19th Century Love

I couldn't let this year end without paying homage to one of the greats. One of the sweetest novels ever written. 2013 marks the 200th anniversary of Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' and it's amazing that after 200 years people of all ages still read this book and fall in love with it over and over again. Definitely one of the immortal classics.

19th century writers knew love better than anyone. Find me a 21st century romance novel in which the main couple not only don't have sex but barely touch at all and it might take you a while. Nowadays half of love seems to be lust. But in 1812, a glance, a waltz or a quick exchange of a few words could send your heart racing like 6 chapters of 50 Shades. And Elizabeth Bennett and Mr.Darcy's non-physical romance will always give me butterflies and make me blush. Without completely turning me on. Because there is more to romance than turning someone on. It's that strange, stressful, impatient panicky feeling you get in your chest. That's your heart losing its shit.

In my recent years I've met a guy. He wasn't like most guys. My time with him was brief but wonderful. When all was said and done and I look back, what I had with this guy of mine was very similar to a 19th century novel. We talked for hours. We held hands. We fell asleep next to each other once. We shared glances that still haunt me. There wasn't even a kiss I could tell you about. But to this day he still has more of me than a guy who could tell you my most intimate details. Sometimes I get sad because that guy isn't around anymore. But mostly I smile because I know what a 19th century love feels like. A real love. Real feelings that creep out from the inside. Not the kind that come in from the outside. It's an inner peace and at the same time inner chaos. It's like a Jane Austen novel. I wish more writers today knew how to make you feel that way without sex on top of sex. Don't get me wrong, I'm the first to holler that something is missing a sex scene! But that's because if a story teller just isn't making me feel it for real, the yearning and the panicky feeling in my heart, a sex scene is a good way to fake it. But in 1812 they never needed to fake it. They knew what love was about. And they sure knew how to write about it.

Writing Matters

Yesterday, the beautiful people at The Office of Letters and Light, a literary non-profit I've followed for years launched a beautiful new campaign. It's called Writing Matters and they have called for writers everywhere to share our very 1st stories. I've spent the last 24 hours searching Twitter, Instagram and Tumblr for the #My1stStory and #WritingMatters hashtags and I've been loving it! Some wrote their 1st story when they were 4 years old. Others, just last year.

I wrote my 1st story when I was 13 years old. I was in 8th grade and I had to make a collection of poems. The last poem in the collection was allowed to be a freestyle so I wrote a page long story. It was in the form of a poem, rhyming and everything. It was about a young girl (me) who was visited every night by a boy who always wore the color blue. This boy took me all over the world on wild adventures. There was so much more to the story that I couldn't put into the poem for fear of it being too long. These adventures in my story were so vivid, story-me could never tell in the morning whether they were real or just a dream. My teacher liked my story so much she asked if she could keep it for her future students to see, as a touchstone for how this project should be done. Flattered, I consented. But over the years I would miss it very much.

 

 

My 1st story, which I even wrote in blue ink, was closely based on my favorite story as a kid; Peter Pan. For my entire childhood my favorite color was always green. Maybe because Peter Pan wore green? But for some reason the boy in my story wore blue. I never associated the shift in color to this story at all but when I was 14 years old, everything in my life switched from green to blue. To this day my favorite color is blue. None of this color stuff matters at all, I just think it's funny. Looking back, The Boy In Blue represented everything I wanted out of life; Just one friend I could trust with all of the parts of my heart. Adventure beyond my imagination and seeing all of the world's wonders. A life so simple and beautifully fulfilling I'd have a hard time believing it weren't dream. All of that was my life's wish at 13 years old and I didn't know how else to say it but to put in into a small story.

 

During my sophomore year in college I was having a hard time figuring out my life. I was an Environmental Science major with a biology concentration. I had wanted to be a Zoologist one day but everyday I woke up in my small dorm room and couldn't make those shoes fit. Over my winter break I came home to Philly and visited my 8th grade teacher who still had the Boy In Blue sitting in her dusty filing cabinet. But he wasn't dusty at all. She had held on to him for 6 years for me. she'd been reading him to all of her students over the years. Just thinking about it, I'm still filled with more gratitude than I could ever express. When I returned to campus after winter break I immediately dropped all of my science classes and took on all English and anthropology courses. After that spring semester I transferred to Community college in Philly and pursued a certificate in creative writing. I can't honestly say I would have made that switch in life had I not been revisited by the Boy, who reminded me what I want out of life.

 

When I wrote my 1st story I felt in my bones for the very 1st time that I was good at something. I found something that made me feel like a giant; writing. In those 6 years without him I had lost myself. But I found myself again on that single page covered in blue ink when I went back for him that winter. If it weren't for the Boy In Blue I would be a scientist right now. Not that there's anything wrong with scientists, only I'd be lying to my heart for the rest of my life.

 

Writing matters because we build ourselves through our work. And when we lose ourselves, we find ourselves again in our own pages. Writing matters because sometimes writing is the only way we can say what we need to say. A story can tell you what I can't put into a sentence or a song or a gesture.

 

This was a beautiful campaign, NaNo people! Thanks for taking me back to where I began. And you're right...

 

Writing Matters.

 

 

The Biggest Thing We've Ever Done

There were three factors that would make Martin Luther King Jr. day of service different from our other service days. For one, it would be our biggest service day of the year. We were aiming for 900 volunteers total. Two; we would be serving at two separate sights: Gompers elementary school and Beeber middle school. This meant that everyone on my team had double the work load. For John, he had to recruit for two sites. Catie had to handle logistics for two sites. And the third factor making MLK Day different from our other events; Lauren & I who share the role of planning, designing, leading prep for & facilitating our service events would be divided among the two sites and working alone.

John & I were working on a service event in Houston, Texas when we secured Gompers as an MLK Day site & Lauren began planning the day. Almost two weeks after we were back, we scored Beeber. Since Lauren was already well into planning for Gompers, I was given the title of service leader for Beeber.

Let's fast forward to January; the holidays are over. I have two weeks until MLK Day. The principal, program manager and team leader at Beeber can't make up their minds about anything so none of my documents can be completed. In-school prep is scheduled to start right about now and I'm completely baffled about what I'm even doing. And to top it all off; I have no Lauren. I'm alone.

Fast forward again. January 21st, 2013. 8:30pm. I'm completely discombobulated. They say we had an extremely successful MLK Day. We had over 1200 volunteers total. 772 at Beeber alone. Over 500 at Gompers. Every single one of my projects were completed, no need to return to either school over the next few weeks to complete or touch up anything (which is a lot more than we can say about our last project). No major messes. I didn't run out of paint (again, more than I can say about my last project). Almost everyone had a good time. So why am I still completely discombobulated at a time when I should finally be able to breathe?

Looking back, I'm sure everyone remembers the opening program. The Beeber school step team and the motivational speeches. They remember the upbeat corps members leading them through inspiring service. They remember the presidential inauguration being streamed in the auditorium. They remember the free t-shirts and the high spirits on a day that only comes once a year.

But for me, this was a day that would only come once in my life. Never again will I be able to lead a large MLK service event (if given the opportunity I wouldn't even want to). For me this day should've been all of the above and more. But looking back all I can remember is no one having my back. I remember being pushed around. I remember my own work being changed and switched up behind my back and not knowing until after the fact. I remember pressure on top of pressure and no hugs or pats on the back. Not pats on the back for praise, but simple encouragement. I remember being alone on everything. Until something went wrong. Then I remember having everyone's attention. I remember getting all of the blame for everything. Not that anyone would say it to my face. But grape vines don't stretch all that far around here. Blame did actually belong to me, I own it. But I haven't been doing this for years. I've been doing it for four months. I remember no one having my back.

I remember John taping an uplifting fortune cookie fortune to my computer screen. Someone did have my back.

This was a once in a lifetime event for me. But all I can remember is feeling extremely small. And on January 21st at 8:30pm when I should've been taking my first breath in weeks and celebrating the biggest thing we've ever done... I still couldn't figure out how to breathe and all I felt was angry. And still very small.

But to everyone else, MLK Day 2013 was the biggest thing we've ever done. And it was very successful. So I'm told.