My Birthday In A Suitcase

Four families.  Three cakes and three embarrassing happy birthday serenades.  Two days.  One birthday. 

My life isn’t completely lived in a suitcase; I don’t tour or travel as a career.  I just move around a lot.  I don’t have a home—I’ve got four.  Instead of feeling lonely like a homeless person, it makes me feel split in too many directions.  And tired…and so very loved. 

My mom ordered a cake from the school.  I was told they’re huge, so I invited a bunch of kids to eat it with me in my dorm’s basement.  We were about to dig in, until the dorm’s cleaning lady reminded them that they were supposed to sing happy birthday to me.  I shouldn't have offered her a piece.  Ignoring my pleads, the friends who I didn't know last semester but have come to treat like siblings, inharmoniously sang the stupid song while I smiled at my feet.  We played card games, like bull and spoons, which turned violent (my body was frequently found on poor Stacy) and listened to music on my laptop. 

That evening my adopted dad, the man who I babysit for, picked me up on his way home from work.  He gave me the lowdown on everything that I had missed with my adopted family while I was busy studying my butt off; his wife, Jen, wrecked the car and caused $1800 of damage and is seeing a therapist for her germ related OCD.  She likes to keep life interesting.  Katie, my eight year old baby “sister”, grew out of her car seat and still has her life’s goal set on making everyone crazy.  Ten year old Amanda is Harry Potter obsessed and wrote a paper that sounded like it came from a high school student, because she takes after her big sister.  J  And Dave still spends his weekend nights killing zombies online. 

I always love coming home to their house.  I’m greeted first by the howling beagle, who runs around, jumping all over the furniture as fast as a bullet, and finally calms down enough to tell me she loves me by laying on my feet and wriggling her whole body and whimpering for my attention.  I never feel so loved as when I’m greeted by my beagle. Then the girls jump on me and expect me to carry them around even though they’ve gained ten pounds since I last saw them, and tell me every new toy they’ve gotten and every hobby they’ve picked up in the past year, as if I’ve been gone for that long…even thought it seems like I've been gone longer.

They bought me my own little chocolate cake from the bakery--little as in big enough for four of me.  I’m still eating it as I write this, two days later.  They sang happy birthday in their high pitched voices and I smiled at my cake.

That night, I made my bed on their overstuffed couch.  Katie turned on the Disney channel and crawled next to me to let me hold her.  We fell asleep like that, my sister and I—because what else would she be called?  I’ve known her since she had bed wetting issues and I taught her the alphabet.  Relatives are related.  Family is a thing that is formed. 

I was dropped off at my mother’s house the next morning, when she was baking her famous banana chocolate chip muffins.  She was on the way to the basement with her laundry basket as she told me not to dump the whole bag of chocolate chips in the bowl.  “Who are they for?” I asked.  She smiled widely and said in her I-feel-cool-because-I-know-I’m-being-an-awesome-mom voice, “Wellllll…they’re for you to take to college with youuu...because I looooove youuuu…” and walked towards me with open arms.  I spun around and raced off towards the kitchen, saying “Then they’re ALL goin in!!!!” 

Birthdays aren’t supposed to be about spoiling yourself—they’re about spending a day surrounded by the people who you would give this day up for.  My dad, my stepsister Val and our best friend Mia, spent the day being themselves and reminding me why I am who I am—because they wouldn’t want me any other way.  We took a million pictures and told all of our inside jokes and said "that's why we love you!" after we did something stupid, to let each other know we're accepted for who we are, flaws and all. 

I spend my time at college chiseling away at my sanity, trying to become someone I think I should be and trying to obtain a knowledge I think will get me there.  When I go to my other homes, all three of them, I remember why I've made my fourth, away from them.

I Still Know Your Voice

This one is for you, B.

The night before you moved, I stayed over your house.  Well, it wasn’t your house, it was your mother’s boyfriend’s house; the man who promised your mom a job, a car and a loving husband when you moved from West Virginia to escape your stalking abusive father, and gave her none of those.  It was made of stone and creaky wood, located in the middle of nowhere.  You said that you did some research in the library and discovered that it used to be a plantation master's house, and found a map that explained where a slave hung himself from a large tree, past the brick barn and near the woods.

After introductions with your mom and little brother were made, we got bored.  We went outside and jumped the fence into your neighbor’s pasture.  Being in the middle of nowhere, it was pitch black and the sky was dark blue with stars that would have startled a New Yorker.  It was slightly chilly but we couldn’t have asked for a better night.  Fireflies were everywhere, as if the air gave birth to them.  The only noises we heard were crickets, frogs, and the sheep bleating like they were having a party.  We walked up a hill and you pointed to the tree where the slave supposedly hung himself.  I told you that it was really creepy, but I wasn’t frightened at all.  I felt so alive that it was okay if a ghost met us.  The dead couldn’t hurt us.  You told me in a courageous tone that if it did, you wouldn’t let it and you’d protect me.  I laughed. 

We chased sheep through the meadow, screaming “Come here fluff ball!”  We never caught one, but we were close.  After being confined to a desk, a car, a bed, a schedule, a routine, for so long, running as fast as I could and hollering at the top of my lungs sent more adrenaline through me than a rollercoaster.  I remember the sound of the dirt path beneath me and the sheep going berserk over the two crazy girls trying to fluff their fur.  I remember how my asthma surprisingly wasn’t acting up, and the sound of your laughter; it was beautiful.  After all the sin you’ve seen and tragedies you’ve experienced, you still had this innocent giggle.  If I didn’t know you were there, I’d have thought I was hearing a twelve year old girl having the time of her life.  I wish you always laughed like that, as if for once, every need was met; as if every ridiculous insecurity of yours was completely blown out of the water by an unbiast opinion that came from a pair of eyes that knew you better than anyone else. 

We went back inside to your tiny room.  We turned off the lights and lit every candle that you had, hoping we didn’t set the ancient wood on fire.  You turned on your fancy stereo that looked out of place in your house.  We danced around and head banged and jumped up and down like we were at a punk rock concert until your mom called us downstairs to help her pack.  When we were done, we sat on the couch with your little brother, Nick, and talked about school and West Virginia—and that’s when I named Phlegm.  Phlegm is the disgusting mucus in your mouth that you hack on when you’re sick.  He had to have a name because you guys but quotation marks around “father,” and phlegm was the first nasty insult I thought of.  Then you got out your guitar and started playing and singing whatever you felt like.  I laid my head on your knee and Nick, who had warmed up to me like a puppy from a dog pound, leaned on me.  Your voice is American idol worthy, and your music was a fairy-like melody.  Your lyrics came out of your mouth as they came to you, and they came from inside you.  My vision was blurry, so I close my eyes, but in that moment—you were the most beautiful person in the world. 

When we went back upstairs, you were on the phone with your boyfriend, who I didn’t like at all.  I got bored of your conversation, so I went into your mom’s room talk to her and Nick.  I fell asleep on her bed listening to her coo the teenage boy in a motherly sweet voice that she must have picked up from movies.  Where was she when you were left in the custody of Phlegm two years ago?

When I woke up around two A.M., Nick wasn’t there.  I walked into your bedroom to find you sitting on your mattress-bed, covering yourself up with a white sheet.  I remember my throat was hurting and my allergies were trying to make my head explode, but I was surprisingly awake.  I made a nest out of blankets on the floor, and for an hour we talked about school and music and how ridiculous life is for putting us through this craziness and for taking us to these places that we will never get a chance to call home, as if we’d want to. 

But your voice was a soft and sweet melody that I could listen to forever.  I wanted you in my life forever, that I’d have adopted you if I were of age.

Months later, you told me that our last and only night together, was the best night of your life.  You didn't need a boy to make you whole or drugs to make you sane-you had me.  A friend who truly cared for you, who accepted everything you told her and thought of you all the better for surviving it all.

How Are You Today? Answer Honestly Now.

The scenario that always comes up while discussing “complete honesty” is how to respond to the mostly meaningless question “how are you?” Some people think you should always say what you’re feeling, while others always answer “good” because they don’t want to explain why they’re not actually doing so good.  Then there are people like me who at their very worst, answer “I’m okay, thanks for asking!” because no one wants to hear a sad response. 

And I never hear a sad response from her.  When I ask her how she is, sometimes she hesitates and says “Oh, busy/tired, how about you?” as if her well being depends on her busyness and energy level.  I know those are her bad days, but I don’t bother her about it.  I don’t exactly know what her contentment depends on from day to day, but I understand what she’s been going through.

She is known for her caring.  She loves everyone and hates to hate.  She shares her house with nature and is an activist for the environment.  If you ever need information on water conservation, air pollution or animal testing, she’s your woman.  She lives a life that’s purposeful; she’s a mentor and an inspiration, without knowing it.  She’s not a teacher but she educates in things I don’t get from anyone else, like life and survival and people.  She encourages her kids to use a voice and speak up for what we believe in, even if no one agrees.  She points out the good things in us, even if we don’t believe her or appreciate it. 

Maybe she indulges herself in caring for the world so she can’t care for herself.  Taking care of oneself is so difficult; to make sure time is set aside to unwind and keep a hold on sanity, eat healthily, keep from getting stressed too much, and keeping emotions in check when all you want to do is quit your job, elope with a stranger in Vegas and play hide and seek with reality in its bright lights. 

I guess she focuses on everyone else to forget she has a life; her life is our life, and she asks for nothing in return.

 *

She has a doll that she bought from a craft store.  It’s wearing a pink dress and a frown, and has black stitches up its forearms.  I ask why.

“She committed suicide because she’s depressed,” she explains in a tone as if I should know this is the only logical reason a doll would be dead. 

Again, I ask “Why?”

“Well, life isn’t all smiles and happiness,” she replies.

I contemplate the purpose of a suicidal doll.  “That…makes sense….”

“She just sits on my desk and I take care of her,” she says as she picks it up and plays with its hair.

“Then she should be smiling, because she has you to take care of her!”  I say cheerily.

She laughs.  “Yes, well, I like her because I relate to her,” and bashfully says, “That’s my secret.”

I nod.  I understand completely, but it doesn’t keep me from wanting to pick up this woman twice my size and age, and rock her to sleep.

I Own Two Planners!

Going home from college is strange.  The place felt more crowded then; decorations were everywhere two weeks after Christmas was over because the apartment would otherwise feel sullen, mail was perfectly sorted into piles on top of every piece of furniture, crumbs were graciously left for mice in the kitchen, the remote was always left in a different place to keep my dad mentally fit, and the vacuum served as a fine dust collector.  Now the carpet is vacuumed, the mail is organized in only three piles, the refrigerator and cupboards are almost empty so naturally there's no food elsewhere, and my bed is cleared off and ready to sleep on.  When has my dad had all this time to clean?  Then I realize it’s been three weeks since I’ve been here…I guess time flies when you’re at college.

*

Martin Cockroft once said “I wouldn’t want one of your schedules on a good day!”  He’s right.  You shouldn’t want one of our schedules, ever.  I personally work myself to exhaustion on a regular basis.  I’ve replaced childhood memories for psychology terms and don’t have time to watch Glee, let alone sleep.  I’m not the type of person to sacrifice my rest and enjoyment for education, but then I remember what I’m working for…an English degree, a teaching certificate, and a teaching English as a second language certificate. 

*

I got the $250 out of my account that contains the money I earn from my two jobs.  I put it in an envelope and handed it to the lady in charge of the spring mission trip to Argentina.  There, I’d get a two week taste of what I’d be doing for the rest of my life--loving on orphans, some from the streets and the prostitution business.  What could make a person’s life more worth living than to show someone else that theirs is worth living too?  Seeing their faces would be a break from the race and a glimpse of the prize I’m running for.

I was the only one who turned in the first down payment.  No one else would go. 

*

Time goes too fast for you to get all the things you stuff into your life done, but not fast enough towards the time when you want it to stop so you can savor one of the moments that makes life worth living.  You’re doing all these things you don’t like, or do because you’re asked to, or because you have to, or because it makes you happy in a numbing sort of way that gets you by—until you look at your schedule to see when the last time you stopped to make sure time was going normally.  You’ve packed so much into your schedule that it makes the past few weeks since you’ve enjoyed yourself, seem like an eternity.  Then you look at what you’ve already planned for the next few weeks and it seems even longer.  The time between the last weekend you forgot about your responsibilities to remember what you live for, and the next, is too long to be healthy. 

*

It’s finally Superbowl weekend.  Do you know what that means?  I’m going to dress in a Steelers shirt and play scrabble with my boyfriend’s grandma while he and the rest of his family scream at a TV!  But that’s not until six o’clock.  It’s early afternoon now, and Father Time has slowed from a 5-k-sprint to a healthy pace.  About once a month is when time goes at a normal speed, and I feel like I can actually live my life instead of trying to catch up with it.