Precision of Language, Please

In the book, The Giver, a utopian society is architectured around community, efficiency, and politeness. Children are chastised for saying "I'm starving!" when what they meant to say is, "I'm hungry." Because of this push for precision, absolutes and extremes of feeling have fallen away from their vernacular almost entirely; so much so that the main character, Jonas, is admonished by his parents for asking "Do you love me?" They look at him, shocked by his foolishness, and bark, "Precision of language, please!" In their world, love is a word without meaning; they are as incapable of feeling love as they are in using the word itself. It is outdated, foreign in their mouths and in their hearts.

Is fiction so different than reality?

The word love has lost its meaning. Not from limitation or underusage--quite the opposite. 'Love' is in our mouths so much that it might as well be the same word for 'dinner' or 'sleep' or 'sock.' We use the same word to describe our feelings for pizza as we do our spouse. I love you. What does that phrase even mean anymore? It means I have an above average response to you. It means I enjoy the way you make me feel. It means I adore the way they have seasoned the crust on this Sicilian style pie.

I say we place a moratorium on the word 'love' for awhile.

The ancient Greeks had a complex, more comprehensive way of expressing love in their language. They understood 4 types of love: storge (affection), eros (erotic; being 'in love'), philia (friendship), and agape (unconditional, God-like love). Certainly these words lack the fluid quality of our English counterpart; 'storge' doesn't roll off the tongue like 'love' does. But if we adopted them into our vernacular, they could possibly enable us to evaluate our feelings with a little more consideration rather than sweeping them under that giant and complicated welcome mat we call love.

The Power of Unexpected Praise, or, Memoirs of a Nobody

Last Friday sucked. I was pretty sure that my coworkers hated me, or at least, pretty sure that they only tolerated me after two unremarkable comments sent my self-esteem into a tailspin. I was pretty sure that I had only just realized after 26 years that I was both red-headed and a step-child; that I was, perhaps, the stupidest ex-English-teacher-turned-assistant on the planet.

I have a hard time making new friends, but it's not out of my lack of desire for them. I desperately want to connect with people, but often feel deflated because my lack of comfort in social situations makes me look like I'm on the receiving end of an enema. I got in my car feeling like a rejected middle-schooler ready for a mini pity party when my friend Emily called me. Or, at least, I thought it was Emily.

My caller ID lied to me, it was actually Emily's mother--a charming lady that I'd never met. But I knew her well because of Emily, and the upturned corner of her smiling mouth whenever she uttered the phrase "my mother." I knew what kind of woman she was by the respect and the stunning more-strawberry-than-blond hair mirrored by my dear friend.

Earlier that day I emailed Emily a copy of my poems for her to share with her mother, as she requested. I did not expect that twelve hours later, I would be sitting in a Target parking lot weeping as a women I'd never met told me how wonderful my writing was for her. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for her, for Emily's mother (who I still haven't met in person).

I often feel helmed in by series of losing titles, losing statistics: I am a credit score, a weight, a bank statement, one unknown writer in a sea of drowning writers. Emily's mother asked me if I'd ever considered writing "my story" and I almost laughed, "I'm a nobody, no one wants to read about that." "We're all nobodys," she said.

Her unexpected praise and her wisdom have stayed with me all week. We're all nobodys. Somehow it's a comforting thought to me. It makes the pen and the workplace seem less intimidating. I will begin to pen the memoir of a nobody, and perhaps nobody will read it; and that's okay with me.

What "Pretty in Pink" Taught Me About Love

While waiting for my rotini to boil, I plopped down on the couch and began to channel surf: Rachel Ray (maybe), Nascar (NO), "For the Love of Ray Jay" (definitely NOT), and then "Pretty in Pink (girly squeal, YES!).

I'd turned on the movie precisely during the iconic scene where Ducky glides into the record store and starts crooning "Try a Little Tenderness," by Otis Redding. John Cryor slides around the stacks of vinyl, his New-Wave-come-50's greaser-revisited hairdo bobbing in time with his pelvic-thrusting, lip-synching genius; he finishes his triumphant moment only to be crushed by the realization that his paramour is waiting for a date with someone else--a bland, uptight prepster named Blaine. It's cinema magic.

But for me, its more than just an iconic scene. For me it reveals a deep romantic flaw in myself, and in friends I've counseled disapprovingly saying "I told you so!"

By the end of the movie the ginger protagonist Andy chooses the granola Blaine over her eccentric friend Ducky. This never bothered me as a girl; but as an adult it made me scream at the television set, causing my toddler to drop her tea set and look at her mama, alarmed. She chooses Blaine?! Seriously? Seriously. ::sigh::

Andy doesn't even look amused when Ducky waltzes into the store; she being all too accustomed to his shenanigans. She doesn't crack a smile or even roll her eyes as he parambulates around the store singing a Motown golden-oldy that would be lost on most teenage boys. Instead she pines and waits for Blaine, who is late for their date, and shows up wearing Dockers and Ray-Bans like some bored, W.A.S.P.y demigod.

We are led to believe that Andy will live happily ever after her fateful prom date with Blaine. But we know the truth. We know that they will fade as quickly as the flowers of her hideously homemade corsage. She should've picked Ducky. Too often we cry and wait and pine for the ultimate dreamboat to come when we've got the DREAM singing in our faces. We've become too engulfed with pursuing the 'new' at the expense of really evaluating the 'now.' Or in some tragic cases, we live out the cliched "you don't know what you got til its gone" syndrome pursuing other pastures, other grasses that are never really greener.

The Blaines of the world have their place, but it is my hope for my daughter, and for my single friends, that they will not neglect to appreciate their very own Duckys waiting in the wings. It is my hope for my marriage that I will never forget to look at my husband like he is too familiar. I never want to take him for granted again because I let his personality become too common, forgetting why he is the ONLY person on the planet that I want to be married to.

So, ladies and gents, this is what "Pretty in Pink" has taught me about love: 1) when you find yourself waiting for a love to rescue you, look around you instead, and 2) when all else fails, try a little tenderness.

Crisis Mode, or, Who's On Your Team?

"People often meet their destiny on the road they take to avoid it"--French Proverb

I came home Wednesday night completely spent. The end of the semester is wrapping up, and I've been pulling late hours or waking up at 3-4am to get my assignments done before work because it's the only quiet time I can manage to get with a toddler in the house.

Bleary-eyed and hunched over from the weight of my laptop bag I came in the door to be greeted by my best friend sitting on the couch. He took one look at me and said, "You look like a zombie." My thoughts exactly.

(AN ASIDE: I love friendships that are honest. I love friends that will tell you: "Yeah, you look like crap in those shorts, go change." It's real love, truly, to be honest with people).

After throwing my bag down, I made my way to the basement (where it sounded like a small war was happening because my husband was playing Halo with the surround sound on). He was just about to start a game when I sat down in front of him and began to bellow like my two year did last week after I told her she could not wear her playtime princess heels to bed.

Wretched and exhausted, I told him about the relentless conversation I'd been having in my head all week:

Bad Christeene: "Drop out. Drop out and write."
Good Christeene: "Who says you're even any good at it?"
Bad Christeene: "Who says you'll be a good librarian?"
Good Christeene: "You're 30k in debt. You've invested an entire year."
Bad Christeene: "She doesn't want to invest another minute."


Jason looked at me with those tender eyes that I love, his arms curled around my legs, and said "Forget the money. I will support you no matter what you choose." Right there. That moment. The two of us in the basement with the Halo intro blaring, was the moment I remembered why I married him, and not someone else.

I am fighting a war against myself. The good girl that everyone praises (including myself), wants a stable career. She wants multiple degrees so she can reassure herself and others that she is good enough, smart enough despite where she came from. She wants stainless steel appliances, an annual vacation to the beach, and a retirement fund. She wants respect and validation.

I have not registered for fall semester, and I am praying on whether or not I will. It's not that I don't love the library/librarians (libraries are my favorite places!), or that I think it's impossible to have a day job and be a writer (most do). But it's good to know, that no matter what I choose, I have amazing people on my team. And that makes all the difference.

Ways to Deal with Grief

It's been almost eight months since my father died. There are lengths of time where I'll wake up and be content to go about the minutiae of my day without blinking, without pausing to remember his booming laugh. But the other morning I found myself putting my makeup on in the car mirror (which is my haphazard commuting ritual), and I stopped in the midst of painting black liquid liner over my eyelid. His face. I'd seen a flash of it when I lowered my eyebrows in concentration: Lance's face in my face. And I began to sob in Atlanta traffic. It is these moments--small and unanticipated--that I have to learn to navigate, more so than missed holidays or birthdays. I've managed almost a year without him. So I offer a few suggestions for the left-behind:

1. Write really bad poetry: Write a letter you'll never send. Write anything, really. Grab a pen and rage and don't think while doing it. Don't worry about spelling, or phrasing, or logic, just metaphorically puke it up on the page.

2. Celebrate new life: Plant a garden, watch the sunrise, hold an infant, do something that literally or symbolically celebrates rebirth and regeneration.

3. Sun-worship: There is something restorative about sitting in the light. Go to the beach. Sit in a favorite window. Or grab a blanket, kick off your shoes, and revel in the grass like a bearded, Jerry Garcia-lovin hippie in Bolinas circa 1968 (without the psychotropic drugs, of course).

4. Pray: This sounds obvious, but it's grossly overlooked. Sometimes I howl "Save me, Save me, Save me God," and other times I just talk to God like he is my celestial guidance counselor. The point is to talk to God, honestly.

5. Have a (small) pity party for one: I think it's cathartic to feel sorry for yourself once in awhile. No, the world isn't fair. Yes, you were robbed. No, you can't change what happened. Yes, it's okay to be irritated that people expect you to be over grieving already, especially since your relationship wasn't great with your dad in the first place. Got it all out? Good. Pity party done.

6. Embrace Sleep: True grief looks a lot like narcolepsy. Grieving requires a lot metabolically, so it's perfectly acceptable to fall asleep in the middle of a crying fit. Take it as an opportunity to catch up on needed rest; somehow sleep is healing.

How do you navigate loss?

Summer Reading List

Summer is fast approaching. I can tell by the pool of saliva that forms in the corner of my mouth whenever I try to do something productive, and the yellow plague of pollen that coats my car and snaps at the back of my throat like a venus flytrap. Almost immediately after deciding NOT to take any classes this summer, my synapses fired up with images of insatiable nerd lust: fantasies of tearing through books, drunkenly, promiscuously. I cannot wait to get my little grubby hands on something of my choosing, something not required of me. Some books I'm considering for my upcoming fete de libre:

1. This Book is Overdue!: How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All, Marilyn Johnson: The hippest shout-out to tattooed, politically/socially active, people-loving librarians everywhere. I can't wait to read something that makes me feel warm and fuzzy about the profession I've chosen despite a slouching economy and uncertain future.

2. Dear Darkness, Kevin Young: A book of poetry by a gifted and lauded poet, that I have the pleasure to work with at Emory. I have only recently discovered Kevin's poetry, and I'm eager to devour it. As a poet (self-proclaimed and revered only by my husband and gracious friends) I want to dissect Kevin's work with careful observation and childish awe. You know a writer is good when you want to take a scalpel to their work, peeling back the skin and slicing into the sinew.

3. 10 Most Common Objections to Christianity, Lee Strobel: I'm beginning to write a book very similar to this, but centered on 20-somethings raised in Evangelical homes who are now unpracticing or non-Christian. Strobel's book, while more theological/apologetically-based than mine intends to be, will still prove a valuable read.

4. Jane Austen Ruined My Life, Beth Patillo: I met the editor for this book while at the Mount Hermon Writer's Conference, and her enthusiasm for this novel had me sold immediately. Even if I hadn't met her, the English teacher in me is drawn to the title; the twelve year old in me is drawn to the book cover. Aint it so pretty, y'all?

5. The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie: I'm embarassed to admit that I have not read this novel. It is arguably Rushdie's most famous (or infamous) book to date, and I feel not only compelled but obligated to read it.

Do you have any suggestions for my summer reading list?

I'm Ready to be a Mary

I'm tired of being a Martha. Being a Martha has gotten me nowhere. I have made Dean's lists and graduated with Honors only to be reminded that I am not the smartest fish in the pond, and sometimes not even in the pond at all. Sometimes I am beached and flailing wildly, eyes bulging, and full of panic. All of my egotistical little achievements really mean nothing.

I'm tired of being a Martha. Being a Martha has made me "spoiled and exhausted" to borrow a phrase from my dear friend and fellow writer Emily Osburne. I am tired of running after perfection: perfect grades, perfect career, perfect marriage, perfect body, perfect soul. I am incapable of all of the above.

What I want, more than anything, is a life of adventure and purpose. I want to throw away this notion of coordinating throw pillows and performance, always this exhaustive performance to prove that I am worthy of being loved by someone, anyone. This dance leaves me lonelier and lonelier.

I'm ready to be a Mary. I'm ready to sit and listen and leave myself open to criticism. I'm ready to trade what is good for what is best. I'm ready to depart from the tribe of normal and form my own partnership of extraordinary--Just me and Jesus. I'm ready to not only be saved, but also sanctified.