saw that sign and I started comparing. I had a small inventory of southern values...
Sunday, May 4, 2014
This or That Path
I was torn. I was at that point, that space at the tip of the crevice between two paths. It's not a crossroads. It's two roads diverged. That's where I was: standing there looking at one and slowly rolling my eyes across the divider to look at the other. While I studied each, I started to get tense. I could feel my hostility in the knots in my neck. I was only mad at myself, either for allowing myself to have choices or for not being able to make a choice when faced with two fairly decent prospects.
I could stay in Los Angeles and work in hotel development. I could move back to southern Ohio and teach at the university near my hometown. In one scenario, my relatively new interests in architecture and planning would be indulged. In another scenario, I'd be teaching - which is what, according to almost every professor in my MFA program - a serious writer is supposed to do. To go down the hotel development path was to give up on my dream of writing.
Maybe I was really angry with myself not over having choices, but letting voices from my graduate writing program plant the teaching equals serious writing notion in my head in the first place.
Maybe I was really angry with myself because I wasn't really writing, and I knew that was the only way to be a serious writer. I had to do the thing. I had to do the work. Instead, I was huffing and puffing over which path would provide me the most time to write - and the most material. Among other things. I let the choice be a distraction. Which was really another path altogether.
When I felt uneasy or uncertain, I usually bothered one person in my life. I left work early and drove over to Noel's apartment. I didn't call ahead, which said a lot about how I was feeling. We were the type of people who made plans in advance. We didn't interrupt one another's time. It was too jarring. But this time, I already felt jarred, so I just walked up to the stoop and knocked on the door.
It was four o'clock and Noel was still in his bathrobe. He opened the door, saw it was me, and swiftly shut the door before I even had the screen door open to step in. I took a breath and opened the screen door, the front door and stepped inside. Noel was sitting on the couch, remote back in his hand. I walked over and sat at the other end of the couch and started in.
"I have two options," I said.
He glanced over at me before fixing his eyes on the television screen. Light poured through the window behind the TV, and it made the fixture look like it had a halo. It glowed. I continued.
"Remember that article I read about placemaking?" I asked.
"Sure," eyes on the glow.
"Well, it turns out that there's a division at work that collaborates with cities on transforming old, historic buildings into new, updated hotels."
Noel nodded, eyes on the glow.
"I could work for that division. I could do it. I think it would be highly satisfying."
He nodded.
"Or," I said. "I have this chance to move back to southern Ohio to live in a farmhouse with L. for a year. I could teach at the university."
He sighed.
"I could work in development and help determine the shape of some towns, but what does that have to do with writing?"
He turned away from the glow. "What does that have to do with writing?"
"I don't know."
"Who are you if you're not a writer?"
"I don't know."
Letting go of that identity was the hard part. As long as I had a low-responsibility job, I could say I was a writer - I was working one gig while working on my art. If I was teaching writing, I could still claim to be a writer - I was seeking refuge in academic life while working on my art. If I started taking meeting with developers and talking about historic architecture and usability, I couldn't be a starving artist, a struggling artist, or an aspiring writer. I would be this other thing.
The choices were so limited in my southern Ohio imagination when I was a teenager that I couldn't grasp a life beyond the one thing I chose - and then I couldn't imagine a life being that choice, either. I didn't know hotel development jobs even existed. People became teachers or civil servants or nurses or school administrators. I only thought of being a writer because I read magazines and saw the bylines. I also saw them rubbing elbows with celebrities, but some of that was just the magazines to which I subscribed. As my experience in the world expanded, my idea of who I could be did not. I wanted to be this one thing. Who was I if I didn't want to be that anymore?
Who would I have been if I'd known that things aren't always all or nothing?
I was this one thing. I had to do whatever the heck I could to stay this one thing.
I could stay in Los Angeles and work in hotel development. I could move back to southern Ohio and teach at the university near my hometown. In one scenario, my relatively new interests in architecture and planning would be indulged. In another scenario, I'd be teaching - which is what, according to almost every professor in my MFA program - a serious writer is supposed to do. To go down the hotel development path was to give up on my dream of writing.
Maybe I was really angry with myself not over having choices, but letting voices from my graduate writing program plant the teaching equals serious writing notion in my head in the first place.
Maybe I was really angry with myself because I wasn't really writing, and I knew that was the only way to be a serious writer. I had to do the thing. I had to do the work. Instead, I was huffing and puffing over which path would provide me the most time to write - and the most material. Among other things. I let the choice be a distraction. Which was really another path altogether.
When I felt uneasy or uncertain, I usually bothered one person in my life. I left work early and drove over to Noel's apartment. I didn't call ahead, which said a lot about how I was feeling. We were the type of people who made plans in advance. We didn't interrupt one another's time. It was too jarring. But this time, I already felt jarred, so I just walked up to the stoop and knocked on the door.
It was four o'clock and Noel was still in his bathrobe. He opened the door, saw it was me, and swiftly shut the door before I even had the screen door open to step in. I took a breath and opened the screen door, the front door and stepped inside. Noel was sitting on the couch, remote back in his hand. I walked over and sat at the other end of the couch and started in.
"I have two options," I said.
He glanced over at me before fixing his eyes on the television screen. Light poured through the window behind the TV, and it made the fixture look like it had a halo. It glowed. I continued.
"Remember that article I read about placemaking?" I asked.
"Sure," eyes on the glow.
"Well, it turns out that there's a division at work that collaborates with cities on transforming old, historic buildings into new, updated hotels."
Noel nodded, eyes on the glow.
"I could work for that division. I could do it. I think it would be highly satisfying."
He nodded.
"Or," I said. "I have this chance to move back to southern Ohio to live in a farmhouse with L. for a year. I could teach at the university."
He sighed.
"I could work in development and help determine the shape of some towns, but what does that have to do with writing?"
He turned away from the glow. "What does that have to do with writing?"
"I don't know."
"Who are you if you're not a writer?"
"I don't know."
Letting go of that identity was the hard part. As long as I had a low-responsibility job, I could say I was a writer - I was working one gig while working on my art. If I was teaching writing, I could still claim to be a writer - I was seeking refuge in academic life while working on my art. If I started taking meeting with developers and talking about historic architecture and usability, I couldn't be a starving artist, a struggling artist, or an aspiring writer. I would be this other thing.
The choices were so limited in my southern Ohio imagination when I was a teenager that I couldn't grasp a life beyond the one thing I chose - and then I couldn't imagine a life being that choice, either. I didn't know hotel development jobs even existed. People became teachers or civil servants or nurses or school administrators. I only thought of being a writer because I read magazines and saw the bylines. I also saw them rubbing elbows with celebrities, but some of that was just the magazines to which I subscribed. As my experience in the world expanded, my idea of who I could be did not. I wanted to be this one thing. Who was I if I didn't want to be that anymore?
Who would I have been if I'd known that things aren't always all or nothing?
I was this one thing. I had to do whatever the heck I could to stay this one thing.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
The Glass Carafe
There was still a touch of romance in the way I was living: road trip, farmhouse, coming home. I could end my twenties in more than style. I was making a promise to myself, not with words, but with gestures. I would follow roads and take in scenery and stare out the front window while I tried to understand the whole of my experience.
Pieces of the life I was after were lies. Pieces were honest attempts. Pieces were manufactured for comfort and pieces were avoided at all costs. Some days were Nutella on a cinnamon bagel and some days were plain white toast.
Every day, though, one small measure of a routine was played out. One of us boiled water. While the kettle was on, we might brush out teeth or start working on our hair. The unbleached, brown paper filter was inserted into the top of the small glass carafe and the coffee grounds scooped in with a clean spoon. If we were using the fancy coffee, we dumped it into the filter straight from the shiny package. Then, one of us had to man the pour over. We didn't know to call it pour over. We just poured it over. L's grandmother had been using that very Chemex for over thirty years. The glass carafe was older than either one of us. Like so many things in the house. We lived in a space in which you didn't encounter history. You confronted it.
Or you made your way with it.
Modern appliances wouldn't have felt quite right anyway. No toaster. No coffee pot. We had a fussy microwave. We had two crock pots and a sink full of dishes most of the time.
Pieces of the life I was after were lies. Pieces were honest attempts. Pieces were manufactured for comfort and pieces were avoided at all costs. Some days were Nutella on a cinnamon bagel and some days were plain white toast.
Every day, though, one small measure of a routine was played out. One of us boiled water. While the kettle was on, we might brush out teeth or start working on our hair. The unbleached, brown paper filter was inserted into the top of the small glass carafe and the coffee grounds scooped in with a clean spoon. If we were using the fancy coffee, we dumped it into the filter straight from the shiny package. Then, one of us had to man the pour over. We didn't know to call it pour over. We just poured it over. L's grandmother had been using that very Chemex for over thirty years. The glass carafe was older than either one of us. Like so many things in the house. We lived in a space in which you didn't encounter history. You confronted it.
Or you made your way with it.
Modern appliances wouldn't have felt quite right anyway. No toaster. No coffee pot. We had a fussy microwave. We had two crock pots and a sink full of dishes most of the time.
Monday, April 21, 2014
First Feminist
She wasn't the first feminist that I knew, but she was the first feminist I looked up to. I thought, "I could be like her." All my idols were too distant: Naomi Wolf and Gloria Steinem and multiple women writers who came from east and west coast backgrounds. It just wasn't something you saw much in my hometown or in the region. My high school teacher told me it was "cute" that I was a feminist. I didn't have one other friend in school that I talked to about equal rights or why I cared about the movement. I don't remember ever talking about feminism with my gal pals in high school. Instead, I studied it privately. The staff writers at Sassy magazine were my friends. Or if not my friends, then at least my teachers.
When Ann walked into the classroom on that first day, I could already feel my life changing. It wasn't her. It was who I was slowly becoming. I was finally starting to participate. When I learned she was from the region, I finally started to see what could be possible for me.
When Ann walked into the classroom on that first day, I could already feel my life changing. It wasn't her. It was who I was slowly becoming. I was finally starting to participate. When I learned she was from the region, I finally started to see what could be possible for me.
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