His Dream Girl was Anne of Green Gables (College Writing 2005)

He said his dream girl was Anne of Green Gables. My three friends and I were camping at this Christian rock festival for the week. We had just finished our freshman year in college. We came back to the festival. Maybe it was some attempt on my part to pretend that there was an easy bridge to be built between the person that graduated from high school and the person I had become a year in college. But seeing things as they actually are is a bridge that is difficult to find.

So our tent was on this little hill leading down to the huge lake. We spent half the week trying to figure out how to sit in our lawn chairs without tumbling down into the water. It was on the main path leading to the main stage where all the big bands played; the backache from sleeping was only a small sacrifice. Stephen came over one of the first days as I was trying to figure out exactly how the grill worked. He was kind of short for a guy with this dark hair and watery blue eyes. The whole week he wore these surfer board blue and white shorts without a shirt. He comes over and sits right down and begins talking about passion and believing in God. I sit down and before I know it we are talking about soul mates and other silly ideals. And that is what these kinds of things are all about anyway, camping and doing nothing but talking to strangers from North Carolina. He is a youth leader, and his plan was to go abroad and do missionary work. I on the other hand was already head first into my college life or the journey to losing my faith. But he made me want to believe. I could tell you everything I know about him. but I wont. But I’ll say this: He left an impression. We sat all week at his campsite with his youth group and listened to him play guitar, the night sky, the big fire by in front of us. The week left us and I made sure I took a picture of him. I have it tucked in my bible: Him in this adidas green t-shirt with a red bandanna on, and a half smile like things are right in the world, or they could be. We exchanged emails, and for weeks we would email each other questions and replies. There never was anything but answers and another question. Some nights we talked on AIM and as drunken girls ran up and down my college hallway he told me about this God that he loved. I would think about how much I didn’t want to loose my faith in college, and it made me sad then talking to him.

This one night I started admitting that this bridge I kept looking for was nowhere to be found most days. I was unguarded, exposed. It felt good. He listened, challenging me carefully and then he says -Emily, I have a good feeling about you. You’re going to be just fine. I say -what do you mean by that?

-It’s something you just have to see for yourself. I’ll tell you though, but next time we talk.
He then tells me he was going to London, to do missionary work with youth. I knew that I would hardly hear from him, the world was so big and he didn’t even know it. I told him to email me, let me know that he was good. -That you’re happy, I said, it’s important I know you are. I will he promised. Two months went by and I heard nothing from Stephen. One late afternoon I came home and looked at my buddy list, there was his name. I couldn’t believe he was online, I IM-ed him and said -Are you alive?
The IM replied, -Hey, this is Stephens father.
I wrote, -oh im sorry, I just haven’t heard from Stephen how is he? , I’ve am sure he is doing great things.
His dad did not respond right away. Then he wrote, -don’t you know.
-Know what?
-Stephen died he then said. - He died on his way to the airport.
I sat completely still, my eyes blinking at the computer screen, cheeks soaking.
-There were over a thousand people at his funeral, he was twenty four.
-He was wonderful
-He was wasn’t he, his dad wrote then.
-Yeah.
I don’t elaborate but I can tell he knows what I mean. He then suddenly asks me,
Do you think it’s bad I can’t delete his name from our AOL account?
It was a silly question really, his concern over it, the junk mail piling up for a guy who will never check his mail again. Once a month he gets online to delete the full mailbox.
I tell him- keep his name. I say, it’s good to keep it.
-I will, he says, thank you.

Stephen didn’t die right away. That is the worst part. Some days I’ll think about him sitting on our lawn chair awkwardly propped up on the little hill-him sitting there \ laughing and talking about life like it can be everything we deeply imagine it to be. He had these piercing blue eyes too. I’ll think of that, and then this image of him lying on the ground as sirens, blue, red, white fill the air. And I wonder what is happening in his mind. I wonder if he knows he is dying and most importantly if he’s scared. I hope then, when I think like this, that he closes his eyes and doesn’t think about the blood covering his white pale body. I wish for him to just think about goodness.

I never did find out what he was going to wait to tell me, and it’s kind of beautiful in my mind, his soul holding a secret about me. When I smell bonfires in the fall, I think of this, and I hope, not even for anything in particular, I just hope.

All the Things we Fear (writing from 2007)

April 2, 2007

When I was a little kid I used to be afraid of being kidnapped. I had this crazy phobia from second grade up through fifth. My thoughts were tangled up in this idea that a bad man was out there, and he would probably get me one day. I think this ridiculous idea came about for many reasons. I distinctly remember this hot summer day when I was nine. The heat was thick and I was poking my toes into the melting tar that was accumulating at the end of our driveway. It was too hot to do anything. My friend’s mom, who lived across the street, came bounding out her screen door towards my house.

“Hi Mrs. Stofen,” I said as the tar burned the tips of my toes. Her face was red and full of fresh freckles. “Where’s your mom?” I pointed to the kitchen sliding door. She was pulling Molly behind her and I followed them through the brown dead grass. “Hi Dee,” Mrs. Stophen said in an exasperated tone, “Did you HEAR?” That’s the thing about living in the suburbs. The moms start talking in this exasperated can-you-believe-IT kind of way where they put an outlandish emphasis on certain words. As if it’ll give what they are saying some sort of better validity. “No,” my mom said puzzled. She often heard the neighborhood gossip last. “Well, there is a man in a green car, one of those old 1960 Plymouths, and he has been roaming around our neighbored the past week. He tried to get the little Jefferson girl in his car. He almost got her too; the police have been driving around keeping a watch out all afternoon.” She sighed then really big.

“Just keep a watch for him, and EMILY,” she looked at me sternly, “Don’t be hanging out by the street or talking to anyone you don’t KNOW.” I nodded quickly. I wasn’t quite sure about all this, but the way she gave me this stare, I knew it must be important. My mom didn’t think much about it. She had bills to pay, a dirty kitchen floor to wash, and five obnoxious kids to take care of. She never took these kinds of happenings seriously. I stayed inside the rest of the day.

A few days later I was out playing with the sprinkler when I saw him. It was just as Molly’s mom described. Puke green Plymouth with rust slithering up the side doors. I don’t really remember the face of the guy, but he drove up and down our streets with a strange and quiet presence. He’d look out the window but not directly at us. I immediately went over to my friend Elif’s house. She was two years older than me, and I knew she would know what to do.

“Well if you think you actually saw him, you need to stay outside, don’t go inside if your mom isn’t home, that is when he’ll get you. Kidnappers always break in when they see your mom going somewhere and leaving you all alone.” She told me this with confidence, and she said my best bet would be to stay out in public. Looking back, she was a ridiculous ten year old who watched too many America’s Most Wanted. But I listened to her.

The next time my mom left me alone, I ran outside to the field across the street from where we lived. I sat in the middle of the field with my legs folded. I peeled apart blades of dry grass for hours.

Then suddenly there he was driving down my street. The puke green car never stayed in the neighborhood long. I sat still. My eyes remained peeled until they began to water down my cheeks. Biting my lip I was invincible there in an enormous field, and I believed that somehow sitting like that-I was safe from anything out there. A little while later my brothers found me in the field. “What the hell are you doing?” they asked. They were older and found me as their entertaining nuscience.

“Come on, its time for dinner.” Little did they know I had been sitting like that for two hours.

As time went on I became obsessed with this idea that I would not age. I walked home from school with my friend Jenny. Her house was two blocks closer to school than mine. I would sprint the last two blocks-my backpack bouncing behind me. One night I was on my parent’s bed walking on my dad’s back. He worked in the city and hated his job, and sometimes I walked up and down his back to get the knots out. I sat down and looked at him. He was listening to channel 11 like he did every day at 6:20p.m. “Dad,” I said then. He looked over at me and gave me this half listening nod.

“Dad, I don’t think I’m going to make it to my high school graduation, I just wanted you to know.”

My parents were used to me-the dramatic youngest child. They also knew that my imagination was wild. I mean I was that kid who tried to dig for China-but instead of an afternoon excursion-I would spend weeks digging away-when all the other kids had gone back to their big wheels and sidewalk chalk.

So my dad looked over at me then and said, “Emily you are ten. Of course you are going to graduate high school. Don’t you even THINK about not taking school seriously.” I shook my head stubbornly, “No you don’t understand Dad. I don’t think I’ll make it to graduation. I don’t think I’ll be around by then. I mean maybe someone will take me away before I get that old.” He blinked and scooped a spoonful of sherbert icecream in his mouth. “Why do you let your imagination run away with you,” he said, and before I could answer he handed me his empty bowl; “Will you run this downstairs for me Em?” Sighing,, I nodded and shut the door.

One night I told my best friend, Jenny, about this phobia. I was on the phone and my mom overheard me. I don’t think she realized until then how serious it was. She came inside my room later when I was half asleep and began humming some catholic song from church. Growing up in a big family I sometimes felt like my mother was a few states away. Some days I even wanted to send her postcard-because I felt that far apart. But other times-I was there with her-and I wanted to hold onto those moments- like they were the last. I remember my mother as a kid late nights. I’d be crying and she would get a big glass of water. My mom propped me up and made me drink the entire glass in one gulp. By the last drop I suddenly was ok-about it all.

During those years I had this phobia, I wrote about how I didn’t think I would see my 18th birthday. It was an unexplainable fear. I wasn’t sure whether to run inside and lock the doors, or throw myself in the middle of an abandoned field. I felt paralyzed. My mom immediately called the school psychologist. The psychologist came to my classroom a few days later. She pulled me out into the hallway. “Are you OK,” she said. “Should we TALK.” Looking at this stranger, I suddenly snapped out of this coma. “No,” I said, “I’m fine.” It almost threw me off that anyone had noticed. I wasn’t sure where to go from there. The lady looked at me and nodded. I knew she would keep an eye on me. I don’t know exactly what snapped me out of all that madness. This stranger pulling me out of my class like that to check to see if I was to see Ok made me see that in fact, I was more than ok.

I think we have fears that stem from all the uncertainties we have in life. They have to get out somehow. So sometimes we channel them in certain ways or manifest them into something else because we don’t know how else to deal with life’s confusions.

I’m older now. When I imagine myself sprinting those last two blocks home I laugh at myself. Its funny how I snapped out of the idea I was ageless. We get consumed by ideas. Some days I’ll think back to the three years I felt I would never age. One time when I was in college, I stood on the edge of a 50 foot cliff. I was about to jump and conquer my fear of heights. I stood there, and thought about myself lying on my parent’s bed. I remember what I told my dad. Here I was 22, jumping off a cliff into a deep well of water, and it made me wonder about all the things we fear. You can’t always explain why you feel the way you do. We fear the unknown. We fear the known. Those years as a kid taught me about how ideas can control you. You can’t let a concept consume your whole life. Because suddenly there you are-sitting cross legged in an open field. We let what we fear overcome who we are.

I was only nine at the time, but I was suffocated by this idea, that, I would never make it to something better. I am almost 25 now. I still feel that. We all do. This idea- that-we won’t become the best we can be. We will always fall slightly short. But you have to believe that you are almost there-because you are.

The 42 DC Bus-(2006)

I ride the bus to school every morning. Usually I am digging in my pockets looking for quarters like a pigeon searching for scraps in Central Park. I have a metro pass, but it’s broken. Most of life’s daily inconveniences are due to those little things you never get around to fixing.

I finally scrounge up the $1.25 and board the bus. Its 7:30 in the morning and my bag is spilling with student’s papers, lesson plans, and empty water bottles. I tend to really look around. I’m vulnerable at this time and so I think too much. That’s how it is in early in the morning. Everything is too fresh.

Every day I see the same people. Mostly they are moms hopping the S2 with their kids. -Climb onto the seat before YOU go through the windshield they say. I’m telling you these bus drivers aren’t kidding around. They plow down 16th street. If you have to stand, well, I hope you have some good shoes on. I kind of appreciate them for that. It’s like they know I hate mornings and I barely made it to the corner on time. If they don’t step on it I am going to be late. When you are teacher you can’t be late. So I smile as we cruise up the hill, because they are watching out for me you see. Like a little guardian angel to start off my day right.

I sit back and watch the regulars board the bus. They watch me. A few are moms bringing their kids to the private school four blocks away from where I teach. All of my kid are on free lunch and I’m happy if they wash their uniforms. Details, I remind myself as they spill in each morning. The moms are looking at me wondering. -Who hired her for gods sake with that hair looking like that. They know I am a teacher because I have my bag full of library books that says Ms. O’Neal on the front. A kid gave it to me and lets be honest it’s a great bag. But I’m trying to stay away from the teach apple cardigans with yellow school buses knitted across my chest. I’m trying. They are eyeing me and wondering. I kind of think we should all join a group, us regulars, and form a bond because we are surviving the daily grind together on this bus. It’s beautiful because it seems there is little time these days to share a moment with strangers.

When we reach 16th and Shepard the same little girl and mother get on. The girl has dark chocolate skin and braids. She is probably 10 or 11. Old enough to start looking out dirty bus windows and getting sad about things. Her mom is tall with long feet and deep eyes-like wells that you cannot see to the bottom of. Endless. She gets on behind her daughter and grips the top of her backpack pushing her forward –Sit down over there. EXCUSE me, go on, sit there, NO not there THERE. The girl eagerly goes for the seat. Her mom sits down with her and she looks around wildly. –---Do you have enough room ma’m? she asks the old women next to her. The women nods –oh yes yes I’m fine. But she motions her daughter closer to her. –Move this way come on now.

Her daughter listens quickly. I can tell she would be a student I would want in my class. Her mom is different from the other moms. I know they aren’t going to the private school, but I wonder where they are heading.

Sometimes the mom comes on with glazed eyes and headphones. She still plays drill sergeant to her daughter-keeping her in check. Almost as if she took her eyes off for a moment maybe the little girl would fall into a pothole on the sidewalk and never get out. She watches her like that. The other mothers, on the other hand, are reading the paper not paying one lick to their kids sitting next to them. I don’t blame them either. I mean they are fine, but this watching the contrast between mothers I’m not sure who to blame. Everything seems too jumbled as if there is no one to blame.

So the mom gets on this one morning with glazed eyes and begins singing out loud. She is sitting next to her daughter, her hand is still gripping the top of her backpack as she belts out Whitney Housten from an old cassesste player. She gazes over to her and sings louder pressing her finger up to her nose. It’s funny to see this contrast. Mommmm, the girl says with a pleading voice. It reminds me of when my mom used to take out her stress of raising five kids on the bagger at the supermarket. –How do you NOT have paper bags left? She’d say. HOW, let me talk to your manager.

The girl is looking at her mom and she is shedding innocence right before my eyes at 7:46 AM. I am sad for her to see her mother high. It baffles me that this is the mother who won’t let her hand off her daughter’s backpack. Maybe this is all an act, I think, this good mom go sit there, no no, don’t squish anyone honey… ACT. Have I been fooled by her every day I wonder?
What kind of mother is she anyway?

The other day the girl gets on alone. She puts in her token and moves directly to the front seat. Her mother is outside pointing at her where to sit. I watch out the stained dirt window. I’m sure the girl is a little confused about things. Her black mixing with Her white. GRAY. She looks like a sweet girl. A kid that does her home-work, and someone that helps the teacher at recess. The bus begins to pull away. The mom is letting her go, and as I look back I see her standing on the corner waving goodbye. The girl sees her and this sudden smile stumbles upon her face. I watch her looking at her mom, and it’s this sudden reaction from within her spilling out. Then slowly she turns around and our eyes hit each other. I look at her. She looks at me. It is a quiet brief exchange.

Her mom starts to walk away, but then stops and looks back to watch the bus go. The girl assumes her mom is gone by now, but I catch her lingering, waiting there on the corner. There she is- just standing-blinking. Maybe hoping she won’t fall into potholes while she is gone. Maybe the mom will spend the day buying cement to pour into her own.

I kind of wish I was a painter then. So I could take out a canvas when I got home that night and paint her face watching her daughter like that. I want to ask her to be in the regular club then, because it isn’t every day strangers give away some of their secrets. We are all trying to step over the cracks spreading up the sidewalk. Things seem so clear and unclear suddenly.

As I get off I smile at the girl. I won’t tell anyone about this, I say with my smile. About what I know about you now. It’s safe with me. There are a million kinds of smiles out there, and this is the kind I give her. She smiles back. Me and the other private school moms with their kids get off. I blink and our paths diverge.

Chicago in the Summer

In Chicago the winters are brutal. It is cold for 6-8 months straight. You have to dig your way out of your parking spot many snowy mornings. Your car is not going to look the same by May-that's a fact. You want to kick yourself in the as* for choosing to live in such a freezing city! We all suffer together and just hope we'll make it until summer. Then summer comes suddenly. I almost forget it even exsisted, but there it is, waiting before me. And its like the love we have for the cubs when they win: surprising and utterly grateful.

Chicago in the summer is fantastic! Not a single person seems to take it for granted-how could we!? We know as it begins, how ever-so fleeting the season is for all of us. So we milk it to its very last drop. If you are a true Chicagoan you know exactly what I am talking about. The best things to do in Chicago in the summer:

1. Street Festivals. Every weekend a neighborhood blocks off streets and parties it up. Metromix has all the festivals listed. You could spend every weekend doing just that!

2. Movies in Grant Park: My friends and I grab some wine, snacks and a big blanket and head on down to grab a spot on the lawn. TONS of people go to this free event. Movies are featured on Tuesdays.

http://www.spudart.org/blogs/randomthoughts

3. Navy Pier! You can grab ice cream or a beer and walk around. If you buy a drink you are allowed to walk around with it as long as you stay on the pier. Fireworks are every Saturday night too! The ferris wheel and shops are the icing on the cake.

4. Venetian Night. This is the longest running event in Chicago. Basically a bunch of boats are brought to life with lights and props which sail along Lake Michigan. The crowd is packed. Bring drinks, a picnic, chairs and watch the show. It ends with FANTASTIC fireworks!

http://www.explorechicago.org/city/en/things_see_do/event_landing/special_events/mose/venetian_night.html

5. Kayaking: There are multiple spots you can go out and rent a kayak and have some fun in the sun.

6. Have a Boat Party: Last summer we got a group of 50 of us together and rented out a boat on Lake Michigan. This included food/open bar. If you want to head out on a boat just for a few hours and catch the breeze check out the wendella boat tours.
www.wendellaboats.com

7. North Avenue Beach: The beach is packed and so much fun on the weekends. Reserve some nets and play a game of volleyball or go hear live music at Castaways. The North Avenue bus takes you straight there. So easy!

8.Millenium Park: There is sooooooooo much going on all the time here.

9. BBQ: outdoor space is a must here! We BBQ-ed it up this summer on my back deck!

10. Houndstooth on Thursday nights: They open up the windows and blast country music. $5 pitchers too. It spices up the bar scene from the normalcy.

11. Cleo's bar for $5 pizza on Thursday nights. Take a break from the heat and grab some fantastic pizza! (pesto chicken is my fav)

Other events around Chicago area:

12. Muddybuddy. This is a run/bike/crawl through mud race. We camped the night before which made it so much more fun. www.muddybuddy.com

13. The Michigan Dunes. Avoid the hot days! You can camp out or go for the day. A good change of pace.

14. Starved Rock: Great hiking, also camping if you want.

These are my suggestions! If you live in Chi or plan on visiting, pencil some of these events into your weekend/trip. The list is endless. By summer's end, I don't even dread the upcoming winter-quite.so.much. :)

The Professor who Changed my Course

“I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do and I understand.”-Author unknown.


When I was a sophomore at IOWA, I took a class entitled “Human Relations for the Classroom Teacher.” The objective of this class was to talk about how race, gender, and socio-economic status impacts education and schools. The class was eye opening and forced us to discuss difficult ideas and topics. The book we read that struck a chord was entitled “Savage Inequalities,” by Jonathan Kozol. The author discusses the disparities in education between schools of different classes and races. During this time I knew I wanted to be a teacher. Until this point, however, I didn’t know what that meant for me, or how my role as an educator would define me.


While reading and discussing this book with my classmates and professor, I began to grow increasingly more distraught. I would go home and have nightmares about the children in these poverty-stricken schools. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind of accounts of school bathrooms filled with sewage due to broken pipes. These innocent children were born into this environment without consent and had to go to a school with cracked ceilings, contaminated water, torn up books, and no true chance at learning. I would toss and turn at night and re-read articles and chapters from Kozol’s alarming reality of some of the public schools in the United States.
One morning during class, we were talking about how children raised in poverty aren’t afforded the same educational opportunities as a middle class child in the suburbs. I was beginning to think that the whole educational system was hopeless. I wondered if maybe I was pursuing a career that cannot be changed for the good. My professor picked up on my feelings of hopelessness. He called me into his office. He came from a challenging upbringing and had been able to rise above the obstacles. Professor Nicholas was well known for his research and teachings in education. I sat down in his office and he looked at me with twinkling eyes and said, “Emily. Do you not think our discussions in class are not worthwhile? It seems like you have drifted away recently. Talk to me.”

I sighed, and told him about my misgivings. “I’m worried that there is no hope for education. That maybe there isn’t a place for me. How can I graduate and teach in a good school knowing about all these other ones that desperately need good teachers? If I work in an inner city school, I don’t think I can make any change.” Then my professor nodded calmly and said, “This is why you are in this class. So that you see the HUGE need this world has for good teachers in ALL schools. When we face obstacles, we cannot back down, but ask ourselves what role we can take in tackling these challenges.” I found it interesting that this man, who came from a tough neighborhood, had made it this far, and embodied the faith to overcome obstacles big or small. We talked some more and he soon realized that my behavior in class was not because I didn’t care, but because I cared so much. Before the end of our meeting, my professor said, “Maybe this is your calling to get involved in the cause. You can’t solve all of the problems in education, but the inner city schools need good passionate teachers.”


My class eventually ended, but my thinking had changed about education and societal relationships as a whole. I went onto student teaching and then graduation was around the corner. I began to think back to that conversation and wonder if maybe he was right. I decided that this was the time to get involved in the cause.
After graduation, I moved to Washington D.C. I spent three years teaching elementary school in one of the poorest schools in the area. Some of the obstacles my student population faced were poverty, divorce, single parent households, academic deficiency, and homelessness. Then I moved back to Chicago and have spent this past year teaching in one of the most crime filled, gang infested neighborhoods in the city.


Obviously, you come to realize that pursuing your ‘calling’ is not as romantic as maybe you think it will be when you are senior in college! It’s been difficult, exhausting, challenging, and sad. It’s also been the most rewarding time of my life. I’ve seen my students in foster homes, run away, parents that abandon them, parents who are abusive or abuse drugs, lose their ability to support their child, or decide to go back to the street corner. However, I have also seen parents who work three jobs, hop their child on a bus just to get them to the library, come to every teacher conference or school event, and save every dollar to buy their child what they need to do well in school. What amazes me most is that although yes, most of these children face many road blocks, they are able to persevere. My students have made large academic gains, been awarded scholarships to exclusive academic camps, learned how to speak English for the first time, gained confidence, or decided at age 9 that they will in fact go to college one day. My opinions about education are always changing, but for me I see how important it is to have educators who empower urban youth. So to all of you out there, if you want to better yourself and kids' lives, consider teaching! (I promise its worth all the advil you will invest in:)

My Sister-The Midwife

My sister is a midwife. She delivers babies. Personally, everybody has their 'birthing plan' and ideas when they get pregnant which I completely respect. I have yet to head down that road. When I do, however, I will be having a midwife (with my sister there to catch the baby!) If you want to know more benefits here is a couple links:

http://www.rhrealitycheck.org/blog/2007/06/21/midwifery-care-a-good-choice-in-childbirth


http://www.washingtonmidwives.org/midwife_reasons.shtml

Over the years I've heard a lot about being pregnant and birth! When I graduated from college in 2005, I stayed at my sister's place for a few months before getting a place of my own. At the time she was on call a lot and I would wake to the sound of her whispering on the phone with patients about symptoms, pains, etc! She always reassured me however, that the patients who are doing fine aren't going to get up and call in the middle of the night to let her know! It's the ones with the pains and the worries who she gets phone calls from. AT the tender age of 22 this did little to reassure me! I'd hear the sad stories. I'd hear the hilarious ones where the mothers would go ballistic until that baby came out already! My sister would make sure she'd let me know just how BIG those babies can be! Recently she delivered a 13 1/2 one and it barely could fit in the baby bed.

Then my sister left for Congo, Africa for a year. She worked as a director trying to improve health care and make it more efficient. She trained women nurses how to deliver babies for the families of their village. One of the men's wife (who worked on her team) was going to have a baby. They knew my sister very well and she gave the mother lots of patient care. They decided they would name the baby after her. She insisted that it was not necessary! But they wanted to, because they had developed a strong relationship with her. Months later she got a picture of this little girl named after her with a big mop of black hair sticking straight up on the top of her head! I couldn't believe it!

Over the years I've become unfazed hearing about the DETAIL upon DETAIL of pregnancy and birth. I know when the time comes, maybe having a midwife sister, and all the stories, will help me in the end. But when I saw that picture of a baby with her name, a Continent away, I thought wow-this makes up for all those other gory details. :)

The Day I was Born-According to my Mom

Every year my mother calls and wishes me a happy birthday, followed by the story of the day I was born. I've heard it 27 times now and love it each and every time. So this is how it goes:

I am the youngest of five. My mother had her first two sons at the hospital. Then she had the last three at home, on purpose. This wasn't AS unusual as maybe it is today. We had a doctor there, so settle down. Anyway, I was a bonus baby. I was born on a hot sticky summer morning in July. The doctor came and her delivery was pretty easy. My brother Patrick was born on July 22nd and Kevin was born on the 23rd. Pat was seven years older and Kev was five. They were arguing about whose birthday I would land and finally I made my grand entrance at nine am on the 22nd. So in sorts my brother Patrick and I are twins, just exactly seven years apart. And Yes. My parents anniversary is in October:)

My mother had planned a little birthday party with cake and ice cream with some of the neighborhood boys for my brothers. Little did she know she would be in labor that very same day. So naturally you would assume the party would be called off. But I was the fifth and labor was practically second nature to my mom at that point. She insisted to my father that since it was just a few boys the party should go on. Late that afternoon the boys arrived. My mom dressed me up in a pink dress, only hours old and brought me downstairs to the party. My sister was almost three and instantly thought she was mother and I was born purposely for HER. So she latched to my side as everyone sang Happy Birthday to me and my brothers.

That evening one of the little boys went home and his mother asked, "How is Ms. O feeling. Does she look like she is about to have that baby!" So matter-or-factly, he stopped, looked at his mother and said, "Oh, well she had her." Then he went back to playing with his toys. She grabbed the phone and called up my mom and couldn't believe her son was telling the truth.

And that's how I entered this world. Dressed up in pink and heading to a party the first day I arrived. :)

homeless guy on a street corner

The other day I was walking in Chicago. We were downtown. I passed this corner with this homeless lady holding a sign wanting some cash. I see a lot of these people. Its almost part of the landscape these days. In this economy you can even begin to see how it can happen. So this lady is holding this sign needing a few bucks. Then I see this teenage girl, she looked sweet you know-like she hadn't done much city living, she says something to her friend. The homeless lady was outside a McDonald's and the girls were about to go in and probably grab some lunch. So the girl turns to the lady and gestures towards the McDonald's. I can't make out what she is saying but I'm sure she offered to buy her a double cheeseburger meal or something. I give the girl credit too because I can just picture her train of thought. She saw the lady and felt bad for her. Then she had a dilemma: Should I give her money, walk away, or BINGO: I could offer to buy her a meal and a. I would be helping her out and b. I could ensure that this money isn't going to booze (yes I said it). The lady looks up at the girl and glances at the McDonald's windows. Then she shakes no, turns her head to the next wave of strangers crossing the street and sticks out her sign in front of their trail of vision. The girl shrugs and goes inside. So what are we supposed to think about this? Should I assume the lady just wanted money to buy booze? Maybe someone had already got her lunch that day from McDonald's? Did a layer of the girl's desire to help the homeless diminish a bit from that moment? Its all too complicated what is right and what is helpful and what we should think to ourselves when those who are standing on a corner with a sign refuse our help if the help doesn't come in dollar bills.

But maybe little kids from the west side of Chicago (where I teach) know more about this topic than I do. I always think back to my student who wrote a story in writer's workshop. The story went like this, he said: "I was going to the gas station this one hot afternoon by myself. I went to get a pop. I was thirsty. I saw this homeless man standing by the door. I saw him a lot and I wondered about him. Did he have a family? Did his family want him to come home? Or has he always been alone and lost in this world? I was about to go inside and the guy says to me, "boy give me five bucks I really need it." So I did. I don't know why I did, but I thought I should. Later when I came out of the store with grape pop, there was the man standing there with a brown bag. And I knew he took my five bucks and bought liquor. So you know what I thought now. I thought maybe this is why his family doesn't want him to come home-because he drinks too much. He loves drinking more than himself. And I felt really mad then at him and at myself for giving him the money. I'm not stupid. I never gave that man money again. But I can't help always think about him drinking liquor out of a five dollar brown paper bag"

I found my student's story to be pretty profound for a nine year old. Its funny how our interactions with one another-fellow man kind can cause us to change the way we view ourselves and the world around us-in the simplest of interactions and moments. Whether they make us better or worse, we can't help but immerse ourselves in them.

"I Owe it to MYSELF"

This year I've seen a few relationships and marriages fall apart unexpectedly. Some of these people I know well and others my friends/family have grown to know. This is kind of how it goes:

Girl and Guy get married. They don't rush into getting married either. They date awhile and are engaged awhile too. They buy a house, they start a life and years go by. Holidays are celebrated, vacations taken, daily life happens over and over and over. Then suddenly either the guy or girl come home and say they are leaving. Sometimes they even go to therapy but in the end the person wants OUT of the marriage.

Most cases the person cheated and often times they say they are truly 'REALLY ACTUALLY IN LOVE THIS TIME.' As opposed to last time that is. But THIS TIME they say, it feels different somehow. Like magical, soul mates at their finest. And maybe they forget that this is the same way they felt when they met their current wife or husband, you know before life happened to them. But the jerk insists, no..no, this feeling is different. So all those months and years are thrown down the toilet. Just like that.

In most cases or not the other person actually wants to work it out, you know...because vows were taken, promises were made and for THEM this is not something that you can just walk away from. But either way, it doesn't matter because the person is gone in search of some idea of love and fantasy that will fade as quickly as the feelings sparked between them and the girl or guy they hooked up with.

But the line that really drives me insane, that I hear these marriage breakers say is this: "Honestly, I can't stay married. I have to pursue this other person. I owe it to myself. I owe myself this kind of happiness."

This is the thing. I've talked with my friends and family and boyfriend about this line that is the common thread in all these stories. And this is what we decided:

You owe yourself crap. I'm so tired of hearing about people who are trying to 'owe themselves happiness' Yes, we all have the right to PURSUE happiness and we should try to be happy. But when you are married, you owe you self LESS than you owe the other person. It is no longer about you. And when I get married it won't be just about me anymore. I think people are so in love with all these ideas and have no sense of responsibility towards the person they promise their life. Its almost like if they say they owe it to themselves, that if for some reason they deny this truth, than they cannot look themselves in the mirror each day. That by telling their wife or husband they 'owe it to themselves to pursue this and be happy' it somehow makes their actions okay. Or at least more okay. Its more justified this way and its not.

I know I'm not married and I'm certain when I do get married there will be many peeks and valleys. My parents have been married for over 35 years. And let me tell you there were a lot of valleys. I witnessed it all. But now 35 years later they are closer than they ever have been. At times I thought about how awful it must have been for them trying to stick it out through the bad times. But that's the thing they both really shared was their commitment and loyalty. Honestly it got them through. Now they are better because of it. I'm not saying all marriages can last or do last or even should last. But I know a few different people who now are divorced or going to be divorced and never wanted to be. And their ex is somewhere out there trying to chase this idea of love and happiness-even if it costs them everything. Even if it means they leave their kids behind. A couple of them will come back and want their life back to how it was, but they can't have their old life back again and their marriage is over.

So it may be harsh and maybe I'm uncomplicating the messiness of love, but I don't think we owe ourselves nearly as much as we owe others. Especially if we are married. If we start thinking we owe ourselves less, maybe we'll actually become happier.

9 yr. olds ready for college.

The school where I teach has a motto. It goes something like this: College for SURE! We talk to the scholars every day about making college part of their futures. The thing is I work at a Elementary School on the West Side of Chicago. It a pretty high needs area with lots of challenges. I am aware that not all these kids will make it to college. Its something I push in the back corners of my mind, because although it may be true, that some will fall away in the midst of gangs, drugs, jail, school drop out rates, and side effects of poverty...I have to believe that its worth talking about. Its worth thinking that all these kids will have a bright future ahead of them.

In my class right now we are working on a project. It occurred to me that college is this lofty unimaginable idea to the children. I teach nine and ten year olds and college is this make believe place people talk about-like the north pole. And they would love to visit it, but its so intangible to a nine year old kid who may not have a single person in his or her family that graduated from college.

So I thought, hey lets make this make.believe.land more real. The kids have to pick a college and have to research everything they need to know about that college. Then they will present what they find. My kids picked all kinds of colleges..some that specialize in what they want to become, state universities, BIG TEN football schools, Ivy League. The list goes on. It was pretty hilarious watching them try to look up the GPA they need to get in, how much tuition and room/board costs, the majors, dorms, and meal plans they could pick from. OH the choices! The girls were printing out pictures of the dorm they thought looked 'prettiest' and insisted they wanted to be in a QUAD ROOM...oh little do they know what four girls in a cubicle sized room can do to four eighteen year olds...

My one scholar decided she will go to Yale. She map quested how many miles away it would be from her home. She came into class with the mileage circled at the bottom of the page and a map tracing out the endless states she would have to cross to get there. Of course, she says, Me and my family will fly...:)

She spent her free reading time that day reading up on everything she needed to know about the school. She sat their highlighting the facts and stats. There she was wide eyed and I could just see her world unfolding before her.

That afternoon we wrote to my friend who is a Yale alumni. She sat right next to me blinking hard and staring at my computer screen as I typed out an email to him.
She had a list of questions for him about Yale. My little nine year old scholar insisted I put her email address in the email-so he could email her information directly. I laughed, and we sent the email.

I know she will probably check that email every day until he emails her back. And when he does, her mind will overflow with possibility and curiosity.

One day she will be eighteen. 101 months from now she will be graduating high school. I'm sure it will feel like light years since the day we sat side by side in her fourth grade year-emailing my friend and googling about going to Yale.

101 months from now a 101 million of life's moments will have happened to this little girl. And I just hope she will remember herself at this very moment at nine years old. Bright eyed, eager, determined to reach her goals.

And if she does, wow I can only imagine her endless possibilities.

The Wonder of M

I used to have this little girl in both my third and fourth grade class. She was a pretty troubled kid. We'll call her M. Her mom had died suddenly at the end of second grade leaving her dad with 11 children. Needless to say her life was kind of messy, and she was a sad little kid. I got to know her really well over the two years. As I learned her, I also discovered all her quirks and habits. Often she would go to the bathroom and stay there forever until finally I marched to the bathroom myself, pushing the door open quickly calling for her to come HERE RIGHT NOW! There she stood with permanent marker all over her pants and messages scribbled on the walls. M would insist it WASN'T HER that wrote the profanity. I shook my head and told her to go back to class.

Teachers around the school all had their stories about her. One day it was reported that during lunch M had snuck into the kindergarten teacher's room, opened her diet coke, drank 1/3 of it, closed it back up and then took three pieces of gum, lip gloss, and 11.00 in cash. My principal suspended her but she kept showing back up at my door every morning at 8:30. Finally after the secretary got sick of her sitting in the office, I said, "Come on in."

She was way behind in school. She didn't want to learn to read and almost always refused. Except when she wanted to pretend to be a teacher. Sometimes I would catch M in the corner holding up a book reading the words and showing the pictures to a fake audience of children. Every now and then M would even pause and stare at the air and say phrases I so often said to my own students, "Are you listening? This is your education, I have mine...this is yours..so criss cross apple sauce!"
I always made sure not to let her know that I was watching her but it made me love her that much more, watching her like that.

Her writing was horrendous too. Often I had no idea what she was even saying. It made no sense but perfect sense to her. When we would share stories we wrote, she would stand up and rehearse a story, reading it carefully when in reality her notebook was a scribbled mess. Everyone loved her stories too...even if none of us could read them.

M loved math and would do math while I taught writing, reading, science, and social studies. She would stick worksheets under her book and do them as I wrote on the board. Every now and then M would look up and smile as if she were a top A student, that kind of smile, then nod at me and go back to writing. I finally gave up trying to stop her.

Often I sent her down to the nurse because she would come to school unfed or she would fall asleep on her desk for hours. At times her uniform was caked with dirt. I asked M how that happened? She said, "Oh well, we were on our way to school and then me and my brother thought it would be fun to roll down a hill." I thought about how much of a great children's author she could be, that is if she learned to write, with the imagination of those stories. Her stories were so colorful and convincing I began to wonder if she knew if they were just stories. For her they were often real.

One summer I got her enrolled in a summer camp for children who have lost their mothers. I found M a scholarship and faxed everything in. I called dad a hundred times to remind him where the bus would pick her up. I went away to Chicago to visit home. When I came back that fall for school I asked M how camp was!? She said she didn't go. My heart sank as I grew incredibly angry, But why? "Well my dad had to work that day so nobody took me to the bus stop."

That's how it went with M. And God did I love her. She would follow me around my room after school and help me hang things up and tidy up the room. She'd ask me a million questions. Sometimes in class she'd start crying in the middle of nowhere. I'd be reading a book to the class, maybe the book had a mom in it or something so very small and irrelevant. I'd look up and she'd be sobbing her little eyes out. The whole class knew when she got this way to just let her be. We even forgot in those moments about all the times she stole a dollar from my drawer, or took the left over Halloween candy and dumped it all in her backpack. We forgot the profanity and all the things she said to our faces. Because there she was, just trying her best to be okay. When you are 9 years old this should be a natural thing-happiness that is. So when its not, that makes it that much harder to find. I'd plop M in my lap and not before long she'd wipe her eyes dry and start pounding away at math worksheets.

There is this one day I remember though that always makes me laugh. We were outside for recess. It was one of the first days of spring. Just when it starts to stay light out later and you feel this relief. Everyone was running around and then M comes up. "Do you want to watch me hula hoop?!" Then another girl came up next to her. "I'll have a contest with you because I bet I'll beat you!"

I'm thinking to myself, oh goodness, she barley can read or write and I really can't watch her fail at this. I mean its just hula hoop but where I taught hula hoop and jump rope, well, they meant something real to those kids. She looks at the girl and says, "Aight, Lets do it. I'll beat you. I'm awesome at hula hoop."

They put the hula hoops around their waist and OFF they go, spinning, spinning away.
Right before my eyes this new child emerges from M. She whips that hula hoop around her waist and hips so gracefully like we are at the Olympic trials. That confident. That good. She's whipping it around in circles and this huge smile tumbles onto her face as it goes around and around. The breeze is passing through the trees and the sun is hitting her face just so. The other girl finally collapses to the ground in laughter. But M doesn't care. She doesn't even see her. Or me. Its just her and that hula hoop dancing around her. And then shes laughing; she's got this smile like the first time a kid sees snow falling. that amazing look. That's her and God its so rare to see her like that. I sit on the stoop of the school and watch her spinning delicately. Finally the hula hoop falls to the ground and she falls to the concrete floor. Panting and huffing she looks up at me finally.

"I told you Ms. O that I could REALLY hula hoop."

I smile big, really big and say, "Yes you did. You really did."

I moved away after that spring. M moved away to a new school. I think about her often and wonder. But most of all I think back to that spring day and realize the delicate wonder we all are.

When you Know you are a Chicagoan

You know when you are a true Chicagoan when you start to notice some of the following:

1. Your car has been smashed up in some way: broken into, crashed up, crashed into while parked, or window smashed AND you still drive it.
2. When its above 15 degrees you don't consider that unbearable weather.
3. If you wake up to a blizzard, you do not pause with contemplation of a snow day from work.
4. Its normal to talk to strangers or help them dig their car out of a parking spot.
5. You have a favorite Chicago neighborhood that you consider 'superior' to the others.
6. A typical weekend has some form of sports entertainment...preferably Cub season.
7. People are generally in a pretty happy mood without obvious reason, just because.
8. You put a chair in place of the parking spot you dug out that morning with your shovel.
9. Every time summer arrives, you treat summer like winning the lottery...surprising and thrilling.
10. Your friend from the 2nd grade is the buddy who you still hit the bar with on Friday nights.
11. You see family more than three times a year.
12. Regardless of the where you travel, you can't help but defend why the seasons build 'character' and thus is reason enough to return to Chicago...:)

President Obama

Watching Obama become president made me quite sentimental for my old city of Washington, D.C. I also felt elated to see this moment finally arrive. I teach at an urban school where 99% of the population is African American. So I felt like I connected with this moment in a unique way. My scholars all came to school beaming on the day of the inauguration with gigantic pins of the Obama family on the front of their uniform shirts. We went on a field trip the entire day. Although we arrived back to school exhausted, the fourth grade spilled into the cafeteria where our principal set up the television for us to watch the inauguration taped. My kids eyes were sagging with fatigue but when he walked out with Michelle they sat up as big smiles tumbled onto their faces. As Obama gave his speech they listened and cheered. Sometimes they clapped in the middle of his sentence, at times for no apparent reason but simply because these kids-were excited.

What an amazing thing to see but the hope and excitement on the faces of 9 year olds. Although they may not fully understand terms like 'recession,' 'collapsed economy' 'health care' but they get it. These kids know something big has happened, will happen.

Today I told them about how much my mom loved JFK. They sat real close to me, blinking their eyes hard, curious... eager. And then at the end of my story, I said the way my mom felt about him is how many of you feel for your new president. So make sure you never forget this moment in your life, because one day you will be telling your story. They nodded, because although these kids are 9 they understand what I meant, maybe far better than many of us.

Sucky People and Humanity

There is no point writing another letter. I already wrote one to the jerk who stole my mum and the jerk who broke my car window. It seems silly now to even attempt to address this blog to the jerk who smashed into my car yesterday. This is life in the city. Take it in, breath it out. Repeat.

So yesterday I was driving home from a busy work week. I had just had a little encounter with one of my student's mothers who decided, instead of sorting out miscommunication between me and her, instead its best to just scream at me. I was in the lobby surrounded by many others and I just stood there in shock of her willingness to display inappropriate behavior. Sigh. Silly people.

But nothing was bringing me down, I thought after the encounter. I mean for God's sakes it was Friday and I had just got paid and lastly I was on my way to happy hour. What else do I need?

So my teacher friend and I were on our way to drop off my car and then go get a cerveza. I was cruising down the road in my 98' Prizm in the -18 weather but hell- I could have rolled down the windows, because the three day weekend had arrived. We were on Sacramento and as I drove through a green light suddenly a white Marques comes barreling towards me. Most normal people with basic intelligence KNOW that when you make a left turn, FIRST you drive to the center of the intersection look for a clearing in oncoming traffic and then turn.

But there it was. This massive old Marques plummeting towards me in a wide circled turn as if he took about six-eight shots and then decided driving would be a fun happy hour activity. I stepped on the gas and tried to speed up. Crunching metal blasted through my car. I screeched my car to a stop as cars blasted their horns and whipped past me. My back bumper was dangling off my car like a lonely dog left to go astray. Looking up the guy in the car glances back at me and then drives off. Just like that. The cold air is setting into my cheeks and my fingers are wrinkling by the frigid breeze. Suddenly summer is gone and here I am on Sacramento and Augusta, cars zipping around the disaster I've become.

Then something miraculous happened. Humanity appeared. A car pulled over and gave me a description of the guy. He said, "He was somewhere in his 20s, actually like 29, and dark hair, real dark like jet black ..." and on he went with a vivid description. I thanked him by his careful observation of life's daily happenings and off he went.

Then suddenly a cab began reversing down the busy road towards me. My friend and I thought, "Oh God PLEASE! We need to wait for the cops, why is this cab driver pestering us to take his cab?!"

The cab driver got out and gestured for me to roll down my window. "Oh ma'am I sped down the street when I saw what happened to you! I followed that man who hit you! Here is his license and the make/model of his car. Oh ma'am I wrote it down for you." I was in shock at his humanity and good will. He requested to remain anonymous but gave me the note card with the information jotted down like chicken scribbles. "My gift to you." And off he went into the winter night.

We were relieved at the information and began drumming the dashboard as we waited for a cop to show up to make a police report. And we waited. And Waited.
"If I were bleeding to death I would be pretty much dead by now," I said to my friend. I got out of my car again to inspect the damage. I really didn't want to wait for a slow ass tow truck to show up. I began pulling at the dangling bumper hoping I could get it to come off completely.

Suddenly a man with a little girl showed up. "Can I help you?!"
I looked at him and his little girl bundled up and said, "Well, yes could you pull my bumper off?!" He tugged at his brown dirt worned gloves and yanked until my bumper popped off. Hoisting it, he crammed it in my back seat. I thanked him and off he went.

The sun was setting now and we were still waiting at the entrance of Humboldt Park. I remember reading about various crimes that take place in this park. "In about 25 minutes we will end up getting mugged or shot if they don't hurry up," I told my friend who sat patiently by my side.

We blasted "If I were a boy," and stared at the jet blue sky turning to the color of ink.

The police man finally did show up. He was polite and kept asking us if were were okay. He said they had the guys address and they would take him to court for numerous offense's. Who knows. I thought about my 500 deductable that is coming out of my pocket and how much it sucked. I thought about it about two blocks down Sacramento as we finally drove home. Then for some reason I just didn't care. Because although people out there do things to us that hurt or inconvenience us horribly, and God doesn't it make you want to hate city living or just sum up that everyone out there sucks. Everyone but a few. Although the idea went through my head to feel this way, instead I felt kind of relieved. Relieved that I was okay and peaceful at the fact there are good souls. Four of them showed up today in the midst of my chaotic moment. There are about three or four good souls to balance out the ones who do these things to us and our '98 Prizms. Because those 'sucky' people have their reasons too and I will never know his or why he looked back at me, standing in the middle of the intersection staring at my smashed up car, and then decided to drive away. But it doesn't really matter, because yes Chicago is city life at its finest and worse. Its -15 degrees but God it is full of humanity.

As we turned down Armitage my friend and I looked at each other, "Happy hour???"
We laughed and nodded and drove my crackling car home.

Thank you jerks for smashing my car window

I was driving home from the gym tonight. I felt pretty good about being productive with my day. As I pulled out of the parking garage I noticed the orange light was lit up indicating that my door was 'ajar.' I got out and shut my trunk tightly and shut my driving door again. But there it was, the light glowing at me. I had no idea why it was still on.

I got home and as I was getting out into the frigid winter night, there it was-staring at me. My little side window was smashed in. Then suddenly my eyes widened as I realized the other car doors were unlocked. Frantically I opened my glove compartment only to see my beloved GPS still resting inside. My heart fluttered in relief, because God knows I am in love my GPS almost as much as my boyfriend.

I had an empty box sitting in my back seat. Maybe the asshole thought something magical, that would solve all his problems, would be inside. Dude, its empty. But no, he broke in and reached his long arm to the front door and then opened up the other doors. However, nothing from my trunk was gone. Maybe he wasn't trying to steal anything. Maybe he was ready to take my blue piece of crap car for a joyride. I mean it has 140,000 miles on the thing. Seriously?! Who honestly thinks its worth taking? But I will never know, because there it was still waiting for me after my workout with glass shattered all over my back seat.

The funny part is I teach in the fifth most dangerous neighborhood in Chicago. Yet my window is smashed in a secure parking garage in Lincoln Park. Everyone reminds me a million times a week to be careful coming and going from work. Yet when I go to the upscale neighborhood a few miles away it is then that my car is screwed with.

Oh to the Jerks that smashed my window. Lucikly you were nice enough to only smash the side window. Thank you for that. I appreciate you not smashing the main windows. That would cost a lot more. That was sweet of you. But hey, future reference-an empty box in a back seat of a car may not be the winning pot of gold you are looking for.

Post New Years=The GYM explosion

It's a new year and hence many of us are making little resolutions. Some are big and many small. But as we watch the ball drop, we can't help but repeat our lil' resolution in our heads. We say it a hundred times as if that in some way will ensure that we will, this year...actually, keep our new years promise.

There are oh so many things to resolve to do in a new year. Such as: I will become a patient person who jumps out of bed every morning for work with a gigantic smile plastered across my face. Or: I will volunteer every weekend for the next 52 weeks. Even in blizzards. Or I will stop saying F*ck no more than 10 times a day.

But one of my favorite little resolutions that is oh so unoriginal but yet quite endearing is the promise of THIS year I will go to the gym and loose those love handles! I will loose those pounds!

I personally have never made this my own new years resolution. Even after quite a few drinks on new years eve, I try to keep my resolutions more manageable such as . I will make my bed every day. OR I will listen to the news and actually set my alarm 20 minutes early to ensure I have time to scrape the mountain of snow off my car to avoid being late for work. But after seeing the swarm of new workout rookies maybe I should make my goals loftier, or should I?

The past couple days at Bally's Total Fitness it has honestly been an ant farm. There are people crawling everywhere! The personal trainers are racing around like unfed mice sweat flooding from their heads as they slap a smile across their faces and give personal training session after session after session...

I've become used to the medium flow of the gym or the quiet hum of a Saturday workout as I pedal away on the bike. But now its swarming from every side. People are frolicking about in their new work out clothes hopping on tread mills, bikes, elliptical machines with issues of US Weekly glued in their hands.

It's almost inspiring. I almost felt guilty because a line was forming waiting for machines as I huffed and puffed away on my machine. I look around and its cute the way everyone is filled with motivation and hope for 2009. Its like almost a good ol' middle finger to the economy in ways. Its almost like we are uniting with a message of hope: I may not have a job but god help me I will fit into my skinny jeans!

But as I'm later waiting for a treadmill, my stomach growling for its dinner... I can't help but think, "Do these new bees really believe in themselves enough?" Will you all be here two months from now?

Probably not. But oh how good it feels to have enough faith in ourselves to make the goal in the first place.