Blinksmanship

I tear down the hall at my usual breakneck speed, almost crashing into him as he turns the corner, rubbing one eye.

"It's not June 6," I say, stopping him in his tracks.

His silence invites my thoughts to burst out into a tangled ramble of history.

"I teach D-Day, in summer school, on June 6. But if I wait that long we won't get to the Korean Conflict until days after that, and my students have no idea what's going in Korea now, and I don't want them to miss it, I mean imagine if your kids asked you what you were doing during the Cuban Missile Crisis and you had to shrug and say "I didn't pay attention. I didn't care" because I think people do care about things they understand but if they don't know anything then it's all confusing like if I say Pakistan some students visibly shrink and I swear to you the same ones who think the Pamana Canal was built through Puerto Rico think that Palestine and Pakistan are the same thing and even though I only teach history I still think it's a big deal to wake them up, you know?"

He nods at me, gripping a sheet of white paper stiffly enough it rolls in his hand.

I take this as a sign to continue.

"Well, thanks to North Korea, I'm going to race my summer school students through WW2 in one day (Monday) in my Foreign Policy class, then tell them to read about the Truman Doctrine and Marshall Plan, give them a link to read Churchill's Iron Curtain Telegram, show one slide on the Berlin Airlift, mention the impact of nuclear arms on the balance of power around the world, then get RIGHT to the 1950 conflict and 1953 armstice that is now in the news again."

Again he nods.

I nod back, gravely.

He rolls back on his heels then leans forward, and says in his serious-because-this-is-about-students-tone, "Don't forget Kennan's Long Telegram. And NSC-68."

As we nod our heads together at the beauty of those puzzle pieces fitting right into the story, I ball my fists up and stomp my foot involuntarily.

"YOU ARE SO RIGHT" I say, in a tone more irritated than thankful. "And dammit now that you reminded me of Kennan and containment it ALSO won't make sense if I also don't explain the UNand the Chinese Revolution and Taiwan AND why the USSR boycotted the UN Security Council vote on Korea and the nuclear arms race that was unfolding. But will any of this make sense without the economic context, too? I can't just race through this stuff."

I shake my head, scowling mildly, clearly resonating with the tensions of the world.

With that said, we move around each other then walk down the hallway off to where we were each headed, without a goodbye.

Playlist

************



******


******


******

Chapter 3: Skinny

July 7, 1994

Mirror mirror on the wall
Are you cracked? Will you fall?
Is the image you show true?
Is it me or am I you?

Mirror mirror, do you show
Who I am? Or what I know?

Enemy deepest, I do plead
Release me from this life I lead.
Crack yourself, undo this spell
In your prison, I’ve found hell.

July 8, 1994

Just saw Forrest Gump. THE BEST.

Watched the Simpson trial all this week. He was expressionless, or at least he was until today when they described how the victims died. He grimaced – its rough. No one wants him to be guilty!

You know, people often think anorexics are obsessed about being fat, but every time I’ve been like this – dropping weight fast – I’m more fascinated with being thin.

The thinness of me.

The barest essential of Melissa, with the glorious power of loose clothes.

Skinny, happy, free.

I feel like I don’t need makeup or jewelry; I’m just pure me.

But I know there is a point to stop losing weight. I haven’t found it.

Today, I had 2 cups of air popped popcorn.

That’s it.

July 30, 1994

I was in the hospital on Tuesday and Wednesday, throwing up blood.

Only Abuelo came to see me.

August 9, 1994 (Tallahassee, home)

I swear I will never finish a diary, but I needed to stop that last one because of the direction it had been going.

Isn’t it strange, but today is a new start, you know.

N. left Tallahassee (for good) today.
A is getting married.
A moved back to Miami, and R moved with her parents.

All that has loomed over this past year is gone.
Whole new start this semester.

I weigh 121, and am killing myself throwing up but I have to because I started eating again.

I hate it, I hate eating, I hate hunger.

This is what I have to deal with.

August 12, 1994

Mom and Dad are in town and I planted a garden of impatiens outside my door.

We developed a roll of film and my Mom showed me the sadness in my eyes.

Its true. I’m sad and exhausted, and I’ll take ten laxatives tonight, and still throw up tomorrow, no doubt..

Its such an overwhelming drive to be thin,to melt away all the pain I’ve felt and maybe been an accomplice to.

I try to clip my own wings and retreat to a cocoon so I can emerge a different butterfly, but I know there is no shedding my life – I am becoming who I am intended to be.

August 19, 1994

I saw Dr Psychiatrist today – what a waste.

He started the session asking me if I had a boyfriend, and then, why not?

There was a nurse in the room today and they kept exchanging glances and it was so fucking distracting.

By the end of the hour he recommended admitting me to the hospital until I gained 15 pounds, stabilized my electrolytes and was no longer anemic.

How crazy.

It was an overwhelming urge actually, when it hit.

A tidal wave that had me wearing an apron, cleaning the house, purging my office, sweeping, mopping, carrying loads of trash out, clearing the way. I didn’t know that was it while it was happening, but it was.

It was like that nesting instinct before giving birth. I nested, I cleaned, and then, there it was, exactly where it was hiding at eye level in the laundry room in the top of three clear storage containers that I’d thrown blankets and coats on top of.

My a voice familiar maybe memorized from a home and garden show chanted, “whatever is in there, you don’t need. You haven’t looked at it in years, let it go, just toss it.”

My instinct shakes her head dismissively. “Treasure!” she whispers, “Open it!”

And so I step over the pile of unfolded blankets and around the stack of unmated socks tangled with kitchen cloths, balance the container on my knee and peek in.

A rack of dusty CDs.
Basia.
Nine and a half weeks.
Peter Gabriel.
Old old stuff.

A teal covered spiral bound copy book is on the top of a stack of notebooks and newspaper clippings. Across the top it says Florida State University, Course: Latin American Civilizations. Instructor: Soldani.

Gold, this truly is treasure.

I’m getting ready to teach that course again, and I need to be reminded of how arrange and schedule the narrative. Of course, no, I shouldn’t use this book as my guide, I remember, because it is from Fall 1994, the first semester I taught college, the semester I eloped.

Minutes later I am unpacking the books on the red sofa, which for once is devoid of clothes waiting in limbo to be rehung or washed.

A skinny notebook with only about 15 pages begs to be opened. On the cover is a picture of a kitten chasing a violet. Three strips of electrical tape cross the bottom of the cover, obscuring something I’d probably regretted writing.

I wrote differently back then, I am sure. Back when I wrote only for myself, I thought dark thoughts, wrote dark stories, and basically lived under thunderclouds of sadness.

At least that’s what I think I wrote about, because I don’t generally read my old journals.

Then I open it to page #1. August 9 (no year)
My eyes roll down the page, looking for clues. It starts out with "I swear I never finish a diary, but I needed to stop that last one because of the direction it was going."

"I found it!" I say out loud to the box, to the books, to the instinct that brought this to me.

Flipping through the pages I see it goes from August to the end of October.

The last entry, which I pause to read, tells a story of sleepless nights, of nightmares, then describes the three pills I took to find peace.

I close the book and hug it to my chest.

1993. The lost year. The year I tried to disappear, shrink, fade away or otherwise escape painlessly and silently.

The book below it is bold, proud almost, the opposite of the skinny book.

On its cover happy faces with stick figures gesticulate around a framed title which says, “Reference material for the Movie of my Life.”

“Ugh. I would never pick that now,” my ego kicks in her shrillish voice. “How arrogant. I don’t even know her at all! What? Was she a drama queen twinkie? Please, please put it away before I die of embarassment.”

I smile at the quiet that floods after that thought, clearing space to see things differently, and open the second book to a random page.

June 1, 1994
“Guess I saw it coming… it wouldn’t have gone anywhere.”

Oh no, I think, flipping backwards through the book.

I don’t remember this book at all, I think, and a sinking feeling pulls me down crashing to earth. I don’t remember writing anything back then! I thought there was no record… that I was too depressed to write.

Clearly, I wasn’t.

Inside the cover, written sideways in teal is:

I’ve dreamed dreams in my life, Dreams that have stayed with me ever after, And have changed my ideas; they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. (Emily Bronte)

Under that, in the same pen, beneath a cool row of doodled circles, is “I’ve just had nightmares” –Melissa

The first page is “May 11, 1994” and it begins the same as the skinnier book, “I’m great at starting these book, but I don’t finish them unless there is some overwhelming tragedy in my life. And I guess that’s why there has been such a pause – things have been great. “


Oh no, I close the book.

This is torture. I want to run back to her and say, “Duck and cover!” but I can’t.

I can only read the stories I told about myself, about what I thought was going on, about what I believed I’d had and lost and who I was becoming.

An hour later, I close the book and lay it on top of the dusty CDs.

Time to go back to the laundry room, I command myself, shaking myself back from then to now, surprised truly in reading stories I must have somehow revised in my head since then.

"I wonder," I think tossing bleached white towels into the dryer, "I wonder if this will change anything..." and before I can even pause, my instinct hugged me from behind, warmly as usual, nodding happily.

Chapter 1: Treasure

It was an overwhelming urge actually, when it hit me with a tidal wave that had me wearing an apron, cleaning the house, purging my office, sweeping, mopping, carrying loads of trash out, clearing the way.

It was like that nesting instinct before giving birth.

I nested, I cleaned, and then, there it was, exactly where it was hiding at eye level in the laundry room in the top of three clear storage containers that I’d thrown blankets and coats on top of.

My a voice familiar maybe memorized from a home and garden show chanted, “whatever is in there, you don’t need. You haven’t looked at it in years, let it go, just toss it.”

My instinct shakes her head dismissively. “Treasure!” she whispers, “Open it!”

And so I step over the pile of unfolded blankets and around the stack of unmated socks tangled with kitchen cloths, balance the container on my knee and peek in.

A rack of dusty CDs.
Basia.
Nine and a half weeks.
Peter Gabriel.
Old old stuff.

A teal covered spiral bound copy book is on the top of a stack of notebooks and newspaper clippings. Across the top it says Florida State University, Course: Latin American Civilizations. Instructor: Soldani.

Gold, this truly is treasure.

I’m getting ready to teach that course again, and I need to be reminded of how arrange and schedule the narrative.

Of course, no, I shouldn’t use this book as my guide, I remember, because it is from Fall 1994, the first semester I taught college, the semester I eloped.

Minutes later I am unpacking the books on the red sofa, which for once is devoid of clothes waiting in limbo to be rehung or washed.

A skinny notebook with only about 15 pages begs to be opened. On the cover is a picture of a kitten chasing a violet. Three strips of electrical tape cross the bottom of the cover, obscuring something I’d probably regretted writing.

I wrote differently back then, I am sure. Back when I wrote only for myself, I thought dark thoughts, wrote dark stories, and basically lived under thunderclouds of sadness.

At least that’s what I think I wrote about, because I don’t generally read my old journals.

Then I open it to page #1. August 9 (no year)
My eyes roll down the page, looking for clues. It starts out with "I swear I never finish a diary, but I needed to stop that last one because of the direction it was going."

"I found it!" I say out loud to the box, to the books, to the instinct that brought this to me.

Flipping through the pages I see it goes from August to the end of October.

The last entry, which I pause to read, tells a story of sleepless nights, of nightmares, then describes the three pills I took to find peace.

I close the book and hug it to my chest.

1993. The lost year. The year I tried to disappear, shrink, fade away or otherwise escape painlessly and silently.

The book below it is bold, proud almost, the opposite of the skinny book.

On its cover happy faces with stick figures gesticulate around a framed title which says, “Reference material for the Movie of my Life.”

“Ugh. I would never pick that now,” my ego kicks in her shrillish voice. “How arrogant. I don’t even know her at all! What? Was she a drama queen twinkie? Please, please put it away before I die of embarassment.”

I smile at the quiet that floods after that thought, clearing space to see things differently, and open the second book to a random page.

Inside the cover, written sideways in teal is:

I’ve dreamed dreams in my life, Dreams that have stayed with me ever after, And have changed my ideas; they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. (Emily Bronte)

Under that, in the same pen, beneath a cool row of doodled circles, is “I’ve just had nightmares” –Melissa

June 1, 1994
“Guess I saw it coming… it wouldn’t have gone anywhere.”

Oh no, I think, flipping backwards through the book.

I don’t remember this book at all, I think, and a sinking feeling pulls me down crashing to earth. I don’t remember writing anything back then! I thought there was no record… that I was too depressed to write.

Clearly, I wasn’t.


The first page is “May 11, 1994” and it begins the same as the skinnier book, “I’m great at starting these book, but I don’t finish them unless there is some overwhelming tragedy in my life. And I guess that’s why there has been such a pause – things have been great. “

Oh no, I close the book.

This is torture. I want to run back to her and say, “Duck and cover!” but I can’t.

I can only read the stories I told about myself, to myself. 

 I do not recognize most of it.

An hour later, I close the book and lay it on top of the dusty CDs.

Time to go back to the laundry room, I command myself, shaking myself back from then to now.

"I wonder," I think tossing bleached white towels into the dryer, "I wonder if this will change anything..." and before I can even pause, my instinct hugged me from behind, warmly as usual, nodding happily.

Something Else

When we talked the day I came down, she thanked me again, saying she hadn't had a vacation in over a year.

"I was here in November, remember?"

She shook her head, I shrugged.

"I planted those artful metal sunflowers? Now do you remember?"

She squinted her eyes, but nothing came.

I think they left for their anniversary. Or a convention. It was something I wouldn't ask about, so now I can't remind her about, and let the conversation go silent.

He joins us, smiling, then my Dad sits down too. Parrots circle above us on a breezy late Spring evening as we sip on wine and make small talk.

Abuelo relaxes back into himself, looking healthier and more rested than I have seen him in years, then he goes right for the jugular. "Melissita, querida, tell me, when are you going to get married? In the church? And get your kids in the church? Por favor?"

I fall right into laughter, and hold my hands up, waving the conversation away, which doesn't help because I continue to draw his fire for a few more minutes of relentless paternal interrogation.

The conversation rolls to iPhones, to hurricanes, to garden vegetables and finances.

Time passes easily, and as the sun sets, Mom leans over so her temple is against mine, then half-whispers,"I'm so glad you're here."

I haven't seen her laugh like this in ages.

The next morning I am up before dawn to take my parents to the airport.

The rest of the day, Abuelo and I spend alone watching Gunsmoke, Cops and Speeders. His girlfriend calls more than once, and he mumbles into the phone.

As the sun sets we watch the news in Spanish, then surf between game shows in Spanish and English.

I pretend to not hear him and hide my smile.

I pour a glass of wine and curl up with a book, half watching TV with him.

"This is what I want," he says, continuing rationally a conversation we had begun last November, and even in June or March before that. "Some company, someone to turn around and talk to. Melissa mia, you don't know how quiet it gets. You think you can imagine it or that you would like it, but you're wrong. It isn't good to be alone."

"Ay Abuelo. I hide in the closet. I hide in books. I go crazy looking for ways to be alone, but I've always been like that."

He nods his head. "But still, you do not understand. I walk in the door and I'm thinking, 'Wait until I tell her...' and 'I need to remember to ask her' and then she's...."

Both of our eyes mist over in the short pause that follows, the only time we cried the entire three days that I was there.

He continues.

"Like right now. I thinks she's at the wedding with them, that she'll call or come back with them. You know?"

I nod.

She IS at the wedding of course, I think to myself.

And she's here.

She's everywhere, now.

And that's just how it is, which isn't always easy to hold on to, but it's getting easier and easier now that I've learned to listen for her laughter in the wind.

"You can talk to her and tell her stories if you want to, Abuelo. I do."

He shook his head, half smiling, then says the same thing he's said about me since I was three years old. "You're something else, you know that? You're something else," and I think he was about to say more but then his phone rang, again, and he mumbled and stood up, leaving me alone with my book.

Guest Blogger for Mother's Day

(by Zoe Lemon, guest columnist while mom eats carrot cake for dinner)

My mommy's name is Melissa.

She has beautiful hazel eyes and styled brown hair.

My mommy likes doing gardening with me, and reading.

She does not like hate.

Her favorite color is teal, like her aura.

She likes to eat Cuban food.

My mommy's favorite thing to do is spend time with me & Zack.

At home, mommy likes to watch me & Zack play together.

My mommy makes me laugh when she says funny stuff.

I love my mommy because she is loving!

ACROSTIC POEM

Magnificent smile
Open heart
Trusting
Huggable
Elegant
Rising above all else.

RUNNING POEM
to my Mommy

Roses are red,
Runners go "phew,"
No one is stronger
Than 29-year old you!

(l*o*l, sorry about the 29!)

Chapter 27: The New Widow

And there she sat in the bone dry bathtub, on top of a folded towel, staring at her bright red toenails.

The phone would ring at 4pm but until that, she was free behind this locked door.

Breath by breath she slowed herself down, sinking into the softest velvet of a dream familiar where he waited.

Every time they met, it was like this.

Silent.

"Still," she thought to herself, letting words judgelessly stream themselves out of steam, "still, it's better than nothing."

And as those words melted into honey in her head, his smile warmed a corner of her neck, just beneath her ear.

Clean My Car

I heard  the two of them  talking yesterday in theatrically hushed tones on my Blackberry's speakerphone planning a Mother's Day gift for me.  

Lucky for them, I was too busy writing syllabi for Summer School classes to interrupt their brainstorming.

Now that I have a few minutes, while my coffee sits cooling on the morning of Zack's kindergarten orientation, I want to take a minute and make something clear.

I do NOT want coupons for "hugs" for Mother's Day.  

And -- please, please?? -- no coupons for "kisses" or "foot rubs" either. 

I don't even use coupons for things that save me money; I certainly won't  walk up to a cranky kid and hand them a piece of paper -- no, better, wave it at the back of their head while it is buried deep in a pillow -- demanding a sudden burst of affection.

As a mother -- and, more, as a person -- I only want those things when they come up spontaneously. 

Thanks, though. 

Now, if you'd like to clean my car (inside and out), then please, bring it on. 

I like my tires extra shiny.

Muggy Cloudy Morning

In the last dream that held
my mind captive on
this muggy cloudy morning,
I was a hostage and prisoner
captured and cornered
phonelessly silent
in a strange and hostile place.

When I tried to escape,
quickly and unexpectedly
through the hidden door,
past the dogs,
and that man
with the sideways glare and worn out shoes
I only found myself further gone
in rooms without windows
or light.

So there I stood
cornered with my back
against a cool concrete wall
knowing better than to
cry
or worse
sit down and quit.

I thought to myself silently
(loudly)
"Wake up!"