ode to a joyful place (now gone)

“You don’t know anything about bowling.”

He said this, not to be mean, but to state a fact. I knew nothing about bowling. Still, with the confidence of an eighteen-year-old who had been denied very little in life, I entered the interview wearing mom jeans and an old, ratty sweater, sure that he would hire me.

My gut feeling wasn’t wrong. He didn’t hire me to work at the bowling lanes. That would have been a disaster. But he saw something in me–maybe it was hidden potential, maybe it was a sad and desperate search for someplace to belong–and he called me with a job offer later that afternoon.

Wilder Desk Attendant.

I left Oberlin with a glimmer of optimism. Next year would be better.

—

“Meet at 9 a.m. Wear comfy pants.”

The e-mail that went out to all new and returning Wilder employees was vague and cryptic, perhaps on purpose. We all crowded onto a rumbling yellow school bus, delayed because some students were held up buying drinks and peaches. I remember the smell of the brown plastic seats. I was still young enough to be nostalgic for the clear boundaries and expectations of public high school. Old worries crept in to ruin the excitement of this new beginning. What if I still didn’t fit in?

There was a boy, tall and skinny with a shock of hair that seemed to defy gravity. I remember going to sit near him, because I felt like he was worried, too. When the upperclassmen appeared with bushels of fruit and glass bottles clanging in green plastic bags, he didn’t step up to greet them or admonish them jokingly like the others. I can’t remember the exact moment when we first spoke, or the exact words we said. They were likely uttered in that awkward, halting way when your voice is somehow caught off guard, the connections between your brain and mouth severed by racing, anxious thoughts. Still, we became friends. Not just for that weekend. Not even just as co-workers. Real friends who went jogging together, cooked meals and watched Twin Peaks together, played board games, sent letters, went bowling together.

He wasn’t my first college friend, but he might have been the best.

—

The Wilder Orientation Lakeside Retreat weekends have passed into legend over the years, a relic of a more open budget, but they were the key to my happiness in college. Wo-Ho-Mis lodge was our headquarters for all the standard ice breakers and training activities you would expect on a work retreat. It was also the headquarters for late night games of The Floor is Lava and dramatic readings of hyper-religious teen self-help volumes that warned of Flirt State University, followed by early morning yoga and meditation with our boss. From there we were given free reign to explore the town–unlimited shuffleboard, mini golf, ice cream, movies, and lake swimming.

You may be thinking “wait a second–this was for work?” Well, you’re right. Without meaning to, I had fallen into one of the best jobs on campus, working for and with some of the best people in Oberlin. These retreats weren’t just meant to spoil us and show us a good time. They were meant to help us bond in meaningful ways–to teach us the basic expectations of our jobs, but also to nourish our whole selves in a way that recognized our humanity. We weren’t just employees. These trips emphasized that we were a family. We arrived back on campus ready to share the love.

—

For those unfamiliar with Oberlin, Wilder Desk was located immediately to your right as you entered though the Student Union building’s main doors. One side of its green counter was always full of student handouts or free food leftover from meetings. There were usually a few people gathered around that area, backpacks slung over one shoulder, casually discussing class assignments or study abroad plans. From a computer behind the desk, quiet strains of music (any genre–pick your favorite) drifted out into the common space, barely heard over laughter echoing in the halls or the stampede of mandatory discussion groups tromping up and down the stairs every hour. When you stepped into the building, someone at the desk would greet you with a quiet smile (or a boisterous “hullo” if you were familiar). It was a simple, but powerful, acknowledgement of everyone’s shared existence. Our boss called it “stellar customer service.”

He believed that goodness was contagious–that, from the Desk, we could radiate a spirit that touched everyone who walked through the doors, who would then take that goodness out to the world, and the world would reciprocate. That doesn’t mean we never cried at the desk. I was perpetually tearing up over assignments or loneliness, embarrassing as it was. But he intentionally hired people to create a community of caring. We lifted each other up no matter what. It wasn’t “the customer is always right.” It was “the customer is a human, and so are you, so let’s work together.”

—

As a Desk Attendant, you had to keep track of everything. My boss called it “driving the bus of Oberlin.” We were the starting point of every question about department office hours, mail room hours, directions, local landmarks, lost IDs, college radio shows, club membership, ticket sales, event schedules, and more. I once took a phone call about a chicken crossing the road (literally). We had an answer for everything, and, if we didn’t, we knew where to look. We rented out frisbees and board games, and sold banner paper, stamps and envelopes. We were a hub for friendly activity, chugging along to the tune of a noisy cash register with chunky buttons and a proclivity for beeping when poked the wrong way.

Wilder Desk was the literal keeper of the keys. Any room you scheduled in the building, whether it was for a dance rehearsal or knitting club, you had to stop by the desk. The keys hung from little golden hooks on a wooden stand that made a metallic rolling sound when it turned. We exchanged IDs for keys and keys for IDs. I learned a lot of names that way, made a lot of pleasant small talk with all sorts of people. Slowly I began to feel connected to the Oberlin College community. I was no longer an island in a sea of inexplicable adolescent sadness. I had found a place to belong.

—

Over the course of my three years at Wilder Desk, I grew to feel loved and cared for in a way I never would have expected after the disaster of my first year at college. I made friends that were like family. We visited each other during our respective shifts, gorging on free leftover pizza, playing contentious games of Connect 4, once even hosting a mini tea party with finger sandwiches and piping hot mugs of tea. We had holiday gift exchanges and ridiculous dance-offs. No matter what happened, there was always someone there at the Desk. Goodness bred goodness. We were all different, but we all got along.

Even after we graduated, that community of caring persisted. I remember visiting the Desk during my five year reunion. The faces were different, but the same spirit and camaraderie were there. They drank in our stories of former desk attendant glories and shared some of their own. Our photos were still on the computer, joined with hundreds of other photos of later generations of students, all of us one community. I posted an update for my former co-workers who were unable to attend, and we were all reunited virtually in our love for Wilder and sweet memories of the Desk. Again, I felt connected. Again, I felt rooted.

—

For better or for worse, Oberlin College decided to demolish Wilder Desk over the past summer. Student workers were advised to find other employment and a longtime college staff member was laid off. The decision came amidst a lot of other routine decisions–the closing of a dining hall, the retirement of outdated college rental apartments–but, despite the apparent normalcy of the act, it still felt like a betrayal. Frustration burned hot in my belly as I watched a video of the Desk’s deconstruction online. Bigger and better things to come…but what could be better than Wilder Desk?

I recently visited Oberlin for an unrelated committee meeting. I got a coffee and a bagel from The Local and sat out on Tappan Square, soaking in the memories. It was 9:15 am, in the middle of class for a Wednesday morning, so the square was deserted. An older man on a bicycle clattered past on the brick walkway, but that was it. I finished my bagel and crumpled the foil in my hand. With time to spare before the meeting, I stood up and walked to Wilder Student Union.

The Desk is gone. Replaced by empty chairs and a newly-painted orange wall, the life and vibrancy–the camaraderie and community–that were the heart and soul of my Oberlin experience have vanished without a trace, wheeled out with the last speck of evidence that anything but a clinical coldness had ever existed in that space. No one gathered around the counter. The counter wasn’t there. No one smiled at me when I came in. There was no one to smile. There was no one to drive the bus.

Wilder felt dead.

RIP Wilder.

—

“You don’t know anything about bowling.”

Sometimes I think back to that first interview, and I realize how lucky I am that he hired me–that my first job was at the Student Union, my first boss a man who believed in validating and supporting his employees as people. Oberlin College taught me a lot of things, but maybe the most important was the philosophy of stellar customer service. (Or maybe it was open-handed gestures–my Wilder folks know what’s up!)

The Desk may be gone, but it will remain the epicenter of a giant ripple of goodness in my life’s story. It was the end of my isolation in college and the beginning of my blossoming. Without the family I found there, I would have likely thrown in the towel. I am strong because of the three years I spent being supported by wonderful people. I am competent at my current job because of the three years I spent learning from good supervisors how to serve an entire community. The skills and self-confidence I learned at Wilder are equal to (if not more than) any I learned in an academic course. As my alma mater seems more and more intent on chipping away at the heart of its community, all I can do is take that spirit and continue to spread it. That will be my act of resistance.

The Desk is gone; long live its joy.

Do Not Attempt

I hate yoga like I hate eggs. You may think there’s little in common between the two, but you would be wrong. Sure, one is edible and the other is guided stretching in comfy pants; but when I confess my dislike of either, I am met with the exact same skepticism.

“But it’s really, really good for you.”

“You just haven’t tried it this way.”

“Ugh, you’re wrong! This is the best way to start a morning.”

“Hate is a strong word.”

I’m not kidding. If I had a dollar for every time someone tried to convince me I didn’t really hate yoga (or eggs), I could take a week off work and fly to Bermuda and get a hot summer tan. It’s always the instructor’s fault, or the style of the class, or the  aura of the location. Hating yoga (or eggs) just isn’t a thing people understand, but trust me. There’s something about stretching and then holding it as long as I can that makes me want to run away screaming. There’s something about being quiet and breathing intentionally that (ironically) makes me want to hyperventilate. I’ve tried yoga in the woods, by the lake, in a gym, at the art museum, in classes, with mom in the basement…

I hate yoga.

But I’ve also had a stressful few weeks. On top of starting a new job, working double shifts, trying to feed myself, and remembering to get gas, I’ve also had trouble sleeping. My mind just won’t stop working. It’s like someone took the nice, neat compartments I’d made for my thoughts and bombed them to smithereens. My responsibilities used to be predictable and routine. Now there’s a mess of mental rubble–memories, stress dreams, creative ideas, and endless to-do lists.

“How can I fix this?” I wondered a few nights ago, suddenly questioning my long-held bias against yoga.

I briefly reviewed the reasons I hate yoga: it makes me fart; my butt feels vulnerable up in the air; my clothes aren’t stylish enough; it’s too quiet so everyone can hear me fart; I can’t touch my toes; conspicuous wedgies…

“Still,” I mused, alone in the gloaming, “what if I tried?”

With the entire Interworld at my fingertips, I did a quick search for the top ten easy yoga poses. As I typed, I imagined myself attempting the poses and my problems falling gracefully to the wayside. My hair came out of the rubber band in cute little wisps and my shirt draped romantically over my shoulders. My face was serene, my mind relaxed. The following is what really happened:

I skipped the nostril breathing. According to one practitioner, three slow breaths from their left nostril was enough to put them to sleep each night. No, thank you! Good for you; not for me!

Without the aid of my left nostril, I went straight into what is called the “Easy Pose.” (I should mention that I will not be using any “asana” names during this post because I definitely would not call what I did correct or authentic in any way.) I won’t lie. I only held this long enough to take a picture.

Verdict: comfy.

I moved on to something familiar. I’ve been doing Child’s Pose since I was a kid and mom dragged me to her yoga class. Sure, I can curl up in a ball. I can even pretend I can feel this stretching my thighs and ankles and back. But there is a limit to how long I can stare directly at the ground before I start to feel strange. One practitioner online commented that this was the cutest pose ever because they felt like a little biscuit.

Proposal: Rename this the Little Biscuit Pose.

Now here’s a yoga pose I can get behind. The Corpse Pose is not only simple, it is also how I spent 90% of my day off on Sunday. Psshhh, yoga is easy.

Things got a little dicey when I moved onto the Cobra Pose. This was another familiar pose, introduced to me in dance class after ab work outs, but that didn’t make it feel any less awkward as I tried to remember where to put my hands. Turns out, there’s a Cobra Pose for Dummies website. Maybe I should have consulted that first.

Life didn’t get much easier for me as I tried out The Bridge and The Happy Baby poses. No need for commentary. I think my face says it all.

I redeemed myself ever-so-slightly with the Camel Pose, though (trust me), it was not without some audible groaning. It took me way longer than necessary to find my heels, too. The generic, stock-photo women doing this pose on the website looked so serene as they bent over backwards. Me? I was never more aware of how much I hate yoga as when I was doing this pose.

Undeterred, I pushed on, following with a gravely impassioned Warrior and an absurdly giddy Tree. To be fair, I was confusing the Tree with the Baby. Or, maybe I was confusing yoga with Bob Ross. Looking back, it doesn’t make sense that a tree would be happy. But then again, yoga doesn’t make sense to me. Whatever. Hindsight is 20/20.

Things got weird when I tried to make a triangle with my body with my butt to the camera. I don’t know exactly what I was thinking, but it had something to do with wanting to imitate the woman on the website, and her butt was to the camera, too. This pose was a pretty decent stretch, but it definitely did a better job showcasing my burgeoning wedgie. We can’t all be perfect…

It was at this moment that I decided to attempt my Everest. Some people struggle with handstands, others with finding the perfect scenic location to record themselves being fabulous. I can’t touch my toes. (Yes, even after all those dance lessons mom paid for.) I took a deep breath and began to fold myself in half, imagining that I was doing it vertebrae by vertebrae, just like a yoga instructor would advise.

And then I hit a wall, but don’t take my word for it. In good faith, I documented everything.

Nope. No matter frequently I exhaled–no matter how desperately my arms flailed looking for something more toe-like to grab–I flat out failed. Toe touches just aren’t in my wheelhouse. Sorry, mom.

After that disappointment, I couldn’t go on. My tolerance for uncomfortably pushing my board-stiff muscles to new heights was waning, and I was feeling more and more ridiculous by the minute. Don’t get me wrong, though! Some of my friends feel and look powerful when they do yoga. Some of my friends find a peaceful quietude that helps them organize their lives and conquer their demons. I don’t doubt the benefits of comfy pants, mindful breathing, and body contortions for other people. That doesn’t change the fact that I hate it.

I may be worse than a novice…I may have only looked at pictures to do these poses…I may have been too caught up in what exactly constitutes half a fish lord…I may have thrown in the towel without really trying…But I do have to hand it to yoga: it was so awkward, I stopped worrying about work.

Disclaimer: DO NOT GOOGLE YOGA AND ATTEMPT YOGA. YOGA REQUIRES PRACTICE AND BASIC INSTRUCTION. I AM A MORON.

 

First Day Report

Many of you know: today was my first day at a new part-time job. Most of you can’t know how absolutely ready I was, how absolutely terrified.

Rewind.

Almost two years ago, I moved from my college town to a new city, hoping to connect with what many of my peers seemed to have experienced after graduation. Career opportunities, friendships, relationships, success, and pride: that’s what I hoped to find. Whether I was chasing a pipe dream or not, I don’t think it would surprise you to hear that moving to a new city was not an insta-cure for the quarter-centenarian malaise. Some 80 weeks later, I was still feeling isolated, discouraged, stuck, and hopeless. The feelings of shame and worthlessness persisted, but my network of support and mentors had drastically shrunk. I was (as Lord Elrond once described the race of men) “scattered, divided, leaderless.” I was (as John Adams once described James Otis Jr.) “a ship without a helm.”

Rewind.

In college, I took a bowling class. The coach had a policy against negative thought patterns. If we weren’t mastering a skill quickly enough or if our scores were disappointing, he wanted us to hit the brain breaks and reorganize the route. If we were particularly bad at optimism, he suggested we actually say “STOP” out loud, followed by a sentence that could turn our thoughts around. For example, if you miss a spare and you feel like you’ll never get it right: “STOP. You’ve done such great work, I bet you’ll get the next one.”

You can probably guess who took this skill out of the lanes and to the next level. (Spoiler alert: it was me.) I was having a particularly difficult year writing my thesis, and I ended up walking around campus, muttering “stop” every fifteen minutes or so. It was one of the few things keeping me from crumpling under anxiety and feelings of inadequacy. I sounded insane, but it worked. I finished my thesis. Even now, after a few hundred tries, I can usually spin straw situations into gold if I just remember to STOP.

“Thank you, Chris. You’re welcome, Chris. I sound insane. I’m going to go talk to my therapist.”

Fast-forward.

I think this past February was the hardest month in my life so far. To kick it all off, I caught a knife with the palm of my hand, which resulted in a trip to urgent care and my first stitches. For a week, I couldn’t braid my hair, tie my shoes, scrape snow off my car, or even fasten my own belt. I was impotent and useless in ways I’d never experienced, and all my dissatisfaction with life came rushing forward. I could no longer temper the ennui with hours of Netflix and cups of tea. I felt overworked, undervalued, bored, and stagnant…

…And then I remembered to STOP.

I made it my mission to shake up my life. As soon as my stitches were removed, I took a long shower, brushed my hair, and cleaned my apartment.”New or challenging” became the mandate for all after-work activities. I went to concerts instead of binge-watching shows I’d already seen. I journaled in coffee shops instead of scrolling through Facebook. I went on runs through the woods; I practiced viola; I started and finished books. For the first time in over a year, I updated my resume and started scouring the Internet for jobs. Even the smallest breaks in routine boosted my energy and joie de vivre, and the tangible results came quickly.

Less than a month after my injury healed, I scheduled my first job interview. Interview followed interview. I had made a change and now the ball was rolling, rolling. It was almost frightening how quickly my own agency was confirmed. All this time I felt blown around by the winds of chance, and suddenly I was in charge. Positive action had reaped positive consequence, and the only thing to do was keep driving…

Fast-forward.

“Starting a new job is always emotional,” said my training manager today in the biggest understatement of the year.

As I sat through the endless hours of training to prepare me for success in my new job, I oscillated between homesickness for my museum and overwhelming excitement for my future, both of which nearly brought me to tears. I was dressed in a sad attempt at business casual: my pinstriped eighth-grade-orchestra pants and a white lace free box crop top hidden under a hand-me-down blazer. I felt young and inexperienced as I entered the boardroom and tried to make small talk with strangers. I thought back on my last days at the natural history museum, tried to remember what it felt like to be sure, and repeated the congratulations of my coworkers over and over in my head.

Good luck.

I’m glad you got a position you wanted.

You’ll do great.

We’ll miss you.

This new job was never in my plans, but something about it feels good. Years of hard work have been validated by a 100% increase in hourly wage, more creative responsibility, and entry into a workplace that (according to these training sessions) is reserved for only the best candidates. I feel nervous, excited, overwhelmed, overjoyed, and empowered. I made a choice to make a change, and now I’m here, standing on the precipice of possibility. You’ll have to stay tuned to find out what happens next.

“Congratulations, [redacted]!”

Soothsayer.

Beware the Ides of March! – Soothsayer 44BC (allegedly)

It has been a few months since I’ve written a real, long-form entry about my life. While I love the ease and pithy hilarity of lists, I do sort of miss paragraphs. I had wanted to write a review of my past year, to take a step back and analyze recent events, but all my efforts dissolved into madness. At first, I found I had no words, and then I found I had too many, and then everything felt meaningless, yet also, somehow, meaningful. In the end, to avoid any conflict between the apparent nothing and the actual everything that happened in 2015, I decided to skip the hindsight in 2016 and focus on moving forward instead.

On January 23rd, I had my fortune told via a late night tarot card reading at an event hosted by my museum. I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect. I didn’t pay much attention in 10th-grade English, but I watch a lot of TV, and I was a little cautious of strange figures in togas, crying Beware! I’m no Roman emperor, but I was still afraid the cards would tell me my career was hopeless, my life was the pits, and every decision I had ever made in my entire life was wrong.

As she shuffled the cards, Zostra* (*not her real name) put me at ease and told me not to panic if I saw any typically negative cards. She explained that she would interpret the cards as they fell, and that I was free to independently apply that interpretation to my life as I saw fit. I nodded. So the cards were not going to spell out the names of my last five hook-ups for all the world to see. I could live with that.

When she was finished shuffling the cards herself, Zostra handed the deck over to me. “Do whatever you want to the cards,” she instructed, gently. There was no judgment in her voice, but my brain was running laps anyway. What does one do to a deck? Am I supposed to perform some interesting and complicated ritual? Should I knock it off the table like a capricious feline? What if I tossed all the cards in the air, licked each one, and then sat back down as though nothing strange had transpired? What about nothing? Is there an option to do nothing?

In the end, I balked. Like the slice of white bread covered in mayonnaise that I am, I reached hesitantly towards the cards and simply cut the deck.

“Alright,” Zostra said, unconcerned as she continued her work. She arranged the cards in what is called a Celtic Cross and began her interpretation. What follows is an abridged and incredibly amateur account of Zostra’s reading:

The Page of Pentacles was at the heart of the spread, representing me as a person. The Page is a young card, but a competent card. It is the patron of emerging professionals everywhere and could signify someone chasing a dream job or pursuing a goal. Despite its youth, the Page can be passionate and dedicated because the Page understands exactly how much its job or project benefits the community.

I took this as verification that I work a lot, but that I love what I do. I put everything I have into my research and my teaching, and I show up ready to do a good job, because I believe in my work. I have seen how history can encourage growth and inspire people to get involved with their communities. I know museums can produce understanding across cultures and generations. I love that, and I’m glad to be a part of it.

There were actually an overwhelming amount of Pentacles in my cards. This is not a bad thing, as Pentacles are generally associated with wealth and career stability. These ten were laid across the Page, and she said this basically means I have a lot of money and success coming my way.

I’ll believe it when I see it, but maybe it means that nagging feeling that I’ll never amount to anything more than a part-time drone is just noise. I can (and will) meet my potential eventually.

The King of Wands was in my past. Being a young woman, speaking to a young woman, Zostra told me this could be an ex-boyfriend. I did not take the time to explain that I have no ex-boyfriends. The King of Wands is a creative type, good at what they do, but often at the expense of others. They pursue their art single-mindedly at times, without stopping to consider how they are treating their friends. They can be flaky, immature, and have trouble maintaining relationships. “Don’t worry,” she assured me. “The placement here says you’re over it.”

When Zostra started waxing poetic about former relationships and broken hearts, I almost scoffed. I am notoriously single and have been my entire life. I was about to give up all hope in the credibility of tarot cards and consign the art to a dramatic TV trope when I realized: she was right. Technically, I have no ex-boyfriends, but that hasn’t kept me from having my heart broken. There was an artist-type who dominated my energy and brain space for longer than necessary. For many years, I made him a top priority, yet I’ve thought about him so little in the past year that I could barely recall his memory when confronted with it face to face. Although it was shocking to see him appear in a tarot reading, the placement of the card was fairly affirming. Goodbye, King of Wands. Hello, empowered single lady.

The Ten of Swords is a pretty morbid card once you realize that the swords are sticking out of a human man turned into a pincushion. This was one of those cards that Zostra warned me about, and she tied it to the King of Wands and my love life in general. She noted that it was probably signalling some level of disappointment in my prospects, likely due to the modern dating malaise afflicting so many of our generation. But she was also quick to point out that, after you freak out about the pincushiony swords, there’s a sun rising over the mountains, which is a pretty nice thought.

This card was a no-brainer. Whether in my career or my social life, I am no stranger to disappointment. But you know what they say: “Optimism is a muscle–if you don’t use it, you lose it.” So, as an exercise in positivity, I’m going to say this card is validating my strength through adversity. The sun is rising, after all. (But the man is still dead?)

The Ten of Swords wasn’t the only horrifying card in my spread. The first thing I saw in this card were the five Pentacles in the window, and I became excited again. Yes, I thought, tell me more about how I am good at my job. Well, then I noticed the snow…and then I noticed the poor people in the snow. How fitting that this should represent my fears. Zostra explained that this card doesn’t always signify poverty in a literal sense, which was a relief, because I don’t consider money a key motivation in life. It mainly signifies a dearth of something you, personally, consider valuable.

This card really hit home in many ways, especially where it was situated in the spread as a fear. There are a lot of things I am lacking in my new home: a core group of friends, family, connection to the natural world, and any sense of heritage. As far-away friends start more serious careers or relationships, I’ve started losing contact with them, as well. There are a lot of times, now, when I don’t know who I can talk to, and it can be hard to push forward without the safety  of familiarity. If I leave myself alone to think too hard, I worry that this state of solitude will become permanent, which is a pretty terrifying thought, especially when you look at the next card…

It just keeps getting better, doesn’t it? The Hermit card was a little ambiguous where it was situated, so Zostra drew a few more cards for clarification. What resulted was this:

Apparently, the Two of Swords pointing between The Hermit and the Ace of Cups indicated that I am often faced with a decision between whether I want to stay in and focus on me and my own goals, or if I want to venture outside the walls of my introspection and hang out with friends.

This was eerily accurate to my current situation. I am fiercely dedicated to my work and to bettering myself, often to the point of isolation. But I am also committed to the idea of becoming a more social and less prickly person around my peers. Sadly, I can’t seem to find a balance. I can’t perform research on the side while teaching preschoolers and being a security guard and reading for fun so that I can hold more interesting conversations and participating in protests and relearning German and teaching myself how to play the viola again and winning dance competitions and writing stories and making presents for all my friends’ birthdays and going to parties and joining bowling leagues &c. &c. & c. I can’t be everything I want to be all at once, and so I’m feel I’m becoming nothing. It’s Sylvia Plath’s fig metaphor right there in my tarot cards, and it’s something I’ve struggled with for a long time.

But what about my future? The future is what I’m supposedly focusing on, so it is where I will bring this (no doubt) riveting recap of my tarot reading to a close. There is another King in my future,but this time he’s a Pentacle. (Did I mention I had, maybe, five dozen Pentacles in this spread?) Anyway, Zostra said this probably means I’m going to meet a new man. This time, I won’t be wasting my energy on a creative but incompatible human. I’m going to find someone in my field, who is mature and put together. We will share interests. The feelings will be mutual. He may even be a bit older than me. It might not be what I expect, but it’s going to work a heck of a lot better than the King of Wands.

Suuuuuuuuure…..

Zostra drew this card to clarify one I can’t quite remember, but the Ace of Pentacles stuck in my brain because it was near the end, and she said it had to do with a decision I was trying to make…also known as the next step in my career. She said that I may have been sitting on it for a while, but that this was a good sign. The Ace of Pentacles was telling me to go for it. Whatever I was thinking of doing, it was a step in the right direction and would bring me the success I was hoping for.

There’s really only one thing this could be about. For too many years, I’ve been waffling back and forth on the issue of grad school, flaking out on taking the GRE, and making excuses, despite knowing for quite some time that it is probably where I belong. If nothing else, I know I don’t belong where I am now. Last year, I came close to having a plan, but I bailed, because that’s what I do best. I thought dramatic, providential signs only happened in movies, but I think this is good enough proof that the time is ripe to follow through. 

—

To conclude, I will say it was a surprisingly moving and validating experience to have Zostra read my tarot cards. Having only seen tarot decks on supernatural TV shows, I think I underestimated the cards’ ability to productively turn my thoughts inward and assess aspects of my life I wouldn’t have ordinarily. The organization of the spread guided my introspection in really helpful ways and allowed me come to more concrete conclusions than usual. I feel like I can see my path a little more clearly now, and I’d say that is a pretty powerful experience for a confused 25-year-old in a quickly changing world.

(Also, I’m pretty obsessed with the word “pentacle” now.)

Good night!

from the mouths of babes

Preface: Today is Martin Luther King Day in the United States. It’s a designated 24 hours where kids get off school, museums are free, and rarely is anything learned about the man being honored. My entire public school education reduced Martin Luther King, Jr., to four words: “I have a dream.” When I entered college, I could recognize those words. I could conjure the cadence of his voice out of complete silence, and I even teared up a little when I heard him speak. But when I entered college, I seriously thought that dream had been fulfilled. That’s what I had been taught. We were living Martin Luther King’s dream. How nice.

(I was also taught that men and women earned equal wages. Hah.)

The truth is: after Martin Luther King gave his “I Have a Dream” speech at the 1963 March on Washington, the F.B.I. felt he was such a threat that they initiated one of the largest surveillance operations in history to spy on him. He refused to compromise what he believed in to make himself more palatable to white moderates. He was anti-war, anti-poverty, and anti-capitalist. He knew the system was broken. After years of trying to integrate his dream into American life, he began to wonder whether he was “integrating into a burning house.” When King was assassinated in 1968, much of the United States was still racially divided, and supporters of the status quo sighed in relief. They seized his legacy, sanitized all the radicalism, and professed an end to racism. They erected statues, named streets in his honor, and even established a federal holiday. They went to work, and we forgot.

If Martin Luther King were alive today, he would be turning 86. If Martin Luther King were alive today, most of us probably wouldn’t be quoting him. There is no better way of forgetting something than by commemorating it.

I won’t pretend that I am an expert on the American civil rights movement. I’m not. But here is some good reading if you’re looking to learn something about Martin Luther King today:
excerpts from The Radical King
Letter from a Birmingham Jail by Martin Luther King Jr.
Remaining Awake Through a Great Revolution by Martin Luther King Jr.

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When I woke up this morning, I was honestly disappointed that I was going to be at work all day. I knew there were protests that I wanted to join in Cleveland. I didn’t want to listen to people telling me we live in a post-racial society and that we’re living Martin Luther King’s dream and not be able to engage. I wanted to be free to write and talk about what I believed in, not confined to a customer service role where I had to make nice.

On top of it all, I had created an exhibit on the civil rights movement that I was afraid of. I was afraid that no one would look at it, that I would watch thousands of people breeze past replica 1960s protest signs and text about the intersectionality of the civil rights movement for the allure of an old carousel and historic cars. Incidentally, I was also afraid that people would look at it. I am not an expert on the subject, and I am terrible at debate. I cry too easily when confronted. I was afraid people might roll their eyes and say “Oberlin,” with that particular tone that seems to simultaneously explain and diminish my passion. I was afraid parents and kids would reject the craft, which asked them to make their own protest signs about issues they cared about. I was afraid visitors would complain about the text around the exhibit. I was afraid. I was afraid. I was afraid…

Here’s what happened instead: I went to work and saw my signs around the museum, and my heart swelled with pride. My boss credited me with the work, and I tried to hide behind my co-workers, but the anticipated resentment never came. As I walked through the museum to get a drink, I heard two adults discussing a sign about black feminism, about how they hadn’t learned of any of that information before. I heard a child reading aloud about the 1963 Birmingham church bombing and say how sad they were that those four young girls were killed. I even saw people taking pictures of my work. I started to relax.

At the craft table, things were busy. Some kids, when I asked if they knew what day it was, responded with “Monday,” but most of them knew it was Martin Luther King Day and not just a random day off school. I asked one little girl if she knew who Martin Luther King was, and she told me everything she knew about him as she colored. “He loved his grandma,” she said. “They liked to sit on the porch and talk. He was born on January 15th. His dream was that his daughters would live in a world where they would be judged by their character rather than their color. My best friend is white, so I think Martin Luther King would be happy.”

Most kids, as it turns out, have a lot of things they care about and were happy to sit down and think hard on their day off. Talking to them, as it turns out, was just what I was looking for in lieu of protesting outside. I watched toddlers proclaim that all weapons should be broken and advocate for all animals (not just the cute ones). I listened as one teenager told me she picked the colors black and brown for her sign against modern slavery because “black is beautiful.” She beamed with pride when I told her I could tell she was a deep thinker and could make a difference in the world. Another girl told me about how she collects soap and shampoo to donate to homeless shelters, and how she thinks working together is important to enact change. Kids told me about their favorite books while they made signs to support Little Free Libraries and reading. They told me why they recycle, why they think bullying is wrong, why boys should be able to play with dolls and like the color pink, why there should be more parks, why everyone deserves a loving family. I’m telling you…if you’re ever losing faith in humanity, talk to a kid about what they care about and how they think the world could be a better place. Because. Damn.

I have to mention that this one was made by a girl who came to the museum on a field trip a week ago, and she was so excited to see me and my mouse shoes again. She kept telling me all the stuff she remembered that I taught her about Native Americans, European traders, and the pioneers. And then she donated her sign as an example of “how all people should live.”  I have to mention this, because my phone didn’t save ANY of the pictures I took with her.

While trying to teach people how to more meaningfully engage with the past, I learned a lot about the future. Sometimes we can get so caught up in our own adult selves with our own adult problems that we forget there’s a whole generation after us. We think they’re just kids, so we talk down to them. We worry because they play with iPads and dress like adults, but they’ll be the ones dealing with the world we’ve properly broken for them. If they’re half as smart and thoughtful as they were today when they grow up, I can only hope they have the chance to fix what we bashed to bits.

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Despite all the cool things that happened at the museum, my favorite interaction actually happened after hours. When it was all said and done, my co-workers headed home. I headed to Chipotle.

What happened was this: There was one girl who made two signs. The first was serious, something about the environment, but the other really spoke to me. Jokingly, she made a silly sign about how you don’t mess with your sister’s Chipotle. We all laughed, but something inside me snapped. The rest of the day, all I could think about was how great Chipotle would taste after a long, hard day at work. Kids were telling me about their passions, but all I could think about was Chipotle, so I decided to go to the one around the corner from the museum after work.

As I walked though the door, the Chipotle girl was there with her family. It was destiny. I ordered my burrito bowl and gathered the courage to approach them. I paid for my food, took a breath, and walked over to their booth. “I’m sorry,” I said, holding up my to-go bag, “but your protest sign really inspired me.”

We all laughed again, and then I told them I had to go because I seriously needed to shove all my food in my mouth ASAP. We laughed some more, but I was already turning towards the door. Although it was beyond frustrating at the time, I’m so grateful for the extra few seconds it took me to realize the door was a push not a pull, because I heard the most amazing thing from where the girl was sitting with her mom.

“See, mom! Protesting does work!”

There you have it, folks. From the mouths of babes…