I saw The Joy Luck Club for the first time yesterday and it immediately jumped into my short list of favorite movies. I haven't cried that hard in a movie since Beth died in Little Women, and if I'd been watching it alone, I would have sobbed. As it was, I was watching it with a friend of mine, so I tried to maintain some semblance of self-control. He had told me about the movie earlier, when we were talking about how amazing it is what we take for granted in our day-to-day lives. His grandmother in China lived through such a terrible famine that everyone in her family died except her sister. The two of them somehow managed to survive by eating grass. And when his grandparents had children, they went hungry in order to feed their children. And his parents moved to America in order to provide a better life for their children. "That's how it is with us," he explained. "You live in order to be a step for the next generation, in order to move the family forward."
He loves The Joy Luck Club because it reminds him of his mother and his grandmother. There were several points in the movie where he pointed at the screen and said, "Yes, yes! It is just like that!" Like when the women friends brag about how incredible their children are, or when the mother of the chess champion walks down the street holding the magazine cover of her child like a banner on her chest and stops everyone she knows to show them.
Before we watched the movie, I told him how last year at this time, when I was still dreaming that everything in my life would return to what I had known before, I wrote my friend Isaac in Israel and told him that I was dreaming of coming back and that everything would work out. Here is his response:
"I'm biting my tongue, chewing my knuckles, and crossing my eyes in an effort not to give you personal advice about empowerment. I'm actually not sure what advice I'd give, other than: DO NOT COME BACK TO TEL AVIV BEFORE THE MONTH IS UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Also, read the Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan."
I didn't understand why he recommended this book. I thought reading about immigrants was the last thing I needed. Now I understand he wanted me to hear what the mothers told their daughters: You are worth more than what you have come to expect. My favorite scenes were the one of the mother telling her daughter: Leave this lopsided house and do not come back until he offers you [tenderness and respect] with both hands open.
In my second favorite scene, the mother tells her daughter: I tell you the story because I was raised the Chinese way. I was taught to desire nothing, to swallow other people's misery, and to eat my own bitterness. And even though I taught my daughter the opposite, still she came out the same way. Maybe it is because she was born to me and she was born a girl, and I was born to my mother and I was born a girl, all of us like stairs, one step after another, going up, going down, but always going the same way. No, this cannot be, this not knowing what you're worth, this not begin with you. My mother not know her worth until too late - too late for her, but not for me. Now we will see if not too late for you, hmm?
It's not too late for me.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Memories
My Israeli grandmother passed away this week. It is surreal to be so far away from the family, the funeral, and the mourning. I am not sure how to commemorate her life from here. Safta Shulamit was a tough woman. At 16, she and her identical twin sister followed their 18 year old sister to Israel from Romania. After they arrived, the twins lived together in a boarding school where they learned to speak Hebrew. Shulamit used to tell me what it was like in order to encourage me when I was learning Hebrew and homesick.
Safta Shulamit was the one member of the family who spoke no English at all, which made her the best Hebrew teacher for me. We were left with no other means of communication, but we made do in the beginning, and then later, she always encouraged me by pointing out to everyone, "Linsey speaks Hebrew now. Listen to that!"
One of the things I loved the most about my early years in Israel was Friday night dinner at her and her husband's house. We would arrive in time to walk Saba Shmulik back from the synagogue. When we returned to the house, the Shabbat candles were glowing merrily. We would stand around the table and sing "Shalom Aleichem", the men's bass voices rattling the windows while the women's voices danced around in harmony, and we smiled at each other. Then Saba Shmulik would say kiddush, bless the lovely, fluffy white loaves of bread and invite us to sit. Safta Shulamit would bring out a platter of gefilte fish, which I learned to love. Nothing made her prouder than the fact that her gefilte fish were so good she'd managed to make a Mormon girl from Utah ask for seconds. After the gefilte fish, there was dish after delicious Hungarian dish. And always coffee and chocolate yeast cake for dessert.
Saba Shmulik passed away three years ago. Safta Shulamit wasn't the same after he died. She was angry at him for abandoning her after everything they had survived together. She hated having to leave her home and move into an assisted living apartment. I always regretted not having the opportunity to live in Israel while Saba Shmulik was still alive. In the beginning, he was upset with me and with the fact I was a shikseh and didn't convert, but after a while, I converted him. He learned to love me, felt that I was good for his grandson, and saw how I loved Judaism and the family and embraced both. It is because of him and Safta Shulamit that I kept my name.
When we moved to Israel, Safta Shulamit was already losing her memory and by the time I left, it had declined seriously. She started to forget the names of her great grandchildren and sometimes her grandchildren and their spouses, but she somehow remembered mine. There was something gratifying to me to know that even when I wasn't there, someone remembered me. I will do the same for her; even though she is no longer here, I will always remember her.
Safta Shulamit was the one member of the family who spoke no English at all, which made her the best Hebrew teacher for me. We were left with no other means of communication, but we made do in the beginning, and then later, she always encouraged me by pointing out to everyone, "Linsey speaks Hebrew now. Listen to that!"
One of the things I loved the most about my early years in Israel was Friday night dinner at her and her husband's house. We would arrive in time to walk Saba Shmulik back from the synagogue. When we returned to the house, the Shabbat candles were glowing merrily. We would stand around the table and sing "Shalom Aleichem", the men's bass voices rattling the windows while the women's voices danced around in harmony, and we smiled at each other. Then Saba Shmulik would say kiddush, bless the lovely, fluffy white loaves of bread and invite us to sit. Safta Shulamit would bring out a platter of gefilte fish, which I learned to love. Nothing made her prouder than the fact that her gefilte fish were so good she'd managed to make a Mormon girl from Utah ask for seconds. After the gefilte fish, there was dish after delicious Hungarian dish. And always coffee and chocolate yeast cake for dessert.
Saba Shmulik passed away three years ago. Safta Shulamit wasn't the same after he died. She was angry at him for abandoning her after everything they had survived together. She hated having to leave her home and move into an assisted living apartment. I always regretted not having the opportunity to live in Israel while Saba Shmulik was still alive. In the beginning, he was upset with me and with the fact I was a shikseh and didn't convert, but after a while, I converted him. He learned to love me, felt that I was good for his grandson, and saw how I loved Judaism and the family and embraced both. It is because of him and Safta Shulamit that I kept my name.
When we moved to Israel, Safta Shulamit was already losing her memory and by the time I left, it had declined seriously. She started to forget the names of her great grandchildren and sometimes her grandchildren and their spouses, but she somehow remembered mine. There was something gratifying to me to know that even when I wasn't there, someone remembered me. I will do the same for her; even though she is no longer here, I will always remember her.
DIVA!
I looked through all of Lesha's boxes of Christmas decorations and decided that none of them would do for my first full size Christmas tree in my own house, so I went out shopping. I had images of a beautiful, international folk art tree a la Ten Thousand Villages or World Market, but didn't fall in love with anything I found. I went to Target to look at artificial trees and while wandering the aisles I happened upon an ornament that was simply the word 'diva' carved out of a block and then painted with hot pink glitter. In a second, I knew I had to own it. It was so over-the-top ridiculous that I called my step-mom for support.
"Chris, can I do a diva tree? Can I really buy hot pink and turquoise ornaments?"
"Honey, of course you can! It's your statement. I am not what I was, I am something new!"
"What's that- tacky?"
"No. You are still your classy self, just a little more lighthearted and embracing where you are. Go for it!"
And I did. I bought the diva ornament, turquoise sparkling deer, glittery snowflakes, and a star tree topper with more bling than both the Hilton sisters combined. I came home and was so excited I laid out all the new ornaments on the floor, so I could look at them until the big day for decorating came.
The next day, as I was driving home from work, Abbie called. "Where are you? I am at Target and I have decided that you need to come here because there is this shiny pink ornament that says 'diva' and I think you should do a Diva Tree."
I started squealing about the time she said pink and by the time she finished her sentence my vocal pitch could only be registered by dogs. "I just bought it yesterday! And that is what I am calling my tree! The Diva Tree!"
"Well, there you have it. It was meant to be."
On Thanksgiving, my step-mom gave me a turquoise and turquoise-sequined Diva Tee to wear while decorating my Diva Tree. Today was the big day for decorating (I couldn't wait any longer.) I enlisted my friend Vince to help me put up the tree. He helped me hang the lights and found a way to clip the tree topper to the tree when I might have given up since it threatened to topple the entire tree. I keep wandering into the living room just to admire my sparkling silly tree and I end up grinning like a crazy woman. I feel like a diva!
"Chris, can I do a diva tree? Can I really buy hot pink and turquoise ornaments?"
"Honey, of course you can! It's your statement. I am not what I was, I am something new!"
"What's that- tacky?"
"No. You are still your classy self, just a little more lighthearted and embracing where you are. Go for it!"
And I did. I bought the diva ornament, turquoise sparkling deer, glittery snowflakes, and a star tree topper with more bling than both the Hilton sisters combined. I came home and was so excited I laid out all the new ornaments on the floor, so I could look at them until the big day for decorating came.
The next day, as I was driving home from work, Abbie called. "Where are you? I am at Target and I have decided that you need to come here because there is this shiny pink ornament that says 'diva' and I think you should do a Diva Tree."
I started squealing about the time she said pink and by the time she finished her sentence my vocal pitch could only be registered by dogs. "I just bought it yesterday! And that is what I am calling my tree! The Diva Tree!"
"Well, there you have it. It was meant to be."
On Thanksgiving, my step-mom gave me a turquoise and turquoise-sequined Diva Tee to wear while decorating my Diva Tree. Today was the big day for decorating (I couldn't wait any longer.) I enlisted my friend Vince to help me put up the tree. He helped me hang the lights and found a way to clip the tree topper to the tree when I might have given up since it threatened to topple the entire tree. I keep wandering into the living room just to admire my sparkling silly tree and I end up grinning like a crazy woman. I feel like a diva!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
12 Step Program
My friend, Dave, without knowing about my previous post said today, "It's a funny thing about 12-step programs. Everyone knows that admitting the problem is the first step, but no one remembers that there are still 11 other steps to go."
I guess admitting that I take myself too seriously isn't all that much of the solution after all!
I guess admitting that I take myself too seriously isn't all that much of the solution after all!
Too Damn Seriously
I take myself too damn seriously!
If recognizing the problem is part of the solution, then I thought I better just admit it now. I sometimes forget that I am not perfect and that I don't have to be perfect and that, even if I HAD to be perfect or suffer terrible consequences, I couldn't be perfect.
I think this obsession with perfection comes with growing up Mormon, where there is always a right way. And that right way is both straight and narrow. I remember my ex-step mom telling me that even though it was true that we needed to keep on the straight and narrow path to get too heaven, we Mormons too the "narrow" part way too seriously. There was still some space for maneuvering, even on the straight and narrow.
I haven't been on the straight and narrow for years, and yet sometimes, I find myself putting one foot in front of the other like a woman on a tightrope, scared to death of a misstep. I also occasionally become convinced that whatever decision I make now will affect me the REST OF MY LIFE. That's how I was raised. For example, we were told over and over again that the reason we were supposed to be friends with other Mormons was because that when we were old enough to date, we would date our friends, and then marry the people we date, so bam! Non-Mormon friendships inevitably lead to unhappiness and misery which will last for the REST OF YOUR LIFE.
So, if admitting that I take myself too damn seriously is only part of the solution, what's the rest of it?
If recognizing the problem is part of the solution, then I thought I better just admit it now. I sometimes forget that I am not perfect and that I don't have to be perfect and that, even if I HAD to be perfect or suffer terrible consequences, I couldn't be perfect.
I think this obsession with perfection comes with growing up Mormon, where there is always a right way. And that right way is both straight and narrow. I remember my ex-step mom telling me that even though it was true that we needed to keep on the straight and narrow path to get too heaven, we Mormons too the "narrow" part way too seriously. There was still some space for maneuvering, even on the straight and narrow.
I haven't been on the straight and narrow for years, and yet sometimes, I find myself putting one foot in front of the other like a woman on a tightrope, scared to death of a misstep. I also occasionally become convinced that whatever decision I make now will affect me the REST OF MY LIFE. That's how I was raised. For example, we were told over and over again that the reason we were supposed to be friends with other Mormons was because that when we were old enough to date, we would date our friends, and then marry the people we date, so bam! Non-Mormon friendships inevitably lead to unhappiness and misery which will last for the REST OF YOUR LIFE.
So, if admitting that I take myself too damn seriously is only part of the solution, what's the rest of it?
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The Boot Museum
Hanukkah is coming soon and I will have a colleague in town from Israel during the holiday. I asked my co-workers if they would be interested in attending a Hanukkah party in our colleague's honor. They weren't sure what a Hanukkah party would be like, but they were all game. I told them that it will be nice, but Hanukkah really is more fun with kids. It's a holiday that is really for kids. One co-worker offered to bring his 7 year old daughter.
"But I have to warn you, she is going to show up in bright pink cowboy boots. We can't get her to wear anything else. We bought her a pair of pale pink boots about 6 months ago and she refused to wear anything else since then. She wore that pair so much that she wore them out and we had to go buy her some new ones. And these new ones are really, really pink.
"She loved the old ones so much and knew her mom would make her get rid of them, once she got new boots. To avoid this, she declared, 'I am opening a boot museum in the basement. I will collect boots and charge people money to come and look at the boots.' In her room she put up a low table, placed her old boots on the table and made a sign reading 'Boot Museum' and placed it by the boots. I asked her if she wanted to put my boots in the museum too. She said, 'This is only for UNUSED boots. It's a MUSEUM. Jeez.'"
I hope she comes to Hanukkah.
"But I have to warn you, she is going to show up in bright pink cowboy boots. We can't get her to wear anything else. We bought her a pair of pale pink boots about 6 months ago and she refused to wear anything else since then. She wore that pair so much that she wore them out and we had to go buy her some new ones. And these new ones are really, really pink.
"She loved the old ones so much and knew her mom would make her get rid of them, once she got new boots. To avoid this, she declared, 'I am opening a boot museum in the basement. I will collect boots and charge people money to come and look at the boots.' In her room she put up a low table, placed her old boots on the table and made a sign reading 'Boot Museum' and placed it by the boots. I asked her if she wanted to put my boots in the museum too. She said, 'This is only for UNUSED boots. It's a MUSEUM. Jeez.'"
I hope she comes to Hanukkah.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Modern Day Parental Concerns
As several of you have commented, I haven't been writing on this blog for the last month and a half. I haven't been doing much besides work for the last month and a half. Yesterday I got a text message from my dad, who shares a family cell phone plan with me. "Are you OK? I am starting to worry. We got our phone bill and you only sent 7 text messages last month. Are you working so hard you are losing contact with your friends?"
The answer is yes! But I thought it was such a funny way for him to find out how hard I have been working.
The answer is yes! But I thought it was such a funny way for him to find out how hard I have been working.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Lucky day
Today, while waiting for the woman at the reception counter of my gym to check me in, I saw a thigh-high girl in a pink hooded parka munching happily on an oreo as her mother spoke to the woman behind the counter. "What are you eating?" I asked her, as if her black hands and lips weren't a clear indication of the answer. Instead of answering, she grinned up at me, tottered forward and hugged my leg. Her mother was horrified, "She's covered with Oreo! Lily, stop it!"
I was, as I often am, dressed all in black from the waist down, so I wasn't worried. In order to calm the mother though, I decided to make the little girl stop hugging me by coming down to her level. I knelt down and asked her, "How old are you?" She grinned at me with complete joy, tottered forward, and hugged my neck with her tiny arms. I did what almost anyone would have and hugged her back. Her mother was horrified.
I was so thrilled that as I handed my membership card to the woman behind the counter I said, "I just got a hug for no reason!" and giggled. It felt like my lucky day.
I was, as I often am, dressed all in black from the waist down, so I wasn't worried. In order to calm the mother though, I decided to make the little girl stop hugging me by coming down to her level. I knelt down and asked her, "How old are you?" She grinned at me with complete joy, tottered forward, and hugged my neck with her tiny arms. I did what almost anyone would have and hugged her back. Her mother was horrified.
I was so thrilled that as I handed my membership card to the woman behind the counter I said, "I just got a hug for no reason!" and giggled. It felt like my lucky day.
Taking the Bus to Amsterdam
When I lived in Sweden a group of friends decided to take a trip to Amsterdam. They came back with horror stories about how it took over 12 hours by train and there were multiple places where they had to switch trains and said, in short, that it was awful. My fantastic friend Larkin decided that we would not suffer similarly. So, we decided we would take the bus to Amsterdam. We were thrilled with this solution that promised no difficult connections.
The day came for our trip. We took the city bus to the bus depot and got on the bus. When we got on the bus we were instructed that at our next stop, we were going to have to get off the bus and take a taxi to the next bus. Our stop was in the middle of nowhere by the side of a pine tree-lined road. A taxi took us to a restaurant where we ate open faced sandwiches wrapped in saran wrap and bought snacks for the trip. The next bus finally arrived. We rode on that bus for a while, until we had to get off of it, to get on the boat. After the boat, we got on another bus. And then transferred to another bus, somewhere in Germany in the middle of the night. Finally, over 20 hours later, our final bus dropped us off, where? At the train station, where we ended up taking the train to Amsterdam after all.
Ever since, "Taking the bus to Amsterdam" means sometimes, you think you've beat the system and you've only managed to get screwed. It also means those times where you learn something the hard way. I realized this morning, as I was reflecting on the challenges of dating for the first time in years, and really, dating the first time as an adult. I need to figure out what is good for me and what I need. Inevitably, I am going to end up taking the bus to Amsterdam more than once and I need to just settle back and enjoy the ride.
The day came for our trip. We took the city bus to the bus depot and got on the bus. When we got on the bus we were instructed that at our next stop, we were going to have to get off the bus and take a taxi to the next bus. Our stop was in the middle of nowhere by the side of a pine tree-lined road. A taxi took us to a restaurant where we ate open faced sandwiches wrapped in saran wrap and bought snacks for the trip. The next bus finally arrived. We rode on that bus for a while, until we had to get off of it, to get on the boat. After the boat, we got on another bus. And then transferred to another bus, somewhere in Germany in the middle of the night. Finally, over 20 hours later, our final bus dropped us off, where? At the train station, where we ended up taking the train to Amsterdam after all.
Ever since, "Taking the bus to Amsterdam" means sometimes, you think you've beat the system and you've only managed to get screwed. It also means those times where you learn something the hard way. I realized this morning, as I was reflecting on the challenges of dating for the first time in years, and really, dating the first time as an adult. I need to figure out what is good for me and what I need. Inevitably, I am going to end up taking the bus to Amsterdam more than once and I need to just settle back and enjoy the ride.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Merry Commercialism!
Christmas is coming and I find myself itching to buy brightly colored,shiny, tacky objects. I want to hang them around the house. I want to plug little lights in all over. I wander aisles is the grocery store and department stores like a stoned or demented person, captivated by the colors and the scents. I am not being sarcastic.
Christmas... I am scared of Christmas. A lot of mixed couples experience what has been termed the "December Dilemma". I was no exception. Christmas brought with it a turmoil of emotions. All the positive nostalgia, along with cross-cultural confusion, concern for my ex's sense of alienation, embarrassment over how tacky, commercialized, over-indulgent, and endless the holiday season can be, particularly for someone who doesn't have nostalgic childhood memories. All this made my relationship with Christmas a complicated one. It took me five years to get comfortable with it. Last year was the first year I was excited about Christmas. I was sure I had finally struck the balance and could make the most of a Christmas in Israel. I ended up in Utah at the last minute, too shaken by life and it's tricks to be able to even choose between two pairs of pajamas that I had received as gifts. It took me two days to realize I could just keep both pairs.
When we moved into this apartment, Lesha had boxes and boxes labeled decorations. "What is all this?" I asked. "It's all my Christmas junk," she said. "The whole time I was married people kept giving me all this crap I have to store somewhere. Don't you have this kind of stuff?"
"I was married to a Jewish guy."
"Oh, right. So, you've got a menorah and I've got six boxes of Christmas shit."
I am waiting to see what's in all those boxes before I indulge my desire to buy "Christmas shit". But I am already scouting.
Christmas... I am scared of Christmas. A lot of mixed couples experience what has been termed the "December Dilemma". I was no exception. Christmas brought with it a turmoil of emotions. All the positive nostalgia, along with cross-cultural confusion, concern for my ex's sense of alienation, embarrassment over how tacky, commercialized, over-indulgent, and endless the holiday season can be, particularly for someone who doesn't have nostalgic childhood memories. All this made my relationship with Christmas a complicated one. It took me five years to get comfortable with it. Last year was the first year I was excited about Christmas. I was sure I had finally struck the balance and could make the most of a Christmas in Israel. I ended up in Utah at the last minute, too shaken by life and it's tricks to be able to even choose between two pairs of pajamas that I had received as gifts. It took me two days to realize I could just keep both pairs.
When we moved into this apartment, Lesha had boxes and boxes labeled decorations. "What is all this?" I asked. "It's all my Christmas junk," she said. "The whole time I was married people kept giving me all this crap I have to store somewhere. Don't you have this kind of stuff?"
"I was married to a Jewish guy."
"Oh, right. So, you've got a menorah and I've got six boxes of Christmas shit."
I am waiting to see what's in all those boxes before I indulge my desire to buy "Christmas shit". But I am already scouting.
Blossom
My copy of Rumi has a broken spine. Over the last 8 months I have read the same poem so much that the book now falls open there. It's called "Joy at Sudden Disappointment". The poem tells the story of how when Mohammed removed his shoes to pray, an eagle scooped one up. Mohammed was aggrieved, but then the eagle turned the boot over and a snake fell out. The poem is two pages and not everyone loves Rumi like I do, so I'll spare you all of it. But part of it is relevant today.
"...Look carefully around you and recognize
the luminosity of souls. Sit beside those
who draw you to that.
Learn from this eagle story
that when misfortune comes, you must quickly praise.
Others may be saying, Oh no, but you
will be opening out like a rose
losing itself petal by petal.
Someone once asked a great sheikh
what sufism was.
'The feeling of joy
when sudden disappointment comes.'..."
I love the luminous souls around me now. The gentlemen with white or silver facial hair who mentor me and teach me up close or from a distance. My little sister's soothing presence, my co-workers' sharp minds and sharper wit, the circle of friends always up for adventure in Salt Lake, and the friends that stay connected to me via my free cell phone minutes on weekends.
I am lucky for this time. Without it, I wouldn't have learned what I have about my body, about myself, about my worth - to myself and to others. Petal by petal.
"...Look carefully around you and recognize
the luminosity of souls. Sit beside those
who draw you to that.
Learn from this eagle story
that when misfortune comes, you must quickly praise.
Others may be saying, Oh no, but you
will be opening out like a rose
losing itself petal by petal.
Someone once asked a great sheikh
what sufism was.
'The feeling of joy
when sudden disappointment comes.'..."
I love the luminous souls around me now. The gentlemen with white or silver facial hair who mentor me and teach me up close or from a distance. My little sister's soothing presence, my co-workers' sharp minds and sharper wit, the circle of friends always up for adventure in Salt Lake, and the friends that stay connected to me via my free cell phone minutes on weekends.
I am lucky for this time. Without it, I wouldn't have learned what I have about my body, about myself, about my worth - to myself and to others. Petal by petal.
The Palm
Oded always used to tell a story about The Palm restaurant in New York. I drove past a sign for The Palms, a totally unrelated place, and it instantly conjured up an image of Oded telling stories and laughing deeply, wine glass in hand, eyes scrunched at the corners. Thinking of him laughing then made me think of his daughter, Michal, a sweet, modest social worker with a penchant for dirty jokes. She'd bring them home and gather the family for a telling of the latest. Which then made me think of Orna laughing, and of Tamar performing. Like the time that Tamar came to the dinner table in an extremely low cut, skin tight top. Her mother whispered that the shirt was inappropriate. Tamar stomped off and returned in a turtleneck, long pants, and a scarf wrapped around her head. Her mother laughed until tears rolled down her face. Orna laughs like that a lot.
It's funny how thinking about laughter can make me cry.
It's funny how thinking about laughter can make me cry.
Fear of Fire
Today started out as an ordinary work day. I got to the office at 7:30 am and started in on the conference calls and the paperwork that I put on hold during my insanely busy week last week.
My work building sits on one corner of an ENORMOUS intersection. Salt Lake's downtown streets were laid out to be wide enough for ox carts to make U-turns, which must have made sense in 1850, but since the invention of the automobile, this design has put pedestrians at constant risk. So much so that there are orange crossing guard flags strapped to signs near crosswalks so you can be your own crossing guard and then deposit the flag on the other side of the street. It's an exceptionally silly method, but I have been frightened enough for my wellbeing to use these flags more than once.
Since my work is stationed on the corner of a particularly enormous intersection, car accidents and the ensuing police and ambulance vehicles with accompanying sirens are not uncommon. We tend to peak out the window and then head back to work. Which was why it took us all a little while today to look out the window when the fire trucks stopped in front of our building and the police cars closed off our street. But eventually I did peak out, and saw that unlike usual, the firemen had unrolled their hoses in front of my window and seemed to be waiting for something to happen. We looked on for a while and then a coworker walked outside to investigate.
He came back in with a troubled look on his face. "There is a gas leak in the neighborhood. I couldn't even breathe outside." It was about then that I started to notice the scent of natural gas throughout my office. It was coming in through the vents and leaking through the windows (which should also indicate that my cubicle is freezing). Since it is freezing, we all had space heaters going. We turned off the heaters and stood around chatting, wondering what to do with ourselves. My boss kept working away merrily at her computer.
The smell of gas reminded me of two childhood fears that haunted my dreams. The first was a dream of being left in a car with my sister and the car started to roll down hill. I would climb into the driver's seat, but didn't know how to work the steering wheel or the breaks and so I could only grab at things in terror as the car picked up speed. I'd always wake up before the crash. I don't think I overcame this fear entirely until I learned how to drive. This dream is incredibly easy to interpret for those who know me well.
The other fear/nightmare was more obscure and generic. I was scared to death of a house fire. I would pray desperately every night to be spared from waking up to a house full of smoke. Every evening I was sure that the house would burn down, and even more sure on nights when I was sleeping over at a friend's house. Perhaps it came from too many fire drills at school.
When I was about 12, I nannied for a family that had been in a fire. One of their four children had died in the fire along with a cousin who was babysitting at the time. One of the children was visibly scarred, and the other two were clearly internally scarred, as their behavior and artwork showed. I loved these kids, even when one prank called 911 and then hid. Even when one ground on the foot of a famous children's poet mid performance of the guitar playing poet. I think my fear of fire, interestingly, faded at about this time.
Today, during the gas leak, my old fear of fire came flooding back. When my boss realized that we should clear out, I had my bag packed and was out the door in two minutes. The firemen wouldn't allow us to drive (a spark starts the ignition) so my boss's husband was coming to pick people up a few blocks away. I didn't want to wait for the ride, I just got out and started walking. I realized I was sick to my stomach and my hands were shaking. I walked for about 10 minutes and then felt like a jerk. I hadn't stayed to make sure the building didn't blow up on my coworkers. I am normally calm in a crisis. I tend to do best when things are chaotic and challenging. I hoped to be someone who could remain calm and help others during a disaster. Thus, I find it interesting that I bolted.
I also find it interesting that I didn't leave the building until given permission. And I didn't suggest that leaving might be in order, given there were 5 fire trucks and 2 police cars and the whole block was affected. This was no minor leak; a neighbor didn't forget to turn off the stove. A construction team across the street apparently hit a gas pipe while digging. Our office building was declared unsafe for re-entry for over 5 hours. I think I need to keep working on those assertiveness skills.
My work building sits on one corner of an ENORMOUS intersection. Salt Lake's downtown streets were laid out to be wide enough for ox carts to make U-turns, which must have made sense in 1850, but since the invention of the automobile, this design has put pedestrians at constant risk. So much so that there are orange crossing guard flags strapped to signs near crosswalks so you can be your own crossing guard and then deposit the flag on the other side of the street. It's an exceptionally silly method, but I have been frightened enough for my wellbeing to use these flags more than once.
Since my work is stationed on the corner of a particularly enormous intersection, car accidents and the ensuing police and ambulance vehicles with accompanying sirens are not uncommon. We tend to peak out the window and then head back to work. Which was why it took us all a little while today to look out the window when the fire trucks stopped in front of our building and the police cars closed off our street. But eventually I did peak out, and saw that unlike usual, the firemen had unrolled their hoses in front of my window and seemed to be waiting for something to happen. We looked on for a while and then a coworker walked outside to investigate.
He came back in with a troubled look on his face. "There is a gas leak in the neighborhood. I couldn't even breathe outside." It was about then that I started to notice the scent of natural gas throughout my office. It was coming in through the vents and leaking through the windows (which should also indicate that my cubicle is freezing). Since it is freezing, we all had space heaters going. We turned off the heaters and stood around chatting, wondering what to do with ourselves. My boss kept working away merrily at her computer.
The smell of gas reminded me of two childhood fears that haunted my dreams. The first was a dream of being left in a car with my sister and the car started to roll down hill. I would climb into the driver's seat, but didn't know how to work the steering wheel or the breaks and so I could only grab at things in terror as the car picked up speed. I'd always wake up before the crash. I don't think I overcame this fear entirely until I learned how to drive. This dream is incredibly easy to interpret for those who know me well.
The other fear/nightmare was more obscure and generic. I was scared to death of a house fire. I would pray desperately every night to be spared from waking up to a house full of smoke. Every evening I was sure that the house would burn down, and even more sure on nights when I was sleeping over at a friend's house. Perhaps it came from too many fire drills at school.
When I was about 12, I nannied for a family that had been in a fire. One of their four children had died in the fire along with a cousin who was babysitting at the time. One of the children was visibly scarred, and the other two were clearly internally scarred, as their behavior and artwork showed. I loved these kids, even when one prank called 911 and then hid. Even when one ground on the foot of a famous children's poet mid performance of the guitar playing poet. I think my fear of fire, interestingly, faded at about this time.
Today, during the gas leak, my old fear of fire came flooding back. When my boss realized that we should clear out, I had my bag packed and was out the door in two minutes. The firemen wouldn't allow us to drive (a spark starts the ignition) so my boss's husband was coming to pick people up a few blocks away. I didn't want to wait for the ride, I just got out and started walking. I realized I was sick to my stomach and my hands were shaking. I walked for about 10 minutes and then felt like a jerk. I hadn't stayed to make sure the building didn't blow up on my coworkers. I am normally calm in a crisis. I tend to do best when things are chaotic and challenging. I hoped to be someone who could remain calm and help others during a disaster. Thus, I find it interesting that I bolted.
I also find it interesting that I didn't leave the building until given permission. And I didn't suggest that leaving might be in order, given there were 5 fire trucks and 2 police cars and the whole block was affected. This was no minor leak; a neighbor didn't forget to turn off the stove. A construction team across the street apparently hit a gas pipe while digging. Our office building was declared unsafe for re-entry for over 5 hours. I think I need to keep working on those assertiveness skills.
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