2001-08-08 - 11:56 p.m.
Guest Spot: Let's go away for a while

Guest Spot: Let's go away for a while

Guest entry by Anne of xdagnyx (password protected to keep family and friends out; the username is Hollyhox, password is darwin):

I'm moving soon, too.

I'm making hundreds of lists to fulfill before I go.

1. Clean room.

2. Dispose of questionable/embarrassing material

3. Open new bank account

4. Buy underwear

I know I'm going to forget a hundred thousand things and have to come back and buy them. Or worse, ask someone else to bring them to me. I don't want anyone bringing me anything.

I've never lived away from home before, you see. I've never even left home for more than two weeks. I went to Australia, saw the Great Barrier Reef and some kangaroos. I missed the biscuits and gravy I got at home.

But never lived away from home. I live in a small town in what most people would call a vacation destination, on the eastern seaboard. The only remarkable things are a couple of amusement parks and a church that housed a Paul Revere bell.

It seems like a long, long time ago I chose to leave. Long before I had the chance or the money or the will. But I'm a smart girl. I replaced romantic hobo fantasies with easily attainable acceptances to prestigious West Coast universities. I was going to live the way I chose: some sort of quixotic amalgamation of intellectualism, anarchy, kitsch, and downeast practicality.

But things don't always work out the way we plan.

Last year on August 4th my brother got smeared across the pavement by a car going ten miles an hour too fast down my street. And I never thought it would be like this. You're not supposed to write your sibling's eulogy when you're seventeen.

I remember that day. It was so hot. We were all wearing green to the funeral. When little boys die, you shouldn't wear black. I'd bought green beach pants at Urban Outfitters in Boston. I'd modeled lots of different green outfits for my boyfriend. "Are these sleeves too short for a funeral?"

I'd typed it out, double-spaced so I wouldn't lose my place while reading. It was packed. Little kids, babysitters, teachers, relatives. My friends sat in two pews amongst themselves. I sat behind the reverend as he spoke. He said that God doesn't take away our children. He said that God's the first to cry at our loss.

And I spoke. In front of all those people. Part of me wanted to raise my voice and yell, "Fuck you!" as loud as I could. "Fuck you all. Fuck you for crying. Fuck you because it doesn't matter what you do. Fuck you, because you're going to forget." I'd've said a big "fuck you" to God, but that didn't cross my mind, being an atheist.

I'm a crowd pleaser. I felt it was right that they should all cry. So I gave them a chance to cry. I cried, too, standing in the pulpit. I cried and cried and cried.

At the funeral, my uncle told me that an Arab woman once said to him, "Grief is like soap. It gets smaller with time." I don't think my uncle ever believed that, though. His own younger sister died almost thirty years before, hit by a snowplow. I don't think he ever quite got over it. And we buried him in March. I think for him being hit by a car or snowplow would've saved the twenty-odd years of drugs and depression that did him in.

But I persevere, you know?

Three weeks later, I was driving home and I saw some black smoke in the sky. At the corner of Beach and Main, the Congregational church was aflame. I pulled over to my friend's house. "Your church is burning down! Your church is burning down!" And we all sat and watched the fire trucks come. Watched the firemen put on their tanks. Watched the orange climb all the way to the top of the steeple and stretch itself across the roof of the sanctuary. We wiped soot from our skin. Beside me, a woman kneeled and prayed. She prayed that the stained glass windows might be saved. Does Jesus live in windows?

But it was all gone.

And my life progressed. I went to school. I studied my books, wore my little wool skirts, filled out my applications. And I gave up on leaving for the West Coast. The West Coast is for people who aren't tied to New England. The West Coast is for people who are free. I agreed to stay in New England for a least a year. I agreed because I love my parents. I agreed because I am an adult.

I met a new boyfriend.

I got accepted to a prestigious university in a large New England city. They gave me money and asked me politely to attend. And being a smart girl, I don't turn down monetary gifts or polite invitations.

And suddenly I find myself here. Stepping gingerly out of my hometown for the first time. I'm leaving all sorts of things I never thought I'd miss. My dentist. My credit union. The beach.

I find myself tied all sort of things I thought would be casualties of my separation, my moving away forever. I find that my family is barely self-sufficient. I find myself deeply in love with my boyfriend, my best friend, unable to leave even if I wanted to. I find my university deeply committed to me.

I wish I had a good way to conclude. But I don't. You can't reflect on the future.

I wrote this entry because I love to write. I'm majoring in journalism in the fall. The trenches will pay my bills; the stories of life will sustain me.

Thank you for your time.

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