Object Permanence

Love fades away. But things? Things are forever.

– Tom Haverford

I’ll tell it to you straight: I live in a city that can experience all four seasons in a single day. I spent a lot of time in a college town, where my core group of friends rotated based on who was in town for break. I move to a new apartment every nine months, and I’ve never had a boy hold my hand and tell me he loves me.

Change and upheaval have been ubiquitous in my early 20s, but I am stubborn as a mule. I swallowed the stones of constancy a long time ago, hoping they would grind this perpetual uncertainty into something easily digestible. I’d rather drown with my heels dug into the sand than relax my limbs, tilt my head back to the sun, and let the waves wash me ashore. I do not adjust well.

I’m making this post because I’m about to turn 25 years old, and I’ve been feeling a bit swept away. It’s not a bad thing. As a rational adult, I know that change can be good. It can mean a new job, a better home, friends who care, happiness. As a somewhat less rational adult, I’m terrified and convinced it will all go wrong. Everything. Nothing will be good. Anger and sadness. The feline inside takes over, and all I want to do is hiss and claw my way back to the familiar, even if the familiar means being unhappy.

(I may or may not have been a cat in another life. This may also explain my affinity for knocking things off shelves and head massages.)

Now, I’m not really a person who cares about things. Every time I talk to my mom about moving, I tell her I don’t want anything. I don’t want an adult bed with a solid oak headboard that weighs 2,000,000 pounds. I don’t want a couch that can’t be taken apart. I don’t want to put my posters in frames or to own more than one lamp. I want to keep my six-year-old glasses and this pillowcase from the 1970s. I’ll take people’s old clothes, but I won’t buy new ones for myself. I hate things.

But, as I’m about to get older, I’ve been thinking a lot about the things I do own. I may not be able to count on the sun coming out in the morning (thanks, Lake Erie), but most of the things I own are things that keep me feeling rooted. Through every move and every heartbreak–in sickness and in health–these things have been with me. When I hold them, I know certainty. When I hold them, I know strength. When I hold them, I know myself. This is a tribute to those things that, even when I cannot see it, remind me that I can (and will) pull through.

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My baby blanket. There is a gray pile of knotted yarn sitting on the bed next to me. Too delicate to be washed regularly, it smells more human than I do with all my shampoo and perfume. It is rough–full of holes and lumps–but every few moments, I pause typing to run the fabric through my fingers. Only I know how this feels. Only I know the inexplicable comfort this action can bring…

I’ve had this blanket since I was born. That’s the excuse I give as I fail to articulate its importance. For reasons unknown to me, I chose it to be mine, and, for reasons unknown to me, I’ve been compelled to keep it. I’ve carried it with me for 25 years, and it has seen the world. I can’t even begin to list the adventures it we’ve shared. Six trips to Europe, a decade of Girl Scout camp, four years of college, spring break trips, bus rides, train rides–even caving! It has sat through every episode of Parks & Rec, every tearful phone call, every all-nighter, every head cold… If I had to describe my soul, it would be this blanket: knotted, faded, worn, but full of love and an unbreakable spirit of adventure.

I’m not an infant or an idiot. This blanket ceased to have a name when I became a teenager. It lost its gender when I graduated high school. When men stay the night, I kick it to the bottom of the bed, and I no longer bring it outside my room. But, until it has completely unraveled to nothing, I will continue to diligently tie its frayed ends together. I will continue running its edges between my fingers. And I will continue loving it as it has loved me.

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My ring. I have worn this ring on my right hand every day for the past four years. I purchased it only a week before I left Ireland because it was the cheapest one I could find. It didn’t mean much, to be quite honest. I thought it was funny when Irish boys came up with clever excuses to look at my hand to see if I was single or not, but that was about it. It wasn’t until I left the place I’d called home for half a year and set off for a scary adventure all on my own that I found it had any meaning at all.

When I was alone on the train from Berlin to Dresden, feeling lousy, I happened to look down at my hand. In that shiny silver heart, I saw rolling green hills and sheep in the pasture. I saw my friends smiling up at me–Irish, German, American, Portuguese, Austrian. I saw crystal blue harbors and rainbow store fronts. I smelled the grassy rain and heard the music of my soul. I took a deep breath and looked out the window, content.

I lost my ring for four days in Dresden. I anxiously stammered something in German to the hostel owner and then ran upstairs to frantically tear apart my room, looking. My hand felt wrong. I couldn’t even turn the pages in my book. I unpacked my whole bag over and over again until, crying, I called my mom and asked her what I should do. I was distraught. I was sure I’d never be able to use my right hand again.

A few days later, as I arrived at a friend’s house in Frankfurt and loosened the detachable front pouch on my backpack, I found the ring stuck on a string behind the pouch. For four days, that little silver circle had held onto that unreliable piece of string. It had held onto that string through multiple train rides and several panicked searches. It was a close call, but I hadn’t lost it. I breathed a sigh of relief and slipped it back onto my finger. Ireland–and all I loved about it–was with me again.

It’s difficult to explain, because I bought this ring as a gimmick. It’s just what you do when you visit Ireland, but, the thing is: I didn’t just visit Ireland. I lived there and studied there. I laughed and cried there. I flirted with my first boy in a pub on Sea Road. I joined clubs and practiced Irish with old men at bars. I introduced my dance shoes to their homeland, and I saw the world from the top of a mountain (or what Austrians would call a “hill”). It’s just a plain silver thing, but, when I look at it, especially when I’m sad, I remember that I did all that, and I can do it again.

—

My Oberlin afghan(s). I’ve said it time and time again, so I won’t bore you with too much repetition: my time at Oberlin was weird. Completely enamored with the history of the place, I was also incredibly depressed and broken for most of my time there. One of my close high school friends died my freshman year, and I took to wandering alone in the early morning. I closed myself off from any potential friends in my new home, and my isolation deepened. I buried myself in my schoolwork to distract from a life that wasn’t at all what I had anticipated when I received my acceptance letter. I struggled with disordered eating, and I fell in love with the wrong person. I left a proud graduate and ran full steam into a heartbreak that would take years to heal.

But, here’s the thing. The whole time I was losing myself at Oberlin, I was also finding myself. I found a strength and a determination I didn’t know I had. I learned about social justice and humanism. I opened my mind to histories I never knew existed. I connected with the stars and the earth. I discovered new passions and tried new foods, and I eventually did make friends. Despite all the hardship, those are things I wouldn’t trade for the world.

I have two Oberlin afghans. One was given to me before I graduated. The Oberlin College seal (designed by a woman!) is emblazoned across the front in crimson and gold, and the motto, “Learning and Labor,” is embroidered in strong, bold letters. The other was a gift from the Oberlin Heritage Center when I completed my year of Americorps service there. It’s a simple white and red and depicts historic buildings and events in the town.

When I moved to Cleveland, one of the hardest changes was to no longer feel connected to the place where I lived. I had been in Oberlin so long–I had lived for its history so long–that I could barely cope with how displaced I felt in Cleveland. These afghans are my way of keeping that sense of place alive, that sense of belonging. Both represent a different experience I’ve had in Oberlin–as a student and a resident. Both remind me of the things I’ve overcome, of the lessons I’ve learned, and the people I’ve loved in a town I will never, ever forget.

—

I don’t own a lot of things, and I don’t want a lot of things, but I do love the things I have. If I did an inventory of my room right now–of every single mug, trinket, and article of clothing–every single thing would have a story. That’s just how I like it. I have individual socks that have a story just as long as the ones I sketched above. But I’m stopping here, because it’s late, and I want you all to still be my friends after you read this.

My life as a young person has been a transient one. My nests have been necessarily small. As the years go by, I will probably live in more cities than I ever dreamed as a child, and it might be years before one of those cities truly becomes home. I’m facing another birthday, another move, and grad school applications. With all the craziness, it’s easy to forget who I am and where I’ve been. Ownership is a bizarre concept, but I’m grateful the things I love are mine. They hold my memories (my entire life!) and keep my roots portable. Without them, I don’t know where I’d be.

Jenbeneezer Scrooge.

I am the Ebeneezer Scrooge of New Years. I hate the shiny, numbered glasses and the prop facial hair. I hate TV countdowns, midnight, resolutions, and champagne toasts. We get together every year, drink a little, shout a little, and pretend like we won’t wake up the next morning plagued by the same thoughts we fell asleep with. Every year we celebrate the fact that we can count with more pomp and circumstance than we afford most scientific discoveries. New Years was invented by the western hemisphere to dominate alternative cultural timelines across the globe…and to sell cards.

Just kidding.

I do hate New Years, but I will admit it’s a good time to learn a few last-minute things before the final exam.

I entered 2015 alone in bed with my BFF Netflix. When the clock struck midnight, I was watching an episode of the Twilight Zone with the covers pulled up to my chin. The episode, called “Where is Everybody?”, was about a man who stumbles upon an abandoned town and finds he cannot remember who he is or why he is there. He spends 20 minutes going into different buildings that, in every practical sense, appear to the occupied. The lights are on; the coffee is hot; the film is rollling; the car is running; but no one is there. He shouts and shouts, but the closest thing he finds to another human is a room full of mannequins. Eventually, the loneliness breaks his bright spirit. He collapses in the end, screaming for help. No one comes.

(I do, actually, from time to time, enter rooms full of mannequins…)

As the camera moves away from his face, the viewer sees that the town was a figment of the man’s imagination. There are wires attached to his head, and military personnel rush to his side and put him on a stretcher. As they take him away, a pair of officials discuss the failure of their experiment, and the closing narrative cuts in over the dialogue: “Up there, up there in the vastness of space, in the void that is sky…is an enemy known as isolation. It sits there in the stars waiting, waiting with the patience of eons, forever waiting… in the Twilight Zone.”

The Twilight Zone may be science fiction, but the familiarity of that situation is perhaps what unsettled me most. Forget the stars and questionable military experiments on the limits of humanity, the isolation we experience here on Earth has the same effect. We see signs of life every day–pictures on our newsfeeds, tweets, and status updates–but how often to we get to reach out and touch it anymore? We spend too much time alone, sitting in front of screens. It can drive us crazy, make us forget who we are, who and what we love, and all that we’ve accomplished…

I hate New Years, but I guess it’s a good a time as any to reflect on things that have happened and make plans for our futures. I don’t want to be like that guy on TV. So, without further ado, I present three lists: (I) Things To Take With Me, (II) Things To Leave Behind, (III) Things For The Future…

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I. Things To Take With Me

In 2014, I…spent months immersed in a subject that brought me so much nerdy feminist joy. The result was an hour-long public presentation and a 1.5-hour walking tour on local women’s history. Highlights included: the number of friends who showed up to support me, the number of people who told me they wished they’d learned this stuff in college, the amount of conversations I had in bars about women, seeing one of those women honored with an Ohio Historic Marker, and making the front page of The Morning Journal.

…made my first public post about my struggle with disordered eating and celebrated my body for what it is. It had been a long time since I’d seen pictures of me senior year, and seeing them was an emotional moment. I was proud of myself for finding more productive ways to feel in control of my life and so grateful to have met such patient people. Since then, I have decided to go without a full-length mirror and scale in my house. I began art modeling and was surprised to see all the different types of beauty people can see in me when sometimes all I can see are negative thoughts.

…saw a bald eagle on three separate occasions.

…went to the Cleveland International Film Festival.

…won an Irish history essay contest. Despite the fact that writing it was like pulling teeth, it was pretty cool to learn something new and to be able to share that information with other people. It was also pretty nice to hear strangers tell me I’m smart. Ain’t nothing like institutional validation.

…moved to a new city and started a new job, but blah blah blah you’ve heard enough about that already, haven’t you?

…helped a beloved mentor win an award. Carol Lasser has supported me in every weird decision I’ve made since asking her to be my advisor. Words cannot express how indebted I am to her, but I guess I tried to make them, and I guess what words I could find did the trick.

…visited a new state. Despite the fact that I didn’t leave Ohio for more than a 12 hours, I proved I could leave by taking a day trip to Pittsburgh with my brother. We saw Fallingwater, then went for a hike in Ohiopyle State Park. It was a great day, and I was so happy to have spent it with my little-oh-crap-he’s-an-adult-now brother before he gets too old.

…joined protests downtown. I opened my mind and my heart to the experiences of others, and I learned a lot about how I can use my privilege to help others and the movement for justice. I cried for the children and families that have been harmed, and continue to be harmed, by ignorance and aggression. I held hands with strangers, and we cried and marched together.

…experimented with  my hair. Early in the year, I successfully dyed it with henna. Later in the year, I unsuccessfully cut it with kitchen scissors. Both situations gave birth to hilarious stories I’ll be sure to tell the grandkids.

…got engaged–JUST KIDDING. It wasn’t real. But my close friend did get engaged, and I might have cried after she called to tell me because I love her so much.

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II. Things To Leave Behind

As I head into the New Year, I want to leave behind feelings of rejection, abandonment, and inadequacy. I want to stop ruining long showers with questions like: “Why can’t I just be pretty?” or (my favorite) “What makes you think anyone would like you?” It would also be nice to quit randomly telling myself with surety: “I used to be smart.” The sharp, unexpected pang of recurring embarrassing memories can go too, as far as I’m concerned. No need for that. I want to forget this spiritual slump in 2014 like I forgot my cell phone charger at my old job, except I never want to get it back. But most importantly, the thing I want to leave in 2014 is telling my friends that “I don’t really have any friends.” I mean, how profoundly stupid is that? Dear friend, please be a friend and listen to your friend whine about how she doesn’t have any friends. Thanks a lot. You’re a real pal. Your friendless friend, Jen. Duh! Stop it. Just…stop it.

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III. Things for the Future

In 2015, I will get my wisdom teeth taken out, watch the final episode of Parks and Recreation, and celebrate my 25th birthday. I will also, hopefully:

1) Be more present and responsive.

2) Tell people I love them, even if it’s a boy and the love is more like.
3) Say yes more and have more adventures.

4) Spend more money on adventures, charities, and people I love.

5) Be less complacent.

6) Say more often: “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

7) Read more.

8) Do more crafts and give more of them away.

9) Start and finish writing at least one short story.

10) Go outside more.

11) Find a new church that fulfills me and isn’t 30+ miles away from my house.

12) Visit more museums.

13) Write more letters.

14) Exercise just enough to make me happy.

15) Dance.

—

Goodbye, 2014, and good riddance. Here is to a happier, healthier 2015.

A Year in the 19th

Many of you know, some may not, that I recently started a new job as a museum educator at the Western Reserve Historical Society’s History Center in Cleveland. There are innumerable benefits to this switch. I have honest employment during the winter. I received a minor pay increase. I wear office clothes and a badge. The museum is only three miles from my apartment. There are more people slightly closer to my age. There are multiple programs to juggle and more opportunities for internal promotion. The list goes on, but one dark lining to this Silver Cloud of New Employment is that, inherent to my acceptance of the position, was my resignation at Hale Farm and Village.

I’m sure I’ve forgotten most of the firsts in my life, but, for now, accepting my first museum job sticks out plainly in my memory. I was driving to Cincinnati for a dance competition when I got the call. I had been thinking of changing my name to Nearly Jobless Jen and starting a lucrative career as an underemployed Hogwarts ghost. I had been thinking of committing to burritos for life. I had been thinking of going to grad school just to leave the godforsaken job pool for another decade or so. I had been thinking a lot of really impossible things, but one phone call put an end to all that. I accepted a job at Hale Farm in May 2013 and began my career in museum education. I was finally looking forward to the future, and the future was the past.

In honor of an amazing year (and a half), I would like to leave you with this (un)authentic primary source: the diary of Miss Lucretia Hadley (aka Maggie Meredith, aka Betsy Cowles). This illustrated diary, written between 1863 and 1864, offers a unique glimpse into the life of an educated, upper/middle-class, single, working, feminist, teenage woman in the (curated) 19th-century experience. Transcription provided by Jennifer Graham, B.A.

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December 1863: New minister in town. My age. Only eligible bachelor of marrying age. I should like to marry if the man is right. I invited him for tea and hung mistletoe in the rafters. Mother wishes I weren’t so bold, but I must get close to learn his mind. Ministers are of good stock, but many are stuffy and staid. Too many have quoted Paul to me that “women should remain silent.” If he is of the opinion that men are the “lord and masters” of their wives, then I could never pursue him. If he is of the opinion that women are friends and equals, not chattels, then, bless me, I could certainly marry him then.

January 1864: Cold.

February 1864: Cold. 

March 1864: Still cold. Despite freezing temperatures, maple sugaring has begun across the road. Window pane missing from schoolhouse; fire offers no respite from the chill. Students arrive ill-equipped for the weather. School continues despite wage disparities. Wage disparities continue despite Akron Convention. No choice but to raise the next generation of crusaders.

April 1864: “I sent you to Oberlin to get an education, not to get ideas.” My father was needlessly incensed upon discovering a group of runaways in our kitchen. As his daughter, it did not surprise me that he sent the freedom seekers away. We seem to hope eternally that our closest relatives could somehow be capable of instantaneous change, but that simply is not human nature. No, what surprised me more is that my father somehow expected an education and the formation of ideas to be mutually exclusive in a young woman…

May 1864: My dwellings have shrunk considerably. I find my aristocratic hands are not used to such menial labor. The neighbor woman has taken to teaching me to spin. I rejected her drop spindle vehemently and was allowed to advance prematurely to the wheel. I have taken quite fondly to sweeping and tending the garden. House is mostly bright and breezy but grows dark and lonely in the later hours. 

June 1864: Moved in with the Hales. Candle-making has restored the softness of my hands and constant company has been a balm to my loneliness. In less busy moments, I retire to the big rocker on the porch and lose myself in a novel. I find novels are not so harmful in young women with fortitude. This particular story provides a useful warning against men who only pretend to support our womanly cause to advance their own lecherous interests. I find no need to worry for myself, but have seen others fall for the wily charms of men easily enough. Thus, though it be unnatural, I advise all young women to swear off marriage until the day that we should see ourselves equal to men.

July 1864: Despite missing cow, have entered business of dairy farming. Enlisted village children to churn cream to butter. Many asked if I was a princess, and, though I will never understand this monarchical obsession of modern youth, I have come to the conclusion that the question must have been prompted by my new dress. I find the fashions quite advanced across the road.The Canal has also brought many eclectic neighbors. There is a doctor, a minister and school teacher, a storekeeper, a potter, and, across the green, the richest gentleman I have ever seen. In contrast, the strange drifter in the law office shouts at the village youth and refuses to do any dairying until the cow returns.

August 1864: War has come to Wheatfield. It seems for all our railroads this bloody conflict could not be contained to the rebellious south. Tents cover the village green, and we have hidden the chickens from the voracious appetites of Uncle Sam’s troops. The weather is positively Brazilian today. I find the heat has has driven the boys in blue to licentiousness. Young, bonnie lasses have been scooped up by men twice their age. Even I fell victim to a genteman’s charm, although, with luck, I later discovered he was but a boy. I promptly abandoned the lad and returned to my reading. All the pomp and circumstance of hosting an nation’s army must not be allowed to overshadow the true nature of this conflict: freedom.

September 1864: I find my fortunes have improved greatly. I now reside in what could only be called a mansion. From my doorway, I can observe the daily workings of the village. I am not visited as frequently as before, but such is the case when jealously interrupts otherwise friendly relationships. To replace conversation, I have taken to sitting in the shade of a great buckeye tree. The rambling man from before and a kind land surveyor moved a bench beneath the tree so that I could be more comfortable. Without the drudgery of household chores, I have more time to sketch or write or read or fiddle on my viol. A life of luxury, while certainly not idle, requires much more imagination.

October 1864: The harvest means a new term at the Wheatfield School will begin shortly. I have caught word that I will be replacing Mr. Willett as the childrens’ keeper. It will be wonderful to do good, honest work again. Another gentleman caller felt need to approach me yesterday. He flattered me until I was quite flustered. Our conversation continued even after he took his leave. I admit, I received each missive with rising expectations until further inquiry revealed him to be but a rakish child. The youthful quality of my face breeds disrespect. I long to someday cut a venerable figure like Susan Anthony.

Reverend Carpenter remains the only gentleman that has not disappointed me in this way. Have not seen him for months as he has taken residency in the log house across the road and there is no time to make the journey. Should like to see him before Christmas to determine if he still walks in line with the cause of woman.

November 1864: Intercepted another group of freedom seekers led by Mr. Ford’s daughter. She was eager to be rid of them, so I brought them to the Hadley General Store. We are a free labor store and fully in support of Emancipation. How powerful I feel when I think on women’s contributions to this great cause. The Grimke sisters. Lucy Stone. Abby Kelley. Someday you may see my name next to theirs, perhaps as a footnote.  Ambition is a poor quality, but I find modesty oppresses women more than ambition does harm. Brimming with excitement. In a week I will meet President Lincoln. 

December 1: Uncle Jacob has come from Willoughby to assist in settling the family estate after the death of my mother and father. William Strong, Esq. is known for being shady about these sorts of things, and I have never been instructed in managing finances. I am grateful for my uncle’s presence, despite his Scrooge-like attitude towards the Christmas spirit. He believes he is here to facilitate my marriage. I am determined to finish my education. I will either find success, or one of us will perish.

December 15: Returned from final days at Oberlin. Forgot my key and had to enter through the window. I accomplished this, despite considerable baggage and hoop skirt. Life remains surprising.

December 24: This night could have lasted forever, and I would not have been put off. Reverend Carpenter came calling late this evening. I heard him enter but hid behind a door until the moment was right. Could not afford Uncle Jacob to see me smiling when Reverend Carpenter professed his admiration for me. Successfully hid smile; forgot about mistletoe. Was scolded forcefully but no harsh words could dampen my spirits on this joyous day, for I am betrothed! No longer must I feel unnatural in my convictions, for I have found a husband to love who can understand and cherish my mind! A new day for Lucretia Hadley, and, perhaps, a new day for womankind…

 

—

On December 22, I had my last official day as an employee of Hale Farm & Village. It is difficult to explain how so many different houses without heat or electricity or running water became my home(s) away from home. It is difficult to explain how, in want of a family, my co-workers became both my friends and my sisters, my mentors and my quirky uncles. There are no words to describe how people and a place so unfamiliar and unexpected could have left such a deep imprint on my life, but I am so grateful they did.

Sometimes we can get so comfortable in one chapter of a story that it can be jarring when it ends. The events would have been so warm, the characters so welcoming, that we wish the narrative could have lingered just one paragraph longer. With one finger on each side of the page, we might hesitate and consider reading it again, just for the sake of feeling good. The comfort of the familiar engenders a brief pause, but ultimately, curiousity turns the page for us. Whether we’re ready or not, we move on.

So, here’s to a new day for Lucretia (aka Maggie, aka Betsy), and here’s to a new day for Jen. I have high hopes for the future, and the future, as always with me, is the past.

All that was me is gone…

“I’m going to go blog about my feelings,” I joked as I left the apartment this morning. My keys jingled as I put them in my backpack, and I slammed the door shut behind me. (If you could only see the door, Your Honor, you would agree that the force was necessary!) I walked around; I got a little lost; my backpack made me sweat in really weird places. My left shoe broke halfway to the coffee shop, and then it started raining. Now I’m sitting here watching a woman in the restaurant across the street chew her food. It’s been a weird morning…

I came to blog about  my feelings, but the truth is, I’m not 100% sure what those feelings are. My friends in committed relationships like to remind me that I’ve never been in love, that I’ve never had the experience of sharing a life with another person, all your interests, hopes, and dreams. Out of respect for their opinions, I’ve refrained from calling any romantic engagement I’ve had with another human “dating.” I’ve refrained from calling any ending a “break up.” What I say is this: “We did stuff, then he rejected me.” I even called one instance “A Mutual Dissolution of Something That Was Bad,” or AMDSTWB for short, to avoid taboo terminology. I did this because I heard my friends, and I agreed with them.

I don’t agree with them anymore.

I’m going through a break up now, and you know it’s real because I’m calling it a break up. For a few years now, we knew it wasn’t working the way it should. The love was still there, so we tried to make it work. I think we succeeded…for a little while. I had something to talk about to strangers in bars. I had a reason to get up and get dressed in the morning. I was proud of it, of how much I knew, of how special it made me feel. We saw each other every day, and it was almost spiritual the connection I felt we shared. The more we kept it up, though, the more I realized that something was missing. Most of the important places in my heart were full to the brim, but those that weren’t were empty and meaningless. I cried sometimes for no reason. What we had couldn’t help that. What was staying giving me? I felt thin and old, stretched too far. My wants and needs echoed unanswered in the emptiness. I knew it was time to leave.

Yes, Oberlin is the closest thing I’ve had to being in a relationship. Did we go on dates? Of course not. Did I get weak in the knees thinking of the well-manicured streets and cute historic homes? Don’t be silly. But for upwards of six years, being an Oberlinian has been a defining part of my personality. I loved walking through the streets knowing who had walked there before me. I loved chatting with the bartenders and baristas that I knew, not only by name, but by having actually worked with them. I loved everything about it, and I still do. That’s the thing: I still do.

You may think I’m crazy for comparing moving to a new city to breaking up with a partner, but hear me out. What I had in Oberlin, I can’t have anymore by virtue of not living there. We’re not strangers, but whenever I walk the streets, it will just be temporary now. The storefronts will change, the kids I taught will grow up, and we won’t share that experience. I’ll visit, of course, but it won’t be the same like I want it to be. We’ll make casual small talk. We will part amicably and promise to see each other soon, but I can’t wrap myself up in its familiarity on a cold, lonely night anymore. The intimacy that existed between us is gone, and my future is unknown.

As scary as it is, I think separation is okay. If movies have taught me anything about break ups, it’s that the love is still there, but you’re better apart. There’s a lot my deep connection to Oberlin prevented me from experiencing. This is a step forward, but it is so hard not to look back. For the next two weeks, I will be filling my unemployed hours with things I haven’t yet planned. There’s nothing I want more than to go back to Oberlin, to drink where I know I’m safe, to make old jokes with good friends, to be somewhere where my crazy knowledge of local history adds to a conversation…

It’s hard to describe my feelings because, like most of my knowledge, I find myself suddenly displaced and irrelevant. Cleveland is a small city, but my experience of life is minuscule in comparison. I know I’m smart and talented and independent and all those good things people keep telling me. (That’s another similarity to a break up. My friends are rallying around me, validating me, and rehashing all the bad things about my relationship to Oberlin like that will help me forget I ever loved it.) I know I’ll be okay. I know someday I’ll find what I couldn’t in Oberlin. But for now, I’m going to randomly start crying. I’m going to miss it with all my heart.  And I’m going to call it a break up.

P.S. Cleveland is still perfect.

Honeymoon

“Sarah, you look super cute today!” the barista exclaims as a tall woman in a sweater and pearl necklace walks into the shop. I’m facing away from the counter, so as soon as she walks past me, I can no longer see her. The conversation continues behind my back, and I can hear every word. Here’s what I know: Sarah does look super cute today. If this was Thomas Hobbes’ “state of nature,” I would probably kick her in the face and steal her sweater. Sarah is applying for a job. She knows the barista and at least two other people in the building. They are laughing. Sarah likes room for cream in her coffee. She likes giving relationship advice, too.

My back is to the counter, but I can see out a big window in front of me and another one on my right. I can’t hear anything that is going on outside, but I can see a dog and some people milling about. A couple of them are hugging. An old man put out a little bowl of water for the dog, and a little bird just stole a piece of bread from a big bird.  Three children are jumping off a ledge where their father is sitting. Every time they make the jump, they act like they’ve just flown over the Atlantic. Their father joins in. He is barely in the air two seconds, but he makes the same jubilant face as his children when his feet touch the ground. The youngest child, a toddler, falls over from laughter. The father picks up all three children, puts them back on the ledge, and they do it all again.

A few days ago, I began moving to Cleveland. In a little over a week, my move will be complete, and I will commence the next chapter of my young life. Here’s what I know:

Furniture is essential. There are few things that are crazier than living without furniture. I did it once my senior year of college. I slept on an air mattress, and barely anything I owned was higher than two feet tall. Live like that for a year, and you start forgetting that you need to stand to use regular furniture. Sleeping on a hardwood floor is great and all, but I’m thinking it’s not something I want to continue doing…

Furniture is expensive. Dear god, is it expensive! I could buy a used couch, but then I’d have to find a way to transport it, which would also cost money, and at that point, why didn’t I just buy a new couch and have it delivered? Well, because buying new things is a little ridiculous when you can give old, storied things a new home. A home needs furniture, but furniture needs a truck and friends to help move it. In this particular situation, my extreme independence and inherent stubbornness prove to be my greatest faults. (I did, however, build a bookshelf out of concrete blocks and pieces of plywood. It looks pretty good, but I would not recommend it unless you are The Hulk.)

Biking is fun. Today, I decided to bike through downtown Cleveland to a coffee shop where I could sit and do some work. Biking is amazing. It’s like driving, but you get to see things. I could hear little bits of people’s conversations. “Yes, I got the eggs!” and “When are you coming home?” My heart beat a little faster when I saw Lake Erie on the horizon. Without my GPS yelling at me to turn left or right and when, this vast hole in my mental map of Cleveland is quickly filling in. Superior Avenue runs parallel to St. Clair. Prospect goes straight to East 4th. &c.

3.3mi is far. I don’t know any way to say this without making it seem like I am majorly unfit, but I was seriously winded by the time I arrived at my destination, a cute little place in the Market District. I was sweating buckets. My thumb was bleeding from where I’d pulled a hang nail at a traffic stop. At that moment, all I wanted to do was teleport back to my apartment. (Speaking of teleportation: we have iPhones, why don’t we have teleportals?) But I sat down. I drank some water and ate lunch on a bench in front of a pretty mural. I feel more revived after the necessary food and water intake, but I’m sort of dreading the ride home…

I know that the refreshment and joy I feel living in Cleveland is a honeymoon phase. When I studied abroad in Ireland, they issued warnings about a honeymoon phase, between the jetlag and the onset of culture shock. I know that some day I will be biking through the rain. I know that some day I will have to shovel snow off my car. But, right now, why can’t I just enjoy the fact that the sun is shining, the people around me are smiling, and I rescued a bumble bee from playing Sisyphys with a window?