anewnameforeverything on Xanga

Weblog

Thursday, 10 July 2008

Alternative fuels

I reread my posts from last year—mostly I am struck by an earlier comment:
“I am most proud of myself at age four—before the world cautions against showing affection too easily, getting dirty, being unrealistic, not showing self-control, and having too much aggression.”
This world needs adults who have a little four-year-old in them. That’s my main goal with Ali, my little mentee. She is so imaginative and curious, but fears becoming an adult because she doesn’t see those qualities in adults around her. I believe we can really change this world if we help our children to hold onto their imaginations. Imagination is the fuel for progress.
The four-year-old inside me, who gets neglected from time to time, has reemerged. My insanely successful friends, who are off to become doctors, professors, and policy makers, constantly cause me to wonder what I am doing with my life. Although I have not succeeded in finding direction in my life, I have realized that I define happiness differently than even the closest of my friends. I did a little exercise last night in which I got out a piece of paper, cleared my mind, and painted what happiness was for me this year so far. The result was images from two different occasions this year. The first set of images was from an outing in January that I had with my roommate. I was in such a state of bliss that night—we did not do anything really out of the ordinary (besides exploring the Manhandler), but I enjoyed his company so much that night. The second set of images was from a recent weekend when I met a fierce invalid from a hot climate. The set of images that was missing would have been from the new job that I got this year. A very good job, mind you. A job that I like very much.
On the resume of my life, I wish I could bullet point:
·         Felt a friend’s pain as if it were my own
·         Met someone with whom I felt a strong connection
·         Realized how much I love and respect my best friend
·         Cultivated the imagination of a ten-year-old
The cover letter would read:
Welcome back, four-year-old Laura. You show affection too easily, get dirty, are unrealistic, show no self-control, and have too much aggression. You sweeten your life with intimacy and magic.
The employee handbook would warn:
Don’t let adult Laura belittle your dreams.
A red poppy in a field of gray

Spending the fourth of July on foreign soil was enough to cause alarm. These days, I have struggled with holding onto my patriotism. My dreams of climbing Mount Rushmore wrapped in an American flag faded into climbing a volcano in Nicaragua—one of the many countries that we screwed up. Forcing our ideals on other nations is questionable in a moral sense, but also in a very practical way. It does not seem to work—nor has it ever seemed to work. In our efforts to install pro-American dictators and fledgling democracies, we try to place a cookie-cutter black-and-white world on various shades of gray.
America fights many wars—we have caused and contributed to problems around the globe. The war that has done the most damage, however, is the one right within our own borders. This is the guerilla warfare between each other. In war, we create dichotomies—friends and enemies, good and evil, humans and monsters. We kill each other every day—both literally and figuratively. We dehumanize others; label them as enemies, or evil, or monsters; and therefore release ourselves of any sort of responsibility for them. If we did not, then we would have to deal with a lot of gray.
The battle worth fighting is an internal one. Before we can discuss universal healthcare, an appropriate distribution of wealth, or liberalized immigration, we have to learn to see the humanity in each other. The single mom without health insurance, the criminal, the immigrant crossing the desert, the homeless man on the street, the family from the other side of the tracks--these are people who have fallen in love, who have dreamt of a better life, who have wanted their children to be happy. When we can see them as people, and not as monsters, we can then start figuring out the logistics. We wonder why we can’t build a tree house when the real problem is that we haven’t found the tree. The politicians in Washington are not going to affect change—it’s us. Every time we expand our minds, see someone differently, or feel uncomfortable, we are affecting change. We are putting ourselves on the front lines. When we get close enough to the “enemies,” we realize that they resemble us.
I want to fight my internal battle on American ground—the land in which hope thrives in disturbed soil. Patriotism is love for this land that is dotted with poppies.

Wednesday, 07 February 2007

The unicorn won

When I was younger, I used to get on my hot-wheels on our sloped driveway and race towards the garage. Just as I was about to crash right into the door, I veered off. This little routine used to give my mom a heart attack. My dad thought that it was really funny. My uptight, safety-crazy dad enjoyed it. I’d like to think at age four that I was already pushing people to the edge of their comfort zones.

Moving to our new house shortly after (with a non-sloping driveway), it was this risk-lover that met Matt. Friends from youth are special friends because the bond is formed when personalities are so raw—and so real. Kissing boys behind trees, rolling around in mud, fantasizing about unicorns, laughing out loud, wrestling people to the ground—I am most proud of myself at age four—before the world cautions against showing affection too easily, getting dirty, being unrealistic, not showing self-control, and having too much aggression. It was that Laura who became friends with Matt.

Matt was the boy behind the tree, the playmate who pushed me in the mud, the dragon who attacked my unicorn, the goofball who made me laugh, and the person who I wrestled to the ground.

Over the years, we both lost some of that zeal for life and some of it was channeled into other forms. Matt moved away. We both grew up. Yet—every time we saw each other—there was that magic—almost like we could still taste the sweetness of the other’s lips, feel the mud between our toes, see the dragon chasing the unicorn, hear the loud laughter, and sense the tension.

Two years ago, when I was giving the speech at Matt’s funeral service, I tried to capture those same feelings and senses in words. My best tribute to him, however, has been rekindling all the traits in myself that put me on the edge of life. Over these past two years, I have pushed myself to the brink of every emotion—sadness, anger, happiness, fear, hopelessness, contentment, joy. Slowly, I’ve been bringing back the affection, the playfulness, the fantasy, the lack of restraint, and the aggression that I let society slowly chisel off over the years.

As I’m coming back into myself, a version of myself that was last seen veering off in front of the garage door on hot wheels, I feel completely alive again.

So I dedicate this day to my buddy—whose life and death has made me understand love and myself.

The unicorn won.

Wednesday, 24 January 2007

(This entry has been deleted due to feedback from a skeptic of redheads who labeled it "bitchy." Currently, redheads have the reputation of being "fiery" and "high strung," which are both mild versions of "bitchy." To single-handedly push my whole kind into that part of the spectrum is too much of a burden for one gal. I prefer only to make that kind of move after a convention of redheads that involves wine and cheese. Or just cheese. In fact, just processed cheese.)

Thursday, 18 January 2007

A New Name for Everything

I decided that my rejection of modes of communication that do not involve human contact is too simplistic of a view of our complex world.

A New Name for Everything (The Weakerthans)—my new theme song. Hungry Like the Wolf, although always initially successful, eventually seems to scare men—too many Duran Duran casualties. Theme songs are powerful tools. Try one.