I was 17 when I watched someone die in front of my eyes for the first (and hopefully only) time.
It’s a funny thing, growing up on Chicago’s south side. You know violence- specifically gun violence- exists. You hear the faint gunshots in the distance. Sometimes you hear them even closer. You watch reports about it on the news. You read about it in the paper. You see the sketchy characters hanging out at the bus stop on the way to school. You know there’s a reason you absolutely MUST be home by the time the street lights come on. You’re extra observant in everything that you do. You don’t want to be a victim.
And yet, for all of this observation and awareness, it desensitizes us in a way. Because we expect it, it doesn’t shock us anymore. We don’t accept the violence as part of our lives, but we live with the inevitable. We don’t have the means to just pack up and leave for “something better.” So we adapt to make it another day.
I didn’t hear the gunshots that late summer night- the summer before I left for college. I’d been listening to gunshots outside my bedroom window for over a decade. If any sleep was to had, you learned to tune them out.
What did wake me up were the bright lights and the commotion. Being summer time, I slept with my window open, a screen in place to keep the bugs out but let the breeze in. The rotating red and white lights reflected off of my television and posters on my bedroom wall. I sat up in bed and heard the footsteps of my grandmother and mother moving through the house, as it was clear that they were awakened by the same commotion outside.
The three of us moved to the living room, wondering who- the what wasn’t even a question anymore.
We moved outside to the front porch, watching as paramedics tended to a wounded person on the lawn of our neighbor’s house across the street. Police officers milled around a parked car two doors down, the passenger’s and driver’s side doors open, retracing the victim’s footsteps, looking for answers. One notices us on the porch and approaches, asking if we’d seen anything. We tell him, “no,” as we didn’t even hear the shots.
Two doors down from us, windows open, and no one heard a thing. This wasn’t some issue with “snitching”; this was just our reality.
He walked away as we continued to look on, the young man across the street attempting to hold on to a life that was steadily slipping away from him with each fractured breath he took. We made small talk about nothing really, as if it were all happening someplace else, possibly on television. After fifteen minutes, we watched as the cover was placed over the victim.
We sat on the porch for another five-ten minutes before deciding to head back into the house. Sleep wouldn’t come easy for me after that; I turned on a movie channel and stared at that before finally falling asleep with the tv still on.
The next day we would learn from our neighbor that the young man who died was sitting in the car, listening to music with a friend when the gunman walked up to the driver’s side and opened fire. The victim attempted to run across the street when he was struck again, only getting as far as the neighbor’s lawn before collapsing.
He was the friend of a friend; I didn’t know him personally.
The next day was fairly routine. I woke up, had breakfast, watched tv, dressed and headed downtown to enjoy the summer day. I left for college a month later, and I carried the incident with me.
I didn’t carry the actual act of violence, per se. As I mentioned earlier, you get used to it- for better or worse. What I took with me was the realization that I was so numb to it all. I went to college in the suburbs and had a hard time adjusting to the silence. I moved to Kansas and mocked Topeka for a news headline that stated half of their ten homicides for the year went unsolved.
If only my old neighborhood could be so lucky.
But we shouldn’t have to accept violence as part of our everyday. We can be cautious and ready to fend off the unexpected without being so apathetic.
When my family first moved to the neighborhood, we had block parties and my friends and I were able to play without incident. It was liveable. And I believe it could go back to that place. But while people are still conditioning themselves to sleep through gunfire, we still have a lot of work to do.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
My music, my savior
Other than my husband, the only thing propelling me through grad school and keeping me from falling into the darkest pits of despair (which would be virtually impossible since I was already in Kansas) was music. My mother, in an attempt to keep my spirits up in the best motherly way possible, would regularly send me and my younger sister (who was attending undergrad back in Illinois) iTunes cards. On a random visit back home, she presented me with a hot neon pink iPod mini on which to play the tunes that would be purchased with my iTunes cards.
This morning I decided to dig it out and shuffle play my 25 Top Plays playlist to reminisce and see if the songs mean the same thing to me now as they did five years ago.
(In order, according to iTunes):
This morning I decided to dig it out and shuffle play my 25 Top Plays playlist to reminisce and see if the songs mean the same thing to me now as they did five years ago.
(In order, according to iTunes):
- The Rain, the Park and Other Things- The Cowsills (100+ plays)
- 1901- Phoenix
- Carol Brown- Flight of the Conchords
- Rambling through the Avenues of Time- Flight of the Conchords
- Love Like a Sunset, Pt. 2- Phoenix
- Lost (acoustic)- Coldplay
- More, More, More- Rachel Stevens
- Off Broadway- Ryan Adams
- Lisztomania- Phoenix
- Everything is Everything- Phoenix
- Undercover Martyn- Two Door Cinema Club
- Touch- Natasha Bedingfield
- A-Punk- Vampire Weekend
- I Will Be There- Rachel Stevens
- Brandy Alexander- Feist
- Flashing Lights- Kanye West
- Leaving Port- James Horner
- Death and All His Friends- Coldplay
- If I Ever Feel Better- Phoenix
- Do You Want It All- Two Door Cinema Club
- Maybe I’m Amazed- Paul McCartney & Wings
- Fences- Phoenix
- Starry Eyed- Ellie Goulding
- Put You In Your Place- The Sunshine Underground
- I Would Do Anything for You- Foster the People
Here are the things we can takeaway from this list:
- Phoenix was clearly my favorite band
- My most played song is probably one of the corniest pop songs ever released- and yet it was everything to me for a two-year period
- That one Kanye song listed is the only Kanye song I will ever admit to enjoying- and I enjoy it A LOT
- There are eight European acts listed; I clearly have not gotten past the Britpop phase from my youth
- Some songs have held up better than others; while it was refreshing to hear a few again after all these years, it’s clear why I stopped listening to others- I’m simply sick of them (“Fences” by Phoenix in particular). And they remind me too much of being sad. Which is weird, as very few of them are even sad songs.
- I’m shocked there isn’t more Coldplay on the list.
- The fact that there are absolutely no Beach Boys songs on this list is both surprising and upsetting. I can't imagine that I wasn't listening to any Beach Boys for those two years.
- “Flashing Lights” is still an amazing song, for better or worse.
- Even though it’s #1 on this list, “The Rain, the Park and Other Things” isn’t really one of my favorite songs.
- Boy, I really like Pop music. Look at that list. That’s a Pop Festival waiting to happen (minus James Horner, of course).
- 10/10 would listen to this list for the rest of my life.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
With this ring, I thee ruin a friendship
For the better part of the day I’ve been struggling with trying to find a topic to blog about.
Normally, something on social media (Twitter usually) would spark my interest and send me on a tangent, but today it just wasn’t happening.
So I just spent some time tweeting at Cinnabon instead.
But then I started thinking about something from my childhood and, inspired by Throwback Thursday, I’ve decided to tell you a little story about that one time I made my former best friend from the 7th grade REALLY hate me.
It all started at the End of the Year school picnic in 6th grade. During the festivities, the most popular girl in the class took it upon herself to play matchmaker and pair up the singles. Hoping to be paired with my crush, I instead found myself paired with a boy named Keith (not his real name), who was a grade lower than me.
Picture a young, scrawnier version of Chris Rock. That was Keith.
I know this was Lana’s (not her real name) way of getting a laugh at my expense (trust me- I was a big ol nerd in grade school...still am, actually). But, to everyone’s surprise, Keith and I actually hit it off- as well as middle schoolers can “hit it off”- and we dated for most of my 7th grade year.
Fast forward to a month or so before we broke up.
Keith had a habit of always promising to buy me a diamond ring. As a 7th grade girl, hearing that the boy you’re going steady with wants to give you a diamond ring is like a Disney dream come true. But I didn’t hold my breath.
Until the day he actually produced a diamond ring. The story he gave me was that his mother had given him the money to purchase the ring. It wasn’t anything spectacular. The diamond was about the size of a speck of dust, situated atop a skinny gold band. It was too big for my tiny junior high fingers, but I wore it proudly anyway.
However, when I returned home after school, my mother noticed the ring. She asked me where it came from and I had two choices: tell the truth and be forced to return it; or claim that it belonged to Amy (not her real name), the new girl who I quickly became very close friends with, and that she was just letting me borrow it- which would at least get my mother off my back long enough for me to hide the ring.
I went with the latter.
Oh, but I vastly underestimated my mother.
See, from the start, my mother suspected I was lying. As it so happened, Amy and I were supposed to have a sleepover at her house that weekend, and my mother needed to call Amy’s mom anyway to finalize plans. What’s the harm in asking about the ring during that phone call, right? Luckily for everyone (mostly me), Amy’s mother wasn’t home, so that bought me some time.
The next day at school, I explained the story to Amy and how it would work: Amy found the ring in the park and let me borrow it. Why I couldn’t just lie and say I found the ring, I don’t know. And even though she didn’t have to, she agreed.
That night, my mother successfully reached Amy’s mother and, as we discussed, Amy stuck to her story when questioned by her mother. There were threats of massive punishments if it turned out we were lying, but I was confident we would get away with it.
But then...I grew a conscious. The day before the sleepover, I felt shitty for lying to my mother and dragging my best friend into this. And for what? So I could keep a pitiful little diamond ring from a boy one grade lower? Hardly seemed worth it.
So I confessed. My mother called Amy’s mother and told her that I finally told her the truth. Needless to say, the sleepover was canceled. For my role, I was punished indefinitely (it would be lifted one random night when I phoned my mother while she was out and asked if I could watch the premier of ‘Swimming with Sharks’ on Cinemax). This was on a Thursday.
By the next morning at school- a Friday- every knew. Because, while I figured that getting my MTV taken away was harsh, whatever punishment Amy received was downright cruel by comparison. I never found out exactly what happen to her, as she wasn’t speaking to me (and rightfully so), but the popular girl, Lana, approached me, smirking, and said, “Amy got in a lot of trouble for you. What kind of friend are you?”
A shitty one, it seemed. Despite my attempts to patch things over between us, she went out of her way to avoid me. She wouldn’t look at me or even acknowledge my presence. She asked to have her seat moved away from mine in class and started spending time with another girl in class (who would in turn become her very best friend, even to this day).
Needless to say, our friendship was obliterated. And I was pretty upset. However, as time passed, everyone forgot about it. I became good friends with another girl in class, broke up with Keith, was back on speaking terms with Amy (by the 8th grade- it took a while to even get back to being cordial with me) and even started dating one of the popular boys- with Lana’s blessing, of course.
As for the ring, my mother took it from me and hid it away. Keith never asked for it back. And as we all scattered to different high schools in the city, I had forgotten about it.
Somewhere along the way, the ring ended up back in my possession. I never wear it; it mostly served as “food money”- when the times got tough for my husband and I, it would be the first to go to pawn.
It actually served a good, useful purpose after all these years.
Despite this one act of selfishness on my part, I definitely learned my lesson on how not to treat your friends. Ultimately, I believe that the experience has made me a better friend. The burden of what I put Amy through- and the lengths she went through to pretend I didn't exist- weighed heavily on me. Friends can be your biggest cheerleaders and protectors, but if you exploit that in any way, they can just as easily turn into your biggest enemies. And it's lonely when you don't have anyone in your corner anymore. Amy was super nice and didn't deserve any of that. No friend does.
Normally, something on social media (Twitter usually) would spark my interest and send me on a tangent, but today it just wasn’t happening.
So I just spent some time tweeting at Cinnabon instead.
But then I started thinking about something from my childhood and, inspired by Throwback Thursday, I’ve decided to tell you a little story about that one time I made my former best friend from the 7th grade REALLY hate me.
It all started at the End of the Year school picnic in 6th grade. During the festivities, the most popular girl in the class took it upon herself to play matchmaker and pair up the singles. Hoping to be paired with my crush, I instead found myself paired with a boy named Keith (not his real name), who was a grade lower than me.
Picture a young, scrawnier version of Chris Rock. That was Keith.
I know this was Lana’s (not her real name) way of getting a laugh at my expense (trust me- I was a big ol nerd in grade school...still am, actually). But, to everyone’s surprise, Keith and I actually hit it off- as well as middle schoolers can “hit it off”- and we dated for most of my 7th grade year.
Fast forward to a month or so before we broke up.
Keith had a habit of always promising to buy me a diamond ring. As a 7th grade girl, hearing that the boy you’re going steady with wants to give you a diamond ring is like a Disney dream come true. But I didn’t hold my breath.
Until the day he actually produced a diamond ring. The story he gave me was that his mother had given him the money to purchase the ring. It wasn’t anything spectacular. The diamond was about the size of a speck of dust, situated atop a skinny gold band. It was too big for my tiny junior high fingers, but I wore it proudly anyway.
However, when I returned home after school, my mother noticed the ring. She asked me where it came from and I had two choices: tell the truth and be forced to return it; or claim that it belonged to Amy (not her real name), the new girl who I quickly became very close friends with, and that she was just letting me borrow it- which would at least get my mother off my back long enough for me to hide the ring.
I went with the latter.
Oh, but I vastly underestimated my mother.
See, from the start, my mother suspected I was lying. As it so happened, Amy and I were supposed to have a sleepover at her house that weekend, and my mother needed to call Amy’s mom anyway to finalize plans. What’s the harm in asking about the ring during that phone call, right? Luckily for everyone (mostly me), Amy’s mother wasn’t home, so that bought me some time.
The next day at school, I explained the story to Amy and how it would work: Amy found the ring in the park and let me borrow it. Why I couldn’t just lie and say I found the ring, I don’t know. And even though she didn’t have to, she agreed.
That night, my mother successfully reached Amy’s mother and, as we discussed, Amy stuck to her story when questioned by her mother. There were threats of massive punishments if it turned out we were lying, but I was confident we would get away with it.
But then...I grew a conscious. The day before the sleepover, I felt shitty for lying to my mother and dragging my best friend into this. And for what? So I could keep a pitiful little diamond ring from a boy one grade lower? Hardly seemed worth it.
So I confessed. My mother called Amy’s mother and told her that I finally told her the truth. Needless to say, the sleepover was canceled. For my role, I was punished indefinitely (it would be lifted one random night when I phoned my mother while she was out and asked if I could watch the premier of ‘Swimming with Sharks’ on Cinemax). This was on a Thursday.
By the next morning at school- a Friday- every knew. Because, while I figured that getting my MTV taken away was harsh, whatever punishment Amy received was downright cruel by comparison. I never found out exactly what happen to her, as she wasn’t speaking to me (and rightfully so), but the popular girl, Lana, approached me, smirking, and said, “Amy got in a lot of trouble for you. What kind of friend are you?”
A shitty one, it seemed. Despite my attempts to patch things over between us, she went out of her way to avoid me. She wouldn’t look at me or even acknowledge my presence. She asked to have her seat moved away from mine in class and started spending time with another girl in class (who would in turn become her very best friend, even to this day).
Needless to say, our friendship was obliterated. And I was pretty upset. However, as time passed, everyone forgot about it. I became good friends with another girl in class, broke up with Keith, was back on speaking terms with Amy (by the 8th grade- it took a while to even get back to being cordial with me) and even started dating one of the popular boys- with Lana’s blessing, of course.
As for the ring, my mother took it from me and hid it away. Keith never asked for it back. And as we all scattered to different high schools in the city, I had forgotten about it.
Somewhere along the way, the ring ended up back in my possession. I never wear it; it mostly served as “food money”- when the times got tough for my husband and I, it would be the first to go to pawn.
It actually served a good, useful purpose after all these years.
Despite this one act of selfishness on my part, I definitely learned my lesson on how not to treat your friends. Ultimately, I believe that the experience has made me a better friend. The burden of what I put Amy through- and the lengths she went through to pretend I didn't exist- weighed heavily on me. Friends can be your biggest cheerleaders and protectors, but if you exploit that in any way, they can just as easily turn into your biggest enemies. And it's lonely when you don't have anyone in your corner anymore. Amy was super nice and didn't deserve any of that. No friend does.
And, to Amy, since I never formally apologized, let me just take this opportunity to say:
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
I survived eight years of marriage and all I got was this awesome husband
Yesterday was my 8th wedding anniversary. And for 90% of the day, everything was just shitty.
As an adult, part of me keeps forgetting that milestones don’t automatically necessitate special days. For example, I expect my birthday to be all rainbows and kitten videos, but it usually just ends up being laundry and traveling home for Thanksgiving dinner (the “joys” of having a holiday-centered birthday usually makes things that much more fun).
The past six years have not been kind to my husband and I. We joked last night that we had more bad years together than good. We married in 2007 after four years of dating. The honeymoon period ended abruptly in January 2009, when the economy went to shit and we were more concerned with the struggle to survive than enjoying that newfangled marital bliss. But, in a weird, twisted, masochistic way, it was the ultimate test of whether or not we had made a sound decision in marrying and if we’d be able to handle all of the bad crap we endured.
Spoiler alert: we made it.
Honestly, I couldn’t imagine trying to weather the storm without Halbastram. I mean, sure, I could have taken the easy way out and found that hot baseball player I always imagined myself with when I was a teenager. But I didn’t. Because I didn’t consider it as an option until now.
Dammit.
Anyway now that we’re out of the hole, we’re working harder than ever to stay afloat. And after a long day of yelling at idiot drivers during the morning & afternoon commutes and dealing with work bullshit, sometimes the best celebration is the one where you exert the least amount of effort. So we went straight to our favorite local pizzeria in our work clothes and had a pizza, some fried calamari, a couple of beers, some wine, conversation & laughs.
I guess this is growing up.
Here’s to eight years of happiness and the occasional nagging. I look forward to many more (years of nagging Halbastram, that is; I enjoy that the most).
As an adult, part of me keeps forgetting that milestones don’t automatically necessitate special days. For example, I expect my birthday to be all rainbows and kitten videos, but it usually just ends up being laundry and traveling home for Thanksgiving dinner (the “joys” of having a holiday-centered birthday usually makes things that much more fun).
The past six years have not been kind to my husband and I. We joked last night that we had more bad years together than good. We married in 2007 after four years of dating. The honeymoon period ended abruptly in January 2009, when the economy went to shit and we were more concerned with the struggle to survive than enjoying that newfangled marital bliss. But, in a weird, twisted, masochistic way, it was the ultimate test of whether or not we had made a sound decision in marrying and if we’d be able to handle all of the bad crap we endured.
Spoiler alert: we made it.
Honestly, I couldn’t imagine trying to weather the storm without Halbastram. I mean, sure, I could have taken the easy way out and found that hot baseball player I always imagined myself with when I was a teenager. But I didn’t. Because I didn’t consider it as an option until now.
Dammit.
Anyway now that we’re out of the hole, we’re working harder than ever to stay afloat. And after a long day of yelling at idiot drivers during the morning & afternoon commutes and dealing with work bullshit, sometimes the best celebration is the one where you exert the least amount of effort. So we went straight to our favorite local pizzeria in our work clothes and had a pizza, some fried calamari, a couple of beers, some wine, conversation & laughs.
I guess this is growing up.
Here’s to eight years of happiness and the occasional nagging. I look forward to many more (years of nagging Halbastram, that is; I enjoy that the most).
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