Defining Me.

It’s hard when you look yourself in the eye in the morning and tell yourself that you’re a journalist. Or a student. Or that you’re a serious intellectual. Or that you’re a writer, painter, professor, businesswoman, wife, banker, lover, agent, manager, husband, pastor, chef. I think it’s hard when you see the you that you’ve imagined and longed for, and yet your standard for that mysterious you is unattainable. Your rubric for grading is strict and harsh and there’s no one there to mediate your self-deprecation and your hope.

It would be surreal to smile back at yourself and say, “I’m not what I do” as you straighten your skirt or smooth out your hair or fasten the earring back into place. You wander around accomplishing, goal-setting, attaining, achieving, enlightening, learning, heightening, moving, seeking, making, awakening, all with the “me” we talked about earlier in mind. And yet your efforts are in vain.

This is not to say that what you do isn’t important. In the end so much of who I am gets wrapped up and warped into something that tells me about who I am. I have skills for the job or interest I pursue, so I am directly associated with what I do. “Tell me about yourself,” “well I go to NYU, I’m a student…” Why do I answer this way? Why is my response not something more like, “I like to write but never make time for it so I question my passion for it,” or “I ache when I think about leaving school because I love it so much,” or “I miss speaking Italian more than I miss Italy,” or “I love to eat, I love my friends, I like going to movies, and I want to be a really nice grandma.” Instead I tell about what I do. And of course I do—because wouldn’t it be weird if I answered any other way?

But the point here is, being a student is not WHO I am, it is WHAT I do. I like that roll, I relish in it at times, and yet it CANNOT define me. WHY? What about the people who build their lives around their careers? I say they either haven’t, in fact, built their lives around their careers because they have a passion for what they do but realize that it’s not the be all end all, or they have built their lives around their careers and the result of this is a kind of death. I have been uniquely gifted to do the things that I do, that I will do, and yet this is still not WHO I am. The way I interact with people in my classes, the way I respond to professors, the way I complete assignments… these things point to who I am. But my true character has nothing to do with the fact that I am a student.

I challenge you and me to allow for some separation between self and action—let yourself live as you without defining yourself by the things you do. I’m not advocating some kind of anarchy or craziness that tells people to just go around punching each other or stealing, because actions CAN indicate a lot about who we are and what’s “really” going on inside, but I refuse to believe that our jobs and obligations define us to the degree that we let them.

So next time you’re looking in the mirror and you feel the temptation to squint your eyes and shake your head because you got a D on that last paper or you didn’t make the cut for the new planning committee, or you’ve been expecting a raise by now… don’t do it. Let yourself be free from self-criticism in that moment—not that you shouldn’t have goals and ambitions and be able to look at yourself with “sober judgment,” but that you can give it a rest because it’s only what you do, not the all encompassing and enveloping thing we so often let it be. In that moment open your eyes wide and cross them. Stare at the two blurry figures you see and then spit out all the foamy toothpaste and laugh at yourself as your eyes skitter into place and find their bearing. You are beloved, knit together by the only one who matters, and you can rest in that.

No Compromise.

She was sitting there in the low glow of the restaurant when he walked in the door seven minutes late. The din and hum of dishes clanking in the kitchen was stifled by the other patrons chatting quietly and leaning in to one another across the small, clothed tables. She had asked him to meet her when she got off of work that night so they could talk. She wasn’t one for ominous meetings and prophetic announcements of issues that would need to be taken up, so he knew this must be something important. He only hoped he wouldn’t have to say no.
When he reached the table he smiled but his eyes held worry in their greeting. She stood up from the table and kissed his cheek. “How are you?” She said steadily as she sat back down.
“Sorry I’m late, the L is running slow as usual,” he said as he received the menu from the waiter.
“I figured that was the problem. I’m ready to order when you are,” she raised her eyebrows quickly and her statement caused his stomach to twist.
They met two years ago at work where he was her assistant. She shook his hand so firmly it made him reevaluate the way he shook hands with others, and in the end he had added an extra tight squeeze before the release because of it. She was dazzling that first day he saw here: self-confident, gorgeous, intelligent, articulate… he had always been amazed at the fact that she chose to love him.
“I’ll have the lemon chicken and a salad with balsamic vinaigrette,” he announced to the waiter. She ordered immediately after him, and the waiter left them.
He felt nervous like he had the first time they kissed. She had the same expectant look in her eyes, like she knew something was coming. And yet this time it was him who felt something was coming.
“So… how was your day?” He asked with effort. For some reason conversation had been more difficult lately. Maybe it was the two year mark; maybe the phenomenon of good conversation had died off when they had crossed July sixth, the anniversary of their first date. Or maybe it was her 35th birthday that had caused it.
They talked about their work, and politics, and even the unusually cool weather the city had had that summer. There were long pauses of verbal silence while their utensils clinked on their plates and their teeth dragged along their forks as they shoveled food to avoid talking.
He signed the bill and placed the pen on the table. He continued to look at the pen while he noticed her shift uncomfortably and take a deep breath out of the corner of his eye.
“I want you to give me a child,” She said in low and steady tones that stopped just before they reached the neighboring tables. She had undoubtedly waited until the end of their meal to gain courage.
He breathed out the air he had been holding while he waited for her to continue; he felt the pang of doom strike his ribs.
“I want us to have a child, Jake. I want you to be the father of my children.” She swallowed hard after this and reached for her glass to gulp some water with the apparent hope that he would speak while her mouth was busied.
“I… Alana, I…” he stuttered, not knowing how to proceed.
They had avoided talking about this for so long. After moving in together only seven months into dating, things became really serious. He knew she wanted children, and the only time she hinted at it, he knocked it down with an, “I never really saw myself having kids.” There had been times when he could tell she wanted to raise the issue again- when they walked by a baby store in the West Village, or the time they met her sister for tea and found out she was pregnant at just twenty-eight. He was pleasantly surprised, however, that it hadn’t come up.
“I know this is something that you’re not sure you want. But I think together we could create someone wonderful,” She paused for a moment, but he couldn’t respond.
“I have thought so hard about this, and I know it’s hard for you to be talking about this, but I can’t wait anymore. I can’t pretend that I don’t want children, and I can’t pretend that I’ve got all the years of my life to have them,” again she waited for him to cut in. When he didn’t, she continued, “I’m 35. I want to be a mother, and I want you to do that for me.” She said these words in a rush while she searched his eyes as if to see what he would say before his lips moved. He was stone faced, but the corners of his eyes were wet. There was a time when he would have done anything to make her happy.
“You know I can’t do that.” He said quietly, stealing his eyes away to look at the napkin resting on his lap.
“No, I know you can. I don’t want to force you to do this, I want you to want this too.”
“You know this is not something I want.”
“I think that if you just take some time to think about it and…”
“I have. I have thought about this. I don’t want children. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you… it doesn’t mean I don’t think you’d be a wonderful mother, but simply put, it means that I don’t want to be a father. No ounce of me does. This is something I know.” He was feeling riled inside and couldn’t help but shift away from her. His frustration was now written on his spine.
“I… I just thought we could talk about this, you know? It’s not like we have to decide tonight, I just…” she trailed off.
“I am not changing. I can’t. I’m not being stubborn, I’m being truthful,” he looked at her and knew he had nothing else to say. “I’m going to, uh, get some fresh air, I’ll see you at home.” He set his napkin on the table, slid his chair back, and moved towards the door without a sound.
Just before he walked out the door he looked back at her. She sat there breathing deeply as if to avoid releasing the building heartbreak as she pulled her scarf around her and slid her arms through the sleeves of her jacket. She exhaled hard in what seemed like an attempt to expel the pain in her chest as her eyes reddened and brimmed with liquid fear. His mind reeled as he looked away and stepped out into the cool night. How could they move past this?
Outside he walked quickly. He was angry. How could she do this? Didn’t she understand that he just didn’t want kids? It was nothing against her! But he felt empty inside, knowing he had left her there alone, so upset and confused. He had never said it like that— he had never said he just plainly didn’t want to be a father. At the same time, he had never led her to believe he did want to be, and that is not something that can be compromised. That’s not something that can be changed.
He arrived home and sat on the bed, his shoulders slumping in dejection. He knew what this meant, but how long did he have?
Minutes later she walked in the door with streaked face and white knuckles and a soft whisper instead of a voice. “I don’t know what to do,” she said as she stood in the doorway of the bedroom, her purse touching the floor as her arms fell limply by her side in surrender. Drops fell from her face to the floor without interruption.
“Come here,” he said, clearing his throat. It was hard to breath.
She sat down on the edge of the bed a few inches from him. He reached for her hand and she set hers in his. “Are you sure?” She said softly, without hope.
“I’m so sorry.”
They lay together that night holding each other, crying and loving each other for the last moments they could. They slept on and off through the longest night of their lives, and their faces were puffy and sad when the sun crowded in the next morning. He got up and showered, left her in the bed, wrapped safely in the covers, and then began his search for a new life.
He moved out days later, and he remembers those days as the saddest in his life. It was an insurmountable difference they had faced, and they could do nothing but love each other as they were without change. It was too big an issue for him to give in, it was too innately important for her to give up.

Profile: The Steel Drum Man.

There is a man who stands tall even as he bends slightly to press his mallet to the bruised steel drums he plays with a continual smile. He always faces towards the local track, and he always has a bounce, an inner rhythm. “What kind of music do you like?” He asks a passenger.

“Oh, just about anything,” comes the response.

“Rock? Jazz? Reggae?” He probes.

“I like Reggae. How about that?”

And then arrive the sweet tinglings of the steel drum, the first notes of Bob Marley. The passenger is pleased and dives for his wallet before the musician even opens his mouth to sing the first words. “No woman, no cry,” and with that two bills are dropped in to the clean black bag placed precisely two feet in front of the instrument’s stand. The subway quiets to hear the sounds of the artist’s song, and as people file down the stairs to get wherever they’re going they can’t help but stand closer to those drums. No less than seven dollars were dropped in that bag during the first request; “he really is quite good.”

Even when the trains come he smiles. His perfect white teeth remind us music is to be enjoyed, not tolerated, in the subway. His longer hair is pulled back to a high and tight bun and secured with a candy apple red colored fabric covered hair elastic. He wears a white shirt that is bleached to glow, and it and his teeth contrast with the dirtiness around him. The shirt is a crew turtleneck, and the material wrapping around his throat gives him an air of dignity. His jeans are clean and pencil cut, his tennis shoes are chosen for comfort; after all, he is on his feet all day.
His back left pocket is stuffed with a wallet; on his hip hangs a cell phone. He is happy playing his instrument, and his pocket approves.

A small girl shyly approaches the man with a dollar filling her small hand. Without taking her eyes and smile away from him, she bends all the way to the floor and gently places the bill at the bottom of the bag.

“Thank you darlin’,” he says, his hands never pausing.

“You’re welcome,” rings the tiny blushing voice.

“Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid is now playing, and the audience hums along. Instead of ignoring the music, or casting irritated glances towards the musician, the bystanders smile to themselves and those around them; they feel together there in the moments the music surrounds them. It is often hard to convince New Yorkers to take out their wallets and purses and consider donating. But this isn’t donating. This is supporting the arts.

The city holds thousands of musicians in its hands, but he is different. He isn’t after the money, he isn’t looking to practice for his Saturday night gig, or rehearse for his music exam, no. He is playing for joy, because he likes the sounds he makes, and he likes watching that man’s face light up when he belts out the first notes to a song and he likes to see that woman’s shoulders sigh when he strikes a clear note. His work is elsewhere but his heart is here, underground, smiling his measures and half notes at his fans. His audience is generous; the city is his Lorenzo de Medici.
A woman wearing a knee-length brushed wool black coat, and tall leather boots with sharp heals, and sharp features approaches him. He’s in the middle of a song, so she stands to the side and unzips her Fendi wallet and flips through green to find a single. She pulls it out and scrunches it in her right hand as she smiles at him when he notices she’s there. He ends the song with a trill of his wands and leans to hug her. “Hello my friend!” he exclaims.

“Hey love, how are you this evening?” She coos in a soft voice.

“I can’t complain, you know,” he grins as he takes her in.

She comments on the previous song and continues chatting as she bends to drop her support in that black bag. He smiles and thanks her even as she talks. The sounds of the six approaching stop her. She leans in and kisses him on the cheek, and he seems to glow a bit after the contact. He watches her as she waves and scampers onto the subway car; she blows him a kiss through the window as she is whisked away. The metallic ring penetrates the air again, and the depths come back alive.

People come and go, each person slightly reluctant to board their way home and lose the simplicity of those steel drums.

An eight-year-old boy shyly approaches, his blue eyes widely watching as the drummer performs his feat. “”Can I try?” He bursts after the jingling of the final note has ended.

“Well of course! Come over here,” he directs the boy to his stage in front of the musical kettles, “and take these mallets,” he says as he closes the boy’s fists around the wooden handles. “Now I’ll point, and you strike that place where I point, just like this “ he moves the boys hand to make a ‘ping’ against one of the metal panels. “Are you ready?” he asks with as much excitement in his voice as shows in the boy’s face.

The boy shakes his head emphatically, “Yes!”

“Ok. Do!” He points to the first place on the drum to the left. The boy strikes it; ping! “Re!” He points again, the boy skips with excitement at the next sound he made. “Fa! So! La! Ti! Do!” The boy’s family laughs as they watch the pair, and the boy shakes the man’s hand as he gleams with satisfaction. The boy’s family mouths ‘thank you’ to the man standing at his ready once again, and he nods “of course” as they board the uptown express.

A few more songs melt the stares of strangers, but as the rush hour crowd dims he finally hears his stomach growl. It’s time to go home. He begins packing up his instrument and the remnant of his crowd is clearly disappointed. He smiles at passers-by commenting, “you’re wonderful,” “thank you,” “that was lovely,” and then he’s off. Back up those stairs, he shakes the hand of the subway, and he's above ground again.

Enter One

Hi.
Looks like blog number two gets going! I've been inspired to write more, and so I think I'll leave this guy to the more... artsy, long-winded, more story-type writing, while the other is more a stream of counsciousness deal. Sound good? Super.