Another Goodbye

My tongue surfed over the kettle corn chip’s crevasses as I sucked the salt and flavor off of each piece before I finished chewing. I that the process down to a science: take a chip out of the small red bag between pointer and middle finger, take a bite of one corner, suck and savor the flavor, finish bite and repeat for the rest of the chip before moving onto the next.  A very professional and thorough scientific method if I ever heard one.  I focused intently on my step by step process for a very melancholy and cheesy, typical-cliche- girl- out of movie- reason: I did not want to cry on this plane.  I had a developed a tendency -I say tendency because it only happens more often than not- to cry on planes.  It’s terribly cliche in a partially hate myself/ but love myself too for doing so type of way.  

       

But now was not the time to do so.  I was seated in the very back row of the plane, meaning we were very prone to be passed by stewardesses and passengers standing in line for the crawl space of a bathroom.  Additionally I was seated in between my two very loving, caring, and doting parents, whom I adored in a way that I did not have a single desire to cause them an ounce of worry or additional attention.  I was not going to cry this flight.  This proved more difficult than I thought it would be.  See, the feeling coming to me, making me cry, it wasn’t that twisty pit in your stomach, or even the very literal feeling of your heartache.  The feeling came in a very real, very tangible way, very quickly, and straight to the area behind my eyes springing tears forward to fill my eyes, followed by my head thickly clouding over with the dreadful thought of my reason for crying.  

        

He was gone again.  He came, we laughed, experienced more amazing places and things, endured our crazy parents together, and then with a snap of week trip, he was gone.  I am biting my cheek now just thinking of it- yes that’s right, I am not longer at the stage of swallowing or choking back my tears, I am biting myself to avoid them at all and every cost.

       

I don’t know exactly when my brother became so important to me.  I don’t know when I started despising and grieving his every goodbye.  But here I was, trying to accept facts that I couldn't change.  My dad always tells me not to worry about things that I can't control, just control what I can control.  But this isn't worrying, so much as mourning.  I wonder what my dad would say about that.  

J

(Written July, 2018)

Secrets of Panamanian Girl

During my short time in Panama, we were living in a rundown beach house in between the ocean and the marsh in San San Pond Sak.  Year round, the house was still lived in by the three men we lived with while we were there.   They opened up their house to groups like ours who wanted to help out with their volunteer work on the island.

One of the men was Pedro: the sixty- year- old-ish cook, who I quickly grew close with from the first day on.  I was sick when I came to San San Pond Sak; a gross head cold was spreading quickly around the group I was traveling with, and alas I had caught it.  Within the first hour of getting off the boat that took us across the river to get to the little island, Pedro had gone out and actually picked lemongrass out of his garden to make me tea with it to help my throat.  I was overwhelmed by the care of this elderly man whom owed me nothing yet gave me so much.  He later caught wind that I was intrigued by the idea of crab hunting, something I had heard one of the other permanent volunteers living at the house mention.  That same day that I had mentioned wanting to crab hunt, he took me and three others that wanted to join.  We went out on a dock, and he put on waders and boots, walking around the marsh, and stabbing crabs when he saw them.  He let us try if we wanted (which, obviously I did, I mean, how many people can say they have been crab hunting in Panama right?), and he continued on for about an hour.  Afterward, he cooked up a massive plate of crab meat, by far the best I have ever had.  It was one of those special nights in life you know you will never forget.  I was simply amazed, by where I was, who I was with, what I was doing.


This idea of being amazed by my surroundings continued on during my time here, as I found myself befriending a local Panamanian girl, only a year younger than me: Pedro's daughter.  She grew attached to myself and the two girls I was rooming with there.  In fact, though she normally lived on the mainland, she decided to sleep in our room for a few nights to spend more time with us.  When she first brought up the idea of sleeping over in our room, we were flattered, simply by the fact that this stranger whom we could communicate minimally with, wanted to get to know us better.

Quickly though, that flattery turned to being flabbergasted.  The morning after the first night she stayed over was filled with the thought of 'what did just happen' constantly running through our minds- not in a negative way, but more just in an unexpected, surprised way.  Let me back up.  We meant this girl the day before while setting free the first turtle that had hatched in the hatchery.  Our instructor picked a number in her head and had us guess.  And you know that feeling when you know something is just inevitably going to happen, or that something was meant to happen?  I felt that then, that I was meant to partake in this special opportunity to set this turtle free the first day we arrived in Panama.  And I was right, I guessed the right number.  I named the turtle "Estrella" (star), as it is my favorite Spanish word, and Cashmere explained to me in broken English how I was to go about letting this little one run loose to the ocean: its new home.

The experienced bonded Cashmere and I.  Later that evening after dinner in the giant garage that was made into a large, makeshift dining room and kitchen, a few of us stayed after before we went to bed as we weren't tired.  Cashmere left the room for a few minutes and then came back and said that she "hat a surprize" for my friend and I.  She gave us both necklaces: my friend's was a blue rock to make sure she never forgot Cashmere and this place, and mine was a heart because she said she could tell by my welcoming what a big heart I had.  My friend and I then rushed off to the room we were sharing and brought out bracelets from the states to give her in exchange, so that she too wouldn't forget her new American friends.

A bit after that and some more general conversation and laughs, we decided to turn in for the night.  Cashmere told Pedro she planned on spending the night out here and returning to the mainland the next evening.  After our newfound friendship had blossomed so, she decided she wanted to sleep in our room.  Considering that we were guests to the beach house and her family, we obliged with no dispute.  We returned to our rooms and turned on the flickering light, lit the bug repellent torch, and asked Cashmere about her life here.  To make it less awkward, my friend turned on some music to ask Cashmere if she had heard the song.  Cashmere, not liking our music, decided to show us some of hers.  She turned on a song with provocative, pounding beat, and started belly-dancing and twerking.  My friend, our other roommate, and I all burst into laughter at the idea of this Panamanian girl showing us her twerking skills.  After that loosened us all up a bit, the conversation quickly turned to that which would be expected from seventeen year old American girls.  As we asked Cashmere a swear word, followed by the learning that she had a whole secret boyfriend that she was keeping from her father.  We were surprised by this girl living a charitable and minimalist life in Panama as she saved sea turtles was the least.  Then we got onto the subject of tattoos.  Cashmere admitted she had one, to which we were shook.  Pedro seemed like a very traditional father, stern but unbelievably loving.  As she realized what we were talking about, Cashmere's eyes grew wide; and she started shaking her head talking in rushed Spanglish.

"No! No! Pedro do-en't know ab-out de tatoo.  He can't know bout de tatoo!"

To this my friend, me, and our other roommate all starting laughing.  Cashmere was a bit of a wild child.  We asked her where it was and she took off her shirt and turned around; across her back, written diagonally, was the word "family" in cursive.  By this point our laughter at the ridiculousness of the tattoo and idea that we were some of the few who were keeping this massive secret took us to lay back on our beds.

The next morning we all woke up, and the two girls from my group and I were still giggly about all that happened.  We walked to breakfast thinking about how we were going to eat a delicious breakfast made by a man whose daughter was keeping from him the other man in her life, as well as a back covered by a tattoo.

The Aftermath

What’s left: 

I’ve been reading a book about a man who is writing about the time in his life when another book of his, his memoir was turning into a movie (Donald Miller- A Million Miles in a Thousand Years).  He highlights the concept that there is a difference between a movie and life: in a movie, each scene, each event, each interaction is leading to something.  It amounts to something.  A movie has a climax, a point, a message, a meaning.  The thing is that our life, our experiences, are ultimately all random.  This sounds like a harsh concept at first.  I was a bit shook myself when I read it, but I continued and realized the author was right.  Thinking about your memories, from the time you were a child until now, each of them left some sort of impact on you- considering the fact you remember them.  I remember in kindergarten, I was a sheep in the school nativity pageant when I wanted to be an angel.  In the fourth grade a girl being mean to me on the playground.  I then gave the same sass (literally the whole "I rubber, you are glue" line) back to her, only to have her tattle on me to my mom.  I remember my first day of sophomore year in high school, I specifically took a long route to get to class; I was satisfied with the fact that I knew my way around school enough to do so.  I ended up being the last one to the classroom, which resulted i me sitting next two weirdos who ignored me, choosing to pick their nose and make up songs to make fun of the teacher instead, for the whole semester.   That same year I dated the captain of the varsity lacrosse team.  I also was elected treasurer of two clubs (makes sense, considering my obvious love for STEM subjects).  Donald Miller goes through a similar trip down memory lane (although his doesn't include being a sheep, rather the legendary nose picking rock stars), and then leaves us with the question of what these memories amount to.  And to figure that out we have to look at the common theme of them all.  And what do these memories have in common?  Only me.  

As I was reading this, I had just ended a year long relationship.  It was a long distance one with a long overdo bitter ending.  I had actually just read that passage about our randomized lives the day before I had my last phone call with them.  The infamous phone call- you know, the one that was supposed insert in me and in them that idea of closure.  The conversations coming to a close as we begin practically yelling at each other about me blocking them on social media, and finally with me hanging up on them.  And I thought to myself now what.  As Donald Miller would question, what did this amount to?

Here was another experience, another part of my life that had finished.  So now what?  Yes, I took lessons away from the relationship.  But I feel like relationships have more of an impact on us then a few life lessons.  I strongly believe that we base our identity largely off of the people we associate with.  It's the whole concept that we are a combination of the five or whatever number of people that we spend the most time with.  So, what was my identity now?  I knew who I was when I was around them; like anyone, I think, it's easy for me to adapt to the idea of the person around me, in the most stereotypical, or almost extreme, way possible.  Example- if I were hanging out with someone who was extremely smart, I too would find myself trying to be like extremely smart, if only to be able to hold conversation with them.  Then I would find myself thinking of myself in a more nerdy way, as I had tapped in to that dimension of me as person when I was around them.  I did this largely with my ex.  I thought of myself as someone different than I had before them, because of who I was around them.  And now that they were gone, what was left?  

Well, me obviously.  

But I felt like a patched quilt.  Haphazard bits of me were still around, thrown around, placed in parts of my life randomly: the athlete, the obsessive academic, the reasonable feminist, mental health guru, the mountain lover.  People knew different parts of me here, it was college.  But they didn’t know all of me.  And I realized that.  A guy made a comment to me “I see you as miss good girl.” Right.  And I realized the one dimension he thought of me as. It really shocked him when he found out one of my favorite vices was similar to his.  Actually, what I think shocked him was that I had vices- as if not everyone does.  

I realized more then that these people I now had around me did that, saw me based solely in the narrow dimensions in which they knew me.  I should mention, this is not to reflect negatively on those who surrounded me.  It is no one's fault when this happens. they're basing their opinions off of what they know, people just forget they don't know everything.  And if it were to be someone's fault, well it's easy to argue that it would be almost entirely our own.  We chose who we let into which parts of past, and how deep we take people into those pasts.  This is obviously true at any point in your life with whoever you surround yourself with.   But this was a little different because I had a fresh start, I could be whoever, I could formulate whatever impressions in these peoples minds that I wanted.  Thinking about it, really that concept can be implied at any point in your life as well.
Which is a well understood, pretty cool idea, right?  That we can formulate and evolve and constantly do this and that, and it’s okay.  It's okay to remake yourself and change.  But I had never come to terms with this, I didn't think I needed to confront this idea personally.  My whole life I constantly took pride in myself for the the misconception that I knew myself.  Other people could change, would change, had changed but I was immune it, unless change took form in the idea of 'positive growth' as person.  I knew myself.  And I had been reassured in this belief by other people recognizing and commenting on it, saying one thing I really had down was the fact that I knew myself; they probably still don't even realize how mistaken they were.  I just had stability in those around me, which translated into my identity appearing stable as well.  But these past few years had changed me, because the people relevant in my life had changed and changed me; and just when I had reach that homeostasis, that stability again, I flipped the tables on myself.  I didn’t know myself, I don’t know myself.  But I know that I’m changing.  I know where I’ve been- which is the basis of knowing yourself, I think. 

J

The Science of Leaving

It is a science.  Hard fact.  I am going to leave.  Er, no- you are going to leave.  There is something worth leaving.  There is something to be left.  It will be planned out with a step by step procedure, what will be done.  It's considered scientific because there's a hypothesis: "if you leave in way a, then they will react in way b because they (likely) care and do not realize the negative impact this thing is having on me ("c" tends to stay the same, or at least rather similar).  This is what is being tested.  We have our predictions about how it will turn out, which likely affects how we conduct the action of "a".  We want a certain outcome ("b"), but know that because of "c," that outcome is extremely unlikely to occur.  

However, that makes no difference.  Because at this point, leaving, a person, a relationship, a friendship, seems worth it.  Coming to this conclusion was not easy, it took time.  Time to process, time to accept the circumstances.  But ultimately, you have arrived at this place.  You have been driven to the point where you've gone down the ABCs themselves, looking at all the options, trying to find ways to make it work.  And you've ended up at Z.  It's all very formal, logical.  Matter of fact.  You tried solution after solution, and now there's only one way out.  So you send the text.  

"Hey, after taking some time to regroup and think, I feel like we both just need to start moving on and going our separate ways.  All the best" 

Direct.  Not impolite.  Civil.  Cordial.  Decision?  Made prior.  No room left for rebuttal.  Reactant has been added.  And now you wait for the reaction to occur. 

Hypothesis proven incorrect, reactant a did not prompt the explosion expected, less of a reaction than expected entirely.  Product is stable.  Note: will have to deviate from preset procedure to adapt to b.

And it's like clockwork.  We send back texts, replying and reacting in a monotone manner.  Note: the messages are not as was expected, but the tone is as it is supposed to be.  

And it all continues as planned.  Another procedure completed.  On to the next one.  Right?

Right.  And you do, move on to the next one, that is.  Procedure wasn't carried out perfectly as planned, it actually went better than expected.  Nothing is stopping you from continuing on in the same manner as before b came into play in the first place.   You slip back into the rhythm, like the clock never stopped ticking, no time lost and no time to lose.