This Old Car

“When are you going to get a new car?”

I hear this just about every time a friend sees my old car. Usually these words are accompanied by a good-natured chuckle.

“Betsy,” my car, is old, about 18 years, in fact. She was a gift from my great grandmother, when I turned 16. I say “gift,” because she was a gift to me, even though I think my parents paid a small sum for her. She was old when I got her, but she was mine.

Betsy is beautiful—white (when I actually wash her), with a blue interior, the most comfortable cloth seats ever, and all the bells and whistles you could possibly buy in 1996. This car does things that newer cars today can’t even do. Despite her age, I’m very proud of her. Every time I've taken her to a mechanic, they've informed me that she’s in impeccable condition, with low mileage, and that I've taken excellent care of her engine and workings.  

I. Love. This. Car.

When I moved to Virginia, she was there with me, taking me safely to my new destination, and bringing me swiftly back when I needed to be home again. I was alone, so I became even more attached to my car here than ever. She’s trust-worthy, stable, reliable, and represented freedom: always my escape route if things got too tough.

But she’s come to represent more than that. Because she used to be owned by my great grandmother, Mom Mom, I feel this tie to her, through this old car. I didn't even really realize how much Betsy had come to sort of represent Mom Mom until the other day when her bumper was hit and cracked. I've owned the car for 9 years, but last week was the first time anything had ever happened to her.

On the same day, I went to visit Mom Mom. Now, all my life, in my eyes, Mom Mom has never aged. She’s always been the same white-haired beauty. But this past weekend, I saw her for the first time in 6 months, also for the first time since her husband had passed away.

She was so old. She looked as if her body and appearance had finally caught up to her 93 years. She was frail and thin, with oxygen tubes attached to her. She was in excellent spirits and talked to me just like always, but it scared me. It was almost as if the crack in Betsy’s bumper represented the sudden change of health that I had seen in my great grandma.

And that’s why I cling to my car so much. It’s something I can have some sort of control over. You see, I can fix that bumper. I can replace it. It’ll cost money, but it’s easily done in a day. Betsy will be as good as new. I can keep replacing parts over and over, buying new engines and transmissions for decades. But Mom Mom is frailer than that. There is nothing I can do to restore her back to former health.

And I don’t like that.

So, you can keep on asking why I keep this poor old car, so out of date and fashion. You can keep telling me she’s unreliable. But at the end of the day, she probably runs better than your 2000-and-something car, and I probably know more about what happens under her engine than you do about your BMW. But more than that, she’s something that I can still put back together, fix her up and keep her in good health. Maybe that’s a stupid reason. Maybe I’m just grasping at straws, trying to control at least one element in my life. And maybe you’d be right. But maybe that’s what I need. 

Dear Anita

Grief is great tonight. 

My soul hangs heavy with sorrow, like a cloud drooping low with rain. 

I wasn't prepared. But who ever really is prepared for death? Were you, in your last hours? A peace deep within me tells me you were. 

But even that peace doesn't nullify the sickness in my soul. They sent me home early from work yesterday because I was crying. It was hours before I even stopped--only to start again. You were taken too soon, too young to go. I don't understand. 

You know, there were times when I didn't really like you. When I was 17 you caught me talking to someone during class. You asked me if I had anything to share. I was humiliated, but deserved it. Sometimes I didn't like class or grades. Sometimes I didn't like your direction. 

And yet, we worked together for years. First as teacher an pupil, later as director and actor. Even later, when I was older, sometimes I'd come to your classes and you'd ask me to teach the new kids how to play the improv games. 

I don't know when it happened, but over time, you slipped your way into my heart. You weren't just a teacher anymore, but a friend. Later, you were more like family, a motherly figure. 

And that's the funny thing about relationships. Often we can't put a finger on the moment they develop or become more important. They just open up slowly, like the bloom of a flower. Before I knew it, you had become one of the most important people in my life. I knew that even when you left for Texas. It broke my heart to see you go.

Now, I'm no good at this grieving thing. I don't get it. I don't know how it's done. But Anita, you've left such a hole in my heart. I don't know how to fill it. When I'm not crying, my soul is. 

I guess the bottom line is this: I don't know what to do without you. And I hope that I said it to you when I had the chance, but, I love you, Anita. 

I Suck at This

My great grandfather passed away two weeks ago.

I’m twenty-five years old and this was the first death that has ever really happened in my life. Sure, I remember the passing of some great aunts and uncles, and as a child, a few acquaintances/friends passed, but they were always people I hadn’t really known, people I wasn’t really close to. So I pretty much have zero experience with death, even when it comes to comforting people who are dealing with loss in their own lives, which in no way actually touches me.

Over the summer, my best friend lost one of his great grandparents. I did the best I could to comfort him, but he was living in another state, and I have to own up to this, I totally blew it at being there for him. He knows it, too.

I don’t know what it is, but death makes me want to shy away, to ignore it, to deny it even has happened. I never thought I’d be that person, but I am. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t know how to comfort him, so I kind of pulled out of that situation as much as possible.

I’m ashamed of that. But I’m only human, and this is something I’m failing at right now.

I didn’t go home for Carvey’s (my great grandfather) funeral. I had planned to. I even set aside a bereavement day with work so that I could travel. But when I thought about making the drive, spending 4 hours alone in the car, seeing my weeping relatives, especially my great grandmother, I felt nauseous and cloisterphobic. I thought it was the drive I was afraid of.

I didn’t go. Instead, I decided to have a ceremony of my own, where I would toss flower petals into the ocean at night and say goodbye to him on my own that way. But the evening came, and my head was dizzy and my body felt as if it was going to collapse. So instead, I went home.

Every night, I’d talk to Mom on the phone, like usual. But all she wanted to talk about was Carvey, the funeral, his family, how Mom Mom was doing. And all I wanted to do was talk about anything else. So, I didn’t call every day anymore, and when I did call, I tried to steer the conversation away from Carvey. Mom commented on how she hadn’t heard much from me lately. I told her I was busy.

I never knew my mother’s father. He was a drunk and I met him once. I believe it was on one of the very few sober days of his entire life. And I do remember my father’s parents. I grew up around them until I was 12. After that I didn’t see them again until two weeks ago. In fact, I was reunited with those grandparents on the same day that I lost Carvey. So in a very real sense, Carvey was the only grandfather I’ve ever really known.

And the funny part is: he and I have no blood relation. He and Mom Mom married when I was two. Apparently I was at the wedding, but I don’t remember. Yet, he’s my grandfather. He’s family, even more so to me than some of the blood family. I can’t even tell you how touched I was when I saw my mother call him her grandfather one day. She had never said that before. He didn’t come into her life until she was into her late 20’s, yet, he was still really the only grandfather she ever knew too.

So, I guess I’ve been fine. These past couple of weeks have been relatively normal. And that’s the odd thing. Life just seems to go on, even when a very important cog is now missing. But I’ve been tired, oh so tired. I get off of work and my chest is heavy, and my feet drag, and my head hurts every night. One night, my chest felt especially…different.

Have you ever felt your soul move? Or do something? I don’t think that we think about our souls very much or that they are our actual selves. I remember once feeling my soul pray. My mother was choking on a piece of candy, and without thinking or knowing what I was even doing, I ran over and gave her the Heimlich maneuver. I had never had any training, but it worked. Yet, in those brief seconds when my mind wasn’t even functioning enough to realize what the rest of me was doing, there was only one thing I was aware of. My soul was praying. I felt it. It reached out to God, and prayed.

And last week, I felt my soul cry. I didn’t know souls could cry, but I was walking down the hall at work, and I felt this bitter weeping inside of me. I hadn’t even been able to cry on my own, but my soul could. I had never experienced that before.

And I’ve just been going on. I did eventually cry once, just briefly, after talking on the phone to Mom Mom, but that was it. I hadn’t mourned. I don’t know how. I literally don’t know how.

And then, there was tonight. I went to see a movie with some friends, and it was a tear jerker, but that wasn’t what got to me. The grandfather in the story was perfect and warm and loving, and his relationship with his granddaughter got me right in the “feels.” I cried in the theatre. I cried at the kitchen table after I got home.

I usually try to give my blog posts nice tidy endings, but I don’t have one this time. I’ve reached the part of my life now where I’m going to start losing people, and the scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to face it, and I don’t even know how.

I suck at this.

I'm Sorry, I Left My Denim Jumper at Home...

In a lot of ways, I’m a girl with some old-fashioned values. I treasure my relationship with God, I enjoy my church life, and I was raised in a loving, Christian home. I’m also classically trained in ballet; I love a good cup of tea, cooking, and a marathon of The Golden Girls. This is a part of who I am. I enjoy staying home sometimes on a Friday night and curling up in my pajamas to watch Pride and Prejudice. Lace and frilly things are my delight.

But do you know what else I like? I like skateboarding and denim vests with the sleeves cut out. I take pride in the fact that I have a great job and I’m able to support myself and live on my own, even far away from my family. I take good care of my car, and I have a working knowledge of what goes on under the hood. I go places on my own and I’m not afraid. I’m independent and fully capable of taking care of myself.

When dating, I don’t look for a guy who’s got money, a fancy car, or a nice place, because those aren't priorities to me. I’m not looking to be taken care of. What I do look for in a guy is his spiritual well-being, where he is in his relationship with God, what his values are, whether or not he wears socks with sandals—you know, the important things.

But lately, what I've noticed is that the guys who are into God and their church are the same guys who are not looking for an independent woman.  These guys all seem to be devoting their attention to the Little House on the Prairie, denim-jumper-wearing, Suzy homemaker types.

Now, there is nothing wrong with that at all. If that’s who these women are, then they should be who they want to be. But what I don’t get is why do I seem to find a string of guys who expect me to be that kind of girl? Is it too much to ask to meet a guy who loves the Lord but is also is okay if his girlfriend can take care of herself? Since when did Christian men start feeling like they had to prove their masculinity by dating girls who they could keep under their thumb?

You know, someday I too might be a stay-at-home mom, but that’s not who I am right now. God placed me in the job I’m at, in the city where I currently live. It’s just me and God these days, so of course I look out for myself and I take care of things on my own. But just because I can check my own oil and tire pressure shouldn't mean that I’m completely overlooked by the guys in the church. What happened to all of the men who could date an educated and independent woman without feeling inferior?

Step up the game, guys. We are all equals here.

"I Care for Myself"

The first time I read Charlotte Bronte’s novel, Jane Eyre, I was greatly moved by it. It was many years ago now, but at the time I had felt greatly betrayed by someone in my life, so when I read about how Jane had also been lied to by someone close to her, I felt a great connection with her.

That book honestly got me through a rough patch. And there was a certain line that I remember underlining with my pencil, because it struck a chord with me.

Recently I've taken the book up again, and I have to say, reading this book through totally different eyes has entirely changed my perspective. I still enjoy the book very much, but things that meant a lot to me in the past don’t mean much to me now, and I relate to Jane in a totally different way than I did several years ago.

But that one line still struck me the same as it did back then.

There is a scene where Jane (spoilers!) has just found out that although Mr. Rochester was intending on marrying her, he keeps his mad wife locked up in his attic. In the scene he is begging and imploring Jane to stay with him, to marry him anyway. His argument is that his wife is crazy, beast-like, and is no wife to him. He merely keeps her out of obligation and because he doesn't want the public to know about his disgrace.

He tries to coax Jane into staying with him by saying, “You have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me.”

Jane thinks about it and considers that this is true. She’s an orphan. No one would ever know that she’s committing technical bigamy. And in her head, she says to herself, “Who in the world cares for you? Or who would be injured by what you do?”

And then came the line that has stuck with me my entire adulthood: Jane says, “I care for myself.”

Well, I care for myself too, Jane. No matter what happens in my life, at the end of the day, I am the only person responsible for my actions. I may not always have relatives close by to care about what I do or what I say. But I care. I might not have anyone to answer to. But I answer to myself. And there may be no one around to care about my morals or my choices. But at the end of the day, I care.

So in this world of agendas and political correctness, where the concept of feminism has been so misconstrued and blown out of proportion, a woman named Charlotte said in 1847 that it was okay for a woman to care for herself. She showed the world that it was okay for a woman to pick herself up, make her own choices, and live her own life—even when it meant losing everything, just so long as at the end of the day she kept her self-respect.

And for me, that means a lot.

And That Makes Me Mad.

“There never was a love like ours,” we used to say to each other. It was a whirlwind romance that ended as quickly as it began, and for him, was extinguished as painlessly as blowing out the short flame of a candle. But for me, the extinguishing still goes on as I try desperately to pour water on the embers of a love I thought would last for the rest of my life.

After it ended, I scoffed at the line we used to say to each other, remembering how important it had made us feel, as if we were in some sort of Shakespearean romance, you know, a good one, not one ending in mass death. It seemed so silly to think back on, to imagine in our deluded minds (or at least, in my deluded mind) that we had anything special, that our love was in any way distinct or better than any one that had ever come before us.

But I had to admit, at the time, it sure felt like it. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before, or anything I've experienced since.

Lately, I've come to realize that we were right. There never was a love like ours, and there never will be again. No two loves are the same. No one ever experiences the same thoughts, feelings, yearnings, sacrifices, dedication, attention, devotion that anyone else ever does. Every relationship is different, and you’ll never have the same love twice.

I’ll never feel that way again. It’ll be good again. It’ll be different. But it won’t be the same.

And that makes me mad.

What Do You Want to be When You Grow Up?

Recently, a girl a few years younger than me asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” She was being partially facetious, and partly serious, mostly asking what I wanted to do with my life.

The question caught me off guard. I guess it wasn't something I had really thought about in a while, so I stopped and I thought…

•  As a child I wanted to be a ballerina. My parents paid thousands of dollars for years to put me in ballet at one of the best local schools. I even reached the point where I did point work. When I got older, I started paying for my own classes, I've been in some ballet productions, and even just a couple of weeks ago I performed onstage at my most recent ballet recital.
•  When I was a pre-teen my mother carted me around to chorus and acting lessons, giving me a taste of theatrical performing. And when I was seventeen, Mom took me to my very first audition. After that show, I was constantly in theatre for years. Even now, on my own, I’m back on the stage. The love has never left me.
•   As a young teenager I decided that I wanted to be a writer. I wrote six full-length novels (we are talking around or over 300 pages apiece here) between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. Now, I’m not saying they were good or well-written, but they were good practice. Now here I am, years later, with a Creative Writing degree under my belt, and a wonderful job in that same field, writing magazine articles with many of my own works published.

…And I answered my friend and said, “I've already become everything I ever wanted to be.”