Just Keep Eating

“Oh! You’re the wedding singer.”  Yup, that’s me.  This is what I hear all throughout the rehearsal dinner.  The rehearsal dinner is always the most interesting/awkward part of singing/playing piano in a wedding – something I am doing more and more these days.  I have to attend the rehearsal to run through the wedding, which usually leads to an invitation to the rehearsal dinner.  I always accept because I don’t want to seem rude and then I always feel awkward.  Wedged somewhere between family and friends, I sit, quietly folding and refolding my napkin and hoping to find an opportunity to join a conversation.  This time, I sat down across from an elderly lady whose connection to the bride and groom I was not able to discover.

This woman constantly had an expression on her face that said “something smells like rotting vegetables.”  Her obvious distaste for the world was accented by bad eyesight that always left her squinting.  Her personality did nothing to improve my first impression of her.  She really did find the world distasteful.  She attempted a conversation with me, which, at first, I graciously dove into.

“So do you go to school anywhere?”

“Yes, I attend Ball State University.”

“And what are you studying?”

“Vocal Performance; I usually sing classical music, but I enjoy doing contemporary and jazz on the side.”

“Oh, my nephew was in a classical orchestra.  They played all this stuff from like the 16th and 17th century. (She means 1600’s and 1700’s.) It was so boring.  Frankly, I am surprised none of them fell asleep during a performance.  I can’t imagine why anyone would choose to study that stuff.”

“….”

What am I supposed to say to that? Now that I was plenty uncomfortable, it was time for her son to swoop in with vengeance for his neglected daughter.

“You’re quite a singer. My daughter here likes to sing, too.  She’s pretty good.  Why don’t you sing something, honey?  (Girl shakes head, embarrassed.) Oh, come on! No? Alright.  Well, she is pretty talented.  Always singing along to the radio. We thought that maybe they would ask her to sing at the wedding.  But, they found you.”

“…”

What the hell do I say?!  But I wasn’t going to just run away.  No way! That’s what they want – to run me off.  So instead I stayed there, sitting at their table, eating food I didn’t have to pay for, and participating in conversations that I most likely wasn’t welcome in.  And you know what? The desert I waited an hour and a half for was delicious!

Nice Legs

As I was driving north on I-69 this Friday on my way to visit Chris, I heard a semi honk at me as I passed it. At first I thought he could see something that was wrong with my car that I couldn’t see, so I slowed down and got in front of him in the right lane. I turned off all of the noise in the car and could hear nothing wrong, but I saw the driver hold a sign up in his windshield, so I took it easy. Eventually, the driver passed me and I relaxed, thinking that nothing was wrong. As I passed the semi a second time, he honked again and I looked over and saw the sign: Nice Legs, and then a number to call. In that moment, I was horrified, and I drove off as quickly as I could, realizing what this man wanted from me. The more I thought about what had happened, the more disgusted I became, but also the more grateful. I had the option of driving away from that dangerous situation, and hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of women all over the world have no options when it comes to their safety and well being.

I just finished reading one of the books I received from Sister Eugenia at the counter trafficking conference I attended in Rome, and it told the story of Eastern European and Nigerian women who have been trafficked to Italy and who eventually found refuge in a safe house run by nuns in Caserta. Some of the women told stories of being taken to back rooms where modern day slave traders would look them up and down and decide if they were worth being bought, and I can just hear them saying about these girls, “Nice legs,” or “Nice ass,” or “Nice breasts,” and buying them so that they would prostitute themselves for the gain of their trader, losing their dignity, the sacred nature of sex, and themselves in the process.

These women who have been trafficked are no different from my friends, my cousins, my classmates, or me. One day, if I have daughters, they will be no different from them either. Their value in the eyes of God is great, and I believe that God’s heart is breaking in ways we cannot imagine for his daughters who are trapped in sexual slavery. I have never met a victim of trafficking personally, but ever since finding out about this issue at sixteen, my heart has been aching for them too. I may not know these women, but they are my sisters, and I long to reach out to them. I’m asking you to reach out to them too.  As people who can drive away, who can always have access to help, we need to speak on behalf of the voiceless and oppressed. We need to stop with the mentality that we are helpless against the evil of this world, or that we can ignore that evil. Trafficking is quickly and stealthily permeating the United States, and we cannot write off prostitutes as whores who should just try a little bit harder to get out of that kind of work. One thing that touched me deeply at the counter trafficking conference was the idea that there is a universe inside of everyone, and we have to treat everyone as such.

In Song of Solomon, God teaches us about sex and its sacred nature. He also speaks of protecting the defenseless against predators who would take advantage of them. The woman talks of how her brothers used to protect her from harm:

“Our little sister has no breasts.
What shall we do with our little sister
when men come asking for her?
She’s a virgin and vulnerable,
and we’ll protect her.
If they think she’s a wall, we’ll top it with barbed wire.
If they think she’s a door, we’ll barricade it.”

Song of Solomon 8:8-9

Her brothers kept out predators for her until she was ready to be married, and after marriage, her husband took on the same role. This is something we can all do for women who are unable to keep out those who think that they are doors who are open to anyone.

There are several things you can do to help in the counter-trafficking movement. Here are a few:

Support legislation that will put an end to human trafficking. United States Senate Bill 596 authorizes grant funding to address the sex trafficking of minors. It is currently in process, and you can call or email your senator to support the bill.

Get more information from trusted sources, such as the U.S. Department of State’s annual Trafficking in Persons Report, notforsalecampaign.org, and humantrafficking.org.

Educate others by talking openly about this issue and showing them tools to fight slavery worldwide and in the United States.

Donate as you are able to anti-trafficking organizations.

Challenge the glamorization of pimps in our culture.

That truck driver is still on the road, and that makes me uneasy, but not as uneasy as the fact that the trafficking of women functions as a very efficient business, and that there are people today who have been reduced to the flesh that houses their souls. Thousands of girls reduced to, “Nice legs.”

Summer

I made it! I toughed out the last few weeks of school: reading, reading, writing, reading, studying, singing, practicing, reading, piano, reading, reading, writing, reading….done!  Then came the field study to Rome and London with the humanities class: flying, walking, walking, “ooh”ing, “ah”ing, writing, walking, walking, eating, drinking wine, walking, flying, walking, moseying, museum-ing, walking, pubbing, walking, writing, getting sick, walking, flying, living in an airport, flying…home!  Time to relax now, right (not that I am complaining – Rome and London were amazing.)?  Well, sort of.  Time for Oral Surgery.  Ugh.  They took out my wisdom teeth, drugged me up, and sent me home to sit on my couch and eat pudding for a few days.  Here’s the kicker: the pain killers made me so dizzy that I couldn’t even use my computer or read.  I can’t count how many movies I watched (and honestly, I can’t recall what happened in some of the movies I watched – all that laughing gas and anesthesia).  I thought that I would love some time to just relax – nowhere to go, nothing I have to do – wonderful, right?  But after the first day, all I felt was bored.  I miss the travel, the adventures, and the people from both college and my trip.  I spend my days wandering around my house, wondering what I can do.  I was unable to get a steady summer job due to my trip and to the oral surgery.  So here is a list of things I have brainstormed to do to keep myself busy this summer:

1.  Teach voice lessons. (I think this idea may have already tanked, as none of the students that I spoke to at the school have contacted me. )

2.  Sing at a wedding. (I WILL be doing this – got it all lined up.)

3. Learn basic mechanics from my Grandpa.  (I might also buy a book on mechanics, see below)

4. Read, Read, Read.  I sorted all of my books by year and made a list of the ones I have yet to read.  I will start making my way down that list.

5.  Dress up as a Disney princess for a little girl’s birthday party. (Yup, I really got asked to do this.)

6. Work on my grasp of politics.  Maybe I will buy a book to help with this, too.  Watch some news.  Read some newspapers.  Research presidential candidates for the next election.

7. Visit the Institute for Therapy through the Arts in Chicago and talk with some Music therapists to getter a better grip on how music therapy works.

8. Keep working on Italian using Rosetta Stone and the magazines and books I bought in Italy.

9.  Visit Chicago – traveler style.  I miss having a city to explore.  So I am going to buy a travel guide and a map and spend a few days exploring Chicago, with darling Liz.

10. Write a whole lot on this blog. (Hey, look! I have already started this one.)

11. Take up running, very, very gradually. And if it fails, at least walk a whole bunch.

12.  Get back into meditation and yoga.

13. Cut all my hair off. (The only reason I include this as something to do, is because I know I will spend at least two days playing with the new haircut if I muster up the courage to actually cut it all off.)

Okay, so that’s 13 things.  That should keep me busy.  I hope.  Next problem: how to keep from getting lonely while I am stuck here in Remington without a job.  I do not have 13 ideas to help solve this one.

New College Hopefuls

My best friend, Carolotta, invited me to sing at a Baccalaureate with her in Michigan this weekend. After we sang our bit and were applauded off the stage by eager parents and apathetic teenagers, the graduating seniors were asked to stand up and tell what their plans were for the coming school year. Person after person stood up and made confident claims about their college choice, if and where they were planning to transfer to after a few years, and what major they were going to pursue.

Every single one of them sounded so sure that nothing was going to change, that life was NOT, in fact, going to throw a wrench into their “perfect plan”.

Every time someone asked me last year where I was going and what I was studying, I could only tell them ‘away and something’. Vagueness has become my best friend. See the thing is, I don’t trust life and I don’t trust myself IN life. At any moment, I could get bored of something and crave change, but then when everything is going fine and I like it the way it is, life can up and change on me.

I have just learned to never plan too far in advance because who knows what is going to change that would make your solid plan disintegrate in front of your expecting eyes.

Maybe I am being a pessimist here (I prefer the term realist, but you can judge me however you like), maybe these kids WILL stay on the path they have erected in their 4-year plans, maybe every single one of them will make it through life with no surprises, maybe maybe maybe.

But maybe they will be rudely awakened in the first week of college 🙂

I wish them, and all the other new college hopefuls, the best.

Sun vs. Grass

What does the sun think of the grass?

Perhaps it is jealous:

The sun sits impossibly high in the afternoon sky peering down with the utmost envy as the grass mocks his hot surface. He sticks his tongue out as kids, with sandals in hand, trounce over his spiky soft blades. The sun gets so sick of him everyday, rolling his eyes as the earth rolls its mass on the tilted axes of seasons. He is thankful when the ocean takes the lands place in his line of sight. “Finally,” he exhales, “someone else that knows not what it feels like to have the presence of human feet on its surface.” But he can’t help but feel envious of the ocean as he watches boats and ships slice through its water, there is still that human interaction that the sun will forever crave. Though, late at night, the sun gazes through the reflection of the moon as lovers lay on sheets atop the grass, and he can only smile when he realizes they are admiring his own pale manifestation while completely ignoring the grass below.

Perhaps it basks in its supremacy:

Without the sun, the grass cannot grow. The sun reminisces about this fact as he sits back and watches the grass grow hopelessly long in some neglected areas as it itches to be groomed. Each passing day when it is not, the suns presence only makes it grow longer and longer, more and more uncomfortably un-kempt. He laughs at its misfortune because he requires no up keeping himself, in fact, no one can even hope to walk on his fiery surface, nonetheless push a mower across its exterior. “I don’t need anyone,” the sun mocks, “I give life and growth, no one can bring either to me.” The grass does not like the sun for this very reason and will constantly try to tick the sun off. This only makes the sun shine stronger, leaving brown patches of burnt grass to litter the lawns of unfortunate people.

.:This one, once again, is attributed to Sam McClellan for he gave me the prompt for this on a whim and encouraged me to flesh it out. Thanks dear:.

Last

It is the last week of school, nay, it is the last DAY of school. I write this post as I am sitting, for the last time, on what was the muse of our blog name, my uncomfortable college mattress.

This springy piece of plastic has provided many strange dreams to flash through my subconscious, but as I laid on it for the last time on Tuesday night (I spent the rest of the nights at my friends’ dorm, a bittersweet goodbye), I reminisced about my freshman year.

When, the first day of my Fiscal Wellness class, we were asked to write on a notecard what we are studying to be, I misheard the teacher and thought he said “what we want to be”, so I wrote “Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream Taste Tester/Flavor Inventer” which he would read off to the rest of his classes as a joke.

When I met Morgan and Talley for the first time and that whole tangled mess of how we even became friends at all!

When Matt could not remember my name even though he promised that we were gonna be best friends the first time he met me.

When Grace and I went to the Rocky Horror Picture Show on Halloween all prepared with rice, newspapers and bread in her purse…which she left and it became moldy.

When I escaped death from the looming elevator doors at Bracken Library.

When I went to Grace’s house and met her wonderful family, same with Morgan’s parents and when Talley’s parents came up here.

When I got the flu and all my friends took care of me.

When I joined the Ball State Swing Society and it has forever changed my life.

When I found out I had Creative Writing with the one and only Becca Jackson, my other half.

When Grace, Chris, Becca, Caleb and I started up “Fellowship” that will hopefully continue next year.

When I went to Scramble Light Blues and fell in love with Blues dancing.

When we instigated Tuesday and Thursday night 5:00 dinners which everyone and their mother participated in forcing us to add WAY too many chairs to the proverbial round table.

When, in the last week of school, even though I had finals to worry about and a room that wasn’t going to pack itself, I spent every moment with the people I was gonna miss in the 3 months of summer. The same summer that, as a high school student, I would count down to has become something that I was running away from.

Who knew I was going to change this much? I have never really been a huge fan of nostalgia, but when I got to college, when I was supposed to do the most growing, I regressed back to a childish mindset.

Sometimes, things end too abruptly…

Holy Week

As most of my friends have already found out, I love Holy Week. I have a lot of fond memories surrounding the Easter season, including being rededicated in my high school’s pool on Good Friday, washing Louis Yaegar’s feet on Maundy Thursday, and being gathered around our table sharing Easter dinner in the entry way with my friends and family. We have home videos of me marching around in the yard, chanting, “Easter egg hunt, Easter egg hunt.” I have been caught on yet another home video hiding a coconut monkey in our lazy susan from my brother. When we still went to house church in Lafayette, Alan Welch laid out his shirts on Palm Sunday for us to tread on as we walked into the living room for worship.

This year, my friends humored me and celebrated alongside me in remembering the beauty and mystery that surrounds Holy Week. As we washed each others feet on Thursday, I came to realize what I love about celebrating this week (I love celebrating too). I love the remembering. Remembering how much I need Jesus, how necessary it is to serve others, how deep and wide and long and high is the love of Christ. This is something that I’m aware of all year, but I savor it during holy week.

So thanks to everyone who celebrated along with me.

Shoo Fly

Sitting in class on Thursday, engrossed in conversation about Michael Cunningham’s The Hours or Monica Ali’s Brick Lane or one of the other variously successful novels that is perhaps important for personal development, I noticed a fly.  It was a simple house fly, yet held within its tiny thorax an extraordinary talent for annoyance and distraction.  Immediately, I planned my attack.

First I would lure it into my domain (how does one attract a fly with no spoiled food on hand?).  Then, of course, comes the attack.  Rolled up newspaper?  Too cliché.  Fly poison?  Too inaccessible.  No…something better.  I’ll go all Karate Kid on that fly…grab it by the wing, mid-flight.  Then I’ll smash it into oblivion.  Dramatic?  Maybe.  Worth it?  Absolutely.

Then came my chance…the soon-to-be victim buzzed around my head, landed on the table in front of me.  Too easy.  I looked into its huge, insect eyes, wondering if he (or she) knew the fate which was inevitably approaching.  I was ready to move in for the kill…

…But I didn’t.  For some unclear reason, I couldn’t raise my hand in the air and destroy the inconsequential life of that fly.  Maybe I felt sorry for him.  Maybe I was suddenly possessed by a strong conviction toward pesky insect rights.  Maybe….I was a fly in another life, and I could therefore empathize with this pathetic creature.

But I think that really, in that moment, I just appreciated the fact that it was living.  It had worked its way through the hierarchy of life, avoiding the fate of those who had already moved on to that eternal nothingness (so it goes).  Sure, it spends its time in dung heaps.  And so it flies around the room, buzzing like an old and sickly refrigerator.  But above everything, it was alive.

Now I’m not telling anyone to go join PETA, or even to stop killing flies.  In another place, at a different moment, I would have killed that disease-infested bug.  I might kill one tomorrow.  But maybe next time, before you assert your position on the food chain, take a moment to appreciate the fact that something is alive.  Then, raise the newspaper to appreciate that it’s not.

Am I a Hippie for Thinking…

‘What on earth is wrong with all of us’?

I really commit myself to giving this question its fair shake every time it starts nagging at the corner of my mind.  I feel that, for most people, there are not enough of these moments. This may be my biggest motivation for attending plays, though I am not a theater major. (I go to so many shows with Talley that I think a lot of the theater majors are starting to give me that look that says “Who is that girl? I see her everywhere.”)  Watching life acted out forces me to notice all of the assumptions, pressures, and unspoken agreements that we simply overlook in everyday life.  I feel personally responsible for examining these generally unnoticed social currents for their value and necessity.  Are they logical?  Are they beneficial?  Are they good? (I know that that just opened a whole new avenue for argument, but lets just assume that most people have a basic standard of morality.) Do they conflict with my world views? Should I reject them or is it worth the trouble?

I recently attended the play Greek, highly explosive and wonderfully in your face.  The play explored many themes and challenged many social currents that quietly tug us this way and that, but one concept has so firmly rooted itself into the walls of my brain that I cannot push it away with other thoughts.  Sex and Violence, essentially.

The play criticized our treatment of the two subjects.  Depictions of violence and sex are often treated very differently.  How many shows can you name right now whose entire context is murder? or maybe war? or any sort of fighting?  I can form a list of nearly fifteen in under a minute.  This is an approved topic for representation.  Murder, war, and fighting seem to be acceptable material for television, plays, movies, and books.  Sex is a bit more uncomfortable, a bit more taboo.  Why?

Physical manifestations of love and affection versus physical manifestations of hate and anger. Ding! Ding! Round 1!  (Obviously the violent one will win since for some reason I, quite ironically, put this into the context of a fight.)  Our society gives the stamp of approval to depictions of physical hate and anger, but not physical love.  What does this say about us?  And I repeat: What is wrong with all of us?  I never even given a second thought to this.  I am highly disturbed that I can sit and comfortably watch men and women being shot, stabbed, beaten, hung, or even dismembered, but as soon as the sex scenes begin we all get a little bit uncomfortable and start shifting in our seats or issuing grunts of disapproval.  The context of the sex scene does not even seem to matter – it could be between characters committed to one another who are shown to love each other, as a husband and wife (which in even the most conservative of mindsets is not considered wrong).  It is still inappropriate.  It is dirty. Why?

And for the final showdown: A sex scene appears on the screen and nearly all of the people in the room (except for your occasional free spirit) feel uncomfortable and begin drumming their fingers, whining, “Come on.  Move on to the rest of it.  Bring back the fighting, the killing – the action.”  Forget the love, bring on the violence. We have our winner.

Death by Carnival (and Other Adventures)

As I spin out of control in a small metal capsule, catapulted what seems like miles into the air, I wonder how long it took to put this carnival together.  Of course, it’s safe.  Yes.  Of course.  They wouldn’t have this every year if–that bolt looks a little loose.  I don’t know if this is–

Hundreds, thousands of conflicting thoughts.  Still, all I can muster is a terrified scream…and Talley is right there with me, shrieking with the voice she needs to audition with tomorrow.  I finally shout, in a moment of crazed excitement and prophetic wisdom, “It’s the impending death that makes it fun!”

We saw the merry-go-round as we were about to leave. Thank God.

Yes, the Late Nite Carnival was back in town this weekend,

complete with friendly (if somewhat unhygienic) carnies, mechanical rides with questionable safety, and the cardiovascular nightmares we lovingly call “elephant ears.”  And the warming sensation of grease crawling down my esophagus and into my bloodstream was just what I needed to combat the slightly rainy, 40 degree weather.

Talley's first elephant ear

When Talley and I decided to crash the carnival, we had our sights set on free food and Talley’s first taste (yes, I said first) of the fatty goodness described above.  It saddens me to say that the food was not, in fact, free.  Still, we made a party out of it.

Was it a bad idea to go outside in the cold rain for hours?  Probably.  Was it a bad idea to get our brains scrambled by the Gravitron immediately after eating loads of fried dough?  There’s a good chance.  Was it a bad idea to risk our lives on the Metal Contraption of Death?  No doubt.

But when you take a night and fill it to the brim with bad ideas, what comes out the other end isn’t a bad idea…it’s a really terrible idea.  And that’s what memories are made of.  At the end of the night, you go home with a severe cold, a couple clogged arteries, a new understanding of death, and a smile.  Oh, and a large poster of President Barack Obama (now placed strategically on the ceiling above Morgan’s bed).

Oh, the joy...and the fear.