Forever

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I sometimes joke that Samir and I have a reverse relationship. Not reverse in the fact that it started at the end, but reverse because oftentimes I take on the male role, and he the female when it comes to certain things. For instance, while he was the one who initially liked me prior to me even thinking of him in that way, I was the one who approached the conversation of us dating. When we argue about something, I get angry and he gets moody and mopey. I fix the toilet, he cooks dinner. Perhaps it’s a more modern version of a classic relationship.

So now that we’re less than a month away from our wedding (!!!), he’s giddy with excitement and I’m freaking out. Not freaking out because I have 1,000 things to do (okay, well, I DO have 1,000 things to do), but freaking out because This. Is. Scary. I’ll admit it, it’s absolutely frightening. Putting myself out there like that. Committing for life. I buy shoes that I know won’t last more than two years because I know I’ll probably want new ones by then.

That’s not say I’m not excited as well. I am. I’m thrilled. I’m ready. I want to do this. But is it not okay to be scared as well? It seems so foreign – so undisclosed. I feel other girls in my position would run away, afraid my fears will rub off on them. They wouldn’t dare admit to feeling the slightest bit of nervousness.

I think about forever and get scared. Will we still be the same? Will it still feel the same?

Last night we were sitting in bed. He was listening to comedy on his iPod, I was reading yet another young adult novel. As Hurricane Irene passed, our lights flickered, and then went out. It was around midnight, so the apartment was pitch black. I couldn’t see my hands.

So naturally, unlike normal people who’d just shrug and go to sleep, I freaked out.
When I was little, I was raised on Cinderella, The Sound of Music, and Grease. But I was also raised on Terminator, Demolition Man, and Robocop. While years later I appreciated my dad’s addition to my movie list, being able to quote guy-films with the guys, I was confused as a child. I enjoyed them, I did, but my childhood changed from a normal fear of ghosts in the night to murderers and serial killers. The T-1,000 was going to get me, not the boogie man. The un-captured murderer was under my bed, not a zombie. So every night I slammed my closet open to ensure it was clear, jumped quickly onto my bed, and covered myself with the protective embrace of my blanket, hoping the ritual would ward off child-killers. And since fear of the known doesn’t go away quite easily as fear of the unreal, my discomfort with the dark never quite ebbed. Most nights I’m fine, but every now and then, the feeling of something coming to get me comes over. And I have to check every lock, every bed, every closet before falling asleep.

So when the lights popped, I shot my head up and looked around. Silence.

“Well that sucks,” Samir said, pulling his earbuds out.

“It’s dark,” I murmured.

“It’s fine.”

“What if I have to pee?” Of course this was my first reaction. In the comfort of our bedroom, we were safe. The door was shut, closet open, no one was there to hurt me. But creeping out into a dark hallway, with the inability to see if a murderer was around the corner? I couldn’t take it.

“I’ll go with you,” he said. Anyone else would think I’m crazy. Anyone else would just sigh and turn around, ignoring my childish fears. But he didn’t. He wasn’t sarcastic or dismissive; he earnestly said it, as if there was reason to be afraid of our dark living room.

The lights came back on not five minutes later. Eyes adjusting to our bedside lamps, I looked over at him and for the first time since we realized there’s only a month to go, felt not an ounce of fear. Or anxiety. Or nerves. I knew we’d be fine, I’d be fine. I wasn’t nervous for our future together, I was excited for it. We’ll keep going at the speed we’re at and break through our obstacles, whatever they may be. We’re in it together – we always were. I knew that no matter the fear, he’ll be there to hold my hand and get me through it. And that while forever may sound frightening, it’s also truly incredible.

It Starts

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Every time I get a new job, I create a blog post titled “it starts.” I have quite a few. I guess that says something about my career choices.

Today was my first day as a librarian. I’d like to say that it was mind blowing and awe-inspiring, but I can’t. It was just a first day afterall. I can say, though, that I felt at home. And that’s far more than I’ve ever felt at a new job.

The building is beautiful, with cathedral ceilings and exposed beams. There’s an elevator to navigate the four floors, but it’s more fun taking the old, wooden staircase that creeks when too much pressure is applied. The top two floors smell like pages waiting to be turned and leather bindings. I can’t help but smile when walking by.

The bottom floor has remnants of a card catalogue and expanding shelves that move when buttons are pressed. The combination of magic and weathered documents creates a Harry Potter-esque experience, that leaves you wondering which decade it is, exactly.

It was my first day, so aside from the mountains of paperwork and technical setups, I learned the computer system and met my co-workers. I started preparations for a presentation i’m performing, and set up my adorable office*. I’ll start real work tomorrow. And to be honest? I can’t wait.

I can’t wait to start teaching classes to students on how to find viable articles. I can’t wait to sit at a reference desk and answer questions. I can’t wait to help students find books. I did some of this before while working at the bookstore, but I feel like that was just practice. An introductory level, guiding me to this new challenge.

And in the end, I hope it’s the last time i’ll type “it starts,” because for once, I don’t want it to end.

*After getting my degree, I wanted to buy the above poster for my first office. Sadly, it’s only made as a bookmark now. Sigh. I’ll patiently wait for it to be available again. 

Where I Write

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A year before he passed away, my grandfather gave me his desk. It’s old, solid and sturdy, like he was – stubborn to the point that it refuses to fit through certain doors. It’s a darker brown, with carvings crawling up the ornate legs that twist and turn at the bottom. The drawers, of which there are many, have gold handles that often fall off. But what makes the desk most special are the hidden spots, many of which my grandfather never knew about. If you take the drawer on the right out, there’s a smaller drawer pressed at the back, hidden from view. I can picture pirates hiding precious pearls in the small compartment. The columns that stand in the back actually open at the top, fitting nothing more than a handful of pencils.

I pile everything atop the desk, knowing it won’t buckle under the pressure. A teal and gold mask from Venice, an old fold-out Kodak camera taken from a model apartment long ago. An Ikea clock that never once worked, shells glued together to make a turtle. Papers. Files. Photos. Memos.

Despite the mess, it’s where I feel like myself. It didn’t take long to connect with the desk; we just meshed well, despite its heaviness and my desire to be light. My writings are now part of the markings, laying deep inside the wood. For my grandfather, it was a place to pay bills; for me it’s my place to be me.

Hair

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Broadway Playbill

Last weekend I had the chance to see the musical Hair when it stopped here during it’s nation-wide tour. I honestly didn’t know much about it, only that the musical took place in the 60s and represented the hippie counterculture. My mom was excited; it was her time period we were going back to. While she was still quite young during those days, she remembers her older brother, my uncle, wearing bell bottoms and tie-dye and going to his fair share of protests and music festivals celebrating peace and love.

I learned quickly that the musical itself has a very loose story – one that’s more experienced than understood. It is about the hippie youth and what they stood for – peace, love, freedom – and didn’t stand for – war, segregation, hatred, violence. They were considered anti-American, yet, essentially, what they were preaching about wasn’t really bad. They were trying to save their country in the way they felt right – without guns and killing. In a way, they should be considered just as American as anyone else and that was greatly shown in the show.

The acting and singing was all fantastic, as expected. The stage very simple – a truck and light tresses for the actors to climb atop. The wardrobe vintage, the hair long. As a way to showcase the vitality and inclusiveness of the characters’ “tribe,” the actors were literally on top of the audience. They ran down the aisles, climbed atop seats, messed with audience members’ hair. It was interactive and fun. It brought the message that much closers. As a show, it was fantastic, but, in the end, I feel like I got more out of it than an entertaining night.

Halfway through I wondered if the message was lacking since we’re far from the late 60s. I still wonder what it must have been like to see the show when the time period reproduced was all around. When audience members dressed as those onstage, when in San Francisco, it probably just felt like an extension of the normal protests and goings on.

Upon the show being brought back to Broadway in 2008, James Rado, one of the original creators, wrote “It was a show about now when we did it. Now it’s a show about then – but it’s still about now.” It still felt relatable. Switch out the wars discussed, it’s still about the same thing. It’s about what’s important, and what’s not. It’s about defying censorship and questioning why violence and murder is okay, but nudity isn’t. It’s about the joy – and sometimes naivety – of being young and idealistic and only wanting what’s best in your mind. Ultimately, it’s still about peace, love and affection, over hatred and pain. And I loved that.

At the end of the show, after the curtain call, the actors brought audience members onstage to dance, much like in the original production. Anyone could go up and experience the music, the moment. Of course, I ran right up, storming up the stairs to join the cast onstage. And while I felt self conscious dancing in front of an entire theatre, I let the moment take me over, as the cast encored “Let the Sun Shine In.” And with closed eyes I let go and felt what they were trying to explain. That it’s okay to want what you want, that it’s okay to be naïve and hope for a peaceful, beautiful future. Because despite everything, it might still be possible.