The scene is all-too-familiar. I’m at some sort of social function like a Meetup group, a church gathering, or a party. I meet someone new and right away I’m on guard. The person choosing to get to know me could be a new friend, maybe more. He asks me my name and then comes the classic follow-up question: “What do you do?”
Me – 2008
I’ve rehearsed this scenario with my counselor. “Why don’t you say you’re a writer?” she suggests.
No, no. Then he’ll ask what I write and I’ll have to tell him I’ve not published anything and most of the time I write for this blog that I’m quite sure nobody actually reads.
“Then just be honest and say you are fortunate enough to be in a position where you don’t need to work right now.”
I like that answer so I give it a try. Unfortunately this leads to even harder questions like:
“How do you make a living? Are you looking for a job? What did you do before? What did you study in college? What do you specialize in?”
I quickly realize that “no job” means no purpose in life, no identity, and no respect. I don’t even mention the fact that I live at home with my parents and receive government income due to a disabling mental illness. Let’s face it, the truth will squash all chances of me experiencing a “normal” social life.
I’d post my résumé online were it not so laughable. I mean, I haven’t had a paying job in over 7 years. The last job that lasted long enough to merit a place on my résumé really only lasted for 6 months. The two jobs before that were with companies that folded.
A note from a manager at one of my favorite jobs – Borders Books and Music, which went out of business in 2011.
I was discouraged from working during my college years because being a student was supposed to be a full-time job. But just as I bounced around from job to job in the work world, I could never remain faithful to one university or even one major. In 1999 I went to Azusa Pacific University as a music major and, after a short-term mission trip to Romania, ended up at Northern Arizona University as an international affairs major. This would’ve been the perfect major for me if I hadn’t had my first mental breakdown while studying abroad in France. After dropping out of school for a bit, I landed at Arizona State University where I changed my major to the subject I had the most credit hours in already: French. Then, in December 2005, I graduated.
This is all the academic and professional experience perspective employers would be interested in, except perhaps my skill-set. What can I do well?
I stumble here because I lack something I should at least know how to fake: self-confidence.
One time I was eating Thai food with a friend of mine and telling him my problems. As I began to list my character flaws, he stopped me and asked me if there was anything I liked about myself. Up until that point, I’d been serious and emotionless. I’d become quite good at being critical of myself so he decided to list for me some of my finer qualities – the things he saw in me that I failed to see in myself. That’s when I felt the tears well up in my eyes. Could what he was saying be true? Do I actually have value?
The other night I listed all the jobs I’ve ever had, including the ones that aren’t résumé material. I went backward from 2008 to my very first job at age 15 in 1995. There were 17 jobs altogether. Of those jobs, at least six had gone out of business and only one job lasted longer than a year (but just barely).
Me at my state representative’s desk in Washington, DC – 1997
I had three favorite jobs. No, they weren’t perfect, but they are the ones I tend to speak favorably of when I reminisce about working. They were the travel agency, the bookstore, and the international school.
Me at the end of training at the STA Travel National Call Center in Tempe, AZ – 2004
I’ve thought about what those three places had in common. For one, they all promoted a greater understanding of the world. Whether it was intellectual travel or physically going to different countries, it was a way to experience the world, to learn new languages, and to gain new perspectives. Also, I learned from my coworkers who tended to be of above-average intelligence with interesting and unique life-experiences of their own. But most importantly, I felt I was making a positive impact in other people’s lives.
I’m not going to fill you in on the details of my mental illness right now. Though it has interfered tremendously with my ability to lead a “normal” life, I’ve already written about it quite a bit. I will say that in my case, I should be able to maintain a job so long as my medications continue to work and the work conditions are in my favor. However I’m not convinced someone like me can find a job using the traditional avenues. I’ve written down my list of dream jobs. Some of them may be beyond my reach, but I don’t believe all of them are. What do you think? Even if I have to start over, are any of these within my reach?
About a year ago, I was Internet bullied on Facebook and my bully wasn’t a stranger. He was someone I’d known a long time ago and who I used to refer to as “friend.” Now, nearly two decades later, he was telling me how it would have been kinder had I succeeded on at least one of my suicide attempts.
He didn’t stop with wishing me dead, though. He held a deeply rooted hatred for other members of my family as well. Even my former best friend received a hunk of his hate speech in the message for sticking up for me as long as she did.
I didn’t respond to him. How could I respond? We’d spoken over the phone a couple of times since high school graduation. Each time it had seemed like we were on the verge of rekindling our friendship. But after this round of unpleasantness, I had to draw the line and block him.
What had caused him to hate me so? The last time we’d seen each other face to face, we were teenagers. But as it turned out, those adolescent years had been much more challenging for him then they’d been for me.
We were the same age when we met only I was in seventh grade and he was in eighth so we really didn’t have any classes in common apart from choir and the school musical we both had a part in (his was a lead role and my part was silent).
We became fast friends because we had one rare common interest: musical theater. For the first time ever, I’d found someone my age I could talk Cats, Phantom of the Opera, Les Misérables, Into the Woods, and Miss Saigon with!
The novelty was exciting for both of us. At night we’d call each other up on the phone and sing Broadway duets together. I was also a church girl back then and very eager to see others get saved. My friend accompanied me to church a couple of times, but it really wasn’t his thing.
Around that time, he began to develop a deep and troubling depression. Suicidal threats from him became a common occurrence. I wanted to help him. All his friends wanted to help him, but we were kids. What could we do?
He wrote me a suicide note once and I immediately took it to a teacher. She was a grown-up, after all. She’d know what to do.
We continued our nightly phone chats and he’d often times break out in tears. He played this song for me once from a new musical called Rent. It was a love song between two guys: I’ll Cover You.
Once he asked, “Do you think it’s okay to be gay? What does the Bible say about homosexuality?”
It was easy to see what the Bible said. Not only was our bookshelf full of almost every available English translation of the Bible, but my parents had a little book entitled Armed and Dangerous that categorized just about any controversial topic that might come up in conversation and laid out the Bible verses pertaining to each topic. Homosexuality included.
From what my teenage mind could make out, homosexuality was wrong and I told him so. This, of course, brought him more tears. Soon our phone calls about Broadway musicals stopped and we went our separate ways. I felt I was doing the right thing and telling the truth. Years later I’d learn that I’d hurt him more than words can say.
When I was 18, I went on a 10-week singing tour across the Northwest and Midwest United States with a bunch of young people from all over the nation. It was a Christian singing tour and the group was called The Continentals. But because we were spending a significant amount of time in close quarters with people of the opposite sex, there were strict rules as to how we were to conduct ourselves so as not to arouse anyone sexually.
It was here I was introduced to the popular Evangelical Christian “side-hug.” Frontal hugs were okay if it was with someone of the same gender, but guys and gals had to hug from the side so as not to have too many body parts touching. Also, on long bus drives, we had what was referred to as the “Continental divide” in which all the guys sat on one side of the bus and all the girls sat on the other to keep the sexual tension at a minimum.
Even for someone as uptight as me, this seemed a little much. But I didn’t protest. I was going through my own emotional crises anyway. Three guys, at different times, offered me comfort in my moments of distress, whether it was a simple arm around the shoulder, letting me cry in their presence, or just choosing to spend one-on-one time with me. Years later, I’d learn that all three of those guys had come out of the closet and were happily being themselves. Perhaps more of the guys on the tour, maybe even some of the girls, were gay as well. I don’t know for sure because I never asked.
My first year in college, I studied at a Christian university and experienced dorm-life for the first time. My first roommate was very different from me, as most my college roommates would turn out to be. She listened to this song that used the F-bomb over and over again. It was sung by an artist called Ani DiFranco. I wondered whether or not we, as Christians, were allowed to listen to such lyrics. But she didn’t seem bothered at all and she was a Christian. She also found it utterly delightful to poke fun of my prudishness and naivety. The entire year she continuously referred to me as “fudge-packer” because she found it oh so amusing that I had absolutely no idea what that meant.
When I switched to a secular university my sophomore year, I lived in a female-only dorm. Besides myself and a few other prudes, there were quite a few lesbians and bi-curious girls on the premises. One of my closest friends, who’d recently quit Christianity, encouraged me to get to know some of these ladies; to talk with them and listen to their stories.
Up until then, I’d been of the persuasion that homosexuality was a choice and it was a sin. Of course, I didn’t believe it was any worse than extra-marital sex or anything. But it was still a sin.
Then I met Star. She was beautiful, petit, with worry lines across her face spelling out a difficult life. Over spring break I chose to stay in my dorm-room on campus. Almost all my friends had taken off for the week and were either home with their families or living it up on the beach somewhere. It was quiet.
Star remained on campus as well. One day, I saw her sitting on the front porch of the dormitory, smoking a cigarette as usual and watching the leaves dance in the wind. Feeling curious and emboldened, a stepped out the door and sat beside her.
I knew she was a lesbian. She made no secret of it. I was beginning to feel I knew very little about anything, let alone what it was like to love someone of the same sex. So I greeted her and asked her to tell me her story.
I wasn’t prepared for what I heard. Such pain and heartache! Soon I’d learn her story was all-too-familiar in the LGTB community. She’d been raised Mormon but when she came out, her family disowned her and she had to endure many hardships on her own. I knew now why her face seemed so weathered for someone so young. But there was one thing she said that stuck with me more than anything else. She said, “If this life were a choice, I would never have chosen it because of all the hell I’ve been through.”
After I graduated from college, I began to meet more and more people from the LGBT community at places of work and social functions. Each person had his or her own heart-wrenching story and yet despite it all, they couldn’t deny who they were. It brought me even more sadness to hear of the unfair judgments placed upon them by evangelical Christians. Many had been disowned by Christian families, kicked out of churches, and oft told they were going to hell.
This was difficult to take in. I kept wanting to say, “It’s Christians who did this, not Christ! Jesus loves you!” But I knew it wouldn’t go over well.
My own sexuality fell under scrutiny a time or two. Sex is a strange thing. I’ve been celibate for a long time and, in the secular world, celibacy is almost more unnatural than homosexuality. Just watch any popular TV show. It’s frowned upon if a character goes a month or more without sex. I’ve gone pretty much my entire life and I’m in my mid-thirties. I must be terribly screwed up.
Once I told a girl friend of mine that I wasn’t attracted to any guys at the moment.
“What about women? Are you attracted to women?” She asked.
I thought that was a strange question. “No. I’ve never been attracted to women.”
“Well have you tried?”
Peculiar. I’d never heard of a man having to “try” another man before discovering he was gay. Why was it that way with women?
Then, of course, comes the bisexual question. A friend came out to me as bi once and I talked to my therapist about it because I didn’t know a lot of people who were bi and I wanted to learn more. She said it’s really tough for them because if you’re bi, both teams want you, but nobody wants to share you.
The first two people I met who were transgendered I’d met while I was in the mental hospital. Apparently transitioning from one gender to another can be very stressful, not to mention all the bullying and hatred you receive from the cruel people in this world who don’t understand and don’t even try to understand.
In my own quest to understand sexual orientations different from mine, I saw one thing quite clearly: It was extremely rare to find someone who described himself or herself as both gay and Christian. Even I’d begun to shy away from that label. But I didn’t shy away from Jesus. Jesus seemed nothing like the Christians who had hurt many of new friends from the LGBT community. And yet people were turning away from Jesus because of those very Christians.
In 2009, Derek Webb, a Christian artist who’d left the Christian folk-rock band Caedmon’s Call to start a solo career, came out with an album called Stockholm Syndrome. Developing a reputation for stirring controversy in the Christian subculture, he released a free track to his album online called What Matters More in which he accused Christians of being too judgmental, unloving and hurtful to anyone who’s not straight.
Derek Webb also wrote a song on the same album to Fred Phelps of Westboro Baptist Church pleading with him and Christians like him to change the way they think about people who weren’t straight. The song’s called Freddie Please.
When he went on tour with his new album, Webb invited another singer/songwriter of Christian music fame to join him. Jennifer Knapp was a popular Christian artist in the late 1990s early 2000s who stopped making music and went off the grid for a little while. But, by 2009, was ready to rejoin the music recording industry.
Knapp had been living with her same-sex partner during her music hiatus and travelling the world with her. But she hadn’t come out publicly yet. She was a celebrity in the Christian music industry after all. She knew that, because she was a celebrity, there would be a significant public backlash, particularly from her Christian fans.
Through both the anger and the pain, all I could think of was divorcing myself from Christian culture. I didn’t want to live with people who insisted I was a failure. Rather than being the community that reflected the compassion that I had experienced in Christ’s Christianity, it had transformed into the one place where I felt most unsafe and unwanted. Christianity had turned into the place where my faith, my loves, my personal experiences were constantly being assessed and judged instead of being nurtured.
In recent years, churches like the Presbyterian and the Episcopalian have begun ordaining openly gay ministers and officiating gay marriage ceremonies. As great as that may sound, I don’t see all the people who were hurt by the church in the past returning like the prodigal son. I can’t blame them. I’ve not committed to a church for a long time, although sometimes I’ll attend with parents.
Some churches, like Community Church of Hope in downtown Phoenix, are actually created as safe havens where the LGBT community can worship God together without being judged. I visited Hope once. The pastor gave a lecture there about homosexuality and the Bible, but it wasn’t what you’d expect. He not only discredited the usual verses meant to condemn gays, but he actually found several verses in the Bible that supported homosexuality (so long as it was in a committed relationship).
A girl I knew was there. I’d known her in college through the Christian club I’d been a part of. She told me how she actually came out in college but had to keep it on the down-low so the rest of us Christians she was hanging out with wouldn’t give her a hard time. But she was happy now. She’d met her life partner, a beautiful woman, and eventually the two of them got married.
In my generation, labels have often been seen as the real demons. My friends and I don’t like to be labeled anything. Then again, maybe the labels aren’t so bad so long as we truly own them and allow ourselves to be vulnerable yet confident in who we are.
To my Internet bully and old friend, I just want to say again and again, I’m sorry. But please remember, we were very young. I can’t speak for you, but I know at that age I’d experienced very little in life. I was often told I lived in a bubble. I didn’t know what that meant back then, but I know now. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
I grew up Presbyterian, PCUSA to be precise. This was the church I was baptized and confirmed in. Despite this fact, I never felt any kind of loyalty to it. My faith was in Jesus, not the presbytery. My kinship was with Christians of many different traditions, including but not limited to Copts, Catholics, Quakers, Anglicans, Lutherans, Baptists, and Seventh Day Adventists.
When I arrived at university, most of the Christian campus ministries revolved around this ecumenicalism. It was wonderful to worship together under the common bond of Christ, but it was also interesting to learn about one another’s traditions.
One of my friends was brought up in the Reformed Presbyterian Church. She told me about how, in her faith tradition, she sang the Psalms and only the Psalms.
I thought it was strange and very restrictive. Who could deny the beauty and simplicity of the old hymns or, better yet, the powerful emotions of modern worship music?
Then I traveled to France and became fascinated by the French Huguenots. I found some reprints of their 16th century songbooks and noticed they were all Psalms. The first songs the French Protestants sang together were French translations of the Psalms.
What’s so important about the Psalms? I wondered. Jesus isn’t mentioned in them, is he?
N.T. Wright wrote a book called The Case for the Psalms in which he outlines why he believes the Psalms are not only relevant but also extremely important to the church today.
The Psalms are really songs and poetry and, as someone with a B.A. in French, I can testify right off the bat of how incredibly difficult it is translate poetry without losing its rhyme, rhythm, and cadence let alone its very essence. My literature professor in France referred to poetry as “the highest form of literary art.” The Psalms were originally written in Hebrew. How could any translation do them justice?
“A poem (a good poem at least) uses its poetic form to probe deeper into the human experience than ordinary speech or writing is usually able to do, to pull back the veil and allow the hearer or reader to sense other dimensions” (p. 23-24)
In other words, good poetry is greater than its musical elements.
It’s worth noting that the Psalms were most likely Jesus’ and the disciples’ hymnal. It’s almost certain they’d have been able to recite many of these by heart – even sing them.
Wright divides his study of the Psalms into three parts. In the first he explores the concept of time in the Psalms. He points out the discrepancy between God’s time and ours.
“The Psalms invite us, first, to stand at the intersection of different layers of time.” (p. 37)
“These psalms look beyond the present time to the coming time. More specifically, they look to the great moments of the past in order to frame the pain and the puzzlement of the present within the hope that God will one day do again, in the future, what he did long ago, and thus enable Israel to fulfill its long-promised role in the end.” (p. 61)
The second part of the book focuses on psalms about God’s dwelling place. These psalms are sometimes difficult to understand because at times God seems to be very far and other times he’s quite near.
The third part is about all of creation praising God.
“Only humans, it seems, have the capacity to live as something other than what they are (God reflectors, image bearers)” (p. 120)
“Unless our worship is joined – more or less consciously – with the praises of all creation, there should be a question mark as to whether it is genuine Christian worship.” (p. 123-124)
He ends his thoughts on the Psalms with: “The Psalms themselves indicate that human beings who sing them are actually being changed by doing so. Their very innermost selves – which include their physical selves – are being transformed.” (p. 155)
My Reformed Presbyterian friend had a Psalm-sing at her church last year. I went along. Sure, I didn’t know the songs, but there were Psalters with music notes for me to sight-read.
I sat down next to my friend. It was a small church and a very close-knit community. We sat in a circle. There were no instruments. Someone brought a pitch pipe and that was it. The crowd was inter-generational and everyone had a songbook. My friend had a nice, leather-bound one she’d brought from home.
There was no agenda. Church members simply took turns choosing psalms to sing. Even the young kids enthusiastically participated. As each person chose a song, she had to say why she’d chosen psalm. Some of the reasons were simple, some a little more thought provoking. My sight-reading abilities proved to be a bit rusty. My friend used to think I had a pleasant singing voice but I doubt she thinks so anymore. Besides, my throat was pretty raw at the end anyway.
It’s always strange to be a fan of something before it’s cool; to have to suffer the teasing and the laughter for liking something that everyone else ridicules only to see those same people won over to your side when that thing you like becomes trendy and cool.
There are many examples but my personal favorite is Apple Computer. Apple is by far the coolest computer company around, but it wasn’t always that way and those of us who’ve stuck by it through thick and thin still remember the dark days when Apple struggled and Windows was the hottest ticket in town.
I had no way of escaping my devotion to Apple. It was thrust upon my subconscious from an early age. I know because I found this clip from my family’s audio archives of Mom and Dad asking me to identify objects on some flashcards they were holding in front of me. One was apparently an apple so Dad decides to “trick” me by holding up the picture of the apple and asking me, “What’s your favorite kind of computer?”
My dad’s cleverer than most dads. For the first 8 years of my life, he taught computer science at the university. He had a gift for learning and implementing computer programing languages. He was one of the pioneers in the field, working with those strange computers of the late sixties that filled entire rooms yet could only do a fraction of what our smallest computers are capable of today. I still remember Dad bringing home stacks of used computer punch cards for my sister and me to play with.
In 1987 and 1988 we were living in Fort Worth, Texas and Dad was transitioning into the corporate world. He went from being a computer science professor to being a software engineer. Along the way, he bought our family’s first home computer: an Apple Macintosh SE with two floppy disk drives, a mouse, and a standard keyboard with a Rodime 20MB hard disk and an Apple Imagewriter II printer to go with it.
In the meantime, my friends’ parents were buying them that new Nintendo system with Super Mario Bros. and Donkey Kong. I asked my dad if I could have one too, but he said no. We didn’t need video games. We had a computer.
My next question, then, was what games were on this new computer? My sister and I investigated. The screen was grey and white so it certainly didn’t have the fun colors Nintendo had. But there was one game on there called Dungeon of Doom in which our main character wandered through a checker-board like realm with magic wands and scrolls with magic spells to help kill monsters and progress to more challenging levels.
Later, Dad bought us educational games like Word Blaster and Math Blaster. Buick sent us a golfing game. There was also one called Glider and a fake psychologist called Eliza. Later on we added Oregon Trail and Where in the U.S. is Carmen Sandiego?
My first real computer class was back in 1988 when I was in second grade at Fort Worth Academy. The school computer lab was full of IBMs and Apple IIs. The teacher taught us how to type and the very basics of a programing language called BASIC. The typing bit was set up like a game. The faster and more accurately we typed, the higher we scored.
The computer teacher was very fond of her Macintosh, even though that wasn’t what her students used. She liked how portable it was. The idea of having the hard-drive and the monitor in one unit was truly innovative. She frequently brought her Mac to and from work with her for her own personal use.
My dad’s work ultimately brought us to Arizona at the very end of 1991. Our first Macintosh traveled with us and hung on for a couple more years. My new elementary school, Salk, also had a computer lab and this time it was filled with Apple computers and they were all networked together. This meant that when given the opportunity, we could play Oregon Trail with a wagon train and send pop-up messages from one computer to another – a primitive form of instant messaging.
The computers at school were newer than what I had at home. I mean, these beauties had full color screens! If only we could have something like this at home! Imagine the games I could play!
By that time, personal computers were becoming much more affordable and many of my friends’ parents were purchasing them for the first time. But they weren’t buying Apple and their reasons seemed pretty sound: PCs were cheaper and most of the new software was made for the PC including the hottest computer games.
When Windows ’95 came out, Apple people, like my dad and me, became the underdogs of the computing world.
Dad upgraded our own computer, but refused to buy anything other than an Apple. His famous argument was: “At work, where I don’t have a choice, I use a PC. At home, where I have a choice, I use an Apple computer.”
I quoted my dad to my friends. My dad has a Ph.D. in Computer Science, after all. He also said that everything Windows ’95 boasted of Mac had come up with long before. Like that easy icon-based user interface – All Mac.
Perhaps it’s just that nobody likes to be told they’re wrong and Apple is more expensive.
“You’re paying for quality, my dear,” says my dad.
By 1999, Dad had added a second computer to his collection and decided to let me take one with me to college. At that time he subscribed to a magazine called Mac Addict, which came with a CD-ROM as part of each issue. The early editions included a short video of a PC being punished in various ways: “PC walks the plank” and “drag a PC.” The first video just showed a bunch of guys beating up a PC (“hey look! It’s a PC!” they said as they ran toward it with baseball bats).
Apple had begun rolling out a new computer back then. It was brightly colored, all-in-one monitor and hard drive (like the original), and advertised as a simple plug in and start. I really wanted one of those, but Dad told me I’d have to take the old computer. But at least Mac Addict had an article about how to spray paint your computer and I was able to bring a colorful, blue computer to my freshman year of college.
I lived on campus my first three years of college and that meant I was able to hook my computer up to the Ethernet, this magical, high-speed internet that my roommate mostly used to download stuff from Napster. My parents didn’t even have a second phone line for their dial-up Internet. Far too often I called home only to land on the busy signal – again.
My sophomore year, I saved my parents some money by switching to an instate university thereby justifying the purchase of a lime-colored iMac.
It was beautiful! It even came with a free copy of A Bug’s Life to play in its state-of-the-art DVD player.
I took it to Northern Arizona University with me. Right away my new roommate made fun of it. It was cute but justifiably inferior to her Windows-based IBM. Her IBM, after all, was also an all-in-one computer and monitor only it was smaller and much more sophisticated.
I defended the iMac as best as I could, but she would not be swayed. I had to admit, she was smarter than me. I mean, I was a political science major and she was studying physics – on purpose! She was even bold enough to say, “Physics is fun!”
My best friend and her roommate lived in the same building and frequently popped in to say hi or just hang out. I had a Jar Jar Binks inflatable chair that was surprisingly comfortable. I admit it wasn’t pretty, but it was otherwise worth the $3 I’d paid for it.
My roommate hated the chair almost as much as she hated my iMac. So my best friend “kidnapped” the Jar Jar Binks chair and left a ransom note. In it she told me to “Yell ‘I love IBM’s’ three times in the union at lunch time.” I managed to steal the chair back without having to do anything irrational, but still, to make me profess a love for any computer other than Apple would be torture!
I went away to France for 9 months and didn’t bring a computer with me. The year was 2002. The universities and Internet cafés were mostly comprised of Windows-based computers. I adapted. After all, I really just needed them for email. All academic papers in France back then had to be handwritten anyway.
Bordeaux, France – 2002
My iPod Mini from 2008.
I started feeling the tides change when I switched universities again in 2004. By then Apple Stores with their Genius Bars had begun to sprout up across the nation and this music device known as the iPod became extremely popular.
Suddenly I began to hear the word Apple spoken of in a positive light. Graphic designers, musicians, filmmakers, and animators came out of the woodwork claiming they’d been using Apple on purpose for many years. It was the premier choice of the creative class.
Steve Jobs became a cultural icon and a hero. Each new announcement he made, from the iPhone to the iPad, was greeted with joy and anticipation. In the end, Jobs was revered almost like a god. Perhaps that’s why I, too, cried when he died.
The tribute to Steve Jobs at the Apple Store at San Tan in Gilbert, AZ – 2011.
All three of the women in the family with our iPads.
Today I use my iPod, iPad, iMac, and MacBook Air for almost all my creative endeavors. But my life has not been blessed with financial success. For this and other reasons, all my recent Apple devices have been gifts from my dad who still believes I am, whether I see it or not, part of the creative class and what better tool for creativity than an Apple computer?
The MacBook Air I do most of my writing on.
I’m no professional, but I often use my 2010 iMac for Photoshop, sound editing, and film editing.
Dad still plays hearts on the old clamshell computer.
Oh, how I would love to be able to call myself an artist! It’s so romantic to envision the painter effortlessly transforming a blank canvas into a myriad of shapes and colors that are pleasing to the eye! Or to watch the sculptor chiseling away at a slab of marble and finding a glorious human figure hidden inside!
I’m not the only one with such romantic notions. Artists seem to be freer than the average human being. They capture details the rest of us would ordinarily overlook. They create fantasy worlds for us to escape into. They not only make the world we live in more beautiful but they help us to see a better future.
Before I go any further, I suppose I must explain what I mean when I say “artist.” I believe all of us have the ability to create but true artists can be very particular about who they deem worthy of the title. A mother might say, “My child is a great artist” and subsequently frame her child’s drawing and hang it on the wall. But what’s the real masterpiece in a mother’s eyes, the drawing or the child who made it?
The word “art” is an umbrella term. Usually when we refer to art, we’re referring to something visual like a sculpture or a painting. But art goes beyond what our eyes can see. We have performing arts, culinary arts, and literary arts as well. If the subject is creativity, whether it’s designing a glamorous evening gown or pretending you’re someone else while on stage in front of an audience, you’re an artist.
I’ve dabbled in the arts. I’ve tried my hand at photography, music, and (obviously) writing. Last year I used my outdated video editing software and created video with a soundtrack of my original songs interlaced with the spoken words of a Rich Mullins. Mullins was known for his own songs but had some pretty profound spoken words as well. I worked hard on what, to me, was my masterpiece. Then I posted it online and shared it with the world. A few people watched it but hardly anyone said anything about it to me. I sent a link to it to some real artists. They replied with generic compliments – nothing about how great the music was or how intriguing the photos were. Just things like, “I could tell you worked hard on this” or “I can see how this reflects your spiritual journey.” They were too nice to criticize it but, at the same time, too honest to praise it.
You do need both constructive criticism and encouragement to be an artist, but if you’re an artist who’s encouraging another artist, you also don’t want to give false encouragement. An artist who shows no real potential for her art should not be coached to pursue it, at least not in the professional realm. The best art judges are painfully honest and they have to be. It’s their job. Besides, wouldn’t you rather suffer the truth than to humiliate yourself even more by pursuing something you’re just not gifted at?
So who gets to be called “an artist?” If you’re a comic book artist than of course you can say you’re an artist because it’s your profession. My great-uncle, Jack Boyd, was an artist. He didn’t have his stuff shown in galleries or museums. He was an animator for Disney and his drawings were nothing more than cartoons. But he worked in Disney’s art department and he was a professional artist.
Professional artists seem to be both envied and hated by struggling artists. On the one hand, professionals are being paid because their talent has been recognized. On the other hand, they’re often considered sell-outs because they’re creating to please the masses instead of creating art for art’s sake.
Phoenix First Friday is the gathering place for local artists where I live. Art galleries on Roosevelt Row in Downtown Phoenix will open up the first Friday of each month and throw a block party. Some artisans will sell their wares on the sidewalks while others will have their work hanging in galleries. I look around and admire everything. Phoenix isn’t really considered an art Mecca, but there is no shortage of artistic talent around here. Nonetheless, the handmade crafts and imaginative paintings don’t come home with me. I can’t afford them nor do I have the wall-space for them and I imagine that’s the case for many of us bystanders. We love the work but we can’t support it.
These artists are clearly amazing. Not everyone shares the same taste in artwork but it’s easy to recognize talent. You stand away from the painting for full view but step closer to inspect the details. If you’re like me and don’t paint, it looks like magic.
I do sing though and singing can be an art. Of course, becoming a professional singer is not easy. In the pop music world, your looks better match your pipes. I know Susan Boyle made it and I love her story but how many other Susan Boyles are there in the recording industry? None. She’s the exception.
You also have a better chance of making it in the music industry if you happen to be gifted at playing an instrument and writing your own songs. I dabbled with some of that as well but I seem to lack a significant amount of talent. It’s a pity because I used to love to sing and play piano. I wasn’t very good at playing piano, but I enjoyed it just the same.
Jazz singers and opera singers have to be really amazing to make it professionally. Jazz is improvisational and requires a very well trained ear as well as a great voice. Opera requires years of classical training in order to learn just the right amount of breath control and pitch precision.
So you don’t have to be a professional artist in order to be called an artist and yet it’s more than just the innate desire to create. Perhaps, then, it’s the intention behind what we create. When we die, do we want to be remembered for what we created?
I’ve heard of artists whose work is intentionally ephemeral and who want their work to be seen but would rather not be credited for it. Then there are the artists, the anonymous sculptors of the Middle Ages who left us the ornate, Gothic cathedrals of Europe without a single signature. The world will remember the art but never the artist.
Those of us who believe in God see him as the ultimate Artist – the Artist who made all artists; the Author of all authors; the Creator himself. Because we are created in his image, many of us feel compelled to create.
Perhaps, then, the desire to be an artist is the natural response to a higher calling. The desire to be called an artist by other artists is the desire to be part of a community. I will not presume to give myself that label but I will continue to aspire toward it.
I don’t like me as I am. I’m trying to but it’s just not working.
My friends like me for some reason. Is it my personality? Is it my ability to walk around and act like I don’t care even though deep inside I’m desperately trying not to let my self-esteem sink any lower? It can’t be my looks. I may have had some measure of attractiveness in my youth but now the only clothes I can squeeze into are labeled plus size. At least my hair has not faded to grey. I always liked the color of my hair. It is my one vanity.
I’ve been watching The Paradise TV show with my mom lately. As usual, all the leading ladies in this period piece (set in the 1890s) are beautiful with perfect figures, perfect hair, and clear complexions. The series is based on a French novel by Emile Zola called Au Bonheur des Dames (The Ladies of Paradise). The BBC adaptation places the story in England with several references to France because France was and continues to be a leading exporter of couture and luxury goods.
The episode we watched today was the second episode of season two and introduces a businesswoman from France called Clemence Romanis who manages to seduce and dazzle almost everyone she meets in part because she’s French but also because she carries herself with a verifiable confidence never before seen by most of the other characters.
To me, Clemence is very believable. France may be a diverse and individualistic country, but many of the French I’ve met have a lot in common with this fictional French woman.
The word “French,” when used as an adjective, can add value to any object. Try some French bread, French toast, French fries, or French vanilla. Maybe you’d like a French twist, French braid, or French manicure. Adorn your chateau with French blinds, French drapes, and a French press. Don’t forget to seal the deal with a French kiss.
The French language itself still holds a significant amount of prestige. Sure, English is now the preferred international language, but you can’t demote French that easily.
It reminds me of an episode of M.A.S.H. when a French nurse with le Croix Rouge (the Red Cross) visits the unit and attracts the attention of several officers, most notably the resident snob, Major Winchester. Winchester doesn’t understand all her French words and phrases but that doesn’t matter. She’s French and therefore worthy of someone of his caliber. Of course, the relationship falls apart when he learns she is not quite as refined as he’d assumed.
When we imagine the French, we imagine a truly liberated people. We imagine people driven by passion who fearlessly express their opinions with conviction.
While this may not be true for all French people, I met enough who fit that description for the stereotype to persist. For example, Francine (not her real name) arrived in the United States uninhibited. She was like lightening, bolting from one new adventure to another, and she basked in the attention thrust upon her, especially when such attention came from the American and non-French international guys.
When the American guys met someone like Francine, a beautiful, confident, French woman, they didn’t hesitate to ask to sample her French kisses. She seemed to take their unbridled curiosity as flattery. How invigorating it must’ve felt to be so desired!
Back in France the following year, Francine missed being thought of as foreign and exotic. She once pretended she was foreign to strangers from her native land. She told some guys at a bar she was American and didn’t speak French. It turned out to be a disappointing experiment. The French guys had no interest in this phony American girl and, thinking she didn’t understand them, disrespected her within earshot. She didn’t want to break the ruse, so she quietly excused herself.
Juliette (not her real name) was my French roommate for six months in the United States. She was incredibly fun and I enjoyed the fact that her English and my French were advanced enough for each of us to speak in our own languages and still be able to understand one another.
Juliette and Francine had much in common. Both of them had morals that most Americans would find scandalous. However you need only describe them as “French” and such “scandals” are automatically forgiven. To the French, “American” is sometimes synonymous with “Puritan.” We’re too close-minded here. It’s a pity really. Juliette sometimes felt sorry for me because I wasn’t having sex with anyone. I, on the other hand, was totally fine with celibacy.
My personality often clashed with both Francine and Juliette. It frustrated them as much as it did me. I went to Europe the year after Francine came to the United States and we traveled together for five weeks. Travel can really test a relationship. At the end of it all, Francine confessed to me that she had hoped Europe would change me. She’d hoped I’d become more like her.
I don’t know if I told Francine, but I’d wanted to become more like her too. In any city she could strike up a conversation with anyone whereas I was timid. Granted my French was not too good back then. Conversation is much more inviting when both parties can understand one another. It wasn’t just that, though. There was spontaneity about Francine; a joie de vivre I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Juliette had it too. Juliette was beautiful but being French turned her into a goddess of some sort. Mothers wanted her to babysit their children so she could speak French to them and impart a bit of her French charm. Her looks could turn a man’s head but her French accent kept him intrigued by her for hours. She was refined and fashionable, well educated in the arts and wild about opera and ballet. But what attracted me to her most was her confidence. She seemed immune to criticism. She didn’t care what other people thought of her. She was happy with who she was and that’s all that mattered.
When I was in France, I tried to be French. I tried to avoid speaking English. I bought French clothes. I mimicked my French friends’ habits. I ate my food slower and walked slower. I taught myself to like coffee made with a French press. I drank my water from the tap with no ice. I learned the art of wearing a scarf. I taught myself to swear more proficiently in French than in my own language.
Needless to say, I didn’t become French. When I returned home I sank back into my American ways. I tried to stay as French as possible in the US, but I had to let it go. When I no longer heard French spoken in the streets or could no longer walk on streets as old as the streets in France, I knew I had to accept where I was.
But I do wish I could’ve grasped something like what Francine and Juliette had! What will it take to have the kind of confidence, courage, and joie de vivre that comes with being called “French”? When will I stop caring what other people think and start freely being me? Liberté!
Back when I was in junior high and high school, no one wanted to be called “weird”. That was when many of my friends were exploring the world of romance for the first time. Granted they weren’t old enough to drive and if the relationship lasted longer than a month, it was considered “long-term.” I’d have to wait until the boys caught up to me in height before my first boyfriend and first kiss. By eighth and ninth grade I caught the attention of a couple of boys, but they were weird. The cool boys wanted to date my friends leaving me stuck with the leftovers or rejects. Just because he liked me, one weirdo gave me a “gold” necklace that promptly turned green . At summer camps and retreats, particularly the ones I went to with churches other than my own, there’d inevitably be a weird boy or two pathetically following me around like a lost puppy dog. The guys I liked couldn’t care less about me.
Perhaps I encouraged the weirdoes because I, too, was weird. After all, I did show symptoms of weirdness. When asked to partake in the popular slumber party game of “Truth or Dare,” I could pick “truth” every time and never once have anything interesting to confess. “Dares” were equally boring when applied to me. I’d developed a reputation of being too nice to be subjected to the “real” dares like running outside naked. I was once dared to eat a spoonful of peanut butter with a little bit of ketchup on top of it. Even that was thrust upon me with trepidation.
In junior high, the cool girls who lived in my neighborhood kind of protected me, though I never understood why. We watched MTV at my friend’s house before school and I joined in their obsessions with teen celebrities found in the pages of Tiger Beat. But I still had my secret self as well. I was inept at using swear words to express my feelings and I liked listening to musicals and Christian music.
By high school, “weird” began to take on a dual meaning, depending on how it was applied. “Weird Al” Yankovic took ownership of the word when he incorporated it into his stage name. “Weird Al” parodied famous pop songs and became extremely successful in doing so. “Amish Paradise” was all over MTV when I was in junior high.
There was this girl I knew and admired in high school who was, academically speaking, probably the smartest kid in school. It seemed like everything she set her mind to she excelled at. But she wasn’t like the other smart kids who’d kind of formed their own elitist clique and looked down upon the rest of us under achievers as if we were nothing because we didn’t have Ivy League potential. She’d talk with anyone regardless of GPA.
She also came to school dressed in long, floral skirts with a wide-brimmed straw hat atop her head. When the Star Trek film Insurrection opened in theatres, she came to school dressed in the blue, medical officer Starfleet uniform from Star Trek the Next Generation. No one else in the entire school showed such dedication to a movie or TV show. When I was in elementary school, I collected Star Trek trading cards for a while and read a few of the novels, but those are hobbies you can hide. I was never bold enough to show public devotion.
Another girl I know was also very smart but in junior high and high school, she was “weird” because she was poor and couldn’t afford the latest fashions. She was also “weird” for obsessing about things that simply weren’t part of the pop culture. For instance, she loved Shakespeare and classical music. She effortlessly captured the hearts of people both older and younger than her. It was only her peers who seemed blind to her beauty, intellect, and sensitivity.
High school graduation dissolved most of our negative concepts of “weird.” When I met my intelligent, classical music, Shakespeare-loving friend again at the university, she seemed to have friends from one end of the campus to the other. Apparently the intellectual crowd she’d met in this institution of higher learning recognized her beautiful mind right away and embraced her for who she was. They loved that she was weird! In fact, they each seemed to carry their own individualized brands of weirdness as well. “Weird” had become a compliment; especially if you were creative, like if you were an artist, musician, or poet.
Over the years, I’ve wandered through different subcultures labeled as “weird.” I’ve hung out with homosexual friends whose “weirdness” had often left them ostracized, homeless, bullied, and abused. I’ve hung out with Goths who sometimes fish for the label “weird” by building walls to intimidate people who would otherwise want to befriend them. When they let their guard down, though, they are as down-to-earth as anyone. I’ve hung out at fetish clubs and comicons where people obsess about things like whips and superheroes. Yes, I’m aware that the things I consider “normal” might feel weird to someone else. I certainly felt like the weirdo in each subculture I’ve explored. Not one place felt like home. Though I confess, even the place I call “home” doesn’t always feel like home to me. I’m a weirdo among weirdos; the perpetual alien.
The other day I was telling a friend about this hobby of mine. I collect hand-written letters. It’s not a hobby I take lightly, either. I’ve taken letters and notes and put them inside page-protectors and three-ring binders with labels. The earliest letters are from my childhood. My collection includes notes passed in the halls in junior high. There are notes from employers and coworkers, letters from relatives who are no longer with us, and notes from people I’ve met in passing and may never meet again.
“Why do you save them?” she asked.
“I don’t know, source material I guess.” I should’ve told her it’s because of Mozart. Biographers rely on letters written to and by Mozart when telling his story. The same is true for many other historical figures. What if there’s a “Mozart” amongst my friends and we just don’t know it?
“That’s weird,” she replied.
I could tell she didn’t mean the good kind of “weird” either. But it didn’t cause me too much alarm. My parents saved letters as well. If my dad hadn’t have saved all my emails from France, I’d have lost some significant source material for my memoir. My grandmother, who passed away in 1981, saved every letter my dad ever wrote to her and now those letters belong to us. There are volumes of them!
I tell my dad he’s weird on a regular basis. He’s a retired engineer and has some rather eccentric ways of doing things. He earned his undergraduate degree from MIT, a place known for attracting eccentric people. But the MIT students get away with being called “weird” or “eccentric” because they’re intellectually gifted.
“Eccentric” is the label you receive if you’re weird but extremely smart and successful as well. I could be rude and irritating and have an obsessive-compulsive disorder like the guy in As Good As It Gets and still be tolerated and even liked if I’m a successful writer like he was. But until I find success, I’m just weird.
Do I want to be weird? This question has to do with self-confidence I think, which admittedly I could use more of. There are plenty of amazingly creative people out there who are weird and proud of it. But was it the weird stuff we knew about them first or their creative contributions to society that drove us to learn about their weirdness?
Weird by urban bamboo
There’s a sign in Portland, Oregon that says “Keep Portland Weird.” I see it in the opening credits of Portlandia. I interpret that as “Keep Portland Unique.” To be weird is to be abnormal, to go against the grain, to embrace uniqueness. If that is enough for you, then more power to you. I, on the other hand, must justify my weirdness by making my mark on this world.
This is an email I wrote about 12 years ago when I was beginning to experience my first ever manic episode. I wrote about having trouble sleeping and a rush of ideas filling my head. I wrote about how I thought I knew who I was at last but, in hindsight, it was the illness talking. I know this because I’ve spent years trying to figure out who I am and, more importantly, learning to be happy with who I am. I didn’t have it together at all at almost 23, but it’s interesting to look back and see how I was experiencing the world back then. If you’d been the recipient of this email, do you think you would have guessed anything was wrong with me at the time?
Date: Friday, January 31, 2003
Subj: knowing who you are
Hey everyone! This will probably be the last of my daily emails as it’s Friday and classes start Monday, so if you can endure this one, you’re doing great! Many thanks to those of you who have responded. I know I’ve thanked you all personally, but it doesn’t hurt to thank you once again. After all, even if we’re no longer school, we’re all still students and we learn from each other.
Something strange happened to me in the wee hours of the morning this morning…I had gone to sleep last night and, after saying my prayers, drifted into a hazy dream, one that impacted me and, for some strange reason, caused me to wake up before the sunrise. The dream was of a Strasbourg friend who came by my place to say hi. I was so delighted that I forgot about cultural boundaries and hugged him saying “It’s such a nice surprise that you came to visit me!” But I was even more surprised when he said “but don’t you remember, Clara? I told you I was going to come around this time.” I didn’t believe him because I’d become so busy in my thoughts that I didn’t pay close attention to my friends around me. I picked up my agenda and sure enough, his name was penciled in on that day at around that time. He invited me to join him and the other Strasbourg friends at a movie. I didn’t have anything to wear and when they came around to pick me up a few hours later, I wasn’t ready and I missed the movie.
When I woke up, my head was so cluttered with thoughts that I couldn’t go back to sleep. What’s worse is that the sun hadn’t risen yet and, when I checked my clock, it was 2 AM. I tried to force myself back to sleep, thinking, if I don’t get my rest I won’t be able to function normally tomorrow. But I just couldn’t and thus grabbed pen and paper and wrote. So what was it that really kept me awake? It was something else that I was yearning to share with all of you.
This is who I am. I’m first and foremost a Christian. It’s more than a religion for me. In fact, I consider it a relationship more than a religion. I’ll explain more about this later.
If you were to describe me politically, I would say that I’m a conservative with liberal ideas. Sitting on my table just before I left were three different books that I was in the process of reading. One of them was Michael Moore’s Stupid White Men, another was the latest copy of the Limbaugh Letter, and, the most important of them all, my Bible. I like Moore and Limbaugh because I see that they are trying to use their political ideas to get people to think, and it’s working because, even if no one else is reading them, I am.
Limbaugh is a right wing, Bush-supporting conservative and Moore is the exact opposite, yet there are some things that the two fail to notice about each other and that is that they are very similar.
Here’s what they have in common: They both are rich, white males. They both grew up around the same generation. Neither of them received a college education yet they are both well informed about the world and various political agendas. They agree with many of the problems facing the country, such as our poor educational system. They have different views about how to solve the world’s problems but they both use (and this is the one that got me) the US Constitution to back them up. However, the two of them are constantly bashing each other, Limbaugh always saying something about “those liberals” and Moore making satirical remarks about Bush and the Republicans controlling congress. Both complain about how the American media represses their ideas.
So here I am, sitting in my room, spending my vacation time learning their ideas and trying to sift through and find what is fact and what is simply propaganda. It’s a daunting task, but I find that it’s very easy to get a people to take your side if you keep knowledge from them.
Now I come to my idea, which again is not new. One of my ways of profiting from my last semester here has been to learn better the history of the country I’m studying in. The comment I hear relentlessly from Europeans is “Americans don’t have a history.” But they are wrong!
I’ve always been interested in my roots, where I came from. I’m not a “native” American because there aren’t very many generations separating me from my European ancestors. One of the things I learned was that my family fled to the Americas before this land was a nation because of religious persecution.
Here was the problem: There was a rupture in the church not too long before they left their nation. Luther posted his 95 theses on the church door and soon other intellectuals such as Calvin were jumping on the bandwagon. One of the big things that came out of this revolt was the translation of the Bible into the languages of the people. This infuriated the Pope because all of a sudden the people could read the Bible for themselves and they didn’t need a pope or a priest to tell them what to do. So what happened? The two sides fought.
I took a tour with the office of tourism in Montpellier that followed the traces of Protestantism in the town. The first place we visited was the Esplanade, which is now a nice city park with a playground and a little pond. The guide, however, explained to us that when the Reformation spread, there were a lot of Protestants burned at the stake in this area, yet no one bothered to erect a monument to them. Most people just take their children to the park to play, unaware of the previous events hundreds of years before.
Digging deeper, I learned that not only was Montpellier a stronghold for the Protestants and that many were martyred for daring to go against the prevailing power (which, at the time, was the Catholic church) but some of the first martyrs were students. STUDENTS! Wait a minute! These were people my age that saw faults in the system and were killed as heretics because they found hypocrisy.
Well, eventually, the Catholic Church won and the Protestants fled to places like Switzerland, Germany, England, and, you guessed it, the Americas.
Here’s the clincher. When the newcomers came to the Americas, they didn’t teach the next generation their history. In fact, each new immigrant group that came in felt that it was better to have their children be like everyone else (assimilation) than to teach them about where they came from. As a result, they never taught their children the language of their homeland or the reasons they left, whether it was famine, religious persecution, or oppressive governmental regimes. Maybe the past had hurt them so much that they wanted to forget. After all, if I had a family member burned at the stake or tortured in front of me, if their death had been used as an example for others to see what happens when you contradict authority, I might want to turn my back on it too. Also, I know as I write this that I will go home when I’m done with my trip, but our ancestors left knowing they would never go back, that they would never set foot on the soil on which they were born for the rest of their lives. I’ve never known that kind of sacrifice, but I do know that they did it for me, so that I could enjoy the freedom they never had.
The sad part is that because we forgot how we were mistreated in Europe, we started doing the same things to others that they did to us. We took over land that belonged to the Natives, killing off as much of them as we could and then sticking the rest on the crummiest pieces of land possible. We moved our factories to the poorest countries and paid them less than a living wage so that those of us who live in the US can reap the benefits of cheaper consumer products, and we silenced the Limbaughs and the Moores because anyone who has some sort of radical idea, any freethinkers, might pose a threat to our way of life.
The US constitution is a great document, but even that is being twisted in such a way that I imagine if our ancestors could see us now, they’d be horrified.
This has been my vacation. This is Clara Tenny, challenging all of you to think! I read my Bible now knowing that with it, I don’t need the church to tell me what to do. It is all there, translated into my language, a feat that even young students like myself sacrificed their lives for, giving me the hope that there is something better than what we have here on Earth.
Why am I so messed up? How much time have you got? Because it’s gonna take a while.
I’m trying to jump through hoops these days and it’s not an easy thing to do, especially without the aide of a professional psychotherapist. I plan on seeing one of those again in the near future, but finding one is a difficult process, especially when I’m diagnosed as SMI (seriously mentally ill) and dependent on the state mental health care system. I suppose I can have my parents pay for private care again, but I rely on my parents for too much already. I mean I live with them, for goodness sakes. Maybe I shouldn’t feel ashamed but I look around and see my peers living happily and independently and I automatically think there must be something terribly wrong with me and there is, technically. I have a mental illness.
I mean, I don’t look mentally ill. My speech isn’t slow or slurred. I have a college education. I enjoy reading books and listening to lectures. In fact, I’ve been told by psychiatrists that I’m of above-average intelligence. Of course, that only makes it harder to “fit in” with my self-sufficient, happily employed peers. They all have struggles too, they say, but they can cope with them and make it in this world while I’m almost 35 and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
This time of year only serves to remind me of how quickly and unexpectedly my whole world came crashing down. Twelve years ago I suffered from a severe manic episode while studying abroad in France. I didn’t realize there was anything wrong with me, but now I can easily trace the progress of the mania through my writings both in my diary and in emails.
It probably began around January 27, 2003 when I wrote this in an email:
This one thing is for sure, I’m in the right major (international affairs, baby!). There’s nothing more exciting I can think of than being in the midst of a changing world and knowing that this education will somehow help me to help it. And to think, what I’m doing now my great-grandmother never dreamed of. In her generation, being a career woman meant either teaching, or being a nurse or secretary. However me, I could be president. Although, I don’t know, an honest politician might confuse the masses who have never had one before. Ah well. Oh, and don’t forget, those of you who think I’m crazy: they thought the Wright brothers were crazy too. So go ahead and laugh, I say, I thrive on it! Just try and tell me it can’t be done and I’ll prove you wrong.
However this week I’m on vacation. Ah, but no, I am not going to travel to any far off lands. I have a lot to learn and do here. It’s all part of an unwritten plan (the unwritten part keeps it flexible because I’m still young, my ideas change frequently). Once more, it’s a beautiful day today! So beautiful in fact that I can wear my summer clothes again and you know what I feel like doin’? I feel like dancing!
The hypergraphia continues in my diary until February 5, 2003 and then the next time I see a date on any of my writings, it’s on paper from the psychiatric hospital in Thuir, France on February 10, 2003 (although I believe some of the writings without dates were written between February 6 and February 8).
Anyway, I’ve written about all this before. The point I want to make this time is, how do I find that girl within who believes she can do anything again? And what about changing the world? I’ve seen idealism fade in the hearts of middle-aged workers and I vowed long ago I would never let it happen to me. But what is it I’m best suited for in this world? What am I uniquely gifted at? What is my calling?
I wrote this in my diary on January 16, 2003 while I was studying for my final exams in France. For the first time in my academic career I’d become completely obsessed with my studies, partly because my entire grade was based on a single, final exam. But there was something else going on in my mind too. Unbeknownst to me, I was on the verge of suffering my first, serious mental breakdown, but it didn’t feel like a breakdown. It felt great! And, once more, I was enjoying the learning process and the new experiences. I loved going to the library and cracking open the giant book of French history, cross-referencing the advents of new ideas with the social-political climates of each era. Then I would listen to the music of different time-periods and contemplate how the people back then might have experienced it. Now it’s all coming back to me, the passion for history (hopefully) without the mental fragility and I realize it’s been 12 years and I’m supposed to grow out of this. At times I feared I had grown out of it. But not today. Today I’m holding on to passion even though I’m still uncertain as to where it will lead me. Here’s what I wrote a little more than a month before my 23rd birthday in 2003:
I had been studying diligently for my history course and figured it was time for a day off. So I chose Sunday. My original intention had been to go to the reformed church, but that just wasn’t possible because I had made a mistake on where the church met and was running late.
So I walked around a bit. The sun shone brightly yet the winter chill still nipped. However my new-found love for history caused me to walk around more attentively. Suddenly, before my eyes, the past began to open up before me! The names of the streets – Comte, Gambetta, Zola – were crying out from across time as if to say don’t forget me! The monuments saying in memory of the great battle. What great battle? Why was it important? What do the figures stand for? I start to feel their grip on me slip away as the scattered puzzle pieces become overwhelming and none of the edges seem to fit.
Solemnly, respectful of the ancient ones, I enter the cathedral. I shiver from the cold realizing that radiators are a luxury of modern times. I look up at the stained glass rose window, but my thoughts are interrupted as the boys choir sings.
The melody resembles a Gregorian chant, not a lot of arpeggios, no real chord structure – in fact, not much structure at all. It’s sung without emotion, without words that tell of a personal God, but instead, the actions of a distant God, only accessible through their religious leaders.