Showing posts with label Michelle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michelle. Show all posts

Saturday, July 21, 2007

playa de libertad

At home she played her part well, but this cruise threw her for a loop. She wasn’t quite sure of her role here. She didn’t have to worry if dinner would please him or if the towels were hung just so, but there were a whole new set of traps. She spent most of her days looking down, so she couldn’t be accused of looking at anther man – even on accident. She wasn’t sure how to dress. Too modest and he would complain and be embarrassed of her, too revealing and he would call her a slut or worse. That is easy enough at home, but on a cruise everyone wears tank tops and bikinis. Most of her wardrobe consisted of things to hide bruises, but there would be no hiding here.
She read a lot. Just books from the boat’s library and really she wasn’t reading. She was hiding. Books make you look occupied, they don’t invite conversation. She felt safely invisible behind them. He spent most of his time in the casino. Dwindling what little savings they had away. At night of course he would want her. She knew this role and it made acid come up into her throat. She swallowed it down and waited for it to be over. Sometimes she wasn’t sure what was worse, this or the beatings. She was thankful for the thin walls. Surely she would be safe here, at least as safe as she could be.
So far so good. The trip had been uneventful. She wasn’t quite enjoying herself like most of her fellow travelers but sometimes behind her book she caught herself breathing. Really breathing. Deeply and fully taking in the salty air. She didn’t know it yet, but each breathe was making her grow stronger. The days were ticking away and in 2 more days they would go home. Their home with a perfectly manicured lawn and very thick walls.
She liked the quietness of her cabin during the day when most people were on the pool deck and her husband was in the casino she just laid on the cool sheets and pretended to read and kept breathing. At least once a day she would wonder through the gift shop. It felt safe and there was something comforting about all the travel sized toiletries and overpriced t-shirts. She liked to read the postcards and wished she still had friends to send them to. She couldn’t imagine what she would write on them. “Wish you were here” didn’t seem fitting. On the third day she saw the clerk eyeing her closely and it occurred to her that her frequent visits were looking suspicious. She quickly grabbed a plastic magnet and hurriedly paid for it at the counter. It wasn’t until the clerk put it in the bag that she realized what it said. A silly ballerina and cursive writing “dance like no one is looking” in pink and silver script. Complete junk. Someone was always looking.
It was their last port and he wanted to venture out. She was expected to come of course not for the company but because waiting at tables at the Playa de Maya for the last 4 years had taught her enough Spanish to get by. She got them a cab and told the driver to take them to the closest beach. It was nice. The sun was shining on the white sand. The water was almost clear, not like the Gulf of Mexico that she was used to. If she remembered how she could probably have a good time. She hadn’t relaxed in the last 4 years and little white sand wasn’t going to do the trick. He put the little Spanish he knew to good use ordering one Cerveza after another. She brought a book and remembered to turn the pages at the right times. Occasionally she would rub sunscreen on the both of them or wade into the water all while he kept drinking. At home, watching him drink more than two beers was enough to make her tremble inside. The beach and sun seemed to have a calming effect though. He still wasn’t pleasant, pointing out each girl who was skinnier than her or had bigger breasts. She tried to laugh it off and promised to go on a diet. Secretly she wished he would take a liking to one of them instead. On second thought, she wouldn’t wish him on anyone.

The day crept by and at 4:00 she carefully started to pack their bag. The ship had been pretty adamant about their 5:00 boarding curfew. She heard it bellowing over the loudspeaker over and over when they deported. His wallet, sunscreen, camera……when she got to her towel she was extra careful. Slowly and carefully she pulled the corners up and carried it almost 100 yards away before shaking. She folded it perfectly 4 times, just the way he liked. As she added it to the bag, he turned to her. She was expecting a reproach, that she had folded wrong or something, but instead he said, “what’s the rush, aren’t you having a good time babe.”
“Yes of course honey, but we don’t want to miss the boat. They said to board by 5 and that they would be leaving port at 6.”
“six o’clock, we have two more hours then”
He ordered another beer and slowly sipped it. He noticed her looking at her watch
“Trust me babe, they won’t leave us, just go have another dip in the water. We can go after I finish this last beer.”
She resisted every temptation she had to try and convince him otherwise. She would just be wasting her breathe. She obeyed and walked to the water’s edge. She kept looking at her watch, 4:20, 4:37, 4:52, 5:07. She was getting nervous. It was a 15 minute cab ride and she didn’t like being late. This was a quality he had beaten in to her. She had to try to get him to leave even if it meant a fight. She turned back to their chairs and he was passed out.
She tapped him lightly, then harder and he only grumbled. She couldn’t carry him and she started to panic. They were going to miss the boat and somehow he would make it her fault. And then she did something unexpected. She didn’t think about it, because if she had she never would have done it. She grabbed the bag, walked to the bar and paid the tab. She left him there sleeping, sandy, drunk and slightly sunburned. She didn’t look back just quickly got into a cab.
For the first 1o minutes she was calm. In shock. She almost thought it was funny. She had his wallet, credit cards, driver’s lisence and passport. She would really be punished when he got back. But it would take him a while to get back without cash or an id. She was counting on it. And then it sunk in. She got the driver to pull over and threw up twice on the side of the road.
She got back to the port and got in line to board. She was late, but so were a handful of other travelers. She showed her id, walked through the metal detectors. She was shaking and barely made it back to her room before she threw up again. She half expected him to be waiting for her when she came out of the bathroom, but he was hopefully still passed out on the beach somewhere. She tried to remember how to breathe and finally began to at 6:44 when she heard the engines start up. She stood on the deck and watched the land disappear.
She didn’t sleep. Every footstep made her jump. When housekeeping knocked on her door she began to hyperventilate. They were just reminding her that they were expected to dock that afternoon in Galveston, to make sure she was packed and go over de-boarding procedure. Most of the cruisers seemed to be spending their last few tropical hours packing or on the pool deck. She was unpacking. She unloaded all of his clothes and things into the drawers. She tucked his suitcase into the closet and put her things into the smaller bag. The dress he bought for her remained on the hanger. She wanted to take as little of him as possible with her. The last few hours seemed to drag by. The unloading process was laborious and long, she followed directions and left when it was her turn. She kept watching for him around every corner. The sight of police made her jump as well. She half expected them to arrest her or question her even though she had committed no crimes.
Her car was exactly where they had parked it and she thought maybe she could breathe once she was inside and on the interstate. It was only an hour and a half drive to their Houston apartment, but she wouldn’t be going there. She paid the garage attendant and got off the island as fast as possible. She didn’t even turn on the radio until Leauge City. She plugged her cell phone into the car charger and pulled off I-45 for gas. While the gas pumped she opened up her purse. She looked into the small side pocket where she kept two important possessions hidden. One she used daily, and the other she thought she would never use. They were both wrapped discretely in a maxipad wrapper. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t look too closely there. The first item was where she hid her birth control pills and the second was a little card with a phone number they gave her at her last emergency room visit. She said she slipped on some bath water and hit her head on the counter, but they handed her this card anyways.
She threw the pills away and picked up the phone.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

What I did on my Summer Vacation Essay or 500 words, give or take 1000

The infamous “What I did on my Summer Vacation Essay”, I’m not sure I was ever assigned that one. Suddenly I see myself in Junior English. I was 16, flat chested, boyfriendless, wanting desperately to have the whole fitting popular feeling behind me. And it almost was, but only almost because there I was sitting in my name brand jeans thought I probably spent all my birthday money on. I am also pretty sure that I woke up at least an hour before school started to get my hair just right. I am still clueless with what to do with makeup but that never stopped me then. I wish I had had enough sense to throw on those old comfy jeans. The ones with the holes in them ( not on purpose), a soft t-shirt and pulled my hair into a ponytail……but that wardrobe would have to wait until college.

But back to my 16 year old self, English was just a class. Not one I particularly looked forward to either. If anyone had asked my favorite subject I never would have said English. I dreaded the essays and sentence diagramming. I did look forward to the reading lists, although , I tried not to appear too eager. I complained as much as the rest as the class, but at home I read them. Cover to cover. Usually well before the deadline. I hated homework of read chapters one and two. I read books, like I later learned to drink beer. Fast until I finished. I couldn’t stop at the end of chapter two. I needed to know what happened like I needed another drink.

And I liked the excuse to read, at this stage I of felt like I needed one. Reading was kind of cool for a while. Me and Ramona Quimby were the best of friends in elementary school. I also went through a slightly embarrassing Babysitters Club phase, but am pleased to report that the Sweet Vally High Twins and I never clicked. Sometime in junior high those books seemed babyish, and replaced with talking on the phone, listening to music ( really bad music I might add) and learning how to French kiss. So when we got our reading lists every year I dug in.

So, back to the first week of English III. You already have most of the background, but what you don’t know is that I was more than a bit guarded. I didn’t like letting people in. Really in. Being vulnerable wasn’t exactly safe in my family and well not that safe for anyone in high school period. That being said I would have killed for our first writing assignment to be “what I did on my summer vacation”. Surely I would have written something amusing or satirical. I doubt I would have truly written about our beach vacation where more than likely my parents screamed at each other, I got 3rd degree burns and most of my family got drunk and passed out. Possibly even me. I can’t remember that summer in particular but they were all pretty much the same. Not to say there weren’t any warm memories from those summer beach retreats. Surprisingly there are many, but at 16 you kind of gravitate towards the bad stuff. The melancholy teenager hanging on to anything to give her a thick wall to build around herself. Yes, I would have written something light and clever and given it a really zingy title. I was well known for my zingy titles. Instead Mrs. Lampo asked us to write not one silly essay but a collection of private personal ones. I believe it was called a “me book”. I cringed as she described the assignment. Now, as a teacher I can see what she was trying to do. She wanted to get to know us. Who we were, what we liked, how we wrote, how to reach us. The problem was, I was 16 and she was one of them. A grown up. A teacher. A mom of a kid in our class. She was not to be trusted. How could I write all these essays on who I was, my strongest influences, the things I was most proud of etc.. Maybe later in the year. Maybe by April or something when we had a chance to feel each other out. Not now. Not the first week. I can picture her clearly. She was about my mom’s age. Short, with short dark hair. She was always very smartly dressed, much more stylish than my mom and with her toes perfectly pedicured. She always seemed a bit shifty to me. She had this large mole on her face that I couldn’t help but stare at as she lectured. It was about the size of a dime and I swear it got bigger as the year went on. It has made me really self councious about my own mole. I keep thinking about having it removed all because of the time I spent making fun of hers in the 11th grade. She was probably a pretty good teacher, although she made me uneasy. Usually good teachers fall into one of two categories: cold, hard and feared, but eventually that fear turns into respect and the cold starts to warm. This would be Mrs. Holmes my 6th grades science teacher and first F I ever received on a test. Next would be the warm and encouraging type. You learned so much simply because you wanted to please them. This would be my 10th grade English teacher, Mrs. Prejean who introduced me to Anne Sexton on the first day ( no damn summer vacation essays from her either). I wouldn’t have memorized that ridiculously long Friends, Romans, Countrymen speech for anyone else. Mrs. Lampo didn’t quite fit into either category. I suppose she was hard, but not especially challenging. I didn’t warm to her, nor did I truly respect her. I did, however, like to argue with her. This was her fault of course. She introduced our poetry unit with this long flowery speech about how no opinion or interpretation of a poem could be wrong. There were no dumb questions or bad observations. Once again, as a fellow educator I can see what she was trying to do. She wanted to create a safe atmosphere for us to speak up and discuss. The only problem with that was she announced to my class that my observation was dead wrong only 15 minutes after her flowery speach. I didn’t burn with shame, instead I took it as a challenge. Maybe this challenge was just what I needed to motivate me to prove myself to her academically or maybe all it motivated me to do was toilet paper her house and leave an egg in her mailbox with a threatening note about Thoreau.

Back to my first week assignment…These personal essays had a cold fearful grip on me. Usually my writing process involved mulling the topic over for a bit and then pouring it all out on paper the day or so ( or occasionally the period) before it was due. I didn’t proofread or spellcheck. I finished them in a flurry and handed them in. I think I was afraid if I gave them a proper reading I would be too embarrassed to even have them graded. My spelling was not something to be envied. I never quite got a great grasp on grammar either. To this day I couldn’t tell you what a gerrand is. I somehow managed to get As, although my papers were usually heavily marked with red.. These essays were different. I was supposed to reveal something about myself. To her. To someone who could be my mother…and that would be the last person I wanted to be unguarded around. Sometimes I still feel that way. I briefly just considered making it all up. Some fictional crap that would satisfy her little assignment and still get me a good grade. It might even be fun, making things the way I wanted them to be instead of how they were. I also considered doing what I usually ( yes still) do when I am a bit uncomfortable and guarded…being funny. Writing decent essays, but not digging in. Keeping them on the surface and full of satire. The struggle was I couldn’t do either. It felt like I would be cheapening it somehow. I didn’t trust this Mrs. Lampo or her mole. It was still too early to tell if she would earn my respect, but I realized the writing already had. That it didn’t just get to scratch the surface or be passed off as a joke. That it was bigger than my fear. So I did it. I wrote about my fears and my hopes and my proudest moments. I put it all on paper and fearfully turned it in. Who it was this 16 year old girl thought she was. I saved one of those essays. I think it is in my high school box up in my parent’s attic. I did get an A. I can’t remember if it was really any good or not. I didn’t sign up to be my high school newspaper editor or go on to pursue a degree in journalism. I didn’t spend all my free time writing short stories instead of watching 90210, but it did teach me that this writing stuff was real. It had to be vulnerable, and it was most certainly to be respected, big hairy mole and all.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

I am who I am

That is what God told Moses (exodus 3:14)……..and I think it sums it up. That word am has to be one of the most important in the English language. You might argue that “is” and “are” are equally important. I disagree. Is is not personal. It is how someone else introduces you. Are is how you talk about someone else. Am is how you describe yourself. Obviously God did not feel the need to finish the sentence because He is everything. Everything good at least.
I am also a lot of things……although my resume is not as all inclusive as God’s but I am…… a lot of things. A mother, a wife, a child, a teacher, a friend, a sister, an aunt…you get the idea. Most of those are easy to say because they don’t require any desire. I was born, making me a child. I got married making me a wife. I get paid to be a teacher. Don’t get the wrong idea – they all take skill and work….but these are easy ones to admit and accept. There are some damaging I ams out there that I have learned to avoid. There are other I ams that are sort of wishful. Hopeful. Hesitant to come right out and say. I read Bird by Bird and decided that I wanted to be a writer. Notice I said I want to be…….not I am . Technically I am typing here. Using complete sentence ( well sometimes). I am writing……..but does that make me a writer? Of course. But that doesn’t roll off the tongue or pen so easily because it makes too many assumptions. I don’t assume to be good at this. I don’t assume that any one will ever pay me for it. I don’t want to say I am………and allow confidence in this hope or pleasure. I dabble. I blog. I read. Can I just be an amateur writer? I don’t think the word am goes too well with disclaimers. I run, but I see those skinny people in spandex at the gym or in races and think they are the runners and I well……..I am just barely keeping up. I think I have to be good at it to call myself that. Thankfully – the I am a Christian part doesn’t try and follow those same rules. I would look around at church and say those women, the ones with ironed shirts and memorized verses -those are the Christians. I don’t quite have it together….so I must just be pretending. Thankfully, it doesn’t really work that way. I am because of what I believe. I am because I want to be. So on that note, I am a runner, a soccer player, a good joke teller, a photographer and maybe just maybe even a writer.