Another September 11th

I suppose every generation has their moment. Their "where were you when...?" question. I was 20 on this day seven years ago , standing in my room at the sorority house, wearing my new camel-colored sweater and rolling my hair. My roommate, Christina, had already left for class and I was watching a rerun of Designing Women when the program was interrupted for that first message. I thought perhaps the pilot was drunk, and I was angry at him. How could he be so careless, so cruel?

I kept watching, of course, and I remember hearing televisions in other rooms, and knew other girls were watching the same thing. But nobody knocked on my door. I didn't hear any cries of, "hey guys, are you watching this?!" Perhaps we were all waiting for the explanation, the acknowledgment of incompetence or drugs. And then the second plane hit and I heard someone somewhere cry out. Did I cry out, too? I don't remember. I kept watching, and at some point I called my Mom.

I tried to call a dear friend, Francis, who was living in New York at the time. In my mind, all of NYC was burning. Hordes of demon planes were crashing everywhere and surely Francis would be hit. But nobody could get through to New York that day. I wandered across campus to the library to find Christina and by the time I arrived the Pentagon smoke was flying. Or was it the White House? I forget what we thought at first. Was the White House gone? No, that plane crashed. But the Pentagon...

I don't remember much of what followed, besides the candlelight vigil, the prayers, the worry that maybe this changed everything. I didn't realize, of course, that Sept.11 would set in motion the political moves that would eventually lead to my evacuation from Peace Corps. When I left for my service in Morocco months after the 11th, my dad mentioned a concern about Sadaam Hussein, Afghanistan, but I had no sense of the threat. Looking back, my parents must have been more than a little nervous to watch their wholly naive firstborn jaunt off to an Arab country less than a year after the news blasted Arab faces across the screen and called them murderers. I wasn't afraid in that context. And I had no cause to be. My villagers, my host families, my Moroccan friends, they were all some of the kindest, warmest people I've ever met. Some of them were angry, maybe mean, but no more so than any angry American. And I loved Morocco more than I've loved any other place on earth, save one, save New Orleans.

A week or so after the U.S. invaded Iraq, I was riding a taxi, alone, with a police escort, from my village east of Esfi to join my fellow volunteers at a hotel in Marrakech, where we watched the news and waited for the end.

Seven years is a long time. I've heard a million times that Sept. 11 changed America forever. America lost her innocence. America will never be the same. I would agree with that sentiment, but it's fairly obvious and painfully cliche. I don't think America is worse off due to Sept. 11, anymore than she is worse off due to other tragedies, other natural disasters, other wars. Losing innocents, burying those that should not have died, that is a pain that inspires broken hearts and vehemently powerful brotherhood. If there is anything Sept. 11 says about America today, it is that we own our history, we hold it and treasure it, and then we walk on. We build. We grow. We fight. We potentially elect the first black president or the first female vice president. We have things to be proud of and we are not quiet in our pride. And I think that says something about the backbone that was not broken on the 11th. There is something to be said of our blood, of a country built on the shoulders of men and women who largely came here with nothing and built something out of the dirt. Of men and women who were shackled here against their will and who broke free, rose up, and became as much a source of success of this country as the descendants of those who owned them. We, as a country, are used to rising from ashes, we have built and rebuilt a country on the graves of innocents, honoring their lives by building, growing, and building again.

Autumn, Anyone?

I loathe winter. I hate feeling cold, hate shivering, hate the grey of Minnesota from November-April (sometimes May). And I miss the long, lazy autumn in Virginia, Arkansas, and Missouri, where you have three solid months of beautiful colors and above freezing evenings.

But, short as it is, Minnesota's autumn is worth loving. Perhaps people love it here because they know how quick it fades, how fast that first heavy snow can fall. And I think there's something lovely about being able to smell the snow in the air. That snow smell reminds me, vaguely, of that ozone aroma that lingered in New Orleans after hard summer storms, the smell of lightening and non-hurricanes. Completely different smells, different feelings, but echoes of each other in that your nose remembers and acknowledges snowstorms and slanted rains before the rest of your body. Memory is so tied to visuals and sounds, it's nice to give the nose a chance to paint its own picture.

And today, in the middle of a warm, autumn rain, in the three drops that hit my face through the crack in the bus window, I smelled snow.

The Motherland

As soon as I step foot in Arkansas my heart relaxes. Despite the heat, the humidity, my lungs fill up faster. My body was born here and it recognizes Home. I am happy in Minneapolis, as I was happy in Kansas City, and St. Louis, and so happy in New Orleans. But my happiness in Arkansas has a heavier feel. The weight of family and love and barbeque and the hill where I crashed my bike and the vacant lot where I played house and the best dog in the world and the plum trees I laid under and the yellow jackets that made my feet swell and the walk to the bus stop at the top of the hill and the cinnamon toast at Mamaw's when I had the chickenpox and the swing set that tipped too high and...

Craving a Place

I crave Arkansas the way some people crave chocolate or red wine or a perfectly baked apple. I crave the heat of the South these days, because Minnesota does not have a real summer. Summer here is a warmer version of spring, with little humidity, and too much wind. I crave the heaviness of Southern heat, the thickness of the air, the feel of sweat sliding swiftly down your spine or hanging lightly on your collarbone. I crave that pregnant silence in the afternoon, when even the bugs are too hot to talk, and the whole earth feels like the quiet calm before some great storm.

I spent a hiccup of time in North Little Rock following my evacuation from New Orleans. On several occassions I skipped class (did I retain anything that strange semester?) and drove to Pinnacle Mountain (pictured). I packed tuna salad and crackers and carrots and hiked to the top in the indian summer heat of September, and held orange leaves in my hand in October, November. I took my journal to the summit, wrote horrible poems about broken New Orleans, and sat for hours. Pinnacle probably doesn't even qualify as a mountain. It's not part of the Ozark chain, and having spent ample time in the Blue Ridge, Pinnacle doesn't come close to those old giants. And the Rockies, those young upstarts, have Pinnacle dwarfed by thousands of feet. But I crave that ancient, sloping, easy "mountain" and the quiet rocks at her top. I grew up climbing that glorified hill and I cannot wait to climb her again. Soon.

It Isn't A Regret Exactly

Last night I saw The Government Inspector at the Guthrie, a new adaptation of the 19th century Gogol comedy. The play was good, funny and light. But it made me somewhat homesick for the years I spent onstage. I miss the smell and the heaviness of stage makeup, how it erased my own face and gave me a new one. And I miss too-tight shoes and corsets and the sound of my voice and the echoes of an audience.


But more than the joys of performance and applause, I miss doing something I knew I excelled at. I've been an attorney for all of 9 months and I don't have much intention of pursuing a traditional legal practice. I haven't truly begun my career so I have no idea if I will be successful. I love to write and have written poems and stories since I was a child, but I also hate my writing 90% of the time and cannot remember the last time I finished a piece I wanted to share with anyone. Writing feels too personal, too important to be enjoyed sometimes. But acting was never like that. I always knew I was good, often excellent. I always knew I had a lovely stage voice, knew I could slip into a character with the ease of a new dress. So even when I felt ugly or sad or stupid or completely lost, I always knew that on stage I would give the impression of assurance and purpose.


I don't regret not trying harder. I flipped a coin after Peace Corps, move to New York and give acting a go (heads) or apply to law school again (tails). And when it landed heads, I flipped again. I knew I didn't want that life and the happiness I found onstage was not enough to carry me through years of waiting tables. But I do miss backstage jitters, the rush to find the lost eyeliner, the heat of the lights, the sound of the audience coughing and sighing into their seats, the momentary forgetfulness of that first damn line, the sadness of the last night's applause. I miss it all.

Books I Should Be Reading

Sons and Lovers: I've read and reread 3/4 of this book at least three times. Why can't I finish it? I love it. It's beautiful. So why do I get tired 45 pages from the end?

The Omnivore's Dilemma: I don't own this yet but I pick it up everytime I'm at the bookstore (which is too often). There's a new one, too, called In Defense of Food (I think) that a couple friends have recommended.

Catch-22: In the past 6 months, several people, randomly, have said that this is their favorite book. People who, by my assessment, seem like intelligent, not-entirely-insane people. But I hated this book when I read it and haven't gone near Heller since. But I've been told he deserves a second go. I'm hesitant but maybe...

Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Volume Two): I haven't read Volume One but I only own Volume Two, and yes, I know it's a cookbook. But it's Julia Child! And my copy is so worn and dusty and wonderfully old, it would be fun to read it. Is it weird to read a cookbook?

Pilgrim's Progress: Isn't this something everyone is supposed to read at some point? Am I missing something?

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men: I've heard tons about this and Southern lit has a special sway in my heart, so the sharecropping angle intrigues me. And I loved Agee's A Death in the Family. So this one is near the top of my "must read" list.

The Magic Mountain: I owned a copy of this for awhile but loaned it to someone before I read it and never got it back. It's time to find it again.

Your Typical Wednesday at 2:12 P.M.

I am craving a glass of spicy red wine and fantastic company.

Corner Stores

It's a simple thing, and perhaps it's silly to love it so much. But my apartment is a tiny walk away from several stores, Trader Joe's, a chocolatier, a handbag store, half-price books. And I just love that tiny walk. I love tucking a shopping bag in my purse, filling it with milk or eggs or magazines or sweets, and then returning home with the heavy weight of it in my hand. It's a small pleasure, but an important one.

Religion and Politics, Sigh

I've had several conversations recently with different people from both political parties re: the place of religion in politics. Some of these conversations have been exasperating and many have been enlightening, so for my own mental exercise I thought I'd say a few things about my own opinion. I generalize a bit, as I know that there are many non-Christian Republicans, or many Christian Republicans that do not vote according to the religious right, but because they are fiscally conservative or more in line with conservative viewpoints on other issues. Also, I have many Christian Republican friends who are fantastically tolerant and respectful of our differing political opinions. My issue lies more with the prevalence of intolerance in the Church for non-Republicans and my discussions have largely been on the issue of religious conservatism mingling with political conservatism so that's the perspective I'm exploring.

I'm a Christian. I believe Christ died on the cross for the sins of man and by his grace we are redeemed. Christianity, my constant struggle to be a woman of faith (when doubt is my more prevalent tendency), colors every aspect of my life. I am a Christian before I am an American, before I am anything else. I am a Christian before I am a Democrat, before I am a voter, before I question which side of the abortion debate I fall on. My faith is first. And it is that hierarchy that most inspires my confusion over why there is a question how I can be BOTH a Christian and a Democrat.

Faith and Party are not mutually exclusive. Loving one's country, serving her, is a blessed thing in the eyes of God but serving one's country is not the realm of a sole political party. One party does not own God. God does not endorse one candidate over another and to imply such an idea is wholly offensive to me. To imply that one party has the direct line to Heaven belittles faith, belittles Christ, and patronizes the millions of Americans who call themselves Christians. There is no doubt in my mind that many of the leaders of the religious right have bought their way to power by the constant patronizing of Christian America. They have made Christians believe that there are only a handful of real issues in America (abortion and gay rights being their favorites) and that those issues trump every other issue at bar. They've pointed a wagging pastoral finger at Christians who found themselves questioning the ideals of the Republican party and have convinced the majority of Christians that part of being a good Christ-follower is to vote with the party that God has blessed. Bullshit.

The Democratic party is no picnic, either. While the Republicans preach their moral imperative, Democrats find it hard to state that something is categorically 'wrong', which can be equally infuriating. But that's the whole point. Neither party is perfect because both parties were created by men. They are inherently fallible and broken. When I look at both parties, as a Christian, the Democratic party is the party that is most in line with my faith in terms of equality, providing support for the impoverished, embracing the 'least of these', protecting God's earth, and championing peace. And so, my vote swings left. However, I have no problem understanding why other Christians would look at the parties and decide the opposite, decide that the Republican party best represents their values. I can respect either determination. For that reason, I do not understand why so many Republicans can not provide the same respect, cannot look at Christian Democrats and acknowledge that there are Biblical values that many people will feel are best represented by the Democratic party.

But chiefly, I simply do not believe politics should ever have a place in the church or vice versa. At its core, the marriage of the two belittles faith. It equates Country with God, turns the American flag into an idol worthy of worship, an idea I find incredibly disturbing. Outside the church, the marriage of the two establishes religious imperatives in a government that should be wholly secular. Decision-making will always be inspired by personal convictions, and for many people those convictions will arise out of religious faith, that is to be expected and championed in a democracy. But the Church and the State should be divided beyond those convictions, so that every leader and every voter has the freedom to pursue those convictions without threat.

Rest in Peace, Diego

Dear furry friend, I happily babysat you while your mommy was away and I never undertood why you hid food all over the place. But your silly little gerbil feet and your oblivious pooping in my hand will be missed. May you enjoy many turns on the great gerbil wheel in the sky.

So it's one of THOSE apartments

I recently moved into a new apartment. It's a sweet, small space in an area I love and I'm quite happy to be on my own again. My description of its location usually goes something like this:

Inquiring Friend: Where are you living now?

Me: Do you know the Excelsior & Grand area?

Friend: Sure, that's an awesome location!

Me: It is. Do you know those gorgeous condos right at the intersection?

Friend: Yeah, wow, way to go! Those places are beautiful.

Me: *laughing* I live in the ghetto apartments behind those gorgeous condos.

Friend: Oh. Cool. I didn't know there were apartments back there.

Me: Yeah, they like to hide us away, we po' folk.

Anywho, I love my somewhat ghetto place, warts and all. I called my landlord a few days ago because for the life of me I could not get my windows to lock. I pushed and sweated and cussed and still, no locking. I live on the first floor and I watch too much Law & Order SVU so, really, locking windows is kinda high on my priority list. The landlord explained to me, very sweetly, that the windows DO lock but everytime you open the windows you have to realign the panes. You have to pull the lower pane out, push the upper pane up, and finally slide the lower pane back into place.

Ah. It's one of those apartments. One of those lovely little places where every moving part has a system. My bedroom door in New Orleans had a similar process that involved having to reattach the doorknob every 5th opening. And 4th step in the hallway had a dip in it that, despite living there for 3 years, I could never master the height of and I always half stumbled my way upstairs.

I'm not complaining. I'm happy I have one of those apartments. Who needs perfection when you can have a slightly contrary, slightly annoying, but totally individual place? Perfection is overrated. I have my own idiosyncracies (applying condiments alphabetically, being moderately intimidated by escalators), so it only makes sense that my new home should be equally eccentric.

My thoughts exactly

Rocko, looking none too pleased that his trip outside involved a snowy backside and frozen whiskers. I feel ya, little buddy, March 31st is WAY too late to be getting 8 inches of snow. Where, oh where, is spring?

Why I'm Voting For Her

I do not fall for it. I am an eternal optimist but I do not believe that gives me license to ignore reality. Obama's incessant talk of change does not convince me of anything beyond his ability to speak in pretty, inspiring tones. He holds himself well. He smiles and exudes warmth in ways that Hillary does not. But I am not electing a buddy. I am not electing someone I want to go have a beer with. I'm electing the next Commander-in-Chief. I'm electing the individual who will get us out of Iraq, who will effectively maneuver the halls of Congress, who will do what it takes to clean up the mess Bush leaves behind.

Regardless of the nominee, 'change' is imminent. After eight years of Bush incompetence, a Democrat in the White House will mean a restoration of good sense, good choices, and hope for all Americans. So this constant harping on 'change' by the Obama camp frustrates me. 'Change' is the buzzword used by candidates who lack the credentials to support their plans for the future. I should hope any candidate would be working for change, otherwise what the hell is the point? Obama assumes his ideas are enough, that what he lacks in experience he can make up for in heart. How sweet. Cute, almost. And I don't consider myself to be a cynic. But I will take experience over eloquence any day, especially when the fate of the country is involved. Hillary supports our military, our health, our environment, our position in world politics, in ways bolstered by years of experience and inspired by a lifetime of public service. Obama has convinced me that he wants the job. Hillary has convinced me that she can do the job. Period.

Whoa Nelly!

My car, a 2003 blue VW Golf, has been through a lot. Her name is Nell (a shortened form of Dub-Yuh-Nell, which is the nickname for my undergrad, Washington and Lee...I couldn't name her 'Dubyuh' for obvious reasons). She was purchased in St. Louis after I returned from Peace Corps in Morocco. She then traveled highway 70 between St. Louie and Kansas City routinely for a year while I was living in KC and visiting family in St. Louis.

Then I decided to move to New Orleans for law school. This meant three round trips between Kansas City and Nola as I looked for an apartment, moved my belongings, and visited friends. Living in Nola also meant multiple hurricane evacuations to Little Rock, trips that resulted in 1 flat tire, 1 busted headlight bulb, a handful of bad mix CDs, and the murder of one unfortunate turtle crossing highway 55N. Evacuations aside, Nola was not a good place for a car. A sinking city means a city of potholes. And in New Orleans these are not your average potholes. These are not tire-sized potholes. These are large cow-sized. These are VW Golf-sized. I saw an 18 wheeler get stuck on a city street because its front tire sank into the road. And still, despite the potholes, heat, and humidity, by dear Nelly survived. Not unscathed, of course. A couple of teenage hooligans stole two of my hubcaps right in front of me. And I lost a third due to a faulty U-turn. But she's alive and kicking.

And now. Now I bring her to Minneapolis. I cover her in so much salt and gook and mess, she doesn't even look blue anymore. I freeze her senseless so that half the time I come back to the bus station after work I say a little prayer for her to start. I can't blame her orneryness, I wouldn't want to wake up either if I'd been hanging out in a -5 degree garage all day. So today, I gave her a bath. I never spend money on car washes, they were a waste in New Orleans since it rained so much. And here it seems silly since she'll just get salty again with one trip downtown. But she looked so sad and grey, I had to perk her up a bit.

Nelly, in her clean and hubcapless glory, says hello.

Cry for Help

I miss the jazz on Frenchman's Street. Someone find me some jazz.

I Miss the Sidewalk

Well, I don't really miss the sidewalks in New Orleans. They're the most awful, ankle-twisting sidewalks in America, ripped apart by oak roots and the constant sinking of the streets. But I do miss walking up and down my street, State Street, to and from school. I miss seeing houses I'd never noticed before, in colors I'd forgotten about, with flowers I could never describe.

This was my favorite house. On the corner, the yard always smelled like clay and jasmine. It was beautiful.

A New Day

For the last few years, ever since the Cardinals were defeated by the Red Sox, my family has burned a Red Sox cap in the fireplace to welcome the new year, bring good luck. We're a rabid Cardinals family, and watching the Red Sox cap melt and pop and disintegrate in open flames is a welcome sight. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

May the New Year bring similarly bizarre joys to you and yours.

The Perfectly Iced Cookie

Trinity, the very adorable young lady with her mouth stuffed with sugar in the pic, probably ate more frosting this past Saturday than any child should ingest in a week. My little sister (behind her in the picture) later helped Trinity decorate a construction paper stocking and was a keen competitor in a vicious Heads Up, Sevens Up duel.

It takes so little to make children smile. Giggles are so easy. Children should be tickled and hugged, laughed with and played with, danced with and chased, every single day.

And adults need all that, too. I hope this Christmas all my friends are blessed with perfectly iced sugar cookies, hugs as huge as can be handled, nifty toys, kisses under the mistletoe, and most importantly, peace from God. And sprinkles, can't have icing without sprinkles.

In case you were wondering...

I PASSED THE BAR EXAM! On October 26, 2007 I will swear in and be an official, true blue, card-carrying member of the bar. A lawyer! A REAL REAL REAL REAL LAWYER!

My kid sister

Isn't she beeeeeeeautiful?! Sometimes I can't believe she's MY sister, she's so much more poised and mature and adorable than I ever was at that age. I like to pretend that some of that awesomeness she gleaned from me but I think most of it's just God-given fantasticness.