Reverse Judgment in Cafeterias

            It was breakfast time, and Micah didn’t come with me like he usually did. I had to get my biscuit and gravy fix though, so I was unattached as I walked into the cafeteria that day, and I sat with the friends I always sat with when I was unattached. It’s not like I would normally avoid them or anything. It’s just that they tended to either avoid me when I was attached to Micah, or they were avoiding Micah. It was one or the other. And I figured it out.

           “So where’s Micah and that gay guy?”

            “Gay guy?”

            “That gay guy that wears make up.” Deadpan. He was talking about Micah’s friend Christian. Who was also a good friend of mine, by way of Micah. Slowly they were becoming my only friends.

            “You mean Christian?” I smiled uncomfortably. Since I assumed he was joking, but I couldn’t tell.

            “Yeah. With the eye liner. The gay guy.”

            “He’s not gay.”

            “Well then why does he wear make up?”

            “He has a fiancée. He’s not gay.”

            “Is she a man?”

            “No! –Listen, you don’t know anything about him.”

            And that’s when I knew they avoided Micah. And although Taylor was just one person at the table, no one said anything else. No one said, ‘so what if he is gay, anyway.’ No one even frowned. Did everyone agree with the sick joke?

            Yes, Micah and Christian were oddities. They were beautiful, too. They didn’t wear gray New Balances, and they didn’t have North Face jackets, and they weren’t always the most sociable people, but they were there for me later in March, and they were important to me. And for the brief time I knew them I think I was important to them.

            And Christian was so not gay. His fiancée lived in Georgia and it tore him up to be away from her. He visited her sometimes on the weekends, leaving Micah and I to run around by ourselves. He did believe, in what I assumed was a delusion, that he was a direct descendant of ancient royalty, but he had a tender heart. I worried about him a lot actually. I recall him abusing anti-depressants and muscle relaxers, and Micah telling me he almost called an ambulance once, Christian was so out of sorts. There were good reasons for him being ‘out of sorts’ that I hate I never got to help him with. And it never stopped the three of us from talking about religion, and relationships, and what we would do with our lives. We had in depth discussions on communism and sex. Not at the same time.

            And maybe now I’m guilty of reverse-judgment, right? Maybe I don’t know anything about Taylor at breakfast that day. Maybe he was struggling with homo-sexuality himself, I don’t know. But I know he didn’t win me over right then, because everything that was said after that tasted bitter.  That conversation is exactly how I remember him.

Caveat

Dear Readers,

Ms. Robinson would like to extend a sincere apology to anyone who is, was, or may be offended by her
A) use of profanity
B) sarcasm
C) sexually explicit content
D) attempts at humor
E) inadvertent angst (...disgusted shudder implied)

She endeavors to think of you while she writes, but occasionally feels that true events, however unfortunate, are more important than fable. In addition, she often finds that moderate fabrication may be necessary to relate a good sense of context. It is in this way that Ms. Robinson pledges to you that she will continue to walk the tight rope that is her life in print.

She wishes to remind you that the purpose of her lesser known works is not for them to stand in contrast to any greater works, but to prove that profundity is hidden behind the superficial. That truth is often palpably awkward, and unpopular.

With this, she hopes that you may be able to find the morals to her stories, and the humanity that must remain our strongest tie that binds.

With thanks,

JLRobinson

Why Writing A Blog Is Hard

I just finished writing a blog entry that I now realize I can never post. And I'm starting to think that maybe I'm just a little jaded about some things. I really shouldn't be so hard on people for isolated incidents and things that may only have happened once.

But that's just it though. Everybody sees through their own lenses. And lenses are limiting. One can only see as much as the lens will allow. So when I write a blog and verbally castrate somebody, I'm referring to them through my own personal lens of experience. And let’s face it, I’ve experienced some pretty weird shit.

So sometimes when people (like me) are a little jaded for various reasons, their lenses may be “dirty” from the build-up of various negative experiences. Everything one sees through these lenses is a tad bit cloudy with all the previously experienced gunky build-up. Looking through this dirty lens, it becomes easier for me to get out the big knife. So to speak, of course.

Which is why we all need to take a second and attempt to remove the filter, take off our glasses, and wipe away all the gunk! Because people don’t like putting together puzzles. In this world, you have less than a nanosecond before people begin to form opinions about you, and no one is going to enjoy your presence if they have to dig up their Little Orphan Annie secret decoder ring to figure you out. No one cares about why you’re acting the way you do. They only care about how. Lift the veil! Take off the cloak of superfluous jaded opinions, and really try to see the world whether it looks you back in the eyes or not. Wouldn’t you feel so free then?
I would.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I never meant to hurt your feelings, reader. Sometimes I just want to show you what I see. But most of the time, I want to see clearly. And if you could do me a huge favor and call me out on that whenever you can, I’d actually be grateful. It makes me a better personal historian.

What I Pictured

A couple months ago, my mother had developed a secret group of friends.
“Okay, guys, I'm going out with some people from work,” she'd say in her mom-jeans and open toed high heels.
“You look good,” I'd say back. “Have fun.” She rarely goes out with friends at all; who was I to stop her? Only later when she came back at 9pm would I wonder. Because my mother is the kind of person who wakes up at 4:30 so she can shower, style her hair with an inordinate amount of hair spray and catch a bus downtown for her job on the thirty second floor of a bank. This 4:30 wake up time means she generally passes the hell out at around 7:30 or 8, only she'll be sitting upright in a chair in front of our ever-HGtv-blaring television. The 9 o'clock return from “fun with friends” was a shocker.

At the same time, I kept hearing about a guy on the bus named Alex. She said they rode into downtown at the same time in the mornings. I began to see her shuffle off to another room before taking phone calls from him. Her voice would jump an octave anytime she picked up. So I knew she liked him.

“Oh, I shouldn't like him, honey.” We were at Las Palmas (awesome Mexican food!) and she had decided to share.
“Why?” I pictured another older man. Like my former college professor that she dated for a year and a half.
“Because.” She grimaced. “He's...younger than me.”
I was slightly taken aback. “Way to go, Mom. Woah. Is he cute?”
“Oh, he's gorgeous.” She looked at the stereotypical-Mexican-restaurant mural on the wall, and sighed like a starry-eyed teenager.
“What's wrong with him? Why do you sound so pained?”
“Well. He's quite a bit younger than me.”
“You already said that.”
“Its significant.”
I sighed. “How much?”
“He's nineteen years younger than me.”
“...Woah, mom. Wow.”
It was a shock, but I decided that it was a good idea for her to get out of her shell a little bit. This young guy obviously liked my mom back, which was a little bizarre, but was encouraging. How many times would an opportunity like this arise? I would say. You can't pass something up like that without having just a little bit of fun with it. It doesn't have to be serious!

One night I practically pushed her out the door to meet him. She said she they were going to meet up with a bunch of friends from work at the Starbucks, and it took everything for me to convince her that even though it wouldn't work out with him in the long run, it could be like an experiment. Live a little! I yelped. She clip-clopped out the door.
At ten till midnight, I was a little worried. But I didn't call.
When she got home five minutes later, I knew something was up because she was flushed in the way that I am after someone kiss-attacks my face.
It was then that I pried, and asked questions about what he did for a living.
“He's a painter.”
“Like an artist?”
“No, like a--”
“--guy who paints houses, I got this. Why didn't you tell me his real name was Alejandro?”
“Not everybody who paints houses is foreign.”
“Well then, where's he from?”
“Guadalajara.”
“That's in Mexico, Mom.”
“I know.”
We just stood there for a moment.
“So you guys made out?”
“He kissed me. Yes.”
“...You're all disheveled.” One of my favorite words.
“Oh...” She sighed, shrugging it off, and walked into the kitchen. I followed.
“So did you make out in the car like high school kids, or what?” Because in spite of myself, I could not withhold my grin.

So with more interrogation, I figured out that my mother was “in like” with an illegal Mexican immigrant who worked as a painter and was nineteen years younger than her. She hadn't been going out with friends at all. She had been meeting him and calling it 'a big group from work'. It was a tad shocking. I didn't like it.

And I decided that the difference between me dating Marlon (21, also a painter, Hondureno, crossed the border on foot, had scars to show) and my mother dating Alex was that my mom was different from me. I liked her that way. I didn't want her to have to put up with foreign guys who didn't know how to be gentle. Because most of them don't. They are pushy in a subtle way that I, the experienced daughter, am fully aware of, and I don't want my hopelessly innocent, pure, sweet mother feeling like a used wash rag. It wasn't just foreign guys at all, I just didn't want some strange man adulterating her so that she was wise to all the filth and knows how it works like I do. I'd rather her be blindly afraid of things she doesn't understand.

Intrinsically, I think it mostly made me feel sick to think that I convinced her to embark on that ridiculous thing. I had no idea who that guy was-- she wouldn't tell me! I mean, they rode the bus together into downtown Nashville; I figured he worked at the bank too or something!

Creepy Little Carousel

I am the most scared when I feel disconnected to everyone else. God included. I don't even know what triggers it, but it feels like I'm spiraling. I'll open a book, or I'll hear some phrase in casual conversation, or I'll look down at my plate a dinner, and something about the mashed potatoes unleashes this sucking beast inside me. And I'll seriously feel like I'm falling falling falling and I'm cold and uncomfortable, exposed. Like I've walked straight into Bambie's meadow and I can't get out.

And I think, oh god. And there are a thousand knives in my stomach. And I just want to cuddle up to something warm. My mom maybe? I want to cry out, in the same way you do when the roller coaster starts to be more scary than fun. Like I'm on Holden Caufield's carousel and its spun out of control. I'm clutching the ground, and in reality there is no carousel. There is only the dining room floor. And if I clutch at it and scream, people will think I'm crazy and I'll still be spinning on the inside. No one can stop it. No one but me. No one can even see it, but me.

I hope I’m not the only one who ever feels this way.

Presidential Elections

I barely remember anything from 1992. I was seven. I remember being ecstatic over my brother's enjoyment of his birthday gift, a coloring book. I remember being very disappointed when the activity sheets in my work folder at school piled up so much that Ms. Kolbe just took them all out and threw them away so that I thought I was in a lot of trouble. Amazed, I continued receiving A+ report cards.

I do have one brief memory regarding the election that year. My parents were really pumped about it. And I can clearly recall waking up on what must have been November 5th, 1992, and asking my mom, “Did he win!?” of course referring to Bill Clinton, to which my mother smiled and nodded with a simple “yes” in answer.

At Tusculum Elementary that year, there had been a school wide mock election. Teachers had dragged their classes into the cafeteria and had one by one gotten a vote out of every single child. On election day it had been announced that Clinton had won with a vast majority. Bush had come in second, and Perot was dead last. I can remember making funny Perot faces at my best friend, Candy Wilson. We'd press our ears forward and cross our eyes. It was really only a shade off of the monkey faces we were also rather good at.

So when I woke up that morning and found out that Bill Clinton was president of the United States, I was excited but I didn't really comprehend what that meant. I felt like everything would always be that way. Predetermined and true and good. My parents were smart people, and lets face it, those elementary school kids voted like their parents would, so did I. But my parents were smart, good people, who were right and true. Of course Bill Clinton would win the election. Because good, smart people supported him.

And that sureness carried into my next brush with presidential elections in 1996. My Dad was taking me to Glendale Middle School then. Every morning we'd drive to school past the governors mansion listening to talk radio. My Dad would do this funny impression of Bob Dole that made him sound like he had a stick up his butt, and I'd laugh. “Baaaaaaaab Doooooooole” was not going to win the election. No way. It was going to be Bill Clinton, and it was. We were good people, we were smart, and Bill Clinton was our choice. He was the right choice. And I was 11.

In 1999, I saw television footage of George Bush Jr. I laughed. There was news footage of him getting off a plane and waving. How silly, I thought. I've never even heard of him.
Fast forward to the year 2000. I was 15, and I was a nutcase about forensics. I knew at this point that it was a ridiculously close election, and that George Bush Jr was an arrogant, goofy looking little dude.
Ben Cameron: “Why, girls, why would you ever vote for Al Gore?”
“Abortion!” It shot out of my mouth.
“Economic policy!” My best friend Blair shouted.
“The middle class!”
“The environment!” We were so eager to sound knowlegeable. Eager to have Ben Cameron think we were. Ben was the best speaker on our whole speech team, and was a senior, and a Republican. He worshiped God, Reagan, and the Constitution. Probably in that order.

Blair and I went around the school in our home-made screen tees that said “Stay Out of the Bushes! More with Gore!” When the debates were on, I watched fervently. I just couldn't understand the close numbers. And this time it wasn't just my parents' vote that mattered. It was Ben and Blair and I and the whole adult world who could actually vote. And it was public policy decisions and speeches and poor people. It was my trip to the First Amendment Center that year. It was a whole bunch of yuppie religious people who hated Bill Clinton because he had committed adultery, which had nothing at all to do with how the country had faired. It was the religious right at my church and my school who I noticed for the first time couldn't separate church from state or anything else because they were so sure that they were right because God told them they were.

That made me angry for the first time back then. I watched the impeachment hearing and couldn't understand how it could be legal for someone to be fired from their job for cheating on their wife. When the election was over, months after it had been held, I was so disappointed and so mad that such a polarizing figure had been elected that I really became liberal.

Which is why it doesn't make any sense that I went to the most conservative private college in all of Nashville, right? While there, I was spending my time becoming more and more blue.

“What if Hillary Clinton ran for president?” The girls who were suite mates with me were, like most people at the school, ridiculously conservative.
“Like, no body would vote for her, duh.” Karen was blonde.
“Yeah, maybe you're right, Karen. How could anyone vote for her. She's a woman.” Jenna was not blonde, but was unfortunately close-minded.
“I just hate her.” Karen flipped the channel. From my seat on the other side of the room, I started to smirk.
“How could anyone vote for a woman?”
“Wait, Jenna, you wouldn't even vote for a woman if... okay, say she's more qualified and stuff.” My smirk got bigger. We were in for a real enlightening argument here.
“No. Absolutely not.” Jenna crossed her arms from her seat on the couch.
“Why?” I finally piped up, trying to kill my smirk.
“Because,” Jenna intoned, “women are emotional, they have periods, they just can't handle the kinds of policy decisions that men can. Plus, you have to take into account all these foreign relations guys. Hello? Are they going to respect the US if a woman is running our country?”
Why are you in college? I should have said. You're a woman. Why don't you go home and get pregnant and fulfill your purpose as a female, right?
“Would you vote for a black man?” I asked, but she huffed and grabbed the remote.

I went with my friend Miriam from Iowa to a Micahel Moore concert where everyone chanted about turning the state blue even though we knew it would never happen.
I put a Kerry sign in my dorm room window, and within twenty minutes the head resident stopped by to see who owned the sign.
“I just thought it was interesting, is all!”
Bitch.
I bought a sticker for the back of my car that said “God is not a Republican or a Democrat” because I generally went through hell at school. Somebody wrote in paint pen all over my car, and and somebody else printed out a bunch of anti-American garbage about John Kerry and taped it to my window with the sign.

“You know you're killing babies when you vote for him, right?”
What the hell was I supposed to say to that logic?
“Morality is important to me in a leader. I don't know what kind of leader you want, you know, as a Christian, but murder will always be wrong. How can you sit there and support abortion?”
Well frankly I don't know that I wouldn't have one!

It was like a personal attack every day. And even as I woke up at 4am to go onto the quad and plaster the statuesque mascot with Kerry stickers, I felt the rise of everyone against me.
That year when Bush won again, I cried really hard. Web addresses were suddenly difficult to write since I declared the letter W dead to me. But seriously, the world just wasn't simple any more for me. The rules about smart, caring people were becoming completely blurred. Everything was conditional. It really sucked. It felt like there was this weight crushing me. It wasn't just my religion doing what I perceived as turning against me, it was this impenetrable religious ignorance that divided everyone and, at least at my school, isolated me from everyone else.

Today it's the year 2008, and I am too old now to assume that the good guys always win. The spell of childhood assumption has been broken too many times. People in fairy tales don't have to pay bills. And I think when I woke up and saw that Barack Obama was going to be the President of the United States, I cried this time because the weight had been lifted. Most of my adult political consciousness had been characterized by being an underdog. And the faces of these kids at my center saying “a black man is President and I really can do anything” and the hope for people, and the faith in intrinsic good and second chances feels so strong right now.

Thank God for that, right there. This year was the first year I've known I could feel like that about this country.

Candy Wilson became politically apathetic. She smoked a lot of pot in college and I don't know, but I think she might be apathetic about a lot of things, although I'm sure she'd still think Ross Perot impressions are funny.
Blair is still blue. She graduated from college with a triple major and now works in New York City. Economic policy and the environment are still important to her, although her employer does primarily publish Republican works of non-fiction.
Miriam from Iowa married a Republican and they both now make loads of money. Which is why I'm not sure about her blue/red status. She was always wary of Michael Moore, and she actually allowed her husband to serve a Ronald Reagan sheet cake at her wedding, so who knows anymore.
Ben Cameron is still as red as red can be. He married into a both political and religious family, and now occasionally has fun working on Republican campaigns. He may still possibly carry around a pocket Constitution.
The head resident at my old dorm was eventually responsible for my expulsion from said conservative college. I know I'm still bitter, but sometimes I wish I could talk to her about it just to let her know how much that one thing impacted my life. Because its always that one thing that makes the difference. I know that now in my line of work. And frankly thats what this whole freakin blog is about. Because its always that one little thing, isn't it?

Things Will Fall Into Place

In seventh grade teachers started lumping kids in ability groups. Unfortunately, I was not very talented when it came to test-taking and I tested into a mid-level group with kids ranging from Drew Price and Slone Starky, afore mentioned manure shovelers, to Tiffany Nelson who once indicated to me that she touched herself while listening to Usher songs. Rachel Wells was also in my group. She liked to pick at the corners of her books and notebooks and really pick at things in general that had imperfect pieces hanging off. I guess the urge to peel it all away was just too strong.
I sat in the middle front of every classroom and stared at the back of Tiffany's head or watched Rachel peel the labels off of soda bottles and text books. When I wasn't doing that I was writing in my notebook which was really a book I was writing about how much it sucked to be in a mid-level ability group when clearly your brain was at least capable of advanced Language Arts. You know, since you were writing a novel.

Language Arts was the only class in which I knew, without a doubt, that I was being gypped. Aside from my “Penny-lope” incident in which I read an entire text book page aloud pronouncing the name Penelope “Penny-lope,” I was sure that I should have been bumped up to Advanced English. Especially when all of my best friends were in the advanced ability groups, “special” groups J and K. My mid-level group O was just not cutting it. Tiffany and Rachel were sweet, but I missed my best friends. Frankly, I was probably a little bit elitist.
My only ticket out of the slums of group O appeared to come to me one day in English class.

Ms. Anderson was possibly the weirdest teacher I had ever had. She was a slight woman with a delicate frame that was thrown off by the fact that she had a rather less than delicate face. She had a mole that sorta reminded me of my grandmother, and she was always frowning. She wore modest, loose fitting dresses that were bordering on being too big for her, and she never wore any make up. Her hair and skin all seemed pale and drained of color. She looked tired. Washed out. Occasionally I caught myself feeling sorry for her.
She taught Language Arts, and we wrote a lot in her class. We wrote pieces of an autobiography and put them together. We wrote our own poems. I liked her class because I liked writing and I liked the things she wrote back to me in my margins.
“Great dialogue!”
“Most unique birth story I've ever read!”
But as much as I liked her, other kids took advantage of her and pretty much gave her hell. They made fun of her baggy hippie clothes and her mole, and her short faded hair. They were cruel. And eventually there were rumors surrounding an incident with a fat kid named TJ Jackson who thought he was real funny.
TJ had apparently ticked Ms. Anderson off to no end one day in his low level English class, so she took him out into the hallway. Accounts of the incident got fuzzy there because the rumor was that tiny, little Ms. Anderson had shoved TJ up against the lockers and threatened him. Other rumors detailed an actual fight between the two, and that subsequently Ms. Anderson had been fired. But whether or not that was true, she did inform us that she would be leaving before the end of the year.
Just before she left we were completing a short story unit. To my left, Rachel Wells was chipping off her fingernail polish nail by nail. Tiffany Nelson shifted in her seat in front of me. And I decided to myself that I would attempt to escape from group O. I reached down into my backpack and pulled out my spiral Mead notebook with the recycled cardboard cover. I can still remember the multitudinous peace signs in different colors across the front. I was always very particular about my writing materials. I reached down and put the notebook on top of my desk. Rachel Wells finished chipping away at her pinky finger, extended her hand, and chose a thumb to pick at.

After class I handed my notebook to Ms. Anderson.
“I know you're leaving soon, but I thought you might like to read this.” I was shy back then. I looked down as she examined the notebook and then me. “Its a book I'm working on.”
“Oh, really!” But she didn't look at me like a little kid with a fingerpaint picture. She looked at me like I had some new and interesting information she might need to know. “I might not have enough time to finish it, but I'd love to read your work.”
“Thanks. I mean, you can tell me what you think,” I said. I didn't want her to think I was showing off. “It is unfinished, though, so...”
“I will be glad to read it,” she said. And I smiled and left the room for my last class.
The whole rest of the day I was envisioning Ms. Anderson flipping through my notebook at her home, which I was sure contained at least one cat. I didn't really think about her expression except that she would really be reading it, not just looking at it. She would be thinking the things I had thought. And she would know how I felt.

Ms. Anderson didn't show up for her last day. We were greeted by a substitute, and TJ Jackson ran around the school even more loudly and tactlessly than before, considering that the rumor mill had declared him the reason she had left. Or been fired, depending on who you believed. Kids were quietly celebrating her departure. She was “just weird” to them, and they were glad to see that go.
Near the end of the day I was called in to the office to receive a manilla envelope with my name scrawled across the front. I recognized the handwriting as the same kind that had snaked around the margins of my papers.
Sure enough inside the envelope Ms. Anderson had returned my notebook. Tucked inside the book was a folded piece of print paper on which was a hand typed letter. It was a full page long and read something to the effect of--

“Ms. Robinson,
Little did I know that a future novelist was sitting in my classroom all year. Your writing has always been a pleasure to read, but this story proves to me that you really do have a remarkable way with words. I can not tell you how grateful I am to you for sharing this notebook with me.
As I type this note to you, I should really be packing. You may not know this, but my mother has been sick for some time and I am moving to Nevada to take care of her. Though I will not be at school tomorrow, I do hope you know that your story has been a pleasure to read and has brightened this dark time for me.
Your use of dialogue is well developed, and your command of first person narration amazes me. Your form could be improved upon since the style of your formatting is sometimes hard to follow (quotation marks, paragraph breaks, indention), but I am still convinced that as long as you continue writing, these things will improve greatly.
All of this being said, I don't know exactly what you would like me to do for you regarding the “special” group. Since I am no longer a teacher there, I'm afraid there is very little I can do that will improve your position. Without improved test scores in math it would be impossible for me to do anything but slide you into advanced language arts for the day. This would have no effect on your group letter. Still, eighth grade will offer more opportunities. Be sure to shine like I know you will. Things will fall into place. I wish I could do more.
Unfortunately, now that I have read your partial masterpiece I will have to wait until your book is released and in Nevada book stores to read a completed work of Ms. JL Robinson. I will be sure to look.
Don't ever stop writing. Thank you again for allowing me to read such an outstanding piece of work.
Sincerely,
Mary Ellen Anderson”

I stood in the hallway of Murray Middle School and wished Ms. Anderson hadn't had to leave. That letter was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. She actually analyzed my writing! She didn't say just 'great job!' or 'wow!' treating me like a little kid who meant nothing. She signed her full name, Mary Ellen Anderson, like she was my editor or something.
I was still reading and re-reading the letter when I sat down in math class next to Rachel Wells. I didn't even look over to notice that she had only one fingernail left to scrape polish off of as she reached down to pick up her cover-less math book. Tiffany Nelson turned around in her seat, waking me from my mental image of Ms. Anderson in a room full of boxes, typing a letter to her twelve-year-old student.
“Did you see Usher on the video awards last night? Mmmm he is so fine!”

I didn't make it into groups J or K. But I would never blame Ms. Anderson for that. Instead, she was right, and things did fall into place. In the 8th grade Mr. Baggett took a chance on me and allowed me into advanced group S. Yes, I was finally with my friends.

I stopped writing the story Ms. Anderson read shortly after I got the notebook back. I think it meant something different to me then.

TJ Jackson, who was not by any means the reason Ms. Anderson left, grew even fatter and I have since seen that he attended TSU, although he appears to be ambiguously gay.

I saw Tiffany Nelson at a gas station near the airport once. She didn't recognize me. She got into a beat up Buick LeSabre and left with two creepy looking guys who looked nothing like Usher. I don't know if she went to college or not.

The cops found Rachel Wells' body on the bottom level of a parking garage near Music Row. She'd apparently picked her last label and instead picked the wrong drug cocktail at a party. They said she'd probably been dumped in the parking garage after she overdosed. She was nineteen, and they used an outdated school picture of her when they reported it on the news.

I don't know what happened to Ms. Anderson. But I kept her letter taped to the back of my bedroom door for years. In a school year where I'd felt like crap for being a supposedly mid-level kid, Ms. Anderson made me feel like I was more “special” and had more purpose than any other kid in the seventh grade. And I carried that feeling with me all through school until I graduated. Until now, even.

That's why I've promised myself that if I ever do publish a book, Mary Ellen Anderson is going to show up right under dedications. And now I know I can't stop writing. Because I'd really like to give her that.

Baby's First Scratch

My cell phone is two weeks old.

As of last night, it is already imperfect.
I guess innocence only lasts so long, right?

Why should the shininess of cell phones?

Even Samsung Sways?

Bah. I am still disappointed

that I am already on my way

to abusing yet another expensive device.

Oh well!

Jordan Howell

The first thing I know about Jordan Howell dates back to seven years ago. I was a junior in high school, and when I entered the House chamber for the second time in Student Congress, I was being demoted. It was the National Qualifying tournament, and Mrs. Barker, our coach, wanted someone in the Senate who would actually have a shot at making it to Nationals. Since my speech-making record hadn't been so hot that year, (nor had it ever, I might add) she sent some speech-happy sophomore in ahead of me even though I was a junior and on my way to being the team captain.

I was sore about it, sort of, but I hated Senate anyway. I hated that feeling of being in a situation where you know you have to speak, but have really nothing to say.

So, that Friday night I started writing around 6 o'clock. I was determined to have at least one speech on each of the four House bills in my hand. If I wrote them out, I could sit there all day, blithely writing in my notebook and speaking whenever I felt like it. I could relax while everyone else squirmed!

So I dug up the info, wrote the speeches, and showed up bright and early. The two guys everyone knew would make it to Nationals that year were Dan Patrick and Jordan Howell. Dan, the afore mentioned gift-hater was from Brentwood, was a Republican, and was a total shoe-in for nationals. Josh, on the other hand, was younger than I, black, from Davidson high school, and was very attractive. At least I thought he was cute. He wore suits well, and he had these little rectangular lenses in his glasses that would now be considered Palin-esque and trendy. He played football at Davidson but was the best speaker on their whole forensics team.

After my first speech it became immediately apparent that writing had been the best idea ever. Other schools' representatives were coming up to me with compliments on my sources and my speech. From there it got better and better. Dan smiled across the room at me, and I rounded out the day at the top of the base.

Before the parliamentarian came in to announce the nominees for best speaker, Josh came over.
“Well you did great today. What's your name again?”
I told him. “And you're... Jordan?”
“Yup! You know, I hope you know you're name is going to be on that list when she comes back,” Jordan said, grinning at me. I blushed.
“Oh, I don't know about that. Thanks though. We all know yours will. You just have such a great speaking style. You did a really great job on that wildlife bill.”
“Thanks!” He said, and the parliamentarian stepped back in. “Best of luck to us both, right?” He grinned again, and my stomach did a little flip.

Sure enough, we had all made the cut, Dan, Jordan, and I. And in another thirty minutes we were all waiting on awards. People were already congratulating Dan, and Jordan's team was abuzz since multiple people from Davidson had been nominated. He winked at me when I turned around to look at him. I smiled.

Somehow that year I became a congress god overnight, and I actually did beat out Jordan Howell and earn my ticket to Nationals with second place behind Dan.

“Well, well, Representative Robinson.” Jordan re-congratulated me, “I've got to hand it to you, I probably should have done more research.”
“Congress is not even my thing!” I exploded at him with glee. It was the biggest deal EVER to me. I had wanted to qualify for the National tournament since day one of freshman year. I just always thought it would be in an Interp category.
“Well maybe you should change your mind on that one, then.”

And I had. By my senior year I was the “incumbent” representative to Nationals. The trip was like a piece of pie cut out just for the taking. I breezed through every congress meet consistently ranking under Dan, though still higher than Jordan. And I didn't think a single thing about it when I qualified again that year. Besides, Jordan was a year younger than me and would have his own senior year to rock it out, and I told him so.

“Yeah, you're right.” He said, “I'm just going to have to settle for next year.” But he said it like he was still really happy for me. He was always like that, always smiling that beautiful grin curving up into his cheeks. And as my team took their pictures outside after the tournament he turned and stood a second watching us before he got on the Davidson bus.

I didn't see Jordan Howell for a long time after that. I thought I would. Almost immediately after high school I came back to judge tournaments and congress meets on a regular basis. I looked, but Jordan was never there. I finally asked.
“Oh, he's out for the year probably.”
“What! Why?”
There was some hesitation. “He... got suspended from school. But he's been more into football lately anyway.”

Until the end of the year I always thought that surely I would see him at the National Qualifying congress. But when I went, he didn't show. Some ridiculous freshman somehow beat the odds and qualed.

Shortly after this, there was some rumor that he'd been involved with drugs, and then a year or so later, I heard his coach talking to another coach about how he must have 'had it rough at home.' She then related a story about how his mother had once been called in to pick him up from school as a disciplinary measure, and that after the conference with the assistant principal, she was seen in the halls with Jordan slapping him around and generally beating the crap out of him in front of everybody.

I was struck by this news because, god, what a gorgeous kid he was! I would never ever have guessed he'd been in a situation like that. It seemed like a bad movie to me. And I couldn't imagine the embarrassment he must have felt that day in the halls. Davidson was a small town school.

Two years later I was walking across the quad at MTSU, when I saw him standing outside of the Honors dorm with two other guys. His hair was different, but I knew it was the same guy.
“Jordan Howell?” I walked straight up to him. “Didn't you do forensics at Davidson?”
“Yes! Representative Robinson!”
“I'm surprised you remember my name.”
“Of course I do! You're the reason I didn't get to go to Nationals.” That same smile.
“Come on, now. You're the reason you didn't get to go to Nationals. What happened there anyway?”
“Oh.” He looked down for a second. “I just got into some trouble, is all.” Then he brightened, and said, “but I think the reason I remember you is because you were cute.”
“Oh?” I cocked an eyebrow. I had aced flirting 101 since I'd last seen him. “Well, I always thought you were pretty good looking yourself. Have I changed?”
“Not much, I guess. My reasons for remembering you still stand.” Grinning devilishly, and looking ridiculously handsome, he leaned against the brick wall in a GQ-esque pose. God, he was so cute!

We exchanged numbers. I was pumped about hanging out with him, and he actually did call me around 2am a couple of days later, but when I tried to answer it he sounded incoherent. Assuming he was drunk, and because I was already undressed, I went back to bed. He might have called once after that. But I was busy, I guess. I was always busy at MTSU. I still waved when I saw him on campus while he flashed me a broad beautiful grin. With time those calls became un-returnable. And I never really got to hang out with him like I'd wanted to.

The next things I knew about Jordan Howell, I saw via facebook. I noticed he had gotten into and out of a relationship with this girl who looked like she was either A) really a man, or B) someone who had a ridiculous eating disorder.

More time passed, and I also noted via facebook that his name had been tagged onto a picture of two newborn babies. And after some digging, I found out he was the father of the two beautiful twins in the picture, a boy and a girl, by a supposed former girlfriend.

Shocked by this news, I knew there was no way now that I would ever be able to hang out with him like I had planned maybe a year ago. Some contacts were retrievable even after a year's time, but we were too distant now for me to ever use the phone number he'd given me. And it seemed he'd have plenty to do what with being the father of two children.

The last thing I know about Jordan Howell is that in June, later that year, shortly before his twentieth birthday, Jordan Howell put a gun to his head and shot himself. I've never really figured out the details. And I guess I don't really have any entitlement to grief, but it shocked the crap out of me. Those children would never even remember him! And the Jordan who had smiled that million dollar grin seemed so sure of himself, so talented, so confident. And that was two and a half years ago now, and I still don't know what to think because of the finality of it all.

What a waste of a great person.

God, facebook is a horrible way to catch up with people.

New Words

What do you do when someone engages in unhealthy obsession with you? I mean, some people you're like sure! That sounds awesome! But then... its really not.

I guess its just that lately I've been dealing with someone who says they want me want me want me, and whereas I would normally get a kick out of that, its starting to creep me out. I mean, sure its awesome that he's saying all that and he's actually really good looking.

But I don't believe it at all, you know? Not that I don't deserve it. I just think he's wedging me into this uncomfortable position and slapping my name on a whole set of misplaced emotions. He's filling a void with me. He's using me and he doesn't even know it.

There's a Weakerthans song that says “duct tape and soldered wires/ new words for old desires,” and that's exactly what I think is going on. I'm the new word for his old desire. And I'm totally not falling for it.