"Read a Novel, it will make you a Better Person"

Today at the office it was my turn to clean the kitchen. As I started clearing off the counters preparing to wash them, I noticed that someone left fortune cookies in the "free food" area. Now I don't think anyone actually enjoys the taste of fortune cookies. They taste like Styrofoam seasoned with Splenda.  Nonetheless, we all enjoy fortune cookies for the cheesy fortunes they contain. But today, instead of the usual "for every downhill there is an uphill" adage, mine read "Read a novel, it will make you a better person." I did a little squeal of delight, then promptly taped my fortune to the office bookshelf. 

I am a reader. As a child I had trouble spelling, and for the longest time thought my name "Rebecca" was actually "reader." Reading is not a pastime, a hobby, or a chore. I read for the same reason that I breathe: because I can, and because life works much better if I do. Reading helps me feel at peace as an individual, but also as a member of the larger society I inhabit. Even on a GAP year where I spend 90% of my day serving others, I make sure that I spend at least an hour a day with my nose in a book. 

The type of book really doesn't matter. I'm much more interested in the subject matter than the genre. So far this year I've read spiritual essays, books exploring faith and housing crises in Detroit, and books on the history of racial discrimination at home and abroad. One of the best parts of being on a gap year in Ann Arbor is that I have the freedom to read what interests me, and I'm surrounded by people who keep giving me books :)

Right now I'm re-reading The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. GOW was the first novel I wrote a research paper on. I was 16, and read the novel because I didn't understand why Bruce Springsteen (my favorite musician) wrote The Ghost of Tom Joad. Through researching the history of the Great Depression and Steinbeckian literary analysis I fell madly in love with both American history and literature. (I also fell a little out of love with Springsteen who based TGOTJ on the Tom Ford film vs. Steinbeck's novel. Lame.) 

Looking back, this novel laid the groundwork for my studies at university as a history and literature major. Re-reading it now is helping me mourn the loss of my student identity, and helping me work on the jealousy I'm feeling of my housemates as they prepare for their final exams. While I don't miss the stress that comes with paper and exam due dates, I do miss reading and writing about the human experience. 

I guess I'm just going to have to start blogging more frequently. 

GAP Year Update

It's been far too long since my last blog post. I've got nothing earth shattering to , just wanted to give people an update on my GAP year. So here it is. The good, the bad, and the stretching...

First off, the good. God. God is good. All the time. All the time. God is good. I'm very blessed to be serving the Word of Life Community here in Ann Arbor. God has placed some truly talented and holy people in my life this year that I get to live, serve, and have fun with. Sometimes I go to meetings and have to pinch myself that I am actually here talking to the legendary x about catering options for a conference that I'm helping her organize. 

For the most part, I enjoy the service I've been asked to perform this year. Gappers in Ann Arbor divide their time between serving University Christian Outreach (UCO), Ignite Youth Group, the Word of Life Office, and GAP training. The percentage of time each gapper spends with each group depends on their age/state of life. For example, most of my service is with UCO as I'm a post-college student. The other two gappers I serve with work more with the Ignite Youth Group than I do since they just graduated from high school. I enjoy serving a variety of outreaches of the Word of Life Community even if it means that I have to spend an hour at the beginning of each week figuring out my schedule. 

The biggest challenge of my GAP year has been adopting a servant's heart. What does that mean? It means accepting that my schedule is not my own, and not responding in anger when someone asks me to be flexible with my time. It means carrying out my service with a joyful attitude even when I feel less than joyful. It means forgoing romantic relationships, and focusing on building relationships with my Ann Arbor sisters. It means refraining from deriving my self-worth from what I can produce, and instead recognizing my value as a child of God. 

I'm choosing to look at my GAP year as a year set apart, not a year of constant sacrifice. This year will be unlike any other year I experience, and I don't want to ruin it by adopting a woe is me attitude. God is stretching and challenging me out of love because he refuses to settle for the mediocracy I'd attain if left to my own devices. 

I'll close this post with a metaphor. Last night my housemates and I had a movie night where we watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I love this movie. The movie's a pretty classic portrayal of the ugly duckling-swan transformation. In the beginning of the movie Tula's waitressing in her family's restaurant when she first lays eyes on Ian. They have the classic awkward encounter. Later in the movie, once Tula goes to school and learns to take better care of herself, they meet again. Ian recognizes her from the restaurant but not for her awkwardness. From then on they fall in love and live happily ever after. 

So what's the link between My Big Fat Greek Wedding and a GAP year? A GAP year is ment to be a transformative year. The person I will be at the end of my GAP year will still be me, but the me who's spent a year seeking the Lord and turning to him for comfort during those lonely and frustrating moments. I'm not going to leave my GAP year a swan, but I'll be one step away from ugly duckling. 

Reflections from a Narcotics-Induced State of Consciousness

It feels so good to be blogging again! Since my last post, I spent three days in the hospital. I'm currently blogging from Pittsburgh. I guess I should start at the beginning...

About a month ago I moved to Ann Arbor and dove head first into my new life. From staff meetings, to office training, to wandering around the Diag hopelessly lost, I was a woman of action. After about a week of this, I woke up in the middle of the night with stomach pains that quickly turned into nausea/vomiting. My roommate thought I had the flu. But I never knew the flu to cause stomach pains without a fever. By the next morning I felt better, so I shrugged the night off as my body's way of adjusting to a new environment.

3 days later I awoke at 6am with the worst stomach pains I've ever experienced. Pain is a very humbling state of being because any pain worth its name suggests that the person in pain has exhausted all means of relieving the pain. I knew I had to go to the hospital. Thankfully I live within a ten minute drive of U of M's hospital and my roommate had a car. After a several hours of pain medication and ultrasounds, the doctor informed me that I had an acorn-sized stone in my galbblader. My galbblader would have to come out within 24 hours.

So here I was an otherwise healthy 22 year old. Laying on a hospital bed 5 hours away from home drifting out of a narcotics-induced state of consciousness. I remember laying in my bed and hearing God say that he wanted to heal me. My first response was great, but couldn't you heal me in a less dramatic manner? I absolutely hate being the center of attention. I know that the speed of news, particularly bad news can travel faster than sound and that people were going to want to talk to and about me. God responded by telling me that me getting sick was not about me. Then I fell asleep. Again.

It was not until a couple days ago that I understood what God said to me. Before I left for Ann Arbor, my mom and I fought about me leaving. She did not understand why I needed to go live 5 hours away and work for free for a year. I tried to explain to her the benefits of living in the community there, but my arguments fell upon deaf ears. When I got sick Mom hopped in the car and drove to Ann Arbor. She was blown away by the kindness every in Ann Arbor extended to a girl they'd known for less than a month. Their care of me during my illness explained community life to them in a way my intellectual arguments failed to do.

I'm going to be heading back to Ann Arbor this weekend. When Mom drops me off this time she'll be able to drive back to Pittsburgh knowing that she can turn off her mom radar for the next little while because there is a whole community of people in Ann Arbor willing to sit in the emergency room with her baby girl.

Slap on a life jacket. Grab a Water Bottle. Climb in. Say a Prayer.

When I was a senior in high school, my sociology teacher spent a week lecturing us on Culture Shock. I clearly remember the way his cheeks turned a faint shade of purple as he proclaimed "you are going to wake up one morning several months from now, after Mommy and Daddy drop you off at your chosen institution of higher education, and experience the phenomenon known as CULTURE SHOCK and what are you going to do? DEAL WITH IT."

I dealt with his proselytism by wiping his spit off my nose. Deal with it? Is this guy insane? Success doesn't come to those who deal with things, but to those who organize their lives well enough to avoid dealing with things. So I decided to outsmart the demon CULTURE SHOCK by enrolling at a university located less than 30 minutes from my parent's house.

Five years and a university education taught me that the only way to outsmart Culture Shock was to face it head on. So I packed up my storage bins, hugged my hometown goodbye, and journeyed to Ann Arbor, Michigan. Again, I thought I could outsmart culture shock by experiencing a mild form of it? Right? Wrong.

Before I become too distracted by my analysis I just wanted to say that I truly do love it here. I love that I am living on my own five hours away from my childhood home. I love that everything I need I can walk to from my apartment. I love that the people I've met here treasure learning and engaging with complicated ideas. I love that the city turns Mauze and Blue on Saturday football days...

But with the excitement of a new city comes the uncomfortable feeling of being a spy in enemy territory. I'm convinced that privacy is the child of routine. As the newly adopted family member, you lack the shared experiences that solidify random people into a cohesive whole.  While you experience the best acts of generosity, compassion, and love your new family has to offer, you live your life in a fishbowl.  As everyone tries you on for size, you don't know how to negotiate your newly allotted space.

In my short time in this beautiful city I am learning that culture shock goes deeper than differences in language, art, philosophy, or food. It is entirely possible for two people to speak the same language without understanding each other. I am also learning that my teacher was right. The best way to deal with culture shock is to deal with it.

The best way I've found to deal with it? I'll use learning how to canoe as a metaphor. Grab a friend who's never canoed either. Slap on a life jacket. Grab a water bottle. Climb in. Say a prayer. Hopefully you will both arrive at the loading dock at a reasonable hour. Albeit a little bruised and a little bit wet.

Sandwich Making: INFJ Style

Are you familiar with the Myers Brigg Personality test? If you're not, take the quiz here http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/jtypes2.asp first or the rest of this blog will make little sense.

I first discovered MB at the beginning of my sophomore year in college as I struggled to answer the infamous "who am I" question. A lot of my friends had a love-hate relationship with Myers Briggs because they received different results every time they took the test. Not so for me. I always have been, and very likely always will be an Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging person.

So what exactly is an INFJ? Great question. My dominant function is introverted intuition, meaning I spend a large part of my day inside my head. Since I orient myself internally, I am often oblivious to the external world.  I tend to make decisions emotionally, and weigh how my actions will affect others before moving forward. In the last part of my personality, my judging side, the universe decided to throw me a curve-ball. Introversion, intuition, and feeling tend to be very time-consuming states of being. Yet because I'm a J I loathe being late for anything. I'm still trying to figure out if being a time-conscious creative individual is a blessing or a curse.

The above description may have made little sense to you if you are a sensing person so I'll insert an example: sandwich making, INFJ style. With sandwiches I like variety, but I like to draw that variety from three or four options. There's also an emotional component to sandwich-making. Ham-and cheese on wheat means I am at peace with my internal world. Peanut butter and jelly on white means I'm stressed out and need someone to listen to me vent. Putting together a sandwich can tire me because I must remember where in the Kitchen we store the different parts of a sandwich as well as where to return them when I'm done.

Once I've composed said sandwich I need to take it and leave the kitchen as fast as possible in order to re-charge. I often leave behind crumbs, and/or jelly smeared knives. I'm not being lazy. I do not do this to test the patience of the next person who wants to make a sandwich. For me, as long as the bread and peanut butter are back in the cubbard I've acted in kindness towards my neater room mates. Having lived with neat room mates I know that crumbs are their version of nails on a chalkboard. Please be patient with me. I'm learning.

INFJ's often get confused with extroverts because we love people. And we do love people. There's nothing like a meaningful one-on-one conversation to give me warm and fuzzy feelings.We tend to be great listeners so we're never lacking for people to talk to.  But anything more than one or two people forces me to expend more energy than I receive. Group settings exhaust me because I bring to them the intensity that I bring to one-on one conversations. But since we love people so much we tend to deny our introverted tendencies in group settings, drain ourselves of all energy, then have to spend a week in our pajamas oscillating between sleeping and reading Victorian literature.

For everyone reading this blog because they're looking for better ways to communicate with an INFJ I'd say resist the urge to patronize when reminding us of a detail we've overlooked for the hundredth time. We also like to be affirmed in our actions because can see ourselves as weird because we've spent too much time analyzing our actions and not enough time externalizing them. It's also helpful to ask "What are you trying to say?" We won't be offended. We're often just as clueless as you are :)

Come Writers and Critics who Prophecy with Your Pens

One of my mentors warned me of the perils of following my passions with reckless abandon because passion is, by nature, seductively bi-polar. Perfecting that invention bound to revolutionize the digital world will make the inventor's day go by faster, as he spends his nights burning the midnight oil. My mentor offered this wisdom not to discourage me from recognizing and working towards my passions, but to recognize how my passions work to distract me from my larger life goals.

Case in point.

Three of my passions in life are post-World War II American History, women's labor history, and domestic fiction. I can and will talk anyone's ear off about Johnson's War on Poverty, Le Leche League feminists, and Bronte fiction. In college I followed these passions to degrees in American History, English Literature, and Women's Studies. While my passions relate to each other, I was glad to study them separably to avoid sensory overload, i.e burnout. 

This equal, but separated system worked well for me until 3 days ago when I started reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett. The novel is set in Jackson, Mississippi in my favorite year of all times: 1963. In 1963 I was negative 26, so I learned to experience  SCLC sit-ins, the March on Washington, Bob Dylan's rise to fame, and Kennedy's assassination either vicariously or through history books. Told through the eyes of three narrators: Skeeter, a 23 year old 5'11 recent English literature graduate forced to move home to Mississippi after failing to secure either a husband or a job during her 4 years at Ole Miss, Aibileen, a fifty something black maid who raises white babies after her only son's suspicious death, and Hilly, a thirty-five year old mother of seven who don't take no sass from her employees because she takes so much from her husband, these women risk everything to give the help a voice. 

Needless to say by page 12 I was hooked. I read the entire 500 plus page novel in 3 days. Three days where I only changed out of my pajamas to go to church or for a run. Three days I should have spent packing, or hanging out with friends one more time before I move 5 hours away from them. 

See the problem with passions is that quickly become all consuming and turn into obsessions. I was so consumed with oh-my-gosh-the-only-thing-that-separates-Skeeter-from-me-is-40 years-and frizzy hair that I gladly overlooked Stockett's butchery of southern dialect and glorification of the Civil Rights movement. 

Needless to say, by 8:18am this morning when I finished the novel I felt like that kid whose mom let them eat a Reese's peanut butter and cheesecake sundae so they would think twice before eating them together again. But like most kids, the thinking tends to last only as long as my stomachache. The Help did not rid me of my passions, but did help me think of my passions in new and interesting ways, albeit, with some reckless abandon.

Fantastc, Terrific, Great

I know that it's been a while since my last blog post. I've been quite busy! Last week I volunteered as a head counselor for the People of God Summer Camp. Let me share with you some of my experiences.

I arrived at camp two Saturdays ago on what felt like the hottest day of the year. While Pittsburgh is no Phoenix, Pittsburgh in July is quite hot. First on my to-do list was to decorate my cabin, the Firefly cabin. We female head counselors tend to go a bit overboard with our decorations, and this year was no exception. As fireflies I wanted our cabin to be very bright, so I hung enough Christmas lights to make any other lighting superfluous. Looking back it probably wasn't a good idea to plug 3 power strips into 2 outlets, but miraculously nothing melted or exploded during our week.

On Sunday afternoon my campers arrived and the madness began. While 8 campers, ranging in age from 9-12 doesn't seem like too much for 3 experienced counselors to handle, it at times was. Although my official title was "head counselor" my job description included mother, traffic director, swim coach, cheerleader, playwright, pastoral leader, performer, singer, master of disguise, teacher, mover, waitress, and shower assistant. Thankfully I had really well-behaved girls and my assistant and junior counselor excelled at the art of convincing exhausted campers that they really wanted to go to bed. 

My favorite part of camp was the Friday morning combined prayer time. My favorite head counselor calls Friday's "marathon day" because on top of our regular duties we counselors must: forfeit our afternoon break, invent a really nifty hiding place for "Capture the Counselor," and must stay awake until the wee hours of the morning decided which cabin won which award for the parent's program. But the Friday morning prayer time makes the rest of the day more than worth it.

As a teacher you don't always get the opportunity to witness your students "a-ha!" moments. That moment where the seeds you've sown take root and the child starts to take ownership of the plant. All week we'd been teaching the kids about charismatic worship and the gifts of the holy spirit. We talked about using our bodies to honor God by lifting our arms and clapping our hands. And all week my girls really weren't feeling it. It didn't matter how loud I sang or how high I raised my hands, my girls clung tightly to their songbooks and kept asking me what time it would end. Needless to say my expectations weren't too high at the beginning of the meeting.

One of the gifts of the Holy Spirit that we taught the girls about was prophecy, or sharing with the group a word or Scripture verse that God puts on their heart. To be honest, I'd always been pretty freaked out by the gift of prophecy because it requires...gulp... public speaking. But that Friday morning I felt God tugging on my heart to share with the group a word of encouragement. So I took a deep breath and made my way to the microphone. I don't remember very clearly what I said, but I could feel a change in my girls as I walked back to my seat. No longer did I have to work to convince the girls to participate in worship. They started singing the songs. Some of them even raised their hands. At the end of the meeting I lead a train around the Pavilion that every one of my girls participated in, even the "cool" ones!

The funny thing about "a-ha!" moments is that we usually recognize it in others before we recognize it in ourselves. That prayer meeting taught me two things: 1. It reminded me of the power of the Holy Spirit and the personal ways it speaks to everyone. 2. It reminded me that the girl's unwillingness to participate in worship annoyed me because they mirrored my own reluctance to fully engage. I now understand why we counselors abide by the motto, it's a privilege to serve at camp. God uses our obedience to his call of service as an opportunity to draw us closer into his presence, a feet that is truly FANTASTIC, TERRIFIC, GREAT ALL DAY LONG!

How Lucky Am I To Have Known Someone Who Is So Hard to Say Goodbye Too

Today marks the end of an era. Scarcely in life does the universe alert us mere mortals to its game plan. When the universe throws us a curve ball, it usually serves to kick the wind out of our sails and force us to change direction. Once in a while, however, change occurs gradually enough so as to allow us a moment to pause and reflect on our transition from one season in life to another.

Tomorrow I move out of my college apartment.

First, let's talk about space. The apartment's really nothing special, the first floor of a subdivided duplex leftover from Pittsburgh's steel mill days. Inside you'll find a kitchen with rocky chairs, two bedrooms, a living room /library/study/UCO hang-out, and a bathroom with excellent water pressure. Pretty typical student housing minus empty pizza boxes, week-old dirty dishes, and a smelly bathroom all thanks to my slightly- OCD roommate.

Ah, my roommate. She's the jelly to my peanut butter, the Wilson to my House, the ENFJ to my INFJ. We compliment each other so well, that people often run our names together the way relatives do with fraternal twins. We met at freshman orientation for commuter students. I remember sitting next to her because she was reading a book like it was the most natural thing to be doing while sitting in a room of complete strangers desperate to make friends. The Holy Spirit was definitely at work in us that day, though I didn't have the vocabulary for it at the time.

Over the last four years, Katie and I have been there for each other through the lose of a parent, all night term papers, Snowpocalypse, and the G-20. She sat next to me last April as took our final final exam and mourned the loss of our student identities. In Katie I've found a partner, an anchor, and a teacher. She's called me out on my bs, walked me through my meltdowns, and taught me to appreciate coffee. In her I've found a soul mate who's got my back and kicks my butt. From her I've learned that nothing in life stays static, and the trick is to change with the people you love, not try to change them.

Tonight as we have our last late night philosophical/theological/sociological chat in the 15213, we'll raise our plastic cups to our sisterhood in its past, present, and future incarnations.

I should probably pick up more ice cream.

When You're Hungry At Work, Eat Bacon

Last night I finished reading the last book in the Hunger Games Trilogy, Mockingjay. I decided to read the Hunger Games trilogy because I really enjoy distopian fiction. I enjoy imagining the possibilities and/or ramifications resulting from a writer's decision to change his/her reader's expectations of fundamental social structures such as gender roles, racial stereotypes, or class markers.

First, some background on the genre. Dystopian fiction requires writers to create alternative, off-kilter universes with just enough of a base in their reader's "reality" for their reader to engage with the story. Writers create these unique societies in the hope that their readers will critically engage with the social structures that underlie the society in which they live. Dystopian fiction is not the same thing as science fiction which tends to include imaginary, but more or less plausible, realities set in the past or future.

As with any literary genre, some dystopian writers create more believable universes than others. Take, for example, Animal Farm by George Orwell. In "real" life two pigs, Snowball and Napoleon, could never kill their leader, seize power, and oppress the other farm animal, all before Napoleon gets greedy, kills Snowball and adopts the slogan "Napoleon is always Right." Any 12 year old could point out that this farm is one screwed up place where no one could possibly live a happy life. Yet Orwell created "real" life on the farm to parallel real life in Soviet Russia under Joseph Stalin. By showing his readers the reality behind the propaganda of "all animals are equal," Orwell readers question the realities of communism.

With Animal Farm as a yardstick for measuring dystopian fiction, I was bound to be disappointed by The Hunger Games. Halfway through Mockingjay I felt like I was watching a Die Hard sequel where Bruce Willis should have died 45 minutes ago, but somehow the movie drags on for another hour. I'm not saying that I wanted the series to end with Katniss martyred for the rebel cause, but such a depressing ending left me unsatisfied with Collins' ability to teach me a new, essential truth about the human experiance.

I know The Hunger Games falls into the "teen fiction" sub genre, but I'm sick of publishers  promoting novels for teens designed to be PG-13 blockbusters. You know which novels I'm talking about. Twilight by Stephanie Meyers. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series. The Princess Diaries series. All of these novels are designed to encourage cookie-cutter individuality that does not threaten the status quo.

What  irked me about the Hunger Games was that it threatens the integrity of dystopian fiction. Katniss recognizes that her society is corrupt, but she becomes the rebel's Mockinjay as an extension of her role as her family's protector. I think if she could have protected her family without destroying Panem she would have. For sure the Hunger Games politicized her, but they drove her to destroy her society rather than reform it.  Hungry

In becoming the Mockingjay Katniss becomes like Animal Farm's Boxer who labors incisively for Snowball (President Snow) and Napoleon (President Coin) with only the promise of humanities goodness to help her sleep at night. The Hunger Games trilogy fell flat for me because I finished the series glad to have finished it, not inspired to see my relationship to the world around me through new eyes.

Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promises

Lately I've been struggling with this profoundly simple question: Who am I? I'm not talking about the my name is X, I just graduated from Y, with a degree in Z. These basic facts only serve to box me into the very corner I'm trying to punch my way out of.

I'm not sure where to begin to answer this question. I thought college was supposed to tell me who I am. But college taught me that no one but me can tell me who I am. Fantastic. On the bright side, college did teach me that self discovery is both a privilege and a responsibility. A privilege in that choosing the kind of life you want to live comes with the responsibility of positively contributing to the world around you.

I began my self hood journey by reading countless books about other peoples journeys of self discovery. I thought if I read enough about self-discovery, somewhere along the line I'd find myself. False. But my research did teach me that self-discovery by way of risky relationships, reckless behavior, and substance abuse usually ends right where it began, with one step forward, two steps back.

A part of me knows that it's pretty ridiculous/arrogant/unrealistic for me to demand a stable sense of self from my 21 year old self. Some days I feel like my thoughts progress at a rate parallel to a child's development in the first 24 months of life. If you'll allow me to push the metaphor a bit, I'll tell you that when I look at moms complaining about their children's terrible twos I think to myself that nothing challenges the individuals capacity for patience/tolerance/and discipline more than the terrible twenties.

In the end I came to realize that my quest for self discovery came from a deep sense of fear. Fear of a life half lived. Fear of a negotiating a life with this head full of doubt/road full of promises outlook. Fear of turning into my mother. Fear of never leaving Pittsburgh and spending the rest of my life stuck in the monotonous existence that "the good" life appears to require. Deep down I know that finding an answer to the "so now that you've graduated, what will you do with the rest of your life" question will not eradicate my fears of failure. Yet I cling to the circular thinking of self-discovery because I fear I might not like the person I will discover I am.

30 Day Song Challenge

The 30 Day Song Challenge's been going around Facebook for a couple of weeks. For 30 Days you are supposed to post videos according to the rule for that day. Rather than annoy people in my newsfeed with 30 eclectic songs, I thought I'd post the list here. YouTube some of the songs if you have time. I promise they won't disappoint :)

I'll try to keep it to 3 Bruce Springsteen songs.

Day 1: Your Favorite Song: "Born to Run" (Bruce Springsteen)
Day 2: Your Least Favorite Song: "Hold it Against Me" (Britney Spears)
Day 3: A Song That Makes You Happy: "Michael Row The Boat Ashore" (Pete Seeger)
Day 4: A Song That Makes You Sad: "Knockin on Heaven's Door" (Bob Dylan)
Day 5: A Song That Reminds You of Someone: "Streetfighting Man" (Rolling Stones)
Day 6: A Song That Reminds You of Somewhere: "Fix You" (Coldplay)
Day 7: A Song That Reminds You of A Certain Event: "Young Forever" (Jay-Z ft. Mr. Hudson)
Day 8: A Song That You Know All The Words To: "Youth of The Nation" (POD)
Day 9: A Song That You Can Dance To: "Shake, Shake, Shake (You're Booty)" (KC and the Sunshine Band)
Day 10: A Song That Makes You Fall Asleep: "Come Fly With Me" (Frank Sinatra)
Day 11: A Song From Your Favorite Band: "4th of July, Ausbury Park (Sandy)" (Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band)
Day 12: A Song From A Band You Hate: "Black and Yellow" (Wiz Khalifa)
Day 13: A Song That is a Guilty Pleasure: "Fat-Bottomed Girls" (Queen)
Day 14: A Song That No one Would Expect You to Love: "Know Your Enemy" (Green Day)
Day 15: A Song That Describes You "Ties That Bind" (Bruce Springsteen)
Day 16: A Song That You Used to Love, but now Hate: "GoldDigger" (Kanye West)
Day 17: A Song That You Hear Often on the Radio: "Love Story" (Taylor Swift)
Day 18: A Song That You Wished You Heard on the Radio: "One Man Revolution" (Tom Morrello)
Day 19: A Song From Your Favorite Album: "Sigh No More" (Mumford and Sons)
Day 20: A Song That You Listen To When You're Feeling Lonely: "Whiskey Lullaby" (Brad Paisley)
Day 21: A Song That You Listen To When You're Feeling Contemplative: "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" (Bob Dylan)
Day 22: A Song You Listen to When You're Bored: "The Times They Are A-Changin'" (Peter, Paul, and Mary)
Day 23: A Song That You Want to Play At Your Wedding: "Dancing Queen" by Abba
Day 24: A Song That You Want Played At Your Funeral: "Amazing Grace"
Day 25: A Song That Makes You Laugh: "Dry Bones"
Day 26: A Song That You Can Play on An Instrument: "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" (The Beatles)
Day 27: A Song That You Wish You Could Play: "Cocaine" (Eric Clapton)
Day 28: A Song That Makes You Feel Guilty: "Hurt" (Johnny Cash)
Day 29: A Song From Your Childhood: "Bye,Bye,Bye" (N*SYNC)
Day 30: Your Favorite Song This Time Last Year: "Starts With Goodbye" by Carrie Underwood

13 Again

I was never one of those people that put much faith in the 13th of the month. The dozen or so Friday the 13th's I've witnessed in my life have come and gone bringing no significance other than bringing me one day closer to another weekend. That is until 2009. June 13, 2009 at 12:07 am to be exact. While the rest of Pittsburgh celebrated the Penguin's Stanley Cup victory, I mourned the passing of my father.

Dad and I always had a complicated relationship. I'm sure the 6 foot 4 ex-Marine failed to appreciate the universe's sense of humor when it handed him a baby girl who grew into an introverted nerd lacking any common sense or sense of direction.

Dad kept a picture of me in my wallet that pretty much encapsulated our relationship. When I was 9 or 10 Dad bought a Harley Davidson. He'd been saving up to buy one for years. Dad worked as an electrician whose paycheck varied with the seasons, so I'm sure he sacrificed a lot to buy it. My bedroom at the time sat right above the garage, so when I felt my floorboards vibrating a little after 10 on a Saturday morning, I knew something was going on.

I reached the garage right seconds before I heard the Harley's obnoxious roar. Dad eased it into the driveway I eyed him with contempt. See my sister Emile and I really wanted to get a pool for our backyard. We'd been begging Mom and Dad for one ever since school let out a few weeks previously. Despite our (in my opinion) very logical arguments, as well as our (in their opinion) illogical tantrums Mom and Dad made it clear that we were not getting a pool because we could not afford one. As Dad climbed off his bike eying me hopefully, I looked him right in the eye, asked "Is this really necessary?" turned on my heal, and stormed into my bedroom to sulk. I refused to speak to him for the rest of the day.

That night, however, curiosity got the best of me and I decided I needed to ride the Harley. Even though it was one of those 80 degree summer nights, I pulled on a pair of jeans, one of Dad's old flannel shirts, the protective goggles from my science kit,  and my grass-cutting Reebok's. I figured if I was going to do something ridiculous I might as well look the part.

Thank goodness my scatter-brained pre-teen self didn't think my ingenious plan through enough to grab the key's to Dad's new ride or I probably wouldn't be sitting here to write about it. Ten minutes later Dad found me in the garage sitting on the Harley shaking my fist at it because it wouldn't start. Rather than give me the scolding I deserved, Dad started laughing. Not the he-he that's-my-Becky-being-simple laugh but the one hand on the belly, one hand on the door frame, tears rolling down his cheeks laughing. Dad promised he wouldn't tell Mom if I let him take a picture. He kept that darn picture in his wallet until the day he died.

Dad certainly wasn't perfect and never claimed to be. As I grew up, I began to understand the impulsive way he made decisions as symptoms of the much larger disease that eventually claimed his life. But today I don't want to focus on the details of his death. I don't want to pass the blame, or fantasize about what if, because at the end of the day all I can expect from the past is wisdom for the future. On the day that marks the two-year anniversary of his passing, I want to remember the Dad who carried the picture of his four-eyed daughter with him wherever he went and who taught me that a good laugh is the best medicine for dealing with life's everyday absurdities.

Strength in What Remains

I created this blog as an outlet to aid in my transition from a college student to whatever God has in store for me in the next season of my life. Since it's summertime I thought I'd share with you some reflections from my summer reading list. I find summer reading list to be one of life's greatest pleasures. As a child, my grandmother enrolled me in at least two summer reading programs a summer, where I read picture books in exchange for stickers and coloring books. My eight year old self did not know that public libraries support children's summer reading programs to keep children intellectually engaged during the summer months. But it's not only children who need to remain intellectually engaged during the summer months. Adults too experience more downtime in the summer, and our culture encourages us to fill that downtime with mindless television (a la Jerseylisciuos and The Bachelorette) and beach romance novels that often leave us irritated and depressed about the fate of humanity.

After spending the first two weeks of my summer vacation gorging on Extreme Couponing and Dancing with the Stars, I decided that I need to be more deliberate with my summer reading list. My roommate recommended a wonderful book, Strength in What Remains by Tracy Kidder, that I just finished reading. The novel was my first self-conscious exploration of the creative non-fiction genre. The first half of the book explores Deo's journey from a Tutsi refugee from Burundi, to a homeless New Yorker, to a student at Columbia University. I loved the way Kidder juxtaposed Deo's experiences with history of Burundi's Hutu vs. Tutsi ethnic conflict. Before I read this book I was only aware of the Hutu vs. Tutsi conflict as it applied to Rwanda, Burundi's neighbor. (If you ever want to read a well written novel about Tutsi xenophobia in Rwanda I recommend Murambi, The Book of the Bones by Boubacar Boris Diop.)

The second half of the book documents Kidder and Deo's trips back to Burundi as Deo works to open a medical clinic in his hometown. Deo spends a lot of time visiting the memorials of the hundreds of thousands who died during the conflict. Many of the memorials contain a banner with "Jamais Plus" (Never Again) splashed across the front. Kidder questions the function of these memorials because they serve the tourist trade more than they do the survivors. The novel raised many questions I struggled with as an undergrad such as: what is the function/purpose of violence? How should a country deal with insurgencies without killing every insurgent? How can a nation move forward in respect to their past? What is the individual's responsibility in the peace process?

Do these questions have answers? Probably not. But the act of asking questions allows me to make sense of the problem, and one must understand the problem in order to envision a solution. The next book I hope will bring me one step closer to a solution for a problem I do not understand is Mother Theresa: Beyond the Image by Anne Sebba. I'm hoping to finish this book in the next week. I'll let you know how it goes :)