My Rediscovery of Me

When I was growing up, I lived in this community called The Village — married student housing on the Ole Miss campus.

My family and I — the eight of us — lived in a two-bedroom apartment. My parents and the youngest kid in one room; four of us in another bedroom (with a bunk bed and two fulls); my oldest brother on a mattress in the living room.

It sounds hellish, but that was the happiest I remember us as a group. Really happy. (Also some pretty horrible things, but the good memories stand out for me. Maybe not the same for the others.)

So many memories.

I had this dress that I wore everywhere. I wore it while roller-blading down the sidewalk in front of my building, while playing basketball, while climbing trees on our block, while playing kickball or house or doctor or whatever. I loved that dress. It had holes all over it, but it was the most comfortable thing I’ve ever owned.

I remember we used to have these Village-wide fairs. Families from all the buildings would get together for food and games. One year, I won the hoola-hoop competition and immediately rushed off to take part in the basketball around-the-world shooting contest. [I don't remember how I did, but I'm a pretty good shooter most days.]

I remember the day the rod of my bike pedal punctured my toes and my mom carried me to the bathtub, dripping blood, from the sidewalk through the building. The blood stains remained for a while. I had to get stitches, right between two of my ties toes.

I remember this boy named Sammy, a year or two older than me, who would ride his bike in front of my building and scream “Eba! Eba!” — always twice — whenever I was sitting outside.

I remember when Jeffrey, the skinny boy who lived in the next building, slipped me my first “Do you like me? Check yes or no.” letter at the bus stop. I remember falling in love with Jeffrey a year later. We dated on and off for like six years.

I remember freeze tag, sledding whenever we got a quarter-inch of snow (it was Mississippi, after all).

I had this friend named Kitty. Her dad was so strict. Whenever we were together, he would yell at her for having poor posture. “Stand straight like Eba,” he’d say. I’ve had poor posture ever since (though it may also have to do with the size of my breasts). Kitty was an amazing artist. She’d do portraits of other kids who lived around us. Whenever I think of seesaws [or teeter-totters, if that's what you call them], I think of Kitty.

There were baby-sitting gigs, lots of neighborhood fights, learning to do back flips on mattresses we’d dragged onto the grass.

In third or fourth grade, I took home some seeds and planted them in the garden right outside our kitchen window. Beautiful flowers. They grew year after year. I still don’t know what they were called.

One time, a friend named Lizzie knocked on my door. I answered wearing an apron. She asked me what I was cooking. I said I was washing dishes and was trying to stay dry. She looked at me funny and I then realized that no one outside of my household did that.

Adjusting to American customs took awhile, I guess. [I didn't learn what a Lazy Susan was until college.]

One time, my dad killed a chicken in our kitchen sink. I remember praying for the chicken, thanking it, realizing how important it was to know where your food came from and to appreciate that.

For a few years, I had this stray curl that would never be tamed by gels, mousse, ponytails or anything else. The other kids started calling me “Michael Jackson.”

I loved this place. More than I ever thought I did back then.

In the past year, Ole Miss tore down The Village. A law school was built. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wSCxZcav5CI]

Three of the buildings in the The Village remain, but the main buildings — including the one I lived in — are gone.

I saw the completed law school when I was home a couple of weeks ago. No signs that anything was there before.

Just gone.

The playground where I attribute a number of my remaining scars: gone. The place where we waited for the bus: gone. The first tree I remember climbing: gone.

So I’ve been trying to write about The Village. I want to remember it.

Sometime last year, after construction had begun, I wrote:

They razed The Village,
tore down the only place where we were a family
to build a law school
where they would talk about justice
without ever doing justice to the place that had raised us

But I didn’t like that. So I abandoned it.

Today, while sitting on a bench enjoying the sunshine in Wichita, I wrote:

We were redefining rich, poorly,
with our overflowing courtesies
and Southern modesty,
spreading the walls of our 2-bedroom apartment so wide
8 bodies
too few
…
….
where we climbed family trees,
where at the top,
sap-soaked,
we had unobstructed views of generations,
we could see so much, there on top of the world

I don’t like that either.

So, maybe, I shouldn’t write like that.

Maybe this is a short story. Maybe this is a novel. Maybe it’s just an intro to a collection of essays about The Village. Other people must have similar memories. Maybe I could collect their thoughts, create some sort of tribute website for this place that built me. Theyrazedthevillage.com. That’s too negative, though.

When I think of home, I think of Oxford, but really I mean The Village.

Is it still home? How could it be? Is “home” really just a collection of memories? Or does it have a door that you must walk through before knowing you’re there?

I’ve been trying to sleep for the past two hours.

It’s past midnight now; I leave for Wichita in about 9 hours. I’m tossing, turning, thinking, crying, sighing, laughing, thinking, thinking.

A few months ago, I complained about how boring my life was. As I think of everything that’s happened since, my head begins to hurt. I don’t think I could ever call it boring.

This week of vacation has been an extension of that — more than an extension even. It’s as if all the intensity of these months has been condensed into an 8-day stretch, on top of what was previously experienced.

I am tense and energetic and scared and excited and broken-hearted and happy and wondering and sad and and and.

It’s so much.

Let’s start with the easy stuff: I hung out with Marcus. We talked and talked. We shared a lot. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. We made plans. Then, I didn’t hear from him again. He said he wanted to see me again before I left but I’ve heard nothing but silence from him. It breaks my heart. I could easily love him, if he would let me. Easily. Easily. I want to be with him. I told him that. And now I guess he’s letting me know he doesn’t want the same. It hurts. A lot. But ok. I need to finally bury these feelings that have lingered for a decade. Maybe it was just time for me to feel this type of rejection, to feel what I’ve made a number of others feel. I don’t follow the do-this-and-expect-this view of karma, but maybe I’m due for this you-can’t-get-everything-you-want-Eba feeling. It’s overpowering. But I’ll survive. [I can't stop thinking about (or wanting) him, though.]

OK.

Before I got to Mississippi, I made plans to hang out with at least three other people. I was really excited about seeing them. I haven’t called or texted or anything. And I’m leaving in a few hours. I don’t think I could handle it. I want to explain to them what’s going on in my mind and what’s on my heart, but I cannot. I do not know how.

What an intense day Saturday was. Very physical. I started it by playing basketball with my two younger brothers for more than an hour. Then, I helped my dad and older brother prep the convenience store they’re now running. Lots of lifting and moving and cleaning. Then, we returned home and stayed glued to CNN for news on the war in Libya (and to Twitter for news from Egypt, Libya, Yemen and Bahrain). Then, we had dinner (baba ghanouj for me, that I helped make) before I took a break to have a relaxing talk with the supermoon. I learned that I should never fault myself for following my heart. Then, I did lots of texting with faraway friends. Then, I retreated to the comfort of my bed, where I am now sitting upright, very much awake, my body too warm for sleep.

I’m feeling this energy lately that is unfamiliar to me.

Friday night, my brother convinced me to drive 45 miles to take him to Olive Garden. He had never been. We were in Tupelo, Mississippi, a town of many good restaurants, and we ate at OG. But it was nice.

Speaking of food, my diet was shot to hell this week. Shot to fucking hell. But so yummy.

So yummy.

I got a job offer. In New York. I need to respond by Monday morning; I got the offer Friday. Everyone says, “take it, take it.” I say, “kdjhakjdhkjahkjdahkdjahdkjhiu.”

When I get back to Wichita, I’m telling my roommate to move out.

I posted on Facebook a few days ago that I was wanting to get back in touch with people. I asked that people message me their address and I’d send them a handwritten letter. I’ve gotten a number of responses and I’m so excited about starting those. The people who responded were pretty surprising, too!

If you’re reading this here and you would like a handwritten letter from me, please use the contact form link on the top right to email your address to me. We don’t have to know each other already.

It’s so hot in this house right now.

I just turned on the ceiling fan.

I just need my brain to shut off. I haven’t meditated, etc., in days. This is not good.

I have my next appointment with the nephrologist on Tuesday. I haven’t checked my blood pressure in two weeks. I’m scared of what it could be.

*Please excuse typos. I’ll try to fix when I’m on a real computer.

• Menstruation
• Farting/peeing/shitting
• Sex/masturbation
• Love/lovelessness
• Our emotions
• Our motivations
• Our judgments

–

Very glad that I’ve found a few people willing to talk about all the above and more.

I turn 25 in about a month.

This makes me feel so young. It also makes me feel so old.

Sometimes, my memories are so surprising.

I’ve said that before.

–

I’m surrounded by extroverts right now.* My head hurts.

So does my heart.

–

Today, I went to a bar halfway between home and work because I was craving some pizza. I was there for an hour, eating a tomato/pineapple pizza (that I got for $3) and reading You Can’t Keep A Good Woman Down by Alice Walker.

As I was leaving, another customer walked up to me and asked me to join him and his two friends for a drink. I did.

I learned that they like to perform in drag. Two of the three were from Alabama, so we shared stories about growing up different in the South.

At one point, I was asked: “Oh, you’re gay?” I responded: “Somewhere in the middle.” Response: “Oh” with a quick hand dismissal.

I had a good time, though.

After I left, I’d realized that I’d given them my number but hadn’t gotten any of theirs.

–

I’ve been trying to define myself lately. I think my life would benefit from a little more definition.

What I’ve decided: I am not a poet. I am not a writer. I have no real desire to be either. (This admission/realization is still a little shocking.) I am just a very emotional person, and I need to let those emotions out. I am a good editor of other people’s work. I love cats. I am not doing what I need to be doing. I don’t know what I need to be doing. I would like, however, to lock myself in a room with a bunch of books for a month (or a year) and read. I just want to read. I just want to be.

–

I was contacted by a high school boyfriend today. I responded. He asked me if he could come visit me. I said no. He asked me if I was in a relationship. I didn’t respond. I’ve been thinking a lot about black men lately. I miss being around them. Don’t ask me to explain that. I just miss black men (who are not my brothers/father). I took having them in my life constantly for granted. I love a lot about Wichita, and though it is diverse, it is also very segregated.

–

Last week, when I bought my space heater at Bed Bath & Beyond, I heard the woman leaving before me say she was from “hurricane country.” As we walked out, I asked her where she was from. She said she grew up around New Orleans. I told her about Mississippi. I was hoping for a good swap of stories about growing up in the South. I didn’t get that. She immediately started talking about all the racist people/signs/whatever she’d met and seen when she was in Mississippi that one time. She then talked about how “ghetto” and “backwards” the black people in Wichita were. She upset me, but I didn’t tell her that. I said I hadn’t met a lot of black people here (which is true). She said that “they” didn’t like her because she spoke “proper” English and “they” wouldn’t be able to relate to me either for the same thing. Bullshit. But I repeated that I hadn’t met many black people, that Wichita was so segregated. “Thank goodness,” she said. Should I have said more? I don’t know. She made me sad. I just wanted the conversation to end, but she kept on and on. I heard about her kids, how they didn’t fit in, or whatever.

–

I have so much more I want to write about each of these things, but I really wanted to get the basics out right now.

–

*I started writing this at PJ. I’m now at home.

My razor rusts in the shower,
Accusing me of neglect every time I tell it to fuck off
My shower drains don’t need fur coats

Maybe it’s spelled “oh, fuckety fuck.”

See, though being an island can sometimes be a burden, there are not enough bridges to ever feel connected 

Enough.

Silence is the most intense word I’ve ever heard.

Do you ever stare at keyboards until it looks as if two letters are on one key?

Do you then guess if those two-letter words are Scrabble-official?

What if the love of my life is waiting for me in a synagogue in Salt Lake City?