Ball and Chain

Last night I dreamt I was trapped–bound and gagged by the stranglehold of marriage.  Strangely, in my night vision, I entered this sacred covenant with a friend I’ve known since childhood.  Yet, even though he has known me longer than any of my other friends, I still felt shackled to a false future.  Life seemed eternally daunting, each day a treadmill of quick sand. My phony husband and I pulled down the covers and turned out the lights before bedtime.

“I told you I liked Vanilla,” I joked, referring to a term he’d given to his culture.  But something felt off.  There was a void in the air.  Or maybe just in my heart.  And it separated me from this husband of mine.

When others asked to hear our story, I’d reply with forced joy, “We’ve known each other since elementary school!” Then they’d swoon.  And I’d feel more justified for making this lifetime commitment to be untrue.  Don’t get me wrong, I love this friend truly and dearly.  But he and I are simply not suited to wed.

Regret filled my eyes when I laid them on Kyle, my real-life husband, and realized he was outside of my nightmarish wedding vows.  Apparently he had been someone I was dating, but I chose to marry this other man instead.

I wanted to kick Dream Me.

Instead, I felt panic plague my body, settling like lead in my chest and pumping through my veins like a caffeine overdose.  Stimulated and shaky, I knew I must do something, but–as always with panic–the knowledge that something needs to be done exceeds the wisdom of what that something should be.

“I think you owe him a conversation,” my dad said, silently sneaking up behind me and nodding in Kyle’s direction.  Even in my dreams, he gives voice to reason.  I looked at Kyle, alone and dejected, lingering after some post-wedding party that didn’t include him.  I couldn’t imagine what I’d say.  When the heart aches, it strangles the throat.  I wanted to tell him that he was the only one I loved–the only one I could ever love–with the depth of my heart and the breadth of my being.  But I ripped myself from him when I pledged to be true to someone else.  And those aren’t the kinds of words one can simply take back.

The kindness of morning caressed my lashes and I awoke to find my husband–my true husband–peacefully asleep beside me.  The contours of his face, specifically and uniquely his own, comforted my soul.  At that very moment, he had never looked more handsome.  His jawline seemed somehow more distinguished, and his hair, tousled by sleep, more endearing.  I touched the tip of his nose with my lips, overwhelmed with gratitude for the sanctity of marriage.  Blessed to have my best friend beside me always.  There’s no such thing as “the old ball and chain” in marriage, I thought.  Marriage is designed to liberate, not confine.  Slowly, he opened his eyes and greeted the day with a stretch.

“Good morning,” he croaked and smiled at me.  Indeed, it was a good morning.  And, with him by my side, I eagerly await all the others.

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What Does a Gold Medal Cost?

“We’re gonna die,” my friend moaned as we shakily descended the stairs to the Dungeon. I put my arm around her shoulders. We punched through the invisible door of heat at the threshold and left the summer day behind us. Even the sun was too scared to enter this place. Inside, the rancid stench of others heavily hung in the air, clouding our nostrils and resting in the back of our throats. The cramped chamber was cluttered with machines specifically tailored to destroy us–to shred us from the inside out, rendering our bodies disabled. We knew this. And yet, there we were, willingly walking into “Hell Day”–or some name that suggested a slim chance of survival. They split us up, and as females, we knew this threatened our safety. I watched helplessly as my closest friends became victims of apparatuses, staring through squinted eyes as they winced and screamed.

Some claim Phelps didn’t train hard enough for the 2012 Games. His face–and his collection of medals–suggests differently.

“You’re fine! You’ve got it!” I managed to cry as they bellowed loudly for inner strength. We all knew I was a liar.

By the end of the day, our clothes were stained with sweat, rust, and for some, blood. Our taut ponytails now hung limply at odd angles. I raised my arms to re-tighten the hold and keep hair from falling in my defeated face–an act I had done millions of times throughout my life. My brain commanded my arms to rise; my lips even formed the words. But despite my desperate pleading, my limbs stopped moving halfway to my scalp. I gazed upon my non-responsive arms. I felt my fingers as I individually tested their mobility. They seemed fine. I stretched my hands out before me and again tried to lift them to my ponytail. Again they refused. Until that point, I had never lost control of motor function. When my brain said, “Lift the fork to your mouth,” my hands and arms lifted the fork to my mouth. When my brain said, “Sign your name,” the words quickly got scribbled in ink. And, when my brain said, “Tighten your ponytail,” my hands automatically reached up, grabbed a portion of hair and tugged. But this time they wouldn’t even obey the command to reach up. The past hour had left me temporarily immobilized. I knelt down on my knees and asked another partially paralyzed girl for help.

“Good work today, ladies,” our coach boomed. “Now go scrimmage.”

That was one of the first workouts of my four-year bout as a collegiate athlete. And I was merely training to compete against the best of the Missouri Valley. I reflect on that memory and wonder what these Olympians must have done to prepare for the summer of 2012. Spending the past four years–the length of my entire collegiate career–training to compete against the best in the world. And, unlike most athletes who get multiple opportunities for victory over the course of their career, Olympians get one chance–one moment–to prove they’re #1. So, how much does a gold medal cost in Rio? I’d say it costs every second of every day. Starting now.

The Eeriness of Humanity

I know I’m not the first to jump on the Aurora shooting bandwagon, but I also assume I’m not the last who continues to think about it.  The night after the shooting, my husband and I sat safely on our couch in the peace of our own home.  He hung his head and said, “I can’t imagine what those people must be going through right now,” and “It scares me to think of what I would or wouldn’t have done in that situation.”  The eeriness of our humanity haunted us.  Life is but a quick breath.  Especially when one of our own species snatches our last.  Even strangers in Missouri felt the weight of Aurora’s blood.  I continue to wonder how the survivors are doing?  How are the family and friends who lost a loved one at the movie theater?  In this dark, chaotic act of evil, is God present in the aftermath–in the community and hospitality that forms from tragedy?  Was He present in the act itself?  I’ve read about Petra Anderson, the girl who felt a bullet blast through her nose and shove its way to the back of her head.  And I read about the vessel in her brain that she unknowingly had since birth–the same one which guided that speeding metal pellet to the brim of her skull.  Petra is alive because of this unique “birth defect” and the seemingly impossible chances that a bullet would sprint down its path.  God, it seems, not only protected Petra, but prepared her for this event.  If that is true, this horrible massacre was planned long before Holmes gathered assassination toys from his doorstep.  And, if that is true, it makes me cringe to think what else is to come our way.  What other sinister deeds lurk in the shadows of the future?  Will other innocent activities become blood baths?

I picture myself, excited about opening night of one of my favorite characters.  Granted, of course, in my mind I’m going to the opening night of the Hunger Games.  But it could have happened there, too.  This time, though, a small group of my closest friends and family pre-order tickets to the The Dark Knight.  Anticipation rushes shakily through our veins.  Every sundown brings us closer to the moment when Batman will really begin.  Days are electrified with the inability to sit still.  We have a countdown marking the minute the movie will roll opening credits and on that night we stride through the door with golden tickets in our hands.  The lobby smells of popcorn and butter and we follow our noses to the concession line.  Hundreds of shirts marked with the same symbol swarm the theater.  I’ve had my eye on those Buncha Crunch all night.  It’s my mom’s movie tradition: eat chocolate with popcorn.  I top a not-so-small Diet Pepsi with a lid and straw and follow the frenzy to another large herd of heroic-looking people.  The ticket attendant motions us toward him.  At the moment, he’s the most popular guy in the theater and he tears my ticket before placing the shredded paper in my snack-filled hand.  I’m going to keep this forever, I think.  Children file in before us–one, a young boy wearing his Batman pajamas, chatters excitedly with his dad; the other, a baby girl, is asleep on her mother’s shoulder.  I try to grab a seat around the middle of the row in the center of the theater.  I like to feel the pulse of the movie, and what better way than to perch on its heart?  My talking-picture posse plops down around me.  Our legs dance on the bouncy seat cushions as we turn to each other for snippets of conversation.  Perhaps we even comment on the strangeness of that man leaving through the emergency exit door.  Then we decide he probably felt weird being here all by himself and decided to avoid the crowds as he skulked away in embarrassment.  “Is it time yet?” one friend might ask as the minutes crawl toward previews.  And then, the big moment is here: a super villain strides into the room to kick off the show.  Somebody hoots and hollers.  I may even be tempted to hoot and holler at this innovative promotion scheme.  He throws something toward us.  I watch the rows in front of me choke on the gas in cacophonous coughs.  Something is really wrong, my gut says, churning Morse code.  Maybe they’re actors, my head argues.  I flinch at the first explosion, grabbing the back of the seat in front of me for protection.  More explosions, followed by blunted grunts as bullets pierce flesh.  Then screams of terror.  And howls of pain.  People toward the back are already fighting to squeeze through the door.  Some shout words.  Others just shout.  Between bullets I hear Batman beginning.  The warmth of someone else spatters my face.  It tastes metallic.  The villain begins to make his way up the aisle, swapping one gun for another and crushing pieces of popped corn beneath his blood-stained boot.

What would you do?

The Innocent Face of Terrorism

I was sitting in seventh grade Spanish class when the girl next to me tried to poison me.  Chuckling, she broke her Adderall into pieces and attempted to shove the chemical crumbs into my mouth.  There I was, a shy teen with stringy muscles and serious dental hardware, flailing my arms against a girl named Hercules.  The tiny white pellets littered my body–how was no one seeing this?  Stopping it?  Saying something?  After the medical waste was emptied and their innards sprinkled my body, she turned to the front of the class, smiling with satisfaction.

“What just happened??” I thought, bewildered by this attack.  It seemed somehow different from the others I’d endured.  Never before had someone tried to shove something into me.  They hadn’t even tried to shove me into something.  For me, it was typically only verbal abuse.  Like the time a boy approached me on the basketball court and told me all the reasons why my gender was an issue of suspicion to the rest of my classmates.

“Most people think you’re a guy,” he mentioned casually, as though that could surely be possible.

“Well, most people would be wrong then,” was all I could muster before I walked away.

That same year, the PE class was coming back from an outside session and a different guy–in an attempt to evaluate my femininity–was appalled that I would turn down his hypothetical offer to “eat me out”.

“You mean, if I offered to eat you out right now, you wouldn’t let me?” he asked as we stood outside the metal gym doors, waiting for the teacher.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“She’s definitely a dude!” he said as he laughed and backhanded his buddy in the chest.  Then the teacher came and allowed us to go into the gym, completely unaware of the conversation that took place moments before.

How far would these kids go?  Why did they choose to bully people in the first place?  I didn’t have the answers to these questions.  Nor do I have all the answers now.  But I do know that bullying, in its truest sense, is merely discrimination that occurs at younger ages.  The words are interchangeable: discrimination in the workplace is bullying.  Bullying at school is discrimination.  They are both the act of isolating someone because of his or her differences.  So, where do we learn bullying?  It makes sense that kids see adults “bullying” each other–perhaps the father disrespects the mother, perhaps both parents neglect the child.  If that’s the case, who is really the victim?  Although it is difficult to side with the bully and understand their point of view, it is necessary to consider that they learned these tactics somehow, somewhere.

Who here has experienced bullying in some way, shape, or form?  Please take a moment to participate in this poll so we can see how prevalent bullying can truly be:

As it seems, bullying and discrimination are a huge issue.  They were problematic years ago and it seems as though the danger is rising.  Unfortunately, in order to get the message to the public, someone has to be the victim.  In most recent news, Karen Huff Klein, a 68-year-old bus monitor served as the primary example.  If you haven’t seen or heard Karen’s story, I have posted the link below (“Karen Huff Klein & The School Bus Bullies”).  As I watched the footage, I couldn’t help but wonder: what would I have done if I were in her position?  How would I have responded if I was another student on that bus?  If I was in Karen’s position, would I have stood up for myself like I did as a child?  Would I retaliate?  Or would I admit that I’m sorry for them–sorry that no one has ever shown or taught them that they could be better than that?

So, as you watch Karen’s experience–or perhaps reflect upon your own–I’d like you to consider one thing: how far would you go to make bullying stop?

Karen Huff Klein & The School Bus Bullies

Also, below is a Public Service Announcement that I created for this particular purpose.  Check it out and stand with me against bullying!

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?

When we were children, everyone told us we could do anything we set our minds to.  The sky was the limit, they said.  When asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, our answers could be as outlandish or impossible as the outskirts of our imagination, and we would simply receive a smile or a nod of approval.  But at what age do we stop encouraging others to pursue their wildest dreams?  Or, at least, when do we begin to realize that when people say, “You can be anything you want to be,” they really mean, “You can do anything you want…but only if want to be a doctor, lawyer, engineer, or any other position that receives lots of wealth and esteem. If you want to be something else, change your mind.”

When I was a young girl, I wanted to be an actress, a writer, or a WNBA player. By the time I was about nine or ten years old, I was informed that the WNBA probably wouldn’t even exist by the time I got old enough to play; and, during puberty, I realized that I was way too shy to be an actress.  Not to mention I jumble my words quite frequently, which might hinder a career in performing arts.  But in high school, the question changed.  People started asking, “If you won the lottery tomorrow and didn’t have to work a day in your life, what would you still do with your days?”

Even then, I’d write.  There was no question about it.  So here I am, lottery-less but writing.

Last week, I spoke with a writer friend about this.  We met over coffee and she confessed the hardest thing she ever did in her profession was tell people that’s what she did for a living.  And I can certainly understand what she was saying–we have passed that age of childhood dreams, it seems, and very few people have tolerance for “risky” professions.  Somehow people just can’t believe that you would choose a lifelong dream over the stability of cold, hard cash.  Usually when I tell people that I’m a writer, they look as though I just admitted to having a dead body stashed in the trunk of my car.

“What’s that?  You want to write?” they ask confused or appalled.  “You realize that every Tom, Dick, and Harry are doing the same thing as you…that you’ll never have any money…that you’ll probably end up homeless and starving and your life will end in pitiful doom.  You know that, right?”

Well, before I started admitting my passion for writing, I had only heard those words in my head.  It’s strange–but very common nowadays–to hear them in a voice other than my own.  So in response, yes, I guess I do technically “know” those things.

Later, on the same day, I visited my fiance for lunch. One of his coworkers approached our table and we all started having a friendly chat.  Then he asked the dreaded question.

“I’m a writer,” I told him.

A guffaw rose from the depths of his belly and filled each corner of the room before he turned to my fiance and cried hysterically, “You better get a much better paying job!”

But where would the world be if not for those who courageously pursued “risky” endeavors?  This man, who claims to be a Christian, would not know the Bible if someone hadn’t put ink on paper.  Actors, filmmakers, artists–where would we be without these people?  And yet, they get scoffed and scolded.  Their worth just a little less, based on secular evaluation, than someone of a more “noble” pursuit.

So, when others ask what I want to be when I grow up, I channel the little girl inside and proudly tell them who I am.  Who I’ve always been.  And who I will continue to be.

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