Week 7: Home

Growing up in an immigrant household, I have always juggled both sides of my identity. I've spent the majority of my life growing up with American culture and then going home and following the rules and expectations of my homeland. It has made for a stark contrast that has colored every part of my life. My parents were so happy to get a chance in America but they have always yearned for the familiarity of their home country. When I was twelve, my parents decided we would go back for a visit. What followed was weeks of preparation and packing. We spent an entire month in my country, visiting relatives and enjoying our time. 

                                                                                                                                                                

The day the plane landed in my home country, my grandparents greeted us at the airport. I hadn't seen them since I was three, so to me, I was meeting them for the first time. We walked to a car, a rare sight here since everyone traveled by moped or scooter. I was so tired from the 13-hour flight, that I slept in the car on our way to my grandparent's home. The heat was sticky and I was too exhausted to feel any of the excitement of going to a new place. My grandparents had built a house on a piece of property a little distance away from the house my father grew up in. This house looked much newer than the land around it. The room they put me in to sleep off the jet lag was quiet and cool.

When I woke up it was still daylight. In the front yard, there was a small grape vineyard. I remember how I could reach out and have a couple whenever I wanted. They were tart enough to make my mouth pucker but then a sugary sweetness would follow. The chickens my grandmother kept would wander around the front yard as well. They would peck me if I got too close. Even though this new house had a new toilet and shower, we would still use the outhouse in the back. It was because the water tank would only be full when it rained. The electricity wasn't consistent either, I could watch TV but it might turn off suddenly. It meant I had to do other things to be entertained. Wandering the fields around the house, I saw how wild the land really was. The only neighbors were cousins who lived a couple hundred feet downhill, otherwise the land was unkempt and miles from any real town. 

The food was fresher than anything I had ever had. There would be vegetables picked from the garden. The bread that my grandmother made by hand every day. When my grandfather wanted to make a night special, he would chop the head of one of the older chickens. It looked terrifying to see the poor things beheaded. The milk was from an actual cow my grandparents owned. Her name was Julie. My cousin's name was also Julie. I laughed the first time I heard it, I wondered who was named first- my cousin or the cow? Every morning my grandfather would lead Julie by the long rope around her neck. It was tied to a stake, that he would pound into the ground. They would leave her in a different field every day so she could eat enough to satisfy herself but not wander off. 

I met cousins, aunts, and uncles that I had not seen since I was a baby. All of them asked if I remembered them and I would insist that there was no way I would recognize them. Every relative was visited, it would be disrespectful otherwise. Everyone wanted to feed us and make sure we were well take care of. It was considered an honor to have a guest in the home and I look back fondly at all the places we visited. 

We spent a week at the beach with some of our other relatives. All three families renting out the top floor of a little dinky sea side resort. The first time I tasted the salty water and saw the wide expanse of ocean was incredible. We would lay out our towels and spend the whole day there. There would be men rolling around wheel barrows of grilled corn for anyone who wanted to buy a cob. There were even little shops selling things like children’s toys and inflatables. People would also rent out boats and cartoon swans to take out into the ocean. We convinced my father and uncle to rent one and I and my sister and cousins all clambered on top. We must have been pretty heavy because they quickly tired paddling us around. At the end of every night when my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep instantly- exhausted but satisfied. 

I love the feel of a cities- the conveniences, the architecture, and the activity. But there is nothing like the air in a country that has not kept up with time. The way of life of its people who value hard work and family. When it gets to too overwhelming here, I remember how much I enjoyed my time in such a peaceful place. My grandparents still own that land and the house still stands. When my parents talk about how much they miss their homeland, I am only too happy to hint that we could always go back for a visit. 

Week 7: The People V. My Future

 It was the third week of senior year and we already had a ritual down for Friday night home football games; as soon as the dismissal bell rings at 1:58 p.m., we were all to meet at the back doors near the senior parking lot, where the six of us would laugh our way to Emma’s brand new Jeep Wrangler, where even Emma would joke with us about how she did not deserve that car for all the punishable shit we’ve done over the years, proceeding to then illegally shove 7 of us girls into her car so we could drive around the corner to Alicia’s house.

Alicia’s parents were always at work until at least 6:00 p.m. every night, and her parents were also in the middle of a really bad divorce. This meant that they did not give one single flying shit about what we were doing, where we were going, who was over, nada.

Once arriving at Alicia’s house, we would all get ready; two girls would occupy a bathroom on all three floors of Alicia’s house, where music was blasted and jokes were screamed, and I always had as much fun as I could ever imagine to be possible as a 17 year old girl.

We all began to sip “Straw Ber Rita’s” as we got ready for this game, also part of the Friday home game ritual. In that moment, we danced around while we each drank out of our individual cans in Alicia’s kitchen. Yes we were underage, but we did not care.

While drinking before a football game was more of a common behavior to engage in for a senior at my high school than turning in their homework, I of course was caught that night. We left Alicia’s house, and walked back to school for the game.

Contrary to popular belief, we were not complete idiots our senior year. Throughout our high school career we learned that you can only show up to these “after school functions” tipsy. We knew that we should not show up to a high school football game “hammered”. This is why we only drank a Straw ber Rita before the game. This is also why we would sneak a water bottle full of liquor into the games.

It was my turn this particular Friday to smuggle in the vodka filled water bottle. This was an important job, because well, you cant buy alcohol at a high school football game! And it was senior year, so we prioritized the student section atmosphere more than we prioritized watching actual high school football. I shoved the flattened water bottle down my leggings, at the side of my hip.

“Perfect”, I thought, “My flannel shirt completely hides the water bottle full of liquor that is shoved down my pants. I’m a genius.”

For obvious reasons, we walked up to the gate of the football field fashionably late by 30 minutes. We bought our tickets at the glass window and entered the stadium. As soon as we walked in, we made a pitstop to the right of the entrance gate. On the other side we could see a group of our guy friends standing outside of the gate in togas. It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. I could not make this up, as these boys really showed up to this game in only a bed sheet and sandals. We went over to talk to them, where they explained that they were kicked out of the game because of their attire.

“Wow”, I said, “The administration is being really strict if they are going to kick you guys out for that! Especially when more than half of the student section is under the influence of some substance!”

I spoke too soon. I felt a sturdy grip on my left shoulder. I turned my head and saw the school resource officer.

“God Dammit”, I thought to myself.

“Can I please talk to you for a minute” the school resource officer said.

I braced myself. This was the end. My 17 year old life flashed before my eyes. We walked behind the concession stands. The school resource officer confirmed my deepest fear, as he asked me if I had been drinking.

“Nope” I said. Lie. 

He proceeded to conduct a sobriety test, blinding me with his Paul Blart flashlight. Waving his finger in my face. I kept as calm as I possibly could in that moment, telling myself that I nailed the tests, and the only option he would have after this was to let me go back and enjoy the night with my friends.

To my detriment, this school resource officer was a lot smarter than he looked. He was consciously aware of what high schoolers did before these games. I guess it makes sense now because he did somehow land a job as a “school resource officer”.

He then asked me to blow into a breathalyzer since I claimed I had not been drinking. Fight or flight mode kicked in, and I thought back to the old myth I’d been constantly reminded of by other high schoolers at times in which we were consuming alcohol. The myth went something like, “If you ever get caught drinking and a cop asks you to take a breathalyzer, you can legally say “no” and you can’t get in trouble for it”. As I look back now at 21, I wish I could correct this urban high school legend, making sure to add that you can still be arrested for not complying with the officer’s orders, even if you don’t blow (although you can’t be charged with an MIP!!).

“Nope, I know I legally don’t have to blow.” I said to him condescendingly. I was such a smart ass.

Next thing I know I was walked into the side of the school, where I was shoved in the athletic director's office to be interrogated. Both the school resource officer, and the vice principal were questioning me, good cop-bad cop style. “Who did you come here with?” “Who else was drinking?” “You need to blow into this breathalyzer.” “We know you were drinking.”

I wanted to cry. Mostly because my life felt like it was over. I was always so good at talking my way out of things but I could just tell this was not going to be one of those times. They both left the room to talk, and I sat alone in the office, waiting. I knew I had to give myself up, because they were not going to let me out of that room as a free man. I mentally prepared for my life to hit turbulence and sank deeper into my seat.

Son of a bitch. As I leaned back in the chair I was sitting in, I heard the crunch of a water bottle. I need to dispose of the evidence. I was going to get in a lot more trouble with this on me. I pulled the water bottle out of the side of my pants and ditched it in the garbage can that was in front of me.

They eventually returned, I gave myself up, and was released from the improvised interrogation room. I still had yet to blow into a breathalyzer. For some reason, I was walked back outside towards the football stands. I was inevitably arrested for an MIP in front of my entire high school, handcuffs and all, as they all watched me below from the football stands. (To this day, I am almost positive that both the school resource officer and administrator involved did not remember what it was like to be teenager in high school, with other teenagers, who talked about this event until we graduated in May!!)

I was humiliated. They told me I have to ride in the police car to the station even though the police station is directly next to my high school!

“What a sham!” I thought. “I can’t believe I’m the one in this police car when half of the kids in my graduating class are still in the stands on hard drugs!”

I remember texting my friends in the police car, still handcuffed. Picturing myself doing this now makes me laugh. I somehow maneuvered my hands from behind my back and typed full speed until my short ride to the police station was over.

Upon initial arrival to the police station, I finally took a breathalyzer test because I thought that I had nothing else to lose. “0.05” it read.

“You’ve got to be shitting me”, I said aloud. The officer who was booking me giggled. I started to laugh too. I never thought I would laugh again 10 minutes ago, and look at me now.

“I’ve definitely seen a lot worse” he exclaimed. Obviously.

I had to stay at the police station until I could blow a 0.00, where my parents could then pick me up. I sat in the cell crying over my unknown fate. This was the worst thing that has ever happened to me I thought at the time. My time spent in this cell was the first time all night where I really was able to think about how an MIP would affect my future. This made me cry harder. I wanted to go to law school. I wanted to go to college. I thought that was all over.

 I was suspended from school for two weeks, charged with a misdemeanor that was only expunged from my record once I completed the legal requisites, and I was exposed to the criminal justice system as I was required to complete 12 months of probation.

 ****

It is now five years later, and I struggle to put into words how grateful I am for this experience. While this time proved to weigh heavily on me as a 17 year old who was about to graduate, this experience has ultimately shaped me into the person I am today.  I initially began to find the comical components of this experience while I tried to cope with the effects it had on my life then. It was emotionally and financially draining, but worth it. If this had never happened, I would never have become as passionate about my desire to follow my chosen career path. This event that I believed to have been so traumatic in my teenage years, ultimately allowed for me to have a first hand experience of how the criminal justice system affects the lives of those convicted. I was required to do community service under the terms of my probation, where I had the chance to meet many people who were also affected by the criminal justice system. Talking to these people had inspired me to become passionate about my intended career path as a criminal lawyer. This experience allowed me to recognize the privilege attributed to my social demographics in relation to my legal consequences, and I was able to recognize how the criminal justice system disproportionately affects those of a lower socio-economic status and minority groups.

Week 7: Flashbulb

Friends are great. Whether you're just hanging out or helping each other out with a problem, friends can always be counted on. Spending long nights talking and eating and sharing stories are some of the best memories I have with my friends. We would all camp out in my living room, eating and sitting by the fire sharing stories. Sometimes we would play video games or watching our favorite shows, every time we got together it was an adventure. The usual group consisted of me, Corbin, Kyle Jeremiah, and Hayley. We would cause trouble by day and by night be relaxing in my living room, talking about the day and laughing.

One night I remember was a particularly snowy and nasty night. We were out all day and we were tired, so everyone just crashed at my place. We had just sat down and my friends were all tired and sore from walking all day. We had been sitting for a while and then Hayley suggested we play truth or dare. We weren't sure but we decided why not, so we started to play. Hayley started out and the questions were fairly tame. It was do you like anyone, have you ever had a gay experience, things like that.

As the questions went on I looked around the room and I smiled. I felt so at home with these people and I felt so content in that moment. These people were there for me, and I was there for them. that meant a lot to me and I loved them to death. Unfortunately things do change, people move on or move back, as it were. Even though my friends and I don't really talk anymore I still really love the memories we made together and I'll remember them for the rest of my life.

This was just a minor flashbulb memory that popped into my head but it means the world to me so I wanted to share it.

Week 7: Life Lessons

Losing a family member is something that leaves a scar on your heart for a lifetime. Adapting to empty chairs at the table for Christmas dinner, the family reunions that feel empty, the memories that constantly roll through your brain like a movie. It is a feeling that really changes everything.

Around Thanksgiving of this year, I lost my dearest uncle. The sudden accident took him away from my family too early… he was in his early 40's, making the sudden news of his passing even more unbearable.

The phone call was a moment I will never forget. My whole family crowding around the small phone on the middle of the dining room table, hands shaking, tears streaming as we heard the news. A giant hole started to form in the pit of our hearts and the whirlwind of emotions took over. They never seemed to subside. The anger, the sadness, the hope that maybe the doctors got something wrong… but in the end we faced the hard truth that it did happen, and it was his time.

He was always like a father figure to my sister and I growing up. Nascar, hamburgers, and cars were his passions. Jimmy always came over to see us, made us laugh endlessly, and always needed the latest update on all things going on in our lives. He was truly one of a kind and someone that brought light to anyone who met him.

I sat alongside my sister and my oldest cousin, surrounded by sniffles and hands being held in comfort at his funeral. All in attendance filled with complete sorrow. It was as if a dark cloud was hung above the room, engulfing everyone in a deep sadness. 

Pastor Meredith began to speak at the podium. “Jim was a loving man who cared deeply about his family, his friends, and his dear wife…” Her words began to dim as I stared blankly at the floor. “This can’t be it… he can’t be gone. He was so young, why is this happening? This isn’t fair.” These thoughts began to take over my brain, canceling out every sound in the room.

“Would anyone like to say any words about Jim?” said Pastor Meredith. I glanced up, snapping out of my clouded thoughts.

There was a moment of silence, no movement, nothing. You could hear a pin drop in the room.  

My uncle Mark stood up and faced our family. “Jim was the type of person who never let a day go by. He treated each day like it was the best gift he had ever received. He wouldn’t want this for us…” He was right… we are all morning him when he would have loved nothing more than to be celebrated.

We all then began to stand up, one by one and share memories of Uncle Jimmy. Laughs began to be heard around the room from all of the crazy things Jimmy did in his life. The dark cloud began to lift. Something then began to spark in me. A feeling of hope, of revelation. Live each day as if you were Jimmy. Not in the sense of the things he accomplished, but the mindset that he held.

There is a plan for everyone. Life can come to a close at every given moment. It is important to cherish the times that we have now and enjoy every minute we have.

I feel like today, everyone is caught up in the rapidness of it all. With no time to slow down, no breaks, everyone is always on the go, go, go. Each day constantly being played out like a schedule rather than a gift. No one really stops to smell the roses anymore.

I will stop to watch the sunset. I will drive a different route to work every week to see different sights. I will take a vacation that may not be in my budget and apply for the job that I have always dreamed of. I will go to a Nascar race and be filled with joy as if Jimmy is there with me. It is time to truly live. 

It is time that I realized life is short. We never truly know when our time is up, and we need to cherish every moment. It is perfectly acceptable to cry and have bad days, but it was you take from them. The lessons that you learn to pick yourself up, stand a little taller, and keep moving forward.

Times like these really question how strong you really are, losing a family member can knock you down to the point where you just do not want to get back up. I didn’t want to, but then I realized how important it is that I stop living in the negativity and see life for what it is… pure magic.

Week 7: Controlled Chaos

It was the summer before I turned 14 and I was at Cedar Point for the first time with my best friend in middle school. I was excited to ride my first roller coaster, until I stood in line for the Wildcat. According to my friend this was a good “warm up ride before hitting the big stuff.” But as we moved through the cue and approached the car the fear I was feeling became incredibly intense. My heart was racing and I began to perspire. A lot. And that was before I even got into the car.

It was too late to turn back, so we loaded in for the ride, put on our belts and lowered the safety bar onto our laps and got the “thumbs up” from the operator. After a few seconds the car jerked out of the loading area and accelerated around the turn up to the first hill. The chain clinked and clanked as we ascended. I closed my eyes when we crested over the first major hill. I felt my stomach lurch and tensed my arms on the safety bar as we whipped back down toward the ground. I jammed my eyes shut even tighter while we flew around turns and back up and down through more hills.

It wasn’t until we came to an almost whiplash-inducing stop that I was able to re-open my eyes. The ride couldn’t have lasted more than a minute and a half, but it was pure terror being out of control, thrown up, down, and to the left and right. But it was also exhilarating. Adrenaline was coursing through my body. And as we rode more rides throughout the day I realized that, ultimately, I didn’t have anything to be scared of.

Fast forward nearly 30 years and I found myself venturing onto a new sort of "roller coaster." In the spring of 2016 I left a good paying job and 20-year career to follow a dream. While I may not have had the same physical reaction I did on my first ride at Cedar Point, there was a certain amount of fear and trepidation that came along with returning to school to pursue a degree and career in screenwriting. I thought about how much I eventually grew to love the rides over the course of that first day - how my fear turned into fun and laughter. 

As I approach graduation, I look back at my decision four years ago to return to school. I think about venturing out into the unknown and the thrill that comes along with hope and fulfillment. I also think about the rush that comes along with taking a little risk. I feel like I am nearing the top of the hill, but this time I plan on keeping my eyes open!

Week 7: When You Least Expect It

Rain pelted the windshield as I drove north on I-75 on that unusually cold, rainy August morning. My hands gripped the steering wheel tight; my knuckles were pale white the whole way there. I drove four hours to spend the weekend with my best friend, Katie’s family at their cabin on Lake Avalon. I was twenty-two at the time, and my mother still wanted me to check in every hour to make sure that I was safe.

 I got there around ten a.m., and the sun was just beginning to peek out from the clouds.  The rain had stopped, but there was still a chill in the air, so we decided to hang in the house for the day. I brought my luggage in from the car and carried it up the two flights of stairs to the room that I was staying in. Once I was unpacked, I walked into the kitchen and there you were. You wore a blue and maze sweatshirt with the University of Michigan emblem on it, and a pair of black soccer shorts. I extended my sweaty palm out to greet you. “Hi,” I said. “My name is Rachel. It’s nice to meet you.” You smiled back and said, “Nice to meet you, I’m Tom.” I will never forget that look in your eye. It’s hard to explain; almost shy, but confident at the same time.

               We played ping pong, and I somehow mustered up the courage to play against you. You were good but didn’t let me win like I wished you did. I know you well enough now to know that it isn’t in your nature to let me win just because.

               After dinner we went on a walk through the woods. Your sister yapped our ears off, like she always does, in hopes of us joining in on the conversation. I never understood why she asked me to come to her family’s cabin, she was married after all, why did she need me there, too? But when I walked in that day, I understood. It was her mission to set us up.

               I’m an introvert, but I’ve never been necessarily shy. But there was something about you that made me nervous, and I was more reserved than I ever had been before. We talked, and laughed, and enjoyed our time together, but there was something holding me back. It was probably the fact that you lived in New York City at the time, and I knew that it would never work out between us. But still, I had a little bit of hope.

               The last night there, you carried your young cousin up to bed after she fell asleep during the Hundred-Foot Journey movie. Something in me made the decision right then and there that you would be the man who I would end up marrying. I wasn’t sure how or why it would happen, but I was certain. I had just broken up with my “boyfriend”—and I put boyfriend in quotation marks because he certainly acted like anything but a boyfriend—and I didn’t want to date anyone for a while. So, maybe it was a good thing that you were going back to NYC the next morning, and I was returning to school.

               A week later, Katie had asked me what I thought of you. I played it coy and told her that I thought you were nice and very cute. She told me that you felt the same way, then dropped the bomb that you were moving home soon. I felt excited for a moment but didn’t let it show. Seven weeks later she texted me that you were going to be at her Halloween party the following evening. That was even more of a bombshell than learning you were moving home “soon” because I didn’t realize it was that soon. I was excited and nervous. Mostly nervous. But that night we talked, and then hung out for the next few weeks with Katie and her husband, Alex until you got the courage to ask me on a date. And then two years later, you asked me to marry you.

               If there is anything that I had learned that weekend is that you never know when you will meet—and I don’t mean to be cheesy but— “the one”. I wasn’t ready to be in a relationship again, but I took a chance and it ended up being the best decision that I had ever made. It’s so true when they say that you find true love when you least expect it.

week 7: My best friend

How often can you remember the day you met your best friend?

I know that seems like a loaded statement when my best friend is most definitely a cat, but still. When you hear that our for the first time, or when your precious fur baby falls asleep on your chest, you know you would rather jump in front of a train than see her hurt. That is Olivia, my favorite creature in the entire world.

So, my mom hates cats. Animals in general, really. You can imagine how…upset she was when she saw this random cat running around the house.

My dad decided that as a late 16^th birthday present for me, he would give me a tiny slip of paper that only read a phone number and the word “kittens”. Obviously, I jumped to call. He knew I had wanted a cat for so long and he finally gave in; mom had no clue. My older brother drove me down the road to go and pick a kitten as well as all of the other cat based accessories that come with owning one. As we came home, I hid my secret in my coat as I ran into my room. My mother suspected nothing.

For a minute.

Soon my older sister comes to visit with her husband and daughter. My sister opens my bedroom door to say hi to me, and sweet baby Olivia sprints out the door as if someone lit her tail on fire. Next thing everyone hears is: “WHAT IS THIS CAT DOING IN MY HOUSE”. After some careful calming and persuading, everyone convinced my mom that my sister brought this cat for me. To this day, Mom has no idea. 5 years later. Look at that face. How could anyone be mad at her?

Week 7: The Rock

     First, a disclaimer. Despite the title, my memoir will not be about the actor/wrestler Dwayne Johnson. Sorry to disappoint, but if it’s any consolation, I would write about him if I’d ever met him. No, instead my post is about an actual rock. Or, in this particular case, I suppose boulder would be the more accurate term.

     When I was a child and all the way through my teenage years, my parents would take me on a 2 week trip up north, during the summer. They both worked for GM. As anyone who is familiar with those who work for one of the auto companies can tell you, every summer, the production plants shutdown for a little over a week to retool for the new model year. So my parents took almost all of their time off and saved it for this time. Every year we would go to a town called Elk Rapids. It was a quaint little town, or at least it used to be, and it was always a very peaceful time for me. We would go to the beach almost everyday, so long as it wasn’t raining. My Mom preferred to be mostly to ourselves and so we would set up at the farthest end of the beach. This is where my story begins.

This is not the exact spot but it’s quite close

     There were never many people in this area because, although it was beautiful, the water was very rocky on this end of the beach. When I was about 7 or 8, my parents first let me go off far into the water on my own. We had recently found these mesh shoes that had hard rubber soles, so you could walk on the rocks without it being too painful. So on this particular trip, I went further out into the water than I ever had before. It was incredible. I was actually far enough out to swim for once instead of wade.

     Eventually, when it seemed that I was half a mile from the shore, I came upon this huge rock that I had never encountered before. It was massive. So big in fact, that even though I was deep enough to be able to swim comfortably, I could climb the rock and nearly be out of the water entirely. It was a mottled orange, red, black and brown boulder. It was quite out of place, being so much larger than any of the other rocks anywhere around it. If you had told me at the time that it had been placed there, I probably would’ve believed you. Nobody else came out to this area. It was either too rocky for them or they just couldn’t be bothered. Seeing that it wasn’t claimed by anyone else, I therefore decided that the boulder was mine. I couldn’t move it and claim it officially, but I was pretty certain that no one else could either. My reign went unchallenged. I was king of the rock.

     Over the years, I met other kids at the beach. We would all play together and hang out, but I never brought anyone else to the rock. It was my thing. The place where I would go if the other kids weren’t around. The rock seemed to prefer it that way too. I almost never saw anyone out at it. The one time I did, it didn’t end well. Another kid was playing by the rock and tripped. He fell and cut his chin and knees on the rock. Needless to say, he was not allowed out near the rock again after that. I never had any problems like that out there. It was as if the rock was allowing me to be there with it. Sure, I bumped my knees a few times. Other than some scrapes though, I never got hurt. I would spend hours sitting on the rock in the sun, jumping off of it into the water. The most fun days to be out there were when the waves were high.

     I don’t know if you’ve ever swam for a long time in wavy water but you get a workout quickly. On those days, there was hardly anyone at the beach. I loved those times. I would spend the whole day fighting the current. I would get so used to it that when I tried to go to sleep that night, I could still feel the waves hitting my body. It was an odd but rather pleasant sensation.

     When I got older, we continued to go to the beach, although less often than before. The magic of the boulder and the water had warn off for me. Reality finally set in. What had seemed like half a mile from the shore, was in reality less than 100 yards. The water wasn’t deep enough for me to swim in anymore. The boulder that had seemed so impressive, was now just a big rock. If I looked further to the right of the rock, I could see some of its brethren. Some of which, were even larger. The fairy dust had settled and I could see reality for what it was. This wasn’t necessarily the end of my innocence, but that day, another door to my childhood shut for good.

     I haven’t been to this place in years. Writing this makes me want to drive there immediately, though I doubt I’d be doing any swimming right now if I did. As I write, I can still see the beach. How could I not? It’s been etched into my memory. I can still see the break wall, the road, the shady tree up near the parking area. Most of all though, I can see my old orange friend, peaking out at me through the waves. Beckoning me to come join. One day I will go back. And one day I’ll climb that rock once more.

Memoir: Life Changing Experience

During the warm summer months of 2018, we got our first puppy from a family friend whose dog had just given birth to a litter of seven. We picked our favorite, she was the smallest in the litter and the one who ran up to us and allowed us to hold her in our arms, we took her home with us and decided to name her Harlee. So playful, excited and loving at only eight pounds, oh my Harlee! Now it is time for my brother and me to learn what responsibility really is.

Harlee, she never left my side, going from stores that allow dogs such as home depot, Lowes and pet supplies plus, to shop with us and get her treats and toys. We made so many great memories all including Harlee, like when we went kayaking and she flipped our kayak trying to catch and play with a duck in the water. Another time was when we went to the cider mill and she tasted cider and got to pick out her own pumpkin. We never imagined there would also be terrible memories involving Harlee.

Harlee being less than a year old, my family was all in agreeance that she shouldn’t be left home alone if it was preventable. Taking turns watching her and making sure she didn’t have any accidents and that she didn’t bite or ruin things that she wasn’t supposed to. A routine that went smoothly for a couple of months until an event occurred that none of us had seen coming.

It was a Saturday morning and my mom and brother had gone out to get breakfast together. I stayed back because I had already eaten, and I was a senior in high school at the time, so I had some things to wrap up before the end of the year and graduation. I was in my bedroom sitting at my desk focused on something on my laptop instead of devoting my entire attention on my 6-month-old puppy, as I should have been. She found a pair of long, thick fuzzy socks on my floor that I had left out from the night before and she picked one up in her mouth and ran out to the living room with it. I began to chase her to try and get the sock back from her, and that was one of the several mistakes I made during this serious situation. Harlee’s favorite game to play is when she will get a toy or a blanket and put it in her mouth and then start dashing around the house with it while someone chases after her. My guess is that she took me chasing her as us playing that game. She got to her bed in the living room before I could get there and had already began to swallow this large thick fuzzy sock, I tried everything I could to stop her, I begged her to please just drop it and spit it out, I tried reaching my hand into her mouth to remove it, nothing worked. It got majority of the way down her throat and she began choking on it and dry heaving while still trying to swallow it, I could see the fear in her eyes, and she saw it in mine as I lied there and held her. I started balling my eyes out and frantically calling my mom, worried about what would happen to Harlee.

My mom rushed home and picked Harlee and I up and we sped off to the emergency vet. There they told us that they would most likely have to put her under anesthesia and operate to remove the object, this was going to cost anywhere from $600-$2,000. They recommended another vet that was an hour away who had other options and was a lot cheaper. We decided to make the drive. On the way there, I began to wonder how I would pay for some of this, if not all of it because I was the one who had caused it all. Once we arrived at the second emergency vet, they explained our options and the risks that went along with each one. We got an x-ray of Harlee and they were able to identify where the sock was, they showed us the x-ray image and told us that it was currently lodged in her stomach which was the best possible scenario, but if it went down any lower the strings could get tangled into her intestines, they warned us that if this did happen it would be very bad and that it would make everything much more complicated. The veterinarian came up with a solution, and if it worked it would take away the thought of surgery and would save hundreds to thousands of dollars. He took my mom and I back to the room and took Harlee to an area in the hospital where the pets’ families weren’t allowed. He explained to us what he would be doing, which was to take her back, and sit her on a table where she had to be secured so she wouldn’t try to move. The veterinarian also told us that he would give her medicine to induce vomiting and reach his hand in as she started to get sick to assist her in getting the object out and make sure she wouldn’t choke on it. My mom and I sat in the room while he tried his best to help Harlee, the amount of time going by felt like hours, it was mostly silence as we both just hoped and prayed that everything would go smoothly and that she would be okay.

About 30 minutes later, the veterinarian brought Harlee back to the room we had been waiting in, he said everything had gone as perfectly as it could and that he was able to get the object out, he said that the medicine he gave her would make her sleepy for the next 24 or so hours, and that she needed lots of rest, he prescribed her some pain medicine in case her stomach or throat were sore and sent us on our way.

To this day I still see this experience as a blessing, Harlee is a little over one year old now and is happy and healthy as can be, I can’t imagine it any other way and I am so thankful that everything turned out in such a positive way. Since that day I have made adjustments to my life, I’ve learned to be a lot more responsible and not leave socks and other clothing articles on the floor, I now place them in a tall laundry basket that Harlee cannot reach, I also always make sure I know what she’s doing and I don’t take my eyes off of her long enough for her to do something she isn’t supposed to. Overall this experience made me open my eyes to a lot and come to the realization that a mistake like this could cost a life, and that I needed to become a lot more responsible and attentive.

Week Seven: Don't Mess with Cats

My mother stands at 5 foot 3 inches with wrinkles by her eyes, a result of time passed, laughter, and the stress of having two daughters. Or so she tells us. Her hair is in a loose bob that she's had since she gave birth to my older sister. 

"You've only had three haircuts in your life," I jokingly tell her sometimes. "A mullet, perm, and now a bob.”

But that's just who she is. She doesn't like change, and she doesn't like fuss. Why change something that's already good? She laughs easily, a quality I always admired, and speaks to people like she's known them all her life. I've never met a living thing that didn't like her. Not human or animal or even bug. She'd probably never even been stung by a bee and she definitely prefers escorting spiders and wayward ladybugs outside, as opposed to joining them with the underside of her shoe. She loves everyone and everything, which can either be naive or painfully optimistic.  There is one man, however, whose house she still looks at with scorn, even though he moved away years ago.

It started with a small cage, no bigger than the size of a raccoon or skunk, nestled in the valley that separated our house from the neighbors. It was No Man's Land, a respectable place that neither of us claimed or rejected as a part of our property, so it remained untouched until that day. It was insignificant at the time, probably a piece of junk that fell from his yard. It was summer or sprint, or something in between and so we didn't give it much thought- there were bigger things on our minds. Days passed, weeks passed. Sometimes a fleeting thought, there's that cage again, or what's he doing with it? But as soon as we passed it, it left our minds. 

Enter: skunk.

A skunk's only defense is their infamous scent glands, which release a horrible oder that cannot easily be washed from clothes or skin or hair. But inside that cage, the skunk was rendered helpless- its stripped tail restrained from going upward, preventing the release of its only defense. This was not worrisome either. My mother always saw the good in others and never assumed the worst, despite how horrible the world can be.

"He'll probably release it somewhere," she said hopefully.

He did not.

Instead, our neighbor backed his truck over to the cage, put a tarp and hose to the skunk and left his engine running. My mother tore over to his house and ripped the cage away from the truck in a futile attempt to save it, but it had already died. Asphyxiated. She was too late.

I watched, horrified, as my mother banged on his door. He didn't answer. I'd never seen her so angry. It scared me.

On and on she went about the dead skunk. Days passed, then weeks, and still, when she saw his house, she became angry all over again. The neighbor had broken her sacred rule of assuming the best in every situation, so when we saw that scrap of metal waiting again, she was more prepared. My mother would not give him a second chance. She watched for activity, for a curious animal to wind up stuck just as the skunk did. There were none. At least, we thought there were none.

A dead cat appeared in our yard, discovered by my dog, a week or so later. It looked asleep, stlll in the grass without a hair out of place. But nothing was that still. Nothing alive. It looked like it'd died naturally, but we knew better. He killed a cat. Who killed cats besides serial killers? Men plagued with slightly off kilter neighbors who screamed about skunks? 

Whoever he was, he was a new kind of deranged. All her life, my mother sheltered us and herself from the horrors of the real world. She ignored the news and newspapers because they were too sad. But suddenly the horribleness of the world was embodied into one man- that horrible, horrible neighbor. This cat killing was a criminal offense, punishable only through the same horrible circumstances the skunk and cat had to endure- trapped in a cage, dying scared and helpless.

We tried everything within our ability to save any future animals that would wander into his yard. We called the police and animal control, but in Michigan it was legal to kill these animals seen as pests. If we took the cage, we would be the criminals. If we stepped into no man's land, which we discovered to be his property, again, we would be the criminals. We were as helpless as the skunk and cat.

Months passed, and we hoped he learned remorse. Like clockwork, the cage appeared. But my mother was ready this time. She waited until a small black cat appeared in the cage, cowering and yowling to be let free. My mother pounced, taking the cage from his yard, she banged the door until the wife of the murderer answered.

"It looks like you caught my cat," my mother said. "I'll return your trap when I'm done with it.”

We took the cat, an angry stray, to the vet. They took it to a rehabilitation home that turns feral cats into adoptable cats- giving a potentially dead cat hope.

My mother won this battle, but like they say, the war was not over. She returned the cage, and again, it appeared in No Man's Land. Another animal, another announcement that it was our pet. This became a complicated tactic when it came to possums and skunks (which were obviously not our pets), but who were they to doubt our word? 

Still, no matter the animals we saved, we knew there were probably an equal amount being killed by that man alone. And then there were all the others in the world, and that made us wonder: were we making a difference? Or were we just as helpless as the caged animals.

Memoir of A New Mama

I'm 7 years old, playing in my childhood bedroom. Sitting on my pink blow up couch, feeding my baby born doll her gross orange food that I mixed up in our bathroom. I carry her everywhere with me, until my sister is born and I have a real baby to take care of.

Even at the age of 7 I knew what I wanted to do with my life. Aside from wild dreams of being a teen pop sensation like Britney Spears, my realistic dreams were that I would be a stay at home mom. A more traditional approach towards adulthood, I realized as I got older and started to see what my peers desired compared to what I wanted so much.

I constantly and eagerly helped my mom and step mom with many of the duties that came along with my younger siblings, worked in the church nursery for several years in my early teens, and went on to become a nanny at 19. The point is, I love babies. And I am great with them. People call me the baby whisperer.

It's Wednesday 9/18/2019. I'm 27, it's 7 am. My due date is 2 days away and I am excited and nervous. I had just been at the hospital 2 nights before for Braxton Hicks contractions, sent home incredibly disappointed when I was told she wasn't on her way just yet. I am still laughing at the naive pre-baby me who thought they were real contractions and bragged to my boyfriend about how much they didn't hurt me. HAH.

Her daddy said she would be born on a Wednesday. It's 4:07 pm and I am holding our little girl for the first time. Her eye is swollen, her face is blue from the bruises, and I am shell shocked (for lack of a better term.) I will never forget dozing off in the maternity ward, thinking that I was still in labor and having a contraction, and jumping in my bed but calming down when I realized it was over and she was here.

But she is perfect. All of my life I have waited for that moment, wondering what my baby would look like, what I would name it. And she was finally here. I knew the minute that I saw her, that she was the baby that God intended for me. We were made for each other.

Week 7: Simple Kindness

Ever since I was seven or eight I've been depressed. It didn't start out suicidal or extreme, and I was always a go-get'em type of kid; I didn't really even notice what was happening. I liked making people laugh, even though usually it was at me instead of with me. I loved my family, even though I had to watch my father verbally abuse my mother and my brother hit me over the back of my head randomly.

My family dysfunction didn't really bother me besides the odd moment of cathartic crying because I was used to it. As I grew up, I started to realize that things weren't okay - my mother and father got divorced right around the age of eight, and we moved out. I lived with my mom now and I started to grow up a little bit, but in the wrong way.

I didn't talk to people, I sat alone at lunch and I wore my hoodie so that I felt safe. My bad eating habits of binge eating became starving myself and refusing to eat lunch. My occasional bouts of sadness became an internal emptiness and lack of purpose. I still went through the motions, had a couple friends, got school done, went to family gatherings; but it wasn't the same as before. I would always eventually default to an absolutely empty state.

If you asked me if I had changed, I wouldn't have known. I didn't realize the slow creep of depression, and by the time I was in High School and sixteen years old I was starting to cut myself and was spiraling. My grades were failing. I couldn't find enjoyment with my family. I couldn't reach out because after all of this, I felt like it was too much. That it was my cross to bear, and I wanted to help others and bear theirs for them.

I know now that it was the wrong choice, but hindsight is funny like that. After nine (or ten?) years of my spiraling depression since before I was 10, I remember there was one person that really stuck to me.

In my High School (Romeo High, nice place if you don't mind the old building), there was a science teacher at the time named (I think, my memory is fuzzy with names) Mr. Nuttal. Mr. Nuttal was a larger fellow, but he was larger than life and loved to laugh and constantly tried to make the science and biology classes interesting. I'm pretty sure I wasn't doing great in his class either but that's not the point.

After all of my issues I remember I started to lose sleep, too - I would fall asleep in class a lot. Mr. Nuttal had a test one day, one that I was pretty sure I could skate through with relative ease; except I passed out on top of my test paper.

Most of the teachers I've encountered, by this point, weren't someone I would trust my feelings to. They just wanted to get through the day like everyone else and only a very tiny minority of them seemed to genuinely care about their students beyond knowing they were responsible for their salary. Mr. Nuttal was different, though.

Instead of being rude about it or trying to make an example out of what not to do, he gently shook my shoulder in the middle of the test and asked me something simple:

"Are you okay?"

It was different. Of course people have asked if I was okay before, but they were all the usual suspects; Family members, close friends, the occasional romantic partner. But this was different. Mr. Nuttal issued me off into a side room so I could complete the test and focus after my impromptu nap, and afterwards sat down with me and asked if everything was okay at home, and if I was feeling alright.

At the time I think I remember being a little dismissive, but I did thank him as best as I could. Depression has a weird way of twisting things unfortunately so, at the time, I thought it was just someone spewing pointless niceties. But now that I look back on it, I see that he cared. The reason this stuck with me is because he didn't need to care. He was the one that counted. The person who had no real stake in my emotional well-being - educational, sure, but emotional? No, teachers don't have to care about that. But he did, and unlike some other people, it was much more genuine.

I remember I talked to my Mom about it some time later. I actually remember during parent teacher conferences, my mom hugged him and cried, and thanked him for looking after me. I'd like to think I'd have done the same if I wasn't so screwed up at the time.

Eventually, I started to get help after coming out to my Mom about it. I got therapy, the usual run of some medicine - I'm better than I was, still struggling as I am. But I always remember him because of the simple act of kindness.

Mr. Nuttal, last I heard, went to teach grade schoolers. I think (and hope) he'll be good there; not necessarily because he's the best teacher in the world, but because I think he cares. He wants to make sure that his students are happy as well as educated. When the chips are down, that's what counts the most, I think.

Week 7: Big Yellow American School Buses

I’m not sure why, but when I moved to America, my first memory was waiting for the school bus on the first day of school. I wasn't excited for school, I was excited to see the big yellow American school buses. I don’t know why I was so fixated on the idea of a yellow bus, but I remember my brother and sister had told me about how in America you ride to school on a “big yellow bus.” It’s not really a staple of American culture right? They’re not very glamorous.

On that cold February morning, I stood at the end of my driveway with my mom, my brother, and 3 other kids from our street and eagerly awaited the big yellow bus. 

I wore a lilac purple knit hat, and it was snowing outside, which was also a big deal. In Ireland, we don’t get snow. It usually stays a solid 50 degrees year-round, with nonstop rain and clouds. So, to see piles and piles of snow was like living a dream, this was the stuff you only see on American TV shows. 

            

Rory & I living it up in America - 2005

I was solely focused on the yellow bus, while my brother, Rory, had already made a new friend, a boy his age who lived 3 doors down from us. He was pretending like the bus was no big deal, but secretly I know he was excited to see it too.

The bus came, and I was in awe. It was so yellow, and so big. Once I got on the bus my amazement quickly vanished and turned into anxiety as I watched my brother sit in the back of the bus with all the other 6^th graders and his new best friend. 

Wait a minute… this bus isn’t cool at all, it’s my nightmare. I’ve always been a very shy person and I remember this so vividly because of the pure terror I felt looking at the bus and realizing I might have to sit with some random kindergarteners that I don’t know.

We moved in the middle of the school year, and Shelby Twp. isn’t exactly Ellis Island, so our schools (my brother and I’s elementary school and my sister’s Catholic high school) made a big deal about the new Irish immigrants. Looking back on it now, it is kind of a rare oddity to see an Irish person around here, granted, my mom has managed to find every single Irish person within a 20-mile radius, but we were still unique to the area.

Back on the bus, I quietly followed Rory to the back, ignoring all of the stares from the kids on the bus. My brother sat in the very last seat on the left and I stood there, patiently waiting for him to scooch over and let me sit. Of course, he didn’t, because what cool big brother would let their little sister cramp their style on the first day? And in front of his brand-new friend? Blasphemy.

“Go sit up front, that’s where the kindergarteners sit,” he whispered, “this is only for sixth graders.” I believed him, not realizing that these are kind of just casual rules of the bus, but still, I didn’t want to sit with kids I didn’t know.

So, I did what any annoying little sister would do, and ratted him out to the bus driver. Without missing a beat, she pulled over the bus and stomped down the aisle, and told him that I was his little sister, it was our first day, and how dare he do this to me. Rory fumbled his words, trying to make up some excuse as to why I can’t sit with him, but the bus driver is the boss on the bus, so she ultimately won.

I remember smiling all the way to school. I sat in between my brother and his new friend, at the back of the bus as a kindergartener, I felt like the coolest girl in the world. Rory wasn’t happy, he spent the whole time huffing and puffing.

***

The school day is kind of a blur. I remember we had all eyes on us, everyone was asking us all sorts of questions about Ireland, such as:

“Do you have clouds in Ireland?”

“Does everyone wear green?”

“Does everyone eat Lucky Charms for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”

You know, the important questions on every kid’s mind.

Rory’s first complaint when he got home was that he needed to get new clothes.

“No one here wears football jerseys mom!” Rory’s style in Ireland consisted mainly of tracksuit bottoms that were always too small because he wouldn’t stop growing, and Irish football (soccer) jerseys. It wasn’t the same here, during 2005, the style was much more consistent with Abercrombie polos and jeans.

Brooke & I - 2007

I had no complaints when I got home, the only thing on my mind was my new best friend Brooke. We met on that first day in our kindergarten class, and we are still best friends to this day. We spent almost every day together during elementary school.

In retrospect, Brooke made America a lot less scary for me. Packing up your whole life and starting brand new in a completely different culture is really scary, even though I was only 6, and adjusting at that age is much easier than when you are older. 

In a way, I think my brother and sister’s way of making me more comfortable was coming up with this magical “yellow school bus,” it gave me something to look forward to on my first day of school.

Prom 2017 - Brooke & I went together

To 6-year old’s, the idea of moving from Ireland to America is much simpler than it really is. There’s no way to comprehend the magnitude of moving that far away, and for my new American friends, they didn’t see me as much different, it was like I moved from one town over.

Brooke and her mom always laugh about what Brooke had said after she met me on that first day of school. She went home that day and confidently told her mom, “I met a girl at school today from Ireland!”

 “Wow, that’s great honey,”

“I know! We are already friends, and guess what? She comes to school every day on a PLANE! She flies over here for school and then flies back home to Ireland after school.”

Her mom laughed and told her that’s not how that works, to which Brooke appropriately responded with sobs and denial, “Yes, she does mom! That’s what she told me!”

Baby me hiking the Mourne Mountains in County Down - 2001