Boomerangs

After hyperventilating
at the apocalyptic mess
in girlchild’s room, the floor
laden with crafts half-
done and clothes half-
worn we together
resolved on a plan
for a tidier space.
Our reconnaissance mission
to a store called Boomerangs
for the elusive desk
with drawers.
We purchased a solid oak
grand dame of drawers,
loaded with the help
of brawny workers, so kind.
On our way home, boychild asked
if he could watch YouTubes on
“How to pick a lock,” since
he said that might be
useful in his future.
Back home
Husband paused, no words
reminded me, third floor 
aloft, winding narrow stairwells
this monster 
bedroom imposter
must be returned.

Boomeranging to
Boomerangs I found her
majesty had no match,
elected instead to accept
store credit and a
sequined hooded
sweatshirt from Justice,
the balance of justice here lacking
as it will be if boychild
ever tries to pick a lock
to his sister’s room
which may well remain
apocalyptic until the very end.

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She’s Still There

When was a time in your life when you felt the most hope?

That’s the question Chrystal Evans Hurst asks in her new book She’s Still There: Rescuing the Girl in You. Hurst posits that if we ask that person, the person we were who was full of hope about our future, we will find the answer to whatever we are questioning right now in our lives. Because she’s still here. We just need to go and ask her what she thinks.

I haven’t read Hurst’s book but this premise resonates with me. I’ve just moved house with my family, back to a place where I have grasped for hope and held hope and lost hope in equal measures. I’m at a career crossroads, juggling the hot potato of what it is I still want to be when I grow up. So I’m taking Hurst’s advice. I’m going to go find that girl and rescue her.

***

There are a couple iterations of Kendra who had a lot of hope.

Flower girlin w/ my cousin Li’l Ry. Grandpa + Auntie Nora behind us.

The first I can remember is Young Kendra who spent a lot of time with her grandparents. They really were the most loving forces you could imagine. Doting, good-humored, and completely enamored of their family. Also, they thought a heaping bowl of Rocky Road ice cream was a totes appropriate pre-bedtime snack. I spent countless afternoons and overnights at my grandparents’ houses. I felt secure and loved and could not imagine a world that would be so cruel so as to eclipse the warmth of my grandparents. I only have one living grandparent now. I called my Granny today. She wasn’t home. But it still felt good to be able to call her. A baby step in my rescue mission.

kendrahighschoolgrad Another Hopeful Kendra can be found in Recent High School Graduate Kendra and the summer that followed. An idyll, that season. I was so glad to be done with the drudgery of high school, the negativity and sadness that had clouded my purview for the last few years prior. Also, I was still working at Dairy Queen and you CANNOT BEAT full access to a walk-in cooler with whole vats of boulders of Reese Cup goodness. When I think about visiting that Kendra, it’s honestly hard to imagine how unobstructed her view was. She wouldn’t know how she’d have her heart shattered in the coming year. She would think college would be all about studying interesting topics and taking study breaks to watch 80’s rom-coms with her roomies. And yet she’d probably still tell me something valuable, which is, to pursue that which interests me, and to try new things even if it’s uncomfortable because otherwise how will we ever grow and how will we ever figure out what we want to be when we grow up?

I usually resist notions of having to rescue ourselves because it sounds unnecessarily dramatic. However, I understand Hurst’s urgency in that for so many of us, we’ve buried that person along with our hope. We’ve become jaded. We’ve forgotten what it is to believe in our ability to THRIVE rather than merely survive.

And you? Do you have someone you need to rescue? What will he/she say to you when you find him/her? She’s still there, and so is he.

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Six Years a Southerner

“Looks like Michelangelo is getting a bath,” said the dad, bending over the grate where his offspring had wedged an action figure into a ground sewage stream. “Do y’all understand how this happened?”

One of the funniest scenes during our time in the South played out within the first month of our arrival, some six years ago. Loverpants and I still laugh when we walk by this spot in front of the Tennessee Aquarium, a destination that is the heart of Chattanooga’s renaissance as a Southern city. We think how the aquarium houses pods and plants and all manner of sea and river creatures. It also the little-known bathhouse of ninja turtles.

My own immersion into the South was almost as abrupt as Michelangelo’s. We arrived to our rented ranch house on three acres and felt the distinct awe of our new rural-burbia life, waking up to the sounds of cows mooing when only days prior, we had known only tinkering shopping carts rattling down city blocks, the siren cry of ambulances so familiar we barely noticed. We were soon introduced as newcomers to my workplace. We were awkward and unwieldy. Baby Girl couldn’t find her sleep groove for weeks. I couldn’t find time to lesson plan. Loverpants couldn’t find an office space to lease. Little Man couldn’t find his walking feet.

But then we did. We found ourselves doing life in the South as people who worked and churched and bought Aretha Frankenstein pancake mix to make at home on Sunday mornings. The difference, I think, is that finding a rhythm is not the same as finding a fit, which is how I would classify my time in the South. Just because Michelangelo is placed in the gutter and he stays there doesn’t mean he belongs there.

I have not found belonging in the South. This is not a criticism of the South, just a witness to my experience. Mercifully, though, I have found pockets of being known and that has been the great treasure of my life here.

Belonging in the South, specifically in a more junior city, specifically in a conservative religious community, requires a certain extroversion that eludes me. Small talk is currency in this environment where one mills in small concentric circles of interconnected folks. I am allergic to small talk so I am most likely to enter into conversation with, “I cannot freaking believe I am buying sex ed talk books for my kid already,” rather than preferred pleasantries about the weather. There is also a pervasive lack of directness that is borne of the aforementioned interconnected network. If good fences make good neighbors, then a lack of fencing can lead to a superficial neighborliness. Being authentic, after all, is a liability. And being authentic in one social circle where any misdeeds in one patch might bleed into another can leave us defenseless. The need to “play nice” at the expense of addressing conflict or wrong behavior is something I’ve observed too often. My natural bent is to be as direct as possible, even if it is hard. So whenever I have found others willing to join me to climb the chutes and slide down the ladders of directness, I have desired to call those people my kin.

There are a whole host of other aspects that I have found so foreign about the South (The expression “might could.” The frequent use of styrofoam in restaurants. The lack of sprinkler parks in spite of the heat much of the year). But if I dwell on these things then I fail to see the good and to celebrate the great things about the American Southeast (Publix Grocery Stores, hallelujah! The lushness of spring. Savannah/Tybee Island. Charleston. Birmingham. Nashville. Memphis. Crepe Myrtles. Sitting in the bleachers for Used Car Night at a minor league baseball game in the fall). There is so much to adore about this region that has been our home for six years, this city that has, at turns confused and enchanted us.

We will return to the Northeast from whence we came, with children six years older, with wisdom poured like a fine wine aged six years. And we will be glad for the friends we have made, the places we have served, the houses where we have worshiped.  We will count it all a blessing to not only have gotten wet but to have been fully immersed like Michelangelo in the sewer, with passersby asking if y’all knew how it happened.

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