my husband & kites

When my husband was a kid, he used to hate flying kites. Most average 5 year olds marvel at new wonders of the world-such as kites, tin foil balloons, planes soaring up above-in clear blue skies.

But not him.

One summer, on vacation in Jersey, his mother bought him a kite at a beachfront shop. My husband is an only child. So naturally his mother looked forward to moments like these: Where she could teach him something new & he would be utterly fascinated-as most 5 year olds are in raw moments of life discovery.

Off they went, kite in hand, down to the beach. His mom kneels down, eye level, and explained what to do.

-Take the kite, CJ, she said, with an encouraging smile.

-Slowly begin to run down that way.

Then she pointed in the direction of the setting sun.

-As you run, let the string go until the kite climbs WAY up into the sky. When it reaches the top, you keep holding on and watch it fly!!

The boy shakes his head confused. Sighing gently, his mother takes the kite, and begins to run down the beach. He sits in the sand, a right angle, watching her go. The cookie monster kite climbs through the air until its floating above, waving hello down below.

She is grinning ear to ear and yelling at him, 10 yards away.

-SEE, she shouts. SEE how I did IT?!

I'm sure his mom is thinking that he will jump up, come running, and demand a turn.

But he didn't.

Instead CJ stands up, points his arm and forefinger in the direction of the kite and screeches:

-MA! Bring it back down! Please bring it down and out of the sky!

So she does. A few minutes later, his mom plops down next to him, kite and string jumbled together in her arms.

-Don't you want to fly the kite?-she asks exasperated.

He is again in the sand, making circles with his toe. Little does the boy know how hard & exhausting it is then, in moments like these, to be a mother.

-I don't want to fly the kite, he says.

-Because, pause (as little kids do)

-You or me might let go of the kite & it will fly away. Can't I just sit here and hold it? -He asks then.

She looks at her son then and gets it. So that's what they did. Sitting together, kite in his lap, watching the sun meet the ocean.

To this day my husband never learned to fly a kite properly. He was only five, but already afraid of loosing something that you can't get back again. And aren't we all?

Maybe one day, when we have kids, he'll take off running, down Myrtle Beach, letting the string & kite crawl up into the sky. He'll be out of breath, sprinting and hollerin', as our kid sits and watches. And as CJ shows him a new wonder of the world, my husband, too, may see-that many things we love-do in fact come back to us, after all.

the first year: "driving the bus"

I taught in  Washington, D.C. during my first few years of teaching. My school was ranked the second poorest in D.C. Public Schools according to the Washington Post. It came with its challenges & the system in general was broken.

When I arrived to D.C., 22, with my diploma fresh in hand & my spirits high, I never imagined how touching, stressful, and exhausting my first year teaching would be. I was in a new city. My job was to educate children. I no longer was a college student. All at the same time. What a shock. To this day, I sympathize with all those twenty two year olds & the moment they will have-in which they realize life after college has begun & its a hiccup and growing pain, simultaneously. And although this feeling evolved into a new exciting phase of life, I spent many evenings, that first year, waiting for the 42 bus on the darkened corner of 16th and Upshur missing college & those now less familiar days of feeling normal (without.bags.under.my.eyes.).

Many of the teachers at my school were first years too & nobody was from D.C. We took refuge in one another. Many regards, these relationships, helped me grow and appreciate the sheer lovely moments I found within the chaos.

Each day, that first year, was this challenge-learning how to manage a classroom and meaningfully instruct a class of needy 9 year olds. I kept wondering when my mentor was going to come. I graduated from The University of Iowa and had high expectations about these kinds of things. It only made sense to me that a mentor would surface for a first year teacher like me.

I knew I was teaching in an urban school. Yet,  understanding this didn't change my feels of dismay. I was alarmed that there were no purposeful workshops for teachers. The materials were lacking for children. I had a bucket next to my rocking chair, where brown, murky water leaked from the ceiling steadily, all.day.long. My students needs weren't being met by the district. Weeks would go by, months and finally I was not dismayed anymore. I was mad. Where is my damn mentor! The district kept saying I'd get one. Soon the leaves changed, falling gradually until the trees outside my classroom window sat barren. As Christmas approached, the mild winter snow covered our school black top. Leaning back in my chair, feet resting on a pile of papers, my window cracked open, I listened to the shrieks & thrills of children at recess. Crunching on an apple, I sat there, waiting.

Finally March arrived. At this point, I knew I was going to make it. The sun had begun to emerge again. I had my routine down by now-in some form. I knew my students better than I knew myself. Their sighs, stomping feet, a surprised smile, the sagging stance of a child on a Monday morning, or the way they looked at me-squinting hard, lips pierced- when math grew confusing. I had tutored countless hours, visited their homes when phone calls were not returned. Wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when my student brought me a Foot Locker gift card for the holidays. Later I found out she had snagged it when her mom was at check out-thinking that the card already had the $50 on it & stuffing it into her coat, because she was 8 and didn't know that it wasn't okay to take gift cards, (that you had to put money ON) even if its for your teacher on Christmas. It was the succession of these details that made me get through. Even if it was still a struggle.

So it was a typical spring day when it happened. I was teaching a lesson out of the reading basal (which I no longer philosophically believe using) and we were reading a story about a boy who goes rocking climbing. Naturally, my students, many who had never left their neighborhoods or city- looked up at me with glossy eyes, flipping the pages of the big thick green books resting before them on wobbly desks. I think we were in the middle of memorizing vocabulary terms, that they couldn't make meaningful connections with-or probably find the need to use. Words such as: descent, avalanche, fixed rope, or belay.

It was then. My mentor walked in the room. She had dark and flawless skin & perfectly set hair resting at her chin. Probably in her early 40's. She strolls in with a notebook in her hand. Sitting down in the back, she looks up and smiles big and gives me a little wink. As if we've eaten together in the teacher's lounge or shared ideas during early staff meetings. I wasn't sure whether to be angry or relieved. I was in the middle of the word belay-and my students were grappling with the story. One boy raised his hand and asked what the point of rock climbing was-and that it sounded stupid. He asked if Arkansas-where the character lived, was real close to DC? And was this place-with mountains- a different country because he didn't know such a thing existed in America? Sighing, the mentor begins scribbling down in her notebook. So many questions. Such lack of background knowledge. The book was probably 2 grades above most of my students reading ability. The words on the page running together before them in a complicated mess. I marched through the lesson, page by page. Objective by objective. We tirelessly filled out worksheets about the story that held no meaningful attachment to the student's understanding or lives.


When it was all said and done, when the bell had rung and the students were long gone; the mentor and I sat across from one another, as the sun set behind us. The mentor had a name, but I don't remember.

-I'm sorry its taken me so long to come by, she says then.

-My case load is extensive and its just been impossible trying to visit regularly with my list of first years.

I look at her then. She has pure eyes & she smiles showing off those pearly white teeth. I think about how it's really not her fault-its the system. I bet the mentor has a husband & little house and a couple kids who go to DC Public Schools. She probably feels guilty, because I imagine she likes to be home in time to make dinner-but often isn't. The mentor seems like one of those people-who would care about such things.

So then I nod at her and say, -Well do you have any suggestions for me?

I blink quickly, awaiting the answer, ready to suck up anything she had to offer.

Yes she says, glancing over her notes, chicken scratches all over her page.

Remember, Emily, she says then slowly-YOU are driving the bus. The children are the passengers.
Make sure you teach in a way that shows them this.

That is all she says. Then its time to go. The mentor came back a couple more times. But did it matter? Then she was gone, just as quickly as she came.

I did figure out how to 'drive the bus' but it was later mentors, colleagues, my personal quest, and years of experience that helped me arrive. I made it through my first year & six years later I have evolved & fallen in love with teaching 1,000 times over.

I remember sitting with one of my colleagues, Jen, from that year, & our rooftop deck, an early evening, drinking a glass of wine. We laughed at stories about our students, who had just performed in the school's end of the year talent show. Turns out they really knew how to sing. The year had come to an end.

As we overlooked Rock Creek Park, it was then, I realized-the mentor I was waiting for-was everywhere, in bits and pieces floating all around me. Laughing, we toasted our pinot noir and sat side by side in our beach chairs, looking out, beyond.

imperfections make it beautiful: a wedding story

My limo driver left me in the middle of the road on my wedding day. I got married to my husband in a huge catholic cathedral by my uncle-who is a priest. It was pretty remarkable. We vowed our lives to one another & kissed & hugged & everyone cheered as we bounced down the aisle, hand in hand. Newly married. On top of the world. Off we went, down the ascending steps of St. Mary's in Chicago. The summer breeze swept the bubbles in my face as I held my bouquet up in front of my nose. We climbed into the limo- ready to celebrate.

CJ's groomsman, John, popped open a bottle of champagne. Our bubbly flowed, the clinking of glasses & the 13 of us shouting, screaming, singing in a chaotic melody of sorts.



We headed down to North Avenue Beach-where CJ proposed. But this is the thing about us Catholics you should know. The mass always goes longer than you think. I mean my uncle married us, so do you think he's going to keep it short? Ha. Well, naturally we were behind schedule. Really I should have known better. By the time we got down to the beach-I was on a mission. The limo driver knew we were on a time crunch, we only scheduled him until 6, and it was 5. More importantly, I had 170 people awaiting us at cocktail hour & I don't miss my own happy hour. Impatiently, the man, we'll call him Jorge, he pulls the limo up to the barricades lining where the beach meets the grass. I mean, come on man, at least pull the bride up to a nice little clearing. It's not easy walking in an endless flowing dress.


The groomsmen & my new husband, sensing my hesitation to go mountain climbing over this thing, threw me up in the air, like a pizza, my wedding dress drowning me like a cocoon. I laughed-but was suffocated by tool instead. On the other side, we lifted up my never-ending train and set forth to the water. Off we charged, 4 sets of hands holding up my dress behind me.

This is the other thing you should know-about Chicagoans. Summer is treated like the last day of a person's known life. The beach was filled with hundreds, thousands of people. A beach band was playing off to the side. Volleyball players, drunk girls tanning in itty-bitty bikinis lie propped up on slim belly's-reading US Weekly. Guys sat in herds, drinking cheap beer & summer tans. Readers lounging by shaded trees. Suddenly they see us, a massive wave embarking on the beachfront.

So what do a bunch of drunk, nice Midwest people do with a sight such as us? They line the sidewalk and begin cheering wildly. It's moments like this, I realize why I endure these Chicago winters. People are high-fiving my husband of 60 minutes. We fist pump with our bouquets to the beat of Black Eyed Peas. As we neared the pier the backdrop of Chicago rises behind us. My photographer frantically snaps pictures as we jump in the air.  It's a great moment & you forget all about schedules and months of planning that went into this day. You just think about how all of your best friends & the guy you love next to you-jumping. Soon enough though, we are charging through the city sand-me in my ivory shoes- back to the limo, off to our next destination.



As we pull up to the Chicago Theatre. This is when my limo driver becomes an jerk. It's sad really, because nothing really can bother me on this day. So it's not like I was hard to please. The man is lazy & a bit unhappy with life in general and really those two things don't go well together. He was annoyed by his job from the get go-and now we were running late.

It was 5:54 and he says harshly, -You know you only have the limo until six.

Fair enough, fair enough, I think. I nod and remind him that we just need to snap one picture in front of the theatre and we are set. Of course-I say, I'll pay you extra for going 15 minutes over.

Jorge shakes his head quickly side to side-as if he's 5 years old & his mom tells him Halloween is cancelled.

-I go by the half hour, he says.

We all start chiming in because we don't even care. It's my wedding day, and honestly, money doesn't even matter at this point.  I've lost count anyway. Let's negotiate. I have a 5 pound dress on, and I just need to get to our reception.

We tell him we'll pay him for an extra hour to drive us four blocks. My friend, who is a lawyer, begins to talk slowly and clearly to him. He's not from here and our communication is somehow broken. That or he has seen enough brides to really not care. And I believe in kharma or the circle of life-of sorts-so it makes me feel less angry when encountering people such as him.

He says then, as if a light bulb pops in his head, that he wants $500 to drive us four blocks to our reception. This is how much the limo cost us for four hours. He continues to try to extort money from us & here I am standing debating with this stranger in the middle of a crazy Chicago avenue on me and CJ's wedding day. So I walk away and take some shots, leaving the groomsman to figure it out.

My bridal party of girls find their way over to the front of the theatre where they join Tina Turner impressionist for a rendition of 'what's love got to do with it'. After realizing this is going nowhere quickly, one of the groomsman takes the air cap off one of Jorge's tires-tucking it in his pocket with a smirk on his face. The limo driver drives away without an ounce of guilt. Although, the guy is a money grubbing business owner, who we later find out writes his own fake reviews & the better business bureau doesn't recognize, does it really matter? not one bit.

It's been quite the adventure, but I know I have to take control. So I herd the group together and say: -People. Let's just get going already. -Grab a cab! Then they watch me do. just. that.





 We see a checkered cabbie, and CJ and I hop in. We zipped down the street with my yellow & ivory bouquet flagging out the window CJ & And this, my friends, is how we arrive to our reception:)

When we got inside, only 9 minutes late, guests caught tail to the jerk who left a bride in the middle of the street. Well, at least I know how to hail a cab in Chicago. I guess all those years of city living paid off on my wedding day. Every one's buzzing-because who has a wedding without a bit of chaos or unplanned 'excitement.' It's really the only imperfection of the day & if anything it makes it that much better. 

Right before we sat down for dinner, CJ and I dip outside for a breather. There we watch  a sudden sheet of rain pouring down-the sun in the distant sky, setting. Just 15 minutes after I stood in the middle of  Clark street-as the Jorge-the limo driver- drove away, without his additional 500 bucks. Lucky-we both felt then, without saying a word.

Standing there-watching the ever so brief downpour that lasted five minutes and rolled away-as if it never arrived. We made it inside just in time & felt lucky to be dry, but most importantly, to be together.

She Told me to Write

My sister called me the other day. She recently packed up and moved to Boston to start a PhD at Harvard. She left about a month after I got married. It was a bittersweet summer for us. So now I'm learning about the newly married life & she's learning how to be a student again. It's a new and thrilling venture for both of us. We also are suffering from the growing pains of being about 1,000 miles apart.

So after we talked about 126 unimportant topics, she says, "I have been meaning to tell you something really important." Of course I think it must be something serious. When you come from a big family, like ours, something 'important' could be just about anything.

"You haven't been writing on your blog," she says then. I realize in fact, she's right. I tell her that I was planning a wedding, teaching, and starting graduate school..you know-at the same time. Gulp.

"Well get on it."

In the midst of this past year's madness & because sometimes I can't write when I am in caught in the whirlwind of change-I haven't written.

Now though, the whirlwind has finally passed. I will write it down because-well she told me so. And she is still my older sister.

Facebook Status Updates-take the Heat!

Oh Facebook, how I love and hate you so. I can't help but log into my little account (almost) every day. (or multiple times a day...shhh!) There are always new and interesting surprises. Often, I find that FB has been changed its homepage or there are new 'privacy settings.'Its the 'same' facebook but just a 'newer' version. So right when you think this whole facebook thing is the same ol' same ol' it suddenly changes and throws you for a loop. Sucking us all in just a little bit more:)

So its a typical Monday night...one of those draggy winter days and Bachelor is over. Winter Olympics are over. You have to be at work early the next day. DRAG! What is there to do?! FACEBOOK! Its like a little light bulb that goes off...almost every day, and you hop on! Within 15 minutes of perusing you can get updated on 20% of your high school graduating class. You can look through detailed picture albums of someone that you haven't actually seen face to face in years. Its glorious really. How intimate we can be without real human contact...but the best part of all are the status updates. Not only can you get up on a little soap box and vent about say...traffic, or the gobs of work you have to do, how much you hate Mondays, or love Starbucks, what percentile your baby is in height and weight, how many days until your wedding, or the details of what you ate the past 8 hours...I mean honestly the world is wide open...you just log in and there it is...that rectangular white space awaiting you with that little gray writing that says "What is on your mind?" It's like a little friend there to listen to anything and everything you might want to say. How can we resist?!...Your fingers type away and you click SHARE...and there it is...for all the world to see. Well your confirmed friend world that is.

Is it ridiculous. Yes, it is. Do I love it. Yes, I do. However, I've noticed that some people are getting up on their little soap box and straying off the yellow brick road. Status updates about your hair, or working your ass off at the gym, eating chocolate, and mundane life topics are by all means welcomed. I mean not that we really need to know any of that, but sure post it, why not! It makes us all feel a little less ordinary to share it. Right? Or maybe it connects our ordinary lives together.

But some of us tend to get bored of the mundane status updates. When they see that little gray phrase: What is on your mind? Well, they say it. They post about politics, the economy, gay marriage, religion, what they hate, and who they hate, or what they believe and what they dont....Suddenly I find myself scrolling through other people's status updates on a boring weekday evening. One minute I'm reading about speech competitions, baby's first bath, tv show rants, and then BAM! I see the post: politics. religion. economy. the president. etc. etc. etc. anything worth fighting about. And I find it...well refreshing actually.

However, I find that many of the people who post controversial status updates can't take the heat. Lets say you are part of the ______ party. And you post about ________ policy. You (hate) or (love) the policy or proposed policy. So you write about it. And that's great. Freedom of speech at its finest. But realize you are posting this to a large audience. Yes you confirmed your friends on facebook. That doesn't mean you really know who your audience is or what they believe. So realizing that posting these beliefs, thoughts, or criticisms are read by all kinds of people. What bothers me is that when people disagree with status update comments or criticisms about religion, government, the economy, the war, whatever...they get defensive. Honestly! You posted the status update! So by doing this, you allow your audience to respond. Facebook is a forum really. Can we foster a productive debate on a string of status updates and comments...maybe. But at the same time, we cannot get defensive and upset when people post disagreements. Often I find that people may even offend the person who posted the status update. Well get over it. If you choose to use the Facebook status update for your own political or religious agenda, realize the consequences. People may not agree with you. And its okay. It's healthy. It's a GOOD thing to talk to each other....even if we do not share the same agenda. Those of you who can't handle it though....please just stick to Starbucks.

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.