Oblivious

In the past three weeks or so I've had several bad experiences with rude fellow students on campus. First off, I was in the computer lab and this guy walks in and sits at a computer near me. He was listening to big band music on his iPod. The volume was so loud that he might as well not have had ear buds at all; everyone could hear it. He hummed along a little and was completely oblivious to the fact that he was disturbing everyone around him. The other people in the lab were exchanging annoyed and incredulous glances. I finally couldn't take in anymore and rolled over to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and let him know that everyone could hear his music. He turned it down.

Last week I was studying at a table in the library. It is important to know that I was not in the "No Shhh Zone." A girl walked by, recognized the boy sitting next to me, and came over to say HI. A short chit chat in whispers is not exactly encouraged but understandable. I tolerated it for a while. Then she said that she had a story to tell him and took off her backpack, getting ready to stay for a while. I leaned over and asked if they would please have their conversation somewhere else. They left.

Today I was in the library again, sitting in the soft chairs. The girl next to me was having a texting conversation. This wouldn't be so bad except that she had jingle bells attached to her phone. Every time she moved her phone it was like a trip to Santa's Wonderland. Not exactly what I was hoping for when I entered the HBLL. Not too long later she pulls a bag of chips out of her bag and starts chomping away. Not only is that against the rules and a violation of library etiquette, it is extremely annoying. The sound of other people chewing, especially crunchy, smacky kind of chewing is the most annoying sound in the world to me. She got through two chips before I leaned over and asked, in a polite whisper, if she would please not eat. She said "Sure" with an annoyed kind of smile.

Are people really so oblivious that they have no concept of the fact that their actions affect others? Are they really so unaware? Or do they just not care? If they are going to inconvenience me, then I feel justified in inconveniencing them a bit in asking them to stop their inconsiderate behavior.

My Parents Suck

I had an amazing realization this week: my parents suck.

Now, before anyone goes jumping to conclusions, allow me to explain myself. My family pretty much fell apart back in 1993. In the space of less than three months my life was turned upside down. We moved, and by 'moved' I mean went on vacation and never went home. My step-dad left my mom. My dad disowned me. My mom went back to work and school. We had negative money, and my brother's health was worse than it had and has ever been.

It was a hard time for everyone. I came out the other end a complete mess. I was traumatized in the most literal sense. Depressed, scared to death, abandoned, believing it was my fault. As a child of eleven years old, I really didn't have the skills to cope with what happened.

I've been in therapy for a while now, sorting things out, learning coping skills, healing. This last week I had a breakthrough. Steve pointed out that as far as myself is concerned, there is a disconnect between my head any my heart. I have perfectly fine reasoning capabilities and critical thinking skills. However, I continue to believe negative things about myself and what happened to me that just aren't true. My head isn't getting through to my heart.

To help remedy this problem Steve and I talked through past events and he helped me see, logically, that I really didn't have anything to do with the crap that went on. It effected me, but I didn't cause it nor could I solve it. I saw over and over again how it really was unfair that my parents (both of them in different ways) put me in difficult situations and asked me to make decisions that no child should make. It was just bad parenting. They weren't fulfilling their roles as parents or accepting responsibility for their own choices. (I understand that this is somewhat vague, but I'm not going to go into specifics. I am posting this on the internet, after all.)

After going through several events, Steve asked me what I was thinking. I said, "my parents suck!" This was a breakthrough for me. I had spent so much time feeling guilty about decisions I made that it never occurred to me that I never should have been making those decisions in the first place. How nice to have that cleared up! I mean, before I live with it for fourteen years and it seriously effects my life and personality . . . oh wait! I guess I'm a little late for that.

Now, don't get me wrong. My parents are both good, faithful, kind, generous people. I have a good relationship with them both now, or as good as could be expected considering what we've put each other through. That said, they dropped the ball big time and I paid for it.

The Rock-Paper-Scissors Tournament of Chamions

Last time I was in Seattle, about a month ago, I met up with some old friends for lunch. Thai. Yum. I don't remember exactly what I had except that it was a variety of curry with tofu and that it was delicious. We had a good chat over lunch--Wendel, Ashley, that elephant we were refusing to acknowledge, and me. It was quite cozy, really. The check arrived. We had to decide who would pay. Wendel suggested we rock-paper-scissors for it. I consented and thus began the Rock-Paper-Scissors Tournament of Champions. . . .

Wendel provided the pre-game entertainment. He described some version of the game introduced to him by a co-worker: bear, hunter, something else. I don't remember exactly except that it was a full body activity. The narration and imagined visuals were highly entertaining.

After we had loosened up and decided on the rules--best two out of three, count to three then shoot--serious play could begin. The players wind up and make eye contact. Go. Fists pound palms. One, two, three/scissors. Foul on the play. The round will have to be re-played; Becca made a false start.

Players resume positions. One, two, three/rock. Foul! Becca jumped the gun again. Changing tournament rules is discussed. One, two, go on three? No, Becca is sure she can handle the intensity of tournament play and is willing to step up to the challenge of counting to three before going.

Resume positions. One, two three, rock/rock.

Again. One, two, three, paper/rock. Wendel is up by one.

One, two, threeeeeee. Foul on the play. Wendel has suffered an equipment failure; his fist doesn't leave his palm after three. Some hearty laughs and a few "this is awesome"s take care of the problem.

One, two, three, rock/scissors. The score is tied.

One, two, three, bear/bear. Just kidding, wrong game, it was two papers.

Everyone is on pins and needles (including the other people in the restaurant, although they were most likely looking forward to the end of the game more than the outcome). Sweat beading on brows and upper lips, the players settle in for what could be the last round. Will they tie again? Will Becca fall back into her early game mistakes? The players lock eyes, lean forward in their chairs, and give the final nod. One, two, three, scissors/paper.

Wendel wins the Rock-Paper-Scissors Tournament of Champions! His card is whisked away and he signs the bill with a flourish over glasses of celebratory ice water.

Until next time, SWPS. I'll be sharpening my skills and ready for the rematch.

The Problem is Bigger than I Thought

I was just on Facebook and was looking for an anti-high five group to join. I was completely distressed by the amount of pro-high five groups I found. What is the world coming to?

No More High Fives, Please!

I have recently begun a crusade to decrease high fiving in my immediate surroundings. Well, I guess it's not so much of a crusade as it is a firm stand against high fives. There are just too many being thrown around. I mean, come on people, do we really want to become a society (or ward) full of The Todd's? I think not.

Lest you think my decision to boycott is hasty and unfounded, allow me to share with you several experiences involving the high five. These stories come from the last month or so of my life and are in no way exaggerated. As most of these stories involve boys from the ward (and I have recently discovered there is at least one ward member reading my blog) I will refrain from using names to protect the innocent....NO! not the protect the innocent. These offenders are not innocent. They are guilty of inappropriate and excessive usage of the high five. In truth, it's to protect me; as much as I dislike the high five, I'm not doing this to create enemies. So, if any of these stories sound like you, take a hint, repent, and join my crusade.

1. Walking through the parking lot on my way home from school I spot a young man from the ward jogging toward me. I said hi and he raised his hand for the high five. I reluctantly reciprocated and was punished with a stinging hand for minutes afterward. Not okay.

2. One of my home teachers--I've had six in the last month--came up to me at a ward function and said "How's everything going in the house?" at the same time he raised his hand for the high five. What was that? Not okay.

3. This same offender can't even give an appropriate high five. It's a limp fish high five! It never occurred to me that such a thing were possible. Defnintely not okay.

4. I looked fabulous at church--I can't lie--and more than one guy commented that I looked good with an accompanying high five. Not okay, in fact the incorrectness and awkwardness of the high five neutralized the compliment.

5. The high five manifested itself at the beginning of a date. I can't believe that I need to tell people that this is NOT okay.

6. I shared my testimony in Sacrament Meeting and was thanked with a plethora of high fives. Uh, not okay.

The list could go on and on and on, but I will spare you the uncomfortable details. These incidents are, like I said, not okay. If you think any of this is normal, I feel sad for you.

In few, very rare situations a high five might be warranted. Although cheesy, it is acceptable in a sports setting. I have had one chief offender argue that a high five is appropriate after a really good joke or clever show of wit; I suppose I can tolerate that. I will not tolerate the high five as a greeting, accompanying a compliment, or in church. No. If, in a social situation a guy does not know how to interact with a girl, giving a high five will not make the situation less awkward, in fact in magnifies the awkwardness. In addition to taking a personal stand against the high five, I am doing this to try to help those sad souls realize that their prolific high fiving is only hurting themselves. Want some friends? Or a second date? Or a first date? Eliminate the high five!

Now, a final word. As I have spoken out against the high five, many an anxious soul has asked what I propose replacing the high five with. Sadly, they do not understand that the high five has not been around forever and has actually become a substitute for more appropriate, traditional greetings. Try a hug, a handshake, a pat on the back, or friendly touch on the arm. One guy jokingly suggested that we replace the high five with the butt slap. It might be a little strange, but go ahead and give it a try. I would REALLY like to introduce the besos of european and lating cultures. They are warm and friendly. I mean, who doesn't want a kiss on the cheek? I love the besos but realistically don't hold out hope that many will adopt the practice. What I do hope for is an eradication of the high five epidemic that is among us. Friends and countrymen, just say no!

What Were the Chances?

Shuffling in your Old Navy flip-flops you wander into the grocery store past eleven on a Saturday night. The harsh lighting burns your eyes, long since glazed from hours in the university library. Wilson Phillips welcomes you: don’t you know things can change; things’ll go your way if you hold on for one more day? Thank you, Wilson Phillips. You pick up an empty cart and run your list through your crowded mind as you make your way through bins and stacks of this week’s specials.

Toilet paper—it’s your turn to buy

Yogurt

Some sort of fruit—gotta stay healthy

New sponge—the one in the sink smells like something died inside

Chocolate chips—you’ve got the treat for FHE on Monday

You remember you need bread and grab one of the last loaves off the sale rack on your way toward the produce. A pyramid of Red Delicious apples welcomes you to the fresh fruits and vegetables. They are on sale, and the deal is great. You don’t like Red Delicious apples. You move toward the green bananas when you notice an average looking man in a black t-shirt and faded blue jeans having a loud phone conversation. He’s staring at you from behind the oranges. He sees you’ve noticed him and begins to wave frantically. You glance around and see no one else he could be waving to. The only other person in sight is a pale, skinny guy in a Rex Lee Run t-shirt intently inspecting the portabellas. Hesitantly you lift your hand from the cart handle and give a little wave.

“Hey, can I call you back?” Black Shirt almost yells into his phone. “Yeah, okay, thanks. See ya.”

“Hi!” he says, “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah.” You glance down at the citrus. Rio Star grapefruit, nothing like a good Texas grapefruit.

“It’s Kelly, right?”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; I’m not so good with names.” He slips his Motorola Razr into his back pocket.

“’Ts alright.”

“Remind me of your name again.” He picks up an orange and begins to toss it around. You rest your right foot on the axle of the cart and roll it back and forth. Rex Lee Run has given up on the mushrooms and is headed for the cereal aisle. You and Black Shirt are alone. “You’re in the ward, right?”

“Maybe. I just moved so I don’t really know anyone; where do you live?”

“The Glenwood.”

You laugh. “Yeah, definitely not.”

“Oh . . . I thought you were someone else.” He smirks.

“Obviously.” You take your foot off the axle and shift your weight. Artichokes are expensive right now which is really too bad. You would like to serve them at a dinner party next Thursday night. “What’s your name?”

“Jeremy.” The persistent eye contact makes you uneasy.

“Nice to meet you, Jeremy.”

“Yeah,” he says smiling. He goes back to his oranges. You pick up a grapefruit; they should still be good this time of year. You circle your cart around the island to browse the pears. Head down, you glance up expectantly at Mr. Black Shirt. He selects three oranges, plops them into his basket, and walks toward the bread.

~ ~ ~

You are trying to decide if you will get regular or mini chips for the cookies when you look down the cereal aisle and notice that black shirt. He’s picking up a bag of Honey Nut Toasty O’s. He winks at you, and you keep walking. Strangers in the night exchanging glances, wondering in the night . . . Strolling past a variety of animal parts neatly encased in plastic and styrofoam, you realize you’ve been singing along with the background music. What were the chances we’d be sharing love before the night was through? You laugh out loud. You look around quickly; no one heard you. The thought makes you smile and chuckle to yourself. What were the chances?

~ ~ ~

Strawberry. Strawberry banana. Strawberry mango. Wild Strawberry. Strawberry banana. Berry Banana. You are searching through the discount yogurt bin wondering who likes strawberry anyway. Maybe that’s exactly the point—no one likes strawberry and that’s why there’s so much of it left over. You’re hoping to get lucky and find a French Vanilla or Key Lime Pie or White Chocolate Raspberry in the 3/$1 bin. If there are any good ones left they’ll definitely be at the bottom. You dive in, systematically searching, hoping to find that nugget of gold in this pan of strawberry silt. Before long you’ve created a sort of yogurt castle in the middle of the bin; the trench you’ve been digging looks like the beginnings of a good moat.

You spot a hint of green label way at the bottom of the moat. Key Lime Pie! You go for it excitedly when another hand invades from across the yogurt castle. This hand appears to you a hairy barbarian which must be stopped, even if it does sport a nice Tag Heuer. Wait! No. This is childish; you refuse to be one of those people. You look up sheepishly, and—hello again, Mr. Black Shirt. He wasn’t going for the yogurt. His hand is surprisingly rough and thick. You smile. Your face is hot. You pull away; the little spaces between his fingers are satiny smooth.

~ ~ ~

Something in your eyes was so inviting, something in your smile was so exciting. Is this song still playing? Something in my heart told me I must have you. Unreal. This is just too weird. Since when did your life become a bad telenovela with cheesy theme music? Shut up, Frank!

~ ~ ~

Black Shirt raises his eyebrows and disappears down the pet food aisle. Of all the aisles, why did he have to choose pet food? Most likely isolated, a plus for romantic intrigue. It smells like those barley pills your health nut roommate takes—gross. You deem the temporary offense to your olfactory system worth enduring for the possibility of . . . well . . . whatever, and you slip around the corner into the realm of rawhide chew toys and kitty litter.

Rex Lee Run! You would be in the pet food aisle! Mr. Black Shirt is noticeably absent.

~ ~ ~

Emerging from the stench of pet products, Ol’ Blue Eyes is still crooning. Strangers in the night, two lonely people we were strangers in the night. How long is this song? The Sultan of Swoon has got to go. You head for the self check-out.

“Welcome. Do you have any coupons?” The smooth voice of the self check-out greets you. You’ve named her Sabah; a friend of yours has an Aunt Sabah and, although you’ve never met her, you like the name. Sabah’s voice is supposed to be reassuring but borders on demeaning. You don’t have any coupons.

“Please scan your first item and place it in the bag.”

You scan yogurt, grapefruit, wheat bread, chocolate chips. You look over your right shoulder and notice the pubescent employee supervising the self check-out. He looks comfortable in his ill-fitting polo shirt and khaki pants, vegetating on a stool.

“Please place your item in the bag.” Sabah explains every step.

Toilet paper, sponge.

“Select your method of payment.”

Credit card.

“Please follow the instructions on the keypad.”

You wonder why you come here. The prices aren’t that good, and you do all the work while some teenage “employee” texts his friends and chats with his homies about puppy love and teen angst. What do they pay him for anyway, breathing?

“Thank you. Please take your receipt.”

At least Sabah is polite.

~ ~ ~

The parking lot glistens in the street lamps. It’s wet and just cold enough that ice patches might be lurking. Your old Honda is waiting for you. The two of you have been together since senior year of high school. Her paint is peeling and she’s got a dent on the driver’s side from the time you turned too tightly and scraped a pole at a gas station. She’s in good condition for how old she is. You load your bags into the back seat and take your cart to the cage three spaces down. The Honda’s got a dent in the front from a shopping cart left loose in another grocery store parking lot. You know all her scars.

Mr. Black Shirt strikes again! He’s been waiting for you at the cart cage.

“Hey, I was just thinking—are you going to the CES fireside tomorrow night?”

You give your cart that extra shove, nestling it in line with the others. “I wasn’t planning on it, but my mind could be changed.”

He rests his elbow on the red plastic handle of the cart you’ve just returned. “Glad to hear that. You really should go; they’re spiritually uplifting and intellectually enlarging.”

“Are you offering to go with me?”

“No.”

He’s smiling.

~ ~ ~

You sit on the couch, alone, wondering what were the chances. Who ever would have guessed that you would meet Jeremy—it’s been a long time since you’ve thought of him as Mr. Black Shirt—at the grocery store on a Saturday night? Knowing him has changed your life. Forever. Your parents had their own chance meeting: at the DMV. You should have known, should have seen the signs. You never used to believe in omens. What were the chances?

Afterward

I was intrigued by Frederick Barthelme’s stories; I had never read anything like them. At first they bothered me because I didn’t understand them. After reading several and discussing them, I became increasingly interested in the craft of their writing (I’m not sure that makes sense, but I think you know what I mean).

In writing “What Were the Chances?” I attempted to emulate Barthelme’s fiction, or at least used him as inspiration. This is why I chose a second person narrator speaking in the present tense. I tried to keep the narration as sparse as possible to allow, and require, readers to really think about the story. I had to do that with Barthleme’s fiction because he didn’t just tell me everything.

I wanted to capture a slice of BYU life in little details like a Rex Lee Run t-shirt, a CES fireside, and a quote from BYU’s mission or aims or whatever it is they quote from on the teacher evaluations. These details, which one might call prosaic, give, I hope, a sense of presentness and accuracy to the story. I wanted it to have little things like the price of yogurt or what’s on sale or the shirt someone is wearing. These are little things that make up a trip to the grocery store which may or may not turn out to be important later but which are noticed all the same. It’s all contingency. I tried to capture that in the final paragraph. Meeting Jeremy was an entirely contingent event, something prosaic. The character’s life will never be the same because of a case of mistaken identity in the produce section on a Saturday night.

Does that apply to me?

Over the last several weeks I have read a multitude of talks by President Hinckley. In a few of these talks he gave very direct counsel about divorce and preventing it--that its main cause is selfishness and what is needed to remedy a struggling marriage is repentance. He also talked about parenting and protecting children. The talks were given in the years and months immediately preceding the time when my family broke apart. I wonder if my parents listened to and/or those General Conference addresses. What happened that they decided that that counsel did not apply to them? Did they hear it and forget it? Did they decide they were an exception?

Being a young single adult in the church I hear a lot about dating, relationships, and marriage. The theme recently seems to have been that we should be willing to accept the responsibilities of marriage. (I've been reading lots of talks because I am in a religion class on the teachings of the living prophets. It's neat to feel more in touch with what they are saying to us now.) Other talks discuss how we should not be looking for perfection in a potential mate and that we should understand that marriage relationships are not full of romance all day every day. We should be looking for a partner who has a testimony of the gospel, who is active, loves the Savior, and has the similar life goals to our own. I hesitate to continue with this topic for fear of sounding like a bitter ex, but here I go. I have had more than one man end a relationship saying something like this, "You are great. I really love you. I know we could work out our differences and be very happy together. BUT I don't feel a spark anymore. You're just not my ideal woman. I want to see what else is out there." Those are direct quotes from three different men spliced together. Again I wonder: do they not hear the same messages I do? Do they really think those things don't apply to them? Or are they not self reflective enough to realize they are the very people the prophets are talking to and about?

I don't bring these topics up to justify myself and my actions or to point fingers at others. It's actually made me think seriously about myself. I wonder if there is counsel given by the prophets that I completely disregard. Are there times when I think that something doesn't apply to me? It's a scary thought, really. I mean, it has the potential of causing exaltation to be lost. I know that might sound over dramatic, but falling away starts with things that are small and simple and gets out of hand before you realize it. In a less dramatic sense, I would hate to realize too late that something did apply to me, that I screwed up big time and hurt someone else and/or myself.

So the question is then, how do I avoid being in that situation? I don't think my parents or ex-boyfriends intentionally flouted the words of God's prophets. They're more faithful than that. But how does it happen? And how can it be prevented? The only solution I've come up with so far is to diligently keep tabs on what the prophets are saying. I can't follow counsel I don't hear. When I hear or read that counsel I will ask "how does that apply to me?" instead of "Does that apply to me?" It seems safer to go under the assumption that everything applies to me.

Home Teaching

The doorbell
That voice
I hear it
He is near
Outside my door
A world away

Not for me
Duty fulfilled
They laugh
I hear it
Here
Not for me

Anger
Impatience
Embarassment
Tears

Beauty School Drop-out

This is just weirdness. Sometimes I wonder at the things that come out of my brain.

A teacher is a gardener, carefully weeding and feeding or fertilizing the garden that is a student. A teacher is a guide to show the students the way through the jungles of academia. A teacher is the wind beneath the wings of students, giving them the support and force they need to soar to the high places. A teacher is a sculptor, a lighthouse keeper, an orchestra conductor, a flying buttress. Teachers can be compared to many things as one considers a teacher’s relationship to students. All of these metaphors highlight a different aspect of the teacher/student relationship. The very fact that a teacher can be compared effectively to so many things is a testament to the many roles that a teacher and does play in the life and development of the student.

It may be slightly unconventional (that’s actually what I am going for) but I imagine myself as a hairstylist and my students are my clients. Without exception, everyone can benefit from a hairstylist. Even those who are exceptionally talented and can dye, curl, cut, and style their own hair will benefit from the perspective and help of a trained professional. Some people are very aware of their hair needs and visit their stylist on a regular basis. Others are pitiably unaware of their need of help; perhaps they don’t even know where to turn for help. It’s the same with students. Some students are incredibly capable, but still benefit from the perspective and guidance of a trained professional teacher. Others desperately need such help, but don’t know they need it or don’t know how to get it.

The services of one type of hairstylist or another are available to virtually everyone. Some who live in the right place, have the right family background, and the money to do so can access the best of the best. They can go to the designer salons with brand name, high-end products and highest quality tools and facilities. These people are truly blessed. They love their hairstylists and feel confident about their own hair. There are others, however, who do not have such opportunities. They may not have the know-how, or money, or location to be able to access such great resources. They may receive cheap cuts from students in training or try to do it themselves. They are often frustrated with their hair and have a keen sense of its inadequacy. The sad reality is that education often follows a similar pattern. I believe that it shouldn’t, but things like family situation, education of parents, physical location, and wealth all effect the quality of education that students receive. Those who do not have access to the best of the best in education are often frustrated and dissatisfied with their experience. I want everyone to have beautiful hair, quality products, and top-of-the-line resources available to them.

Hairstylists must work with whatever they are given. Clients come from different situations with different hair histories and hair types. Hairstylists must take the raw material they are given and make something beautiful out of it. A client with healthy, untreated hair has the potential for a different kind of outcome that a client with damaged, stringy, over-treated hair. It’s the same in teaching. Students come with different backgrounds, histories, and readiness for learning. Teachers must take what they are given and make something beautiful of it. Sometimes the resulting beauty is best appreciated when one knows intimately the raw material and can appreciate how far the student, or hair, has come.

What a hairstylist can do with a client is determined in large measure by the goals that the client has for his or her particular hair and image. Again, I see a parallel with teaching. Teachers may have goals for their students that will never be realized if those goals aren’t shared by the students. A good teacher works with the students to set and reach goals. The teacher should give input, but will, ultimately, be most successful as the teacher helps the student reach goals the student has set for him or herself. A hairstylist may do something innovative and impressive with a client’s hair, but the client is not likely to be pleased if this new look is not what the client wanted. Similarly, a teacher may coerce students into producing a good product, reading a good book, or developing a certain skill, but the students will not be pleased with the experience if that’s not what they wanted in the first place. Teachers and hairstylists will both be more successful as they work together with students and clients to help them achieve the goals and objectives they desire.

A final point of similarity: hairstylists, like teachers, want their clients to be able to reproduce the style at home and on their own. A good stylist will help clients find the look they want and then teach them how to reproduce that look at home. The stylist will show the clients how to use the tools and maybe even allow them to practice. The stylist will be sure clients are familiar with products and what they do. If the stylist is genuinely caring about clients and teaches them to be successful with their hair at home, the clients will feel good about themselves and will continue to return to that stylist for advice, teaching, and maintenance. A good teacher is no different. A good teacher will help students develop the skills they need to meet their goals. The teacher will model the skill and then allow students to practice the skill while receiving helpful and appropriate feedback. The teacher will be sure students are familiar with resources available to them, what those resources do, and how to use them. A genuinely caring teacher will want students to be able to use skills acquired in the classroom in novel settings. These teachers help students feel confident about their skills. Their students will feel successful and return to their teachers when they need further instruction, training, and advice.

I want to be a good hairstylist. I need to continue to develop myself as a teacher, perfecting my skills and staying up with current trends, thinking, and discoveries in my field. Even if I do not work in a posh salon, I don’t want my teaching to be the caliber of a student in training, or worse, a beauty school drop-out. My students deserve better than that. Like Frankie Avalon so poignantly put it, “Beauty school drop-out, no one wants their hair done by a fool.”

I guess I could say I espouse a belief in Equal Opportunity Cosmetology. My teaching philosophy: Beautiful Hair for Everyone! Because We’re Worth It!

Si fuera yo

This was my first attempt at poetry. I wrote it in Spain.

Si fuera yo una catedral
serías tú mi arbotante
quieto, fiel, llevando mi cargo
posibilitas nuevas alturas
juntos
dirigimos la mirada
hacia nuestro Dios

Si fuera yo un velero
serías tú mi guardafaro
ajustando las linternas
del faro del Señor
y cuando me toca navegar
por las olas de temor
un asilo
tu destello me alcanza
alumbrando con amor

Si fuera yo una piedra
serías tú mi escultor
con tu cíncel preciso y golpes
de amor tomo forma
confianza
descubrimos la obra maestra
no hay mayor
ni escultura ni escultor

The Responsbile Party

On the top stair
clenching the twisted
wrought-iron rail
a small girl spies
through the darkness

Yellow light emerges
from the bathroom
at the end of the hall
casting ghoulish shadows
on the wall

'Brush your teeth!
Pick up the toothbrush
and brush your teeth!'

He can't do it, Dad.
You have to help him.

'Brush your teeth.
Son.
DO IT!'

The son does nothing
the empty eyes
register a hint of fear
his frail body
leans against the pink sink
a stream of drool
escapes the open lips

'BRUSH YOUR TEETH!'
'LISTEN TO ME!'

Do it.
O, God
Please
help him
do it.

The son does nothing
it's too late
past the point of
no return
the arm cocks back

One
maybe only one
Two
ThreeFour
FiveSixSeven
better not to count

The girl watches
clenching the rail
pressing her small body
into the corner of the stair
worn out and unfriendly
carpet rubs her bare legs

Stop!
Please, stop.
He can't do it.
This isn't right.
I have to stop it!

The girl does nothing
silent tears
slide down her cheeks
she creeps
down the stairs
into the safety
of the dark

This is Just to Say

This is just to say

I had read
your email
when we talked
the other night

Forvie me
I didn't want to
talk about it

It was so fun
to see you squirm
and dance around
the subject

A box in the basement

1 Stock certificate 1917
2 Tithing receipts 1922, 1930
1 Package of letters WWII
1 Travel Log 1965
1 Journal 1978-1983
1 Funeral program 2004

Joy

Joy
A busy week
Go
Go
Go
Teaching
Learning
Reading
Writing
Substituting
Go
The Praxis
A paper
Gotta do good
Stake Conference
Temple
Pancake Night
Go
Go
GO
No sleep
Eat
Change
Go
Sunday--
Joy

Regret

Adolescence is a hard time of life, and it seems that everyone thinks that their adolescent experience was worse that anyone else’s. I don’t pretend to hold the prize for ‘Worst Adolescence Ever,’ but I did experience my share of sadness. Just as I was coming into my adolescent years, my life fell apart. The details aren’t important now, but everything I had known my life to be was turned on its head. I was confused and scared and very lonely. I still haven’t completely gotten over it. A large part of my raising from that time on was done by my Grandma Jean.

If it was embarrassing for other young teenagers to have their parents around, it was utterly humiliating for me to be seen with my grandmother. I hated it when my friends knew that I couldn’t come hang-out because my grandma was making me practice the piano. I didn’t like having friends over because it was my grandma’s house and had grandma furniture and grandma decorations. Church was an embarrassment every week. Grandma used to be a soloist and sang in Sacrament Meeting as if she were singing for an audience. Everyone in the ward knew when Sister Driggs was in church and where she was sitting. I would slump down on the bench next to her, hoping beyond hope that I could disappear into the burgundy pew.

Not uncommon to my age, I wasn’t a very pleasant person to be with and didn’t treat my grandma as well as I should have. I resented Grandma Jean; I didn’t want her to drive me to the dentist or come to parent-teacher conferences or take me to buy new shoes. I wanted my mother to do those things. In my immature mind I seemed to think that if Grandma weren’t there my mom would be. I thought that she was the cause of my problems, that somehow she was to blame for all that was difficult about my life. I wished she would leave me alone; I was sure life would be easier without her.

I was so wrong. It pains me to think of what I lost by being resentful and not recognizing what I had and what my grandma did for me. I guess that saying is true: you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. Grandma Jean passed away while I was on my mission. I remember the last time I saw her; I stopped to visit her in the hospital on my way to the MTC. She was so happy to see me already set-apart and dressed as a missionary. I made her proud. When I hugged her and said goodbye, I knew it was for the last time. In the last months of her life, Grandma Jean put a lot of effort into writing me letters. The letters never said much and were hard to read because of her shaky, old hands, but I cherished them because I knew that it was a challenge for her to write them. I knew that she loved me. President Lewis called me on a Thursday night in February to convey the news that my grandma had died.

Grandma Jean seems to be as much a part of my life now as ever. I miss her terribly and think about her often. At Christmas, at the monthly family dinner, at my cousin’s wedding I expect to see Grandma and my spirits fall when I remember that she’s not here. Now my mom is the organizer and the family gathers at her house; Grandma’s paintings cover the walls. Ironically enough, it feels wrong that Mom has taken over Grandma’s role. I tear-up when I realize that my husband and children will only know Grandma Jean through the stories I tell about her.

Last week at Family Home Evening we told about our heroes; I talked about Grandma Jean and missed her again. “I admire my grandma’s ability to forgive,” I said. “It’s because of her that I knew my grandpa.” I eat toast and peanut butter every December first—Grandma’s birthday; my mom says that makes her day. I hear my brother say “one of these first days” and I smile; he got that from Grandma Jean. Out to lunch, my mom and I laugh when I say that I want to take a piece of cornbread home in my purse; Grandma did that and liked to eat it with milk for breakfast. I love to listen to Handel’s Messiah; Grandma loved to sing it. I visited the Sistine Chapel and I cried; Grandma Jean would have loved to have gone there—I’ll have to enjoy it for her. I apply to take the Praxis exam and I remember her: Name (Last, First Middle). The Bishop asks for my full name; “Rebecca Jean,” I say proudly. I look at my crooked pinky fingers, see my eyes in a mirror, notice my high forehead, hear my own surprised laugh, and I know that Grandma Jean will always be a part of my life.

Collide

The dawn is breaking
A light shining through
You're barely waking
And I'm tangled up in you
Yeah

The thin fabric of the tent diffuses the already soft morning light like a screen at a photo shoot; you look heavenly. I reach my arm above my head and take your hand as you reach out to me. We lay in peaceful silence listening to the birds, the river, the quiet breathing of the others in the tent, all of us laying in sleeping bags neatly fit into a small space like pieces in a human Tetris game.

I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

After breakfast we go for a walk and end up on the banks of the Colorado sitting on the same rock. It's small, so you're sitting on the rock and I'm sitting on you. You want to play the staring game. I lose; I hate that game. You say you like to look into my eyes, that I don't let you do that enough. I'm embarrassed because I know you're right. I was hoping you wouldn't notice.

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find
You and I collide

We get dusty, dirty, and sweaty on our morning hike. You carry our water and snacks in your camel back. I'm free to run about without any extra weight. I offer to take my turn with the pack but you never let me, and I love you for it. When I get thirsty I come back to you like a bird to a feeder; I like being close as I sip from the hose at your shoulder. I am scared of heights. I shut down and withdraw. I wish I wasn't like this. I'm sure you think I'm wimpy; you won't want me now.

I'm quiet you know
You make a frist impression
I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind

Ken's Lake is the last stop before we head home. We want to wash off the red sand and sweat before the long drive ahead of us. I'm nervous to wear my swim suit; I don't want you to see me in it. I'm uncomfortable, so I make jokes: my underwear covers more skin than this! I don't want you to touch me, but I don't understand why. My reaction is more visceral than cognitive. Your hand on my bare flesh makes me uptight, my muscles contract as if my abdomen were to collapse in on itself. "I don't know what you're worried about," you say, "you look great, really."

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find
You and I collide

We drop the others off and head back to your apartment. After transferring my gear from your trunk to mine, we stay in the parking lot talking. I'm wearing the same red Edinburg shirt and pink scrubs I was wearing when we woke up this morning. My hair is pulled back in a messy pony tail and my face hasn't seen makeup for days. Now that we're back to a familiar setting, I'm feeling pretty uncomfortable and embarrassed about the way I've acted. I apologize, and so do you. We laugh. We hug. You whisper in my ear, "Becca, I love you."

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to ryhme
Out of the doubt that fills your mind
You finally find
You and I collide

I'm surprised and scared. I don't know what to do. I'm so paralyzed by my fear that I don't recognize what a big risk you are taking until it is too late. "I wish I could say the same to you," I say, "but I'm just so scared." "Don't worry," you tell me, "there's no hurry. I meant what I said."

You finally find
You and I collide

So much hurt. So much pain. Why? How could you love me and swear that you meant it and not want to be with me? Not this, not again. I have to confess; I can't let you think that you loved me and I never loved you back. I know what that's like and I won't let you experience it too. I gather my courage and tell you through tears that I love you. You stagger back and ask why I didn't say anything before. All I can say is that I was afraid. I'm sorry. I love you.

You finally find
You and I collide

I think of you when I hear this song--sometimes in sweetness, sometimes in pain. I wonder if you still love me, if you ever had second thoughts. I wonder if we will ever find that you and I collide.

Some thoughts on The Dating Game

I'm frustrated with The Dating Game. I know I'm not unique, but part of my frustration is that we don't talk about it. Everyone is playing the game. We're all looking for a mate. It's a basic human need--we want to be loved and validated. Why does playing the game necessitate denial that I am playing it?

I feel lonely. I want to get married. I would like to do that soon, and by soon I don't mean tomorrow. I mean that I want to try being in a relationship that is moving in that direction; I want to feel like I'm making progress.

Why is there shame attached to such an admission? I feel that in expressing these feelings I am consenting to my own pathetic and pitiable state. A stigma: I must be desperate indeed to vocalize that I want a husband.

Not only is this ridiculous, it also leads to the idea that the desire is somehow wrong or pathetic or pitiable. That's just not true! It's natural, right, and good. What I want most in life is to be part of a happy, normal, slightly crazy, and loving family. I want to get married. I want to have children. That's what I want, and I feel really good about that.

The One Syllable Paragraph

This is an exercise from my writing class:


What can I write with such small words? This is a day when I do not want to get up or leave my house. Some days are like that. Things do not go well and it seems better to just stay at home and sleep it off. I did not come to class last time--I was sick--so I thought that I could not miss class two days in a row. I came to class. When I saw the snow it was too late to not come. I had left the house and since my coat was on, I went out in the snow. On the walk to school there were some slips in the snow and on the ice but I did not fall. That was one good thing about this day.

Velcro Shoes

Tennis shoes with velcro make me sad. As I sit trying to figure out how I will put my feelings into words, I get teary-eyed. I don't know why but hope to discover it here. I see an adult wearing shoes with velcro and no laces and my heart sinks; it seems to fall back into my chest, as if it might make contact with my spinal column, the muscles and organs keeping it there giving out, giving up.

You know the kind of velcro shoes I'm talking about. They are all white, or all gray, or all tan, but most commonly, they are all black. They curl up a little at the toe and have two giant velcro buckles where the laces would normally be. The sides around the ankle are thick like a skate shoe, the swollen tongue protruding at an angle, as if constantly mocking the wearer. More often than not these shoes are well-worn--unevenly, one side of the heel noticeably thinner than the other.

Why would someone wear velcro shoes? Don't they know how sad they are? I wonder about these people. Did no one care about them enough to sit with them, and patiently teach them to manipulate the laces into a bow? Maybe someone did, maybe lots of someones did. Maybe those fine motor skills or remembering that many steps is beyond ability. If so, who cares for them now? Does no one love enough to help the potential velcro shoe wearer find some nice clogs or loafers; Vans always has very stylish slip-ons.

What are these people's lives like? Why would they wear velcro shoes? Maybe life is overwhelming. Maybe finding the motivation to get out of bed and get dressed in the morning is such a challenge that tying shoes with laces would simply be too much. Maybe velcro shoes are a survival technique. Maybe they think so little of themselves that they don't believe they deserve to have respectable shoes.

My heart hurts for these people. I want to anonymously leave them pairs of new shoes. But how would I find them? And how would I know what size and color to get? I want them to feel the difference a nice pair of shoes make. I want them to leave the house confident in themselves because someone loves them enough, life is good enough, they are good enough for good shoes.

For now, velcro shoes make me sad.

How the Blog Came to Be

I never thought I was a writer. I wrote for school because I had to. I started journaling and liked it. It was nice to have someone to talk to--no, not someone, somewhere to talk. It was therapeutic. I have since found other places to talk and sometimes even a person to talk to. Expressing my thoughts and feelings has become so important to me now that I can't do any other kind of writing (a gigantic term paper or even small response for class) if I have things on my mind or in my heart. I have to journal first, and then I can perform a literary analysis.

Two and a half years ago my mentors, my Mission President and his wife, had to move unexpectedly, almost over night. I didn't find out until they were already gone. I was devastated. We kept in touch through letters. When I got home and frequently since then they have commented on how much they enjoyed my letters. She tells me I am a wonderful writer, that I have a gift. I guess I do enjoy it.

Maybe I should write, but what do I have to say? I read books and am fascinated by the craft of expression through words. I want to do that, but I don't think I can. I am no Robert Frost; I haven't been to war like Tim O'Brien; I don't have an imagination like Miguel de Cervantes. Who would want to read my writing? These thought paralyze me. I have the desire but never even try. I keep thinking that I should. I am in a class called 'Teaching Composition in Secondary Schools.' The readings for the class are interesting and connect with the desire I have in me.

Could I really do this? It seems like I should try. I mean, I 've got to start somewhere. I consider starting a writing notebook or keeping a folder of writing experiments in my 'Documents' file. That doesn't excite me. It seems sad, wrong somehow. It denies the social aspect of writing. Why pour myself into writing something, creating something, that only I will read? Writing for myself: I do that in my journal.

Saturday night. I come in from work and seated at my kitchen table is a most attractive man who becomes increasingly interesting the more I talk with him. He's an English teacher at a local high school. His fame has preceded him: professors in my education classes told us about problems created when single female students were placed in his class to observe. Not developing a crush on this man would be a challenge indeed. (I met him at my kitchen table, no professional conflict there!) He captivates me as he talks with passion and love about his students. He has them write blogs. He gets online and reads from some of them. Incredible! I really could do that. A blog. Yes! A blog! I never thought I would find a use for a blog. It is, I am hoping, a suitable outlet for my creative impulses and my desire to experiment with writing which does not deny the essentially social component of writing. Even if no one reads my blog, the possibility that someone could is enough to make the effort worth while.

I hope you enjoy my adventures in writing.