Where do I even begin?

I was home-bound from Indianapolis around 5:45 tonight. I began the journey with a sunken heart, newly aching from the latest frustrating conversation with my (still feels weird to say this) ex-fiancé. Not that I blamed him for saying anything he'd said to me. His words were not at all unkind, but still firm in their intention, and that intention was one to which I was less than receptive. Every correspondence with him made my denial of the situation less viable, less sustainable, and this last one made it that much more abundantly clear that things were over between us. We'd never be back together. Ever. I mean, EVER.

So, I got in my hot stinking old bitty of a car, rolled down the front windows a crack, and started driving, playing India Arie's soul-crushingly gorgeous rendition of "Heart of the Matter" on repeat on my ipod, and I began to sob. It was like one of those so-pathetic-it's-funny moments in a romantic comedy, where the main character is blasting the saddest song ever, cry-singing along, making hideous faces and getting too choked up to eke out those particularly poignant lines. God, I was a disaster.

Anyway, I don't know if I was too busy crying, or if I was stuck behind a semi-truck at the wrong time, but somehow I missed my exit, and I didn't realize it until about 20 minutes later when I started seeing signs for towns I'd never been to. Crap.

So I called my sister and her husband for directions home, and we figured out which exit I should take to get home a different way. Cool.

And you know what? Best thing that could have possibly happened.

I got off at my exit and turned right to get on the new road, and as soon as I did I spotted a vaguely-authentic-looking Mexican Restaurant. I had barely eaten all week, so I thought I'd give it a try. Mexican food always hits the spot with me. I walked in and asked for a table for one (feeling soooo sorry for myself, "Woe is me, I'm all alone now and this is totally symbolic, and it's probably the first of many, many times I'll eat alone in my life, blah blah blah." What a whiner, right?) and I got what I perceived to be a raised eyebrow from the seating host, but I did my best to shake it off.

I looked at the menu, trying to decide what to eat. Couldn't get what I usually get at Mexican restaurants because I usually eat at these sorts of places with Him (that's the ex-fiancé, not God Almighty, mind you) and anything I used to eat around Him would make me so depressed I'd want to pour the extra-hot salsa in my eyes. So I looked for something new, ultimately settling for something I knew he'd hate (enchiladas smothered in a white cream sauce) and there was something mildly cathartic about that. Bonus that it ended up being delicious. There was also something quaint and refreshing about being called "señorita" repeatedly by the male wait staff. Kinda made me think, "Fuck yeah, I AM a young lady." I pretended for a moment that I was on a mini-vacation in some adorable Mexican town, not in rural-ass Southern Indiana sweating my ta-tas off.

After I'd eaten and paid, I got back in my car to commence the rest of the trip. I knew where I wanted to end up, and I knew what road I needed to be on to get there, but I still had no idea what was ahead of me, and part of me thought, "Maybe I should back-track. Maybe I should just find my way back to the road I know." But something in me said not to do that. Apart from being a giant waste of time and energy, the way I knew would be decidedly less adventurous. And I needed an adventure.

I scrolled through my ipod looking for some good driving music and settled on Tears for Fears. I hadn't listened to them since maybe high school...no particular reason why; they just sort of fell out of my mind-stream as my musical taste shifted more and more toward that running-through-fields-of-daisies, soft-guitar, absurdly-lyrical Indie genre. But Tears for Fears seemed like a good idea, maybe because I grew up in the 90s and all of my iconic stock images of people driving down highways are somehow associated with a particular brand of soft-rock leftover from the previous decade. Whatever.

I started driving again, and I found myself amidst a breathtaking landscape. The road was winding, and hilly, and surrounded by mature green trees. It was so beautiful, I couldn't help but smile.

And it got me thinking. This road was exponentially more beautiful than the road I would've taken if I hadn't missed my exit. Sure, it was longer and the speed limit was lower, but it was GORGEOUS, and I didn't even care that I didn't get to go the way I'd planned. And maybe this was a sign from the universe-- a sign that the way I'd planned wasn't the way I was meant to go. Sure, it would've been fine. It would have taken me to my destination, and it would have been direct, and convenient, and I would never have known what I was missing if I hadn't gotten lost. But It wasn't the best. And even though I was nervous about it at first, this new way was so much better.

And maybe, just maybe, my life would be like that too. This week I was so certain that the best part of my life had just ended, but maybe it's just beginning. I feel like being with Him was like reading the best book I'd ever read, only to find that the ending was abrupt and disappointing. And I wanted there to be a sequel. I wanted the author to write more, so I'd know what else happened, and so I could feel again the way I felt when I read the book before it ended. But the author said, "Sorry fans, no sequel," and instead of closing the book and moving on, I just kept re-reading the last few pages over and over, hoping more words would materialize, or that I'd find some hidden meaning in the text that made things more clear.

What's clear to me now is that I need to close the book. It's written, and published, and it won't be re-written, and there won't be a sequel. But there are other books, just like there are other roads, and other men. And maybe what I felt for Him, while it was unmistakably love, was also fear. Not fear of Him, but fear of the unknown, and what existed beyond and outside Him. Fear that this relationship was the absolute best thing I could find, (because it WAS wonderful) and that if I lost it, nothing remotely as good would come along.

I still don't know that it will. But I have hope that it will.

I will always mourn the loss of the amazing times I had with Him. I felt, and still feel, that he was my best friend in the entire world, and we had inside jokes, and experiences, and places we called "ours," and I absolutely ACHE knowing we'll never have those things again.

And while I'm sure it will take quite a bit more time for me to fully heal from this loss, and to fully accept my new truth as a human being, I can feel that I am finally beginning to. And that is something beautiful.

A Lot of Crazies Out There

I've been on the job hunt for a few weeks. As the end of the semester draws near, so too does the end of my cushy government allowance, which I use to pay for rent, food, bills, and miscellaneous expenses if there is any money left over (usually not). This is a fact of which I am growing more acutely aware with passing days. I have a couple more installments scheduled to come in over the course of the next month or two, and after that I am completely screwed if I don't have a job.

Job-searching is, of course, difficult for anyone in this economy, but it's especially difficult for those of us without college degrees. There's nothing I can do about the fact that I don't have one. Even if I planned to stay in college beyond this semester, that wouldn't change the fact that I don't have a degree now, and I'd still need a job for at least the summer to cover the cost of living.

There are a few things that royally piss me off when it comes to this whole college thing:

1. Everybody thinks of a diploma as some sort of proof that you're responsible and capable. I mean, have these people ever met ANYBODY in college? Some of the most irresponsible, heads-up-their asses, can't-form-a-sentence, showin'-up-drunk-to-class, no-studyin', flyin'-by-the-seats-of-their-pants (or leggings), usin'-daddy's-credit-card, brain-dead, low-life miscreants I've ever encountered.

2. Just because these people somehow manage to float through college with a C- average, they get to put something on their résumés that automatically makes them more qualified for jobs than I am in the eyes of employers.

But all that doesn't really matter so much to me right now, because, at the moment, I'm not looking to land some big-deal corporate job. I'm trying to work at, say, the mall. At most, I'd like a clerical job as an assistant or secretary. This is entry-level stuff I'm talking about. Nothing I can't handle.

Anyway, after the past few weeks of, "Thank you for your interest, but we have decided to hire another applicant," I guess I was in sort of a vulnerable place last night when I applied, on a whim, for a job at an (alleged) event-planning company which was "opening soon!" according to the ad I found in the times. I emailed my résumé along with the following letter of interest:

"To Whom it May Concern:

I am writing to you today because I am interested in the position of Office Assistant at Eastern Greene Always & Forever Weddings & Events. I am friendly, dedicated, hard-working, detail-oriented, and enthusiastic about helping others. I am also very interested in event-planning and would be eager to assist with that process in any capacity. Although I have never held the official title of "Assistant" before, my previous work experiences in offices did involve quite a bit of assisting. Please see my attached résumé. If hired, I would be available to work any days of the week, including weekends. I am most interested in a full-time position, but am also willing to work part-time.

Thank you for your consideration; I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Abigail King"

Now, imagine my surprise and delight when, just half an hour later, I received this email response:

"Hello Abigail, are you available to meet me at the College Mall tomorrow?? If so, I will get with you in the morning to schedule a time for us to chat

I am limited on time, as I have a flight to Orlando, we are opening a new store in Kissimee...

Thanks, Christy James"

Now, immediately I had a problem with this woman's obviously poor writing skills, but I thought, Whatever, this is a job, and some people just can't write. So I sent a reply:

"Hi Christy,

Yes, I am available tomorrow and would be happy to meet with you. Feel free to give me a call any time.

Thank you,

Abigail"

But I still wanted to be careful, since this company was not yet established, and people on the internet do some crazy things. So I told myself that if she actually called me, and I could hear her voice, and we'd be meeting at a time when there'd be plenty of witnesses around, I'd go to the interview. So, this morning, I woke myself up bright and early to make sure I wouldn't be groggy when the call came in. While I waited, I decided to check my email:

"I plan to be at the College Mall around 10 when they open~do you text? if so, text me at 9 @ xxx xxxx (this is text only) no calls please, that phone stays clear for customer call ins.

Thank you! I will copy Dena and Terry~so they see I am coming early to place items in two cases."

Followed quickly by:

"Please bring your resume~if you possibly can."

Now, I may be overly paranoid, but something about these emails was beginning to feel a little too much like, "I am Nigerian Prince, writing with regards of your payment of $14.1 million dollar." I just didn't feel right about agreeing to meet somebody early in the morning at the mall without even hearing her voice first to make sure she's like, you know, even a woman.

Also, what kind of business person won't spare 60 seconds to call a potential employee and set up a meeting? I find it hard to believe that her phone is constantly being lit up by calls from clients at all hours of the day, if her business isn't even open yet. Also, that whole, "I will copy Dena and Terry~so they see I am coming early to place items in two cases" thing...WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? I have so many questions! Who are Dena and Terry? Are they men or women? What role or roles do they play in the company? What does this have to do with me? What sorts of "items" need to be placed in "two cases" before the mall opens? Is this a drug drop-off? Why do you exclusively use the tilde instead of a hyphen?? Why, lady? WHY?

With all these things swirling around in my mind, and the fact that I had not yet eaten breakfast, I began to feel a bit of a sinking feeling in my stomach. Was I really about to possibly risk my life in order to work for a woman who wouldn't know proper punctuation if it bit her on the tokhes? No. The answer was no. So, after some careful deliberating within my own mind, I decided to write her back:

"Hello Christy,

I want to thank you again for your consideration and prompt response to my inquiry. However, I must be honest and tell you that I am not fully comfortable with this meeting. Since I have never met you, and I know very little about your company, I would have liked to at least hear your voice on the phone before meeting you alone, even in a public venue (especially since you suggested meeting during that venue's least-busy hour of the day).

Also, if I am to be completely forthright, I should tell you that it seemed rather unprofessional to me that you would cc two of your associates on an email to a person outside your corporation without mentioning their titles or explaining their roles in the company. I am also not sure what you mean by "[placing] items in two cases," but quite frankly this struck me as odd and irrelevant to our correspondence.

At this point, I think it would be best if you were to pursue other applicants for this position. I am simply a cautious person, and I don't like to go against my gut instincts when I see red flags. If you are indeed operating a legitimate business venture, I hope you will take my notes into consideration in your dealings with other potential employees.

I wish you and your growing company all the best, and I apologize if I have wasted your time.

Thank you again,

Abigail"

I know I may have gone a little overboard, but the way I see it, I'm never speaking to this bitch again. I don't particularly care if she thinks I'm a nutter butter. I think she may be a nutter butter.

A few minutes later I received these emails:

"No problem, I am a very busy business Christian woman, seeking a personal secretary..

Have a blessed week!!

Sincerely, Christy

Sent from my iPhone"

and then,

"Needed to let u know, it was just to be a quick meet, before my flight..

Thank u for your time!

Sent from my iPhone"

I can't say I don't feel like I totally dodged a bullet today. Business Christian woman? Really?

The hunt continues...

The Abortion of Creativity

Let me just get this point out of the way right now: I’m not here to endorse or condemn abortion.

But have you ever heard a person say something like, “That fetus could have been the next Mozart, or the next Van Gogh!” as an argument against abortion?

I think this is a powerful argument, and a valid one, but I’d like to point out one thing: The way our society works today, most children who are born don’t get the chance to nurture their artistic talents. I’d argue that strictly in terms of creative potential, our educational system may just be the leading cause of death.

I attended parochial school from preschool through 10^th grade, at which point I briefly attended a public high school before deciding to drop out entirely. I didn’t drop out for any of those “typical” reasons that usually spring to mind when one imagines a high-school drop-out. I never got pregnant, I didn’t do drugs or drink alcohol, and I achieved average or above average grades in all of my classes…at least while I was actually attending them. Aside from notable truancy, I wasn’t deviant in any way.

So why did I drop out? Well, it’s not exactly clear. The cool reason I usually spew at people who ask this question is, “Pshh, I was just over that bullshit!” Gotta maintain my street cred…and by that I mean, gotta make people think I’ve got street cred to maintain in the first place.

Ok, no, but really. I mean, in a sense I was just “over it.” But what does that mean exactly? Well, I was over all the monotony. The conventions. The hum-drumitude. The drab-ass classes, and ridiculous standards, and really the general attitude of school. Now, these reasons may seem to some like cop-outs, or excuses, or lame reasons to be lazy, but I’m writing this to explain precisely why this isn't so.

Some people do very well in a traditional school environment. Some people are academically-minded, and are easily motivated by the standard grading system, a teacher’s comments, or that warm-fuzzy feeling they get after a job well done. And that is awesome. That is super-stellar, and I don’t want to change anything about those people. Some of my closest friends have thrived within this ideological framework. Another large chunk of our population is fairing averagely in it. That is to say that they are capable of doing just enough work, just well enough to get by. Their natural learning-style preferences may not fit perfectly into the typical mold, but by and large, they are surviving, unscathed. Others fail to do well in school because of environmental factors; they may have an unstable family life or living environment. These people may have done just fine under the right circumstances, but for reasons beyond their control, they have difficulty keeping up.

And then there are people like me. People who just don’t effing belong in school. We don’t take in or process information in the way most schools teach, and we have an enormous amount of trouble adhering to routines and schedules. Most of us are artists, in one way or another. Even if we all don’t paint, sing, or dance, we are artists in the sense that we think nontraditionally, and nonlinearly. And we are falling through the cracks of our incredibly flawed and closed-minded schools.

Personally, I loved my arts and humanities classes, and (no surprise) I got mostly ‘A’s in those classes. It’s great that I was able to take music or art classes in the first place in elementary or high school, but I never got to explore those areas in the same way that students are encouraged to delve deeper into, say, math or science. In grade school we learned extremely basic music theory and got to “mess around” with a few different instruments, but that was about it. And in art class we learned some drawing techniques and made collages out of magazine cutouts. Let’s be honest; everybody knew that music and art were essentially throw-away classes. Kids like me and some of my friends did whatever we could to get the most out of our experiences in those classes because we enjoyed them, but even kids who totally sucked at art and music didn’t much have to worry about their grades, because teachers scored them on an extremely individualized basis. If a child showed less potential to begin with, he or she was scored not according to an arbitrary standard or in comparison to classmates, but based on personal improvement. So if you sucked a lot in the beginning of the class and only sucked a little by the end, you passed with no problem.

In high school, art and music classes were electives. If a student showed affinity or aptitude for art or music, they could enroll in choir, band, photography, fine arts, etc. Cool, right? WRONG. First of all, I can’t speak for every student in every school, but in my experience, these classes were kind of a joke. Don’t get me wrong, I loved being able to sing and develop photos in school, but these classes weren’t exactly challenging, and they only barely encouraged me to spread my creative wings, so to speak.

The second problem with this whole art-as-electives deal is that is doesn’t work the other way around. Kids who excelled at math and science and who were linear-thinkers only had to endure their less-favored subjects for 8-10 years, depending on the elementary and middle schools they attended. Then in high school, when grades really started to matter? Phew! All over! They didn’t have to deal with that pointless fluffery anymore. And why should they? They weren’t good at it. They didn’t like it. And they’d probably never use it again in life. It was nice that they learned the basics like how many notes are in the musical scale and the difference between primary and secondary colors, but that’s about all they’d ever need to know to get through life. No need to bother themselves with the more complicated, in-depth stuff. Cool.

Good thing everybody gets treated equally in the world of academi—HEY! Obviously there’s some discrepancy here, right? Linear thinkers get to focus on their strengths, harvest their talents, and obtain only superficial knowledge of everything else. But people like me? Not only are we cheated out of the opportunity to delve deeply into our areas of interest, but we’re required to develop substantial skills in areas we’ve never been able to understand properly. We have to take math and science classes in elementary and middle school, and then we have to take even more math in high school. And it’s more complicated and less practical than ever before. Yes, a simple understanding of these subjects is necessary for the development of well-rounded human beings. I wouldn’t argue against that. But what most people really need to understand to get by in life is basically covered in elementary and middle school. Nobody needs to know more than that unless it’s required for their specific vocation. So why do we all have to learn it?

Think of all the time kids like me had to spend learning skills we’d never use, or facts we’d never remember. If we had spent all of that time honing in on our specific strengths, who knows where we’d be by now? Sure, not every creative or artistic child could be a major virtuoso. I’m not arrogant enough to think that I would have. But I do think I’d have far better developed artistic and musical abilities than I have now, and probably I’d have a better idea now of what sort of career I’d like to pursue. And other children like me, who had more natural talent than I had? Think about all the potential they’ve had to squander because they were forced to follow the “expected” path, rather than one that might have allowed their talents to blossom. This is the abortion of creativity. And I feel it’s an epidemic.

I can’t say that I have any solution to offer to correct this problem. I think the traditionalist mentality is so ingrained in the fabric of our modern society (ironic much?), that it would be difficult and perhaps even painful to make any substantial changes. I don’t even know what the absolute ideal scenario would be for people like me, because I can think of several options, all of which are drastically different from the way things are now, but none of which would be easy to implement given our country’s current resources and economic standing. All I know is that in order for things to even begin to change, we need to start in our own minds. We need to re-learn to accept new and original ways of thinking, and not to marginalize those who at first seem strange to us. These are the people who could become the great thinkers and innovators of our time, and do great things for us as a people.

This question has oft been proposed by pro-life activists: What if Beethoven had been aborted?

I ask this question: What if Beethoven had gone to school in 21^st-century America?

Tough Questions, No Answers

“What do you want to do with your life?”

This is a question people my age get a lot. Well, at least I do. It’s like everyone over 30 has a special radar, able to detect even minute lapses in the self-certainty of college-age individuals. Like they just know somehow that I don’t know the answer to this question, but they have to ask anyway. Perhaps they really do care very deeply about my future, but I think it’s far likelier that they simply don’t know what else to talk to me about.

Maybe it’s because I have a freakish knack for pattern-recognition, but from the time I was very young, I noticed the development of an unsettling conversational archetype. Adults, when obliged to engage in discourse with a young person with whom they do not regularly interact, seem to jump to their mental rolodex of “acceptable kid topics.” Unfortunately, this does not exactly spur a wellspring of brilliant ideas, because inevitably, when met with the apparently agonizing task of conversing with a child, adults ask some variation of the following question: “How’s school?”

When I was a kid, this question generally triggered a deep internal groan. But I was a fairly timid child (at least, in the company of authority figures) so outwardly I’d smile sweetly and spew out the clever response I kept at-the-ready for just such circumstances-- the dazzling, enchanting, always-appropriate, satisfying yet surreptitiously non-committal, “Fine.”

I could almost hear adults think, “Oh, shit” as they squirmed and glanced desperately around the room, searching for someone their own age to make bigger small-talk with. And that was fine with me because I never felt like divulging much else anyway. But it always made me wonder what it was about children that made most adults so uncomfortable. It seemed that for grown-ups, kids were like the conversational Bermuda Triangle. Once in a while a half-inspired idea would seep out of their web of panicked cranial chaos, giving rise to inquiries like, “What’s your favorite color?” (The word “color” here can be substituted by other kid-friendly nouns like “animal,” or “TV show,”) but not much else escaped.

And you’d think that as we got older, and the gap of intellectual capacity began to decrease, adults would gradually introduce new topics to us, right? After all, we knew more and experienced more every single day. Surely, some substantial common ground could be found. But peculiarly, as I made transitions through elementary, middle, and high school (even dropping out of high school; boy was THAT a show-stopper), the question about school evolved very little. And questions about my favorite color and the like disappeared entirely, so in fact the scope of conversation grew considerably more narrow, not less.

So I guess it makes sense that now, when I’m in college, a brand new question like, “What do you want to do with your life?” would seem like a stroke of goddamn genius to those who, throughout my coming of age, asked the same tired-ass question over and over and over. But this seemingly innocuous new inquisition carries some troubling connotations.

This query, all wrapped up in one tight little bundle of feigned concern, is actually revealed to be rather probing, and even inappropriate, upon further examination. “What do you want to do with your life?” implies several things:

1. That this really means “What sort of career are you pursuing?”

a. Life = career

2. That I should know by now

a. And if I don’t there’s probably something wrong with me

Not that I can really fault anyone for thinking these things. If I were normal, I’d have no difficulty answering these questions, or at least side-stepping them with more fluency. But the problem is that I’m not normal. I don’t fit into the normative mold, and so far I haven’t done such a good job of pretending to.

The significance of this inexorable fact has recently made a cacophonous uprising in my psyche. Suddenly, the bounds of conventionalism, and everything that has long been expected of me simply because I am alive in the 21^st century, seem surmountable, and even wholly avoidable. Finally, I’m thinking about what I really want to do with my life, and it has nothing at all to do with how I’ll make money.

Greetings

This first post will be brief, as the hour is late and the mind is drifting. I've come to say hello.