15 Years? I call bullshit.

I got a flyer in the mail the other day from my Alma mater about homecoming, in November. I looked at it fondly, smiling, thinking of the best days of my life, and I noticed that there would be a special gathering for the class of 2005, because it's their 10-year reunion. And it hit me. My heart dropped into my lower intestine, my jaw fell open and I grabbed my throat as if to stifle a scream. My boyfriend grabbed my arms in fear and asked what was wrong, if I was OK...

I closed my mouth, swallowed, and nodded slowly. I walked into the living room with my head bowed, stopped, turned around slowly to look at his concerned face, and finally spoke. "I just realized. I graduated college 15 years ago. 15. 15! Fif-fucking-teen! No. Nope, no, nuh uh, nope, no no no no no. Not possible. Nope" etc, etc. 

Seriously, it went on for a while, me just repeating the word "no" while shaking my head and pacing the room. I looked like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, except there is no more Wapner to watch. It would have to be Judy. Or Alex. What the hell, TV judges don't go by their last names anymore, like Judge Wapner. I don't think I even know his first name. He looked like a Bubba. Bubba Wapner. Or maybe Mitch. Mitch Wapner. Short for Mitchell. But he still went by Bubba. Because he just looked like a Bubba, and I bet he had a shotgun next to his bed. TV judges today only go by their first names. It's all very informal. Where's the mystery in that? Part of Bubba's appeal was that he was mysterious, and a bit scary because you didn't know his name. He was like a terror for which you have no words. And if they did tell you his name I don't remember so don't fucking tell me, because I don't want to know it was some bullshit name like Jonathan, or Timothy, or Alexander. Fuck that. He was Bubba. Bubba Wapner. So bite me, Judge "Alex". 

Wait, where was I? Oh, right! Fif-fucking-teen. My 28-year-old boyfriend shrugged and said, "Well you're still my college girl", which was terribly sweet, because he actually meant it (love is apparently completely blind), but it didn't help. He doesn't understand. How could he? Yet.

Has it really been that long? It feels like yesterday I was running onto the field at the Orange Bowl for the first time, at my first college football game with thousands of people watching me. (Well, kind of. People don't exactly watch the marching band. But the OB sold beer, and drunk kids cheer for anything, so it was still pretty intense) I thought I was going to have a heart attack. My heart was pounding in my chest and I was high on adrenaline and could barely breathe. Which doesn't bode well for a horn player, by the way. My legs felt rubbery as we started to run, and I told myself, "remember this moment", this moment of terrifying euphoria, because it was like nothing I'd ever felt before. And for once I actually listened to myself and I do remember that moment. Vividly. Although that was freshman year, so that technically would've been 19 years. Nine-fucking-teen oh sweet Jesus let's go back to 15, shall we? But it really does feel like maybe it was a year or 2 ago. My friends, well I just saw them not too long ago, right? Most of them are now married with children, but it was only a few years, right? Like 3, maybe. Right? Shit, I'm having another heart attack.

I remember being young and stupid and trying to fit in with everybody, afraid to just be myself because myself wasn't good enough. It was ironic, because when I finally started to become one of the group, I got comfortable and would slip a little and be myself. And that's when I actually became liked, not just accepted. College Life Lesson #492. Honestly, I learned pretty much everything I needed to know about life, in college. Although I didn't realize it until about 5 years ago. (What? I'm a slow learner) Probably because I did everything wrong. Apparently, I learn the hard way. Looking back, I have so many cringe-worthy "what the actual fuck, Kate?!" moments. Many, many, many. Like, a lot. More than a normal person would have. But, I'm not normal, and that's OK. (Another lesson I learned in college, and again, the hard way.) I also remember learning how to make friends. I learned there are other silly, goofy people like me unfortunately for the rest of the world. I learned it's possible to be friends with another woman and not feel like you're in competition, because you're both just comfortable being your own weird selves. I learned a lot from the people I met. Lessons that didn't really stick then, but fif-fucking-teen years later, they've finally sunk in. Sort of.

Where did the past 15 years go? It seems like maybe 2 years ago was my last Swamp Toga party. 5 years tops. But 15? (Forgive me for repeating that number, but I still haven't fully grasped it, and it's been a week) 15. I remember being 15, for fuck's sake. That's when my brother was born. I used to change his diapers and give him baths and hold his hand walking down the sidewalk; he just graduated college. What the fucking fuck. Didn't I just graduate college? What is happening right now? No for real. I think I'm having an aneurysm.

Nope, false alarm. Just a minor stroke. You grow up hearing adults say "time goes so fast", and "they grow up so fast", and you think it's total bullshit that old people just like to say, because for you it feels like fucking forever until you turn 18 and get the hell out of the house. But now that I'm staring down the barrel of -- Jesus, I can barely type it, it seems so ludicrously impossible--40, I hear myself saying that same bullshit, and finally realize it's not bullshit. It actually does go fast. I guess it's partly because I remember those 4 years of college better than I remember the 15 years since. Everything was new then. A new experience, a new lesson I would inevitably learn the hard way, a new depth of pain, a new height of joy. Now those things I experienced for the first time 15 years ago are old hat. Those amazing new feelings and experiences are no longer amazing and new; they are just a part of my everyday existence. I guess I take them for granted, much like the time that has passed.

But every once in a while something happens and I feel that incredible joy I discovered 15 years ago. I relive the incredible sense of pain as if it were brand new. I revive the strong determination I found a decade and a half ago, and I despair under the incredible sense of helplessness that found me. And everything is all right. Even the pain, because it takes me back 15 years, only now I can experience it with much clearer eyes and a calmer mind, and I actually embrace it. Because it's part of my youth. To be able to experience something for the first time all over again is an incredible blessing. It keeps me young. Maybe that's why I forget that it's been 15 years since I first felt that emotion, or had that experience.

My grandmother used to say -- and I always understood what she meant, but now I get it -- that she was surprised every time she looked into a mirror and saw an old woman. I'm far from an old woman, and when I glance at a mirror I barely notice the new wrinkles or the gray hair that has begun to proliferate in earnest. But when I look, really look, I see it. I see the 37 years of laughter and pain and hope and despair, and I wonder, where did the girl go? I could swear she was just here a minute ago. When did this woman show up? She kinda looks like me, but her skin isn't as bright and soft, and she has some wrinkles, and quite a bit of gray hair. You see, I'm 22. My skin is smooth, I have only a few stray grays, my knees don't hurt, and I can stay up late and when I get up don't look like I got hit by a truck carrying some kind of weaponized chemical. I have my whole life ahead of me.

I still do, actually. Except now, it's shorter. That would be a terrifying thought, except...as long as I allow myself to re-experience those things all over again for the first time, I don't mind so much. That way I'll always be 22; only a stronger, calmer, wiser, kinda less crazy version. That woman in the mirror is just a better version of my 22-year-old self, and let me tell you, 22-year-old Kate was pretty fucking awesome. So I guess those 15 years were a good thing after all.

But still. Fif-fucking-teen? Jesus.

My Superman

On paper, he was married to my aunt. In real life, he was everything. My uncle, my grandfather, my father and mentor. I don't know if I can call him a friend, because I was too in awe of him to ever consider myself on such a level.

My Uncle Ben died at sunrise on December 15th, at the age of 85. I had watched him fade away, ravaged by cancer, his features turn ashy and sunken. I fell asleep holding his hand, perched precariously between two uncomfortable chairs, my head balanced in the crook of my arm. I sat for hours, for days by his bedside, holding my own breath with each unnatural pause in his painfully slow, labored breathing, with nothing to say but everything.

Mostly I cried silently, because he had told me I wasn't allowed to weep for him. Four days before he died I started sobbing openly and apologized to him; by that time he was in a comatose state, eyes glassy and half-open. He squeezed my hand. Whether he was telling me it was OK, or to knock it the hell off, I'm not really sure. A little of both, probably. He had said repeatedly in the final few weeks, "just throw me in a trash bag and put me out". It was only half in jest. My Uncle Ben was the most humble man you could ever imagine. Given what he had done in life, his humility was just another amazing accomplishment.


If anyone in my home state of Delaware ever has to call 911, you can thank him for that. He set that up. If, after you call 911, the paramedics show up, you can thank him for that too. (At the viewing and his funeral, there was a paramedic color guard, and uniforms in white gloves manning the doors; it was too much for me) If your best friend is in a horrible car crash and rushed to the emergency room, you can thank my Uncle Ben for the care your friend receives. He created the ER as we know it today, a specialization all its own. You're welcome, George Clooney. He had vision and passion like no other. His passion was helping people. That sounds stupid and corny, but it really was. He believed in God, and that his God-given talents were on loan, so he sure as hell better use them wisely. He believed in people, and the goodness in people, and he did everything he could to help others realize their own potential for good. He built schools in third-world countries, drilled wells for those families to have fresh water. And he did all of this...because in college his cleats got stuck when some asshole base runner ran into him at home plate and blew out his knee. He would've been a catcher for the New York Yankees. So, Plan B? Doctor. And not just any doctor, a surgeon. Yeah, blows my mind, too. 

But his greatest accomplishment, if you ask me, was just being my uncle. He was Superman to me, and I didn't know about half the shit he did to save the world. He was such a monumental part of my life, and that's all I ever knew, all I ever cared about. He was always there, as far back as I can remember. He and my aunt were a cornerstone of my childhood. My grandfather on my mother's side died when I was 4 years old. I'm the only one of my 3 siblings who remembers him. On my father's side, we saw Grandfather once a year, at Christmas, when he gave us socks....


We spent our entire Christmas break every year with my aunt and uncle; belly-sliding down the stairs, playing Chopsticks on the baby grand, running from the monsters in the basement. 

I gave him manicures while my sister played dentist. We hid stealthily under the covers in my aunt & uncle's bed, shushing each other and giggling wildly, waiting to "surprise" Uncle Ben when he came back into the room. (We got him every time, by the way) Our ocean-front house at the beach every year, broadway trips and the corner suite at The Plaza Hotel, dinner at Le Cirque and cruises to the Caribbean; looking back I was so indescribably lucky to be showered with such love and attention, such incredible generosity from a man whose only tie to me was a piece of paper stamped by the county clerk. But I had no idea. I didn't know anything different. It was just the way things were. We were family, and I loved him so much. And I think that was what made him so spectacular. He truly loved me, regardless of what anyone's definition of "family" is. That was my reality. And I loved him, regardless of who he was to the rest of the world. Finding out 30 years later he was a real-life super hero, well, it doesn't surprise me in the least, because he was a hero to me already.


Every single event of my life, big and small, from my christening to my wedding, he was there. Both of them. They've always been there. And now they're both gone, and I have no idea how to mend this gaping hole in my life. The family was split in two after my aunt died, and one of his final acts on this good Earth was to bring us closer. The two separate branches that had thinned out and broken away over the years, made whole again during his final days. Laughter and lively conversation at a dining room table that had been unused for years. Surprises, revelations, hugs and tears, and even an "I love you".


I don't know what life without Uncle Ben looks like; I can't imagine it. I guess now I have to live it and find out; God help me I don't want to. But I know he'd be pissed if we stopped living our lives. I'm sure he'd make some wonderfully witty remark about us moping around, as was his specialty. Even in the final days when his mind was foggy, he was making us laugh. He always knew exactly what to say. I wish I had that gift. I don't know if I said everything that needed to be said, or if he even heard. I don't know if he knew how much I loved him, that he is a part of nearly every happy memory I have, or how the tapestry of my childhood was so vibrant in color because of him. I don't know if he knows I'm sorry. I let him down in a lot of ways; I disappointed him and angered him. I pray that he knows that I am so very sorry. Although I think he'd probably admonish me for that, "Katie, don't be ridiculous, there's nothing to be sorry for." But most of all, I hope he knows how important he was to me, the impact he had on me and my life. He helped shape who I am, and I am so very grateful to have been able to call him mine.

He was my Superman:

"In the end, the only satisfaction you will ever have is the knowledge that you accomplished what you set out to do. There will be no statues of me, my name won't be on any plaques or anything, but I'll be sitting back, sipping a vodka tonic, knowing that...I made a difference, the trip was worth it. There is nothing else in the end when it comes down to it but your own personal satisfaction. And if you can have that, that's what makes all this so much fun." - Ben Corballis, MD

We love you, Uncle Ben. Always.

The North End

A grand exit

in spectacular form.

Her most egregious flaws

so crassly on display

in the decadent lobby

of the Ritz hotel.

At the airport,

sick with shame.

Regret burns her cheeks

and stings her eyes,

but there are some things

that cannot be taken back.

Perhaps though, a fitting end

to such a passionate affair.

Burning out

so spectacularly

in the decadent lobby

of the Ritz hotel.

Dallas Buyers Club - The Verdict

My regular readers reader knows I am in the Writer's Guild. One of  the only perks is getting screeners and screening invitations during awards season. (Screeners are DVDs that have the "For your consideration only" message appear on the bottom of the screen every 20 minutes)

Now that we've established that.. I just watched Dallas Buyers Club. It stars Matthew McConaughey, Jared Leto and Jennifer Garner. It was good. I didn't think it was great, but it was quite good. The acting, however....wow. We'll get to that in a minute. But first a little background.

If you're not familiar, Dallas Buyers Club is based on real events. A hard-living guy in Texas (imagine that!) named Ron Woodroof finds out he has HIV, and is given 30 days to live. He looks for treatment, but being this is 1985, there are no options. They're just starting clinical trials with a drug called AZT that appears to be more deadly than the disease itself. Woodroof makes it his mission to stay alive, and through extensive research he travels the world and finds a regimen of shit that's not approved by the FDA. Other HIV and AIDS patients come to him for help, and he goes into business with the help of his doctor and a fellow patient named Rayon, smuggling these illegal medications into the country. The business is eventually called the Dallas Buyers Club; to get around the DEA and FDA, patients buy a "membership", and with the membership they get the drugs. So technically, Woodroof isn't selling illegal drugs. Anyway, this movie chronicles his story. Pretty compelling.


Now, back to the acting. I know you're looking forward to me eviscerating Matthew McConaughey...but, well... it feels so strange to say this, and it may or may not make me throw up in my mouth a little, but McConaughey is fucking amazing. Uh.Maze.Ing. Who knew the man who cannot keep his shirt on actually has some acting chops?? The cynic in me wonders if it's just because he looks the part. He lost 30 pounds for this role. I didn't know what the film was about, and when I first saw him on-screen I thought, "Wow, he looks like he has HIV". He is so painfully skinny, and has that sickly look about him that we've come to associate with HIV/AIDS patients. So McConaughey looks the role. But the film critic in me understands this is only a small piece of the puzzle, and adds to the authenticity of his performance. And it truly is a performance.

McConaughey manages to bring the character to life. You believe him. He's an asshole, a good ol' boy homophobe. And you really don't like the fucker at first. Even when he becomes ostracized by his good ol' boy homophobe friends. You don't care about Woodroof. Which is what makes McConaughey's performance so miraculous; eventually you do care about him. I never ended up liking the guy, yet somehow I became invested in the character's life. I wanted this fucker to survive. McConaughey was able to coax some empathy out of the role, without ever losing the asshole attitude. He remained true to the character, never patronized the audience to force some kind of emotional attachment. It came naturally, through the character's development. I actually forgot I was watching Matthew McConaughey play Ron Woodroof. I was watching Ron Woodroof. That, my friends, is rare. Even in the best films, with the best actors, it's not often that you completely lose the recognition that you are watching [insert your favorite actress or actor] as whatever role. For example, in this film, it was Jennifer Garner playing a doctor. I believed she was a doctor, but I also never lost the recognition that it was Garner. The only other time I can recall complete immersion was when I saw Man on the Moon, with Jim Carrey. I completely forgot it was Jim Carrey; I was watching Andy Kaufman.

On to the freak show we've come to know and love that is Jared Leto. Again... Uh.Fucking.Mazing. It took me a while to realize it even was Leto. Another completely authentic performance. Leto also lost a significant amount of weight for the role, which again I believe supplemented the performance, rather than create the illusion of good acting. His character is a transvestite drug addict AIDS patient named Rayon; and you fucking believe it. You like Rayon right away. Leto successfully cultivates that kind of outgoing personality that we often associate with drag queens. She is both beautiful and tragic. Unlike Ron, she is a compassionate person, and their business partnership -- which evolves into an odd friendship, perhaps the kind you would see between siblings who never got along -- is an unusual one. And yet, you believe in the relationship. The bond they form is entirely realistic, despite their differences, Ron's emotional detachment and selfishness, and his continued homophobia. Leto is also able to convey Rayon's sassy attitude and deep emotional agony at the same time. Both layers exist at once and are visible at all times, like wave upon wave, and it is fantastic. 

The movie was good. When I started writing this, I wasn't sure that I'd want to pay $15 to see it in a theater, I thought maybe a matinee.... but as I've been writing, I have to admit maybe I would. The acting truly is worth the price of admission. Those 2 carry this film, and they are remarkable. I never thought I'd hear 'McConaughey' and 'Oscar' in the same sentence, (unless it was something like 'McConaughey is cast as Oscar the Grouch in Sesame Street Unleashed'), but I have to say his performance truly is Oscar-worthy, and it would be a great injustice if he did not at least get a nomination.

Now stop acting and shit and take your shirt off!

Passionate about Pigeonholes

Got all philosophical and shit with a good friend the other night about whether we -- people in general -- are really supposed to be happy. He, and another male friend, are unhappy in their marriages. I mean, they still love their wives, but sometimes love isn't enough. (Ask any guy/chick who's been friend-zoned) It's not necessarily that they're bored, either. My friend just wants more. I know the feeling, because I want it, too. So we got talkin, are we asking too much? Maybe true happiness is impossible. Maybe wanting everything in a relationship is unreasonable.

I have to admit, there was a time I thought that was true. Maybe some people just weren't meant to be happy. Maybe we were meant to wander, making others happy, but never really feeling it ourselves. Or maybe we truly are unreasonable, and stand in the way of our own happiness with our obstinance. I mean, I am a stubborn bitch.

Sometimes I get a little frustrated because I haven't found that everything feeling, and I think I'm just a miserable creature incapable of happiness. But then I find others who feel the same way, and I don't think that's really the case. Right? I mean if there are more, I can't be a freak of natur....well, I can be, but let's not open that can of worms, we'll be here for the rest of my life, which actually may not be too long, because one of you will likely reach through the internet and strangle me before I got too far, and see it's already happening, I've started to ramble on about nothiOK I'm done.

I think we're conditioned to settle. Again, "we" like people in general. We are conditioned early on to accept that life isn't fair. To paraphrase a great philosopher of our time, we can't always get what we want, but if we try we can get what we need. That is the problem, right there. What we need. How the fuck do you know what you need? You know when you need food, because that's a physical need. But when it comes to mental and emotional shit, you don't know. If you did, you wouldn't really have mental and emotional needs, now would you?

We're conditioned to settle for what we think we need, because it's unreasonable to get everything you want. It's impossible....

Well, that's true to some extent. Maybe you can't get all the physical, material things you want. But why not emotional and psychological needs? They constantly change and evolve. They are shaped in some ways by the world -- and people -- around us. So it stands to reason we should be able to find someone who can grow and evolve along the same plane, right? Someone who can inspire and teach and guide, and who will be inspired and teachd-ed and guided by you in return.

My mom has an awesome story about settling, and I think it illustrates my philosophical breakthrough perfectly. Ready? Cliff Notes version: Guy's looking for an antique rolltop desk.
He knows exactly what he wants. Oak, medium finish, claw feet, and pigeonholes. Oh for Christ's sake, you can't look it up yourself? They're little cubby holes where you can put papers and useless decorative paperweights. They're called pigeonholes because they look kinda like the nesting boxes for pigeons. See? Your laziness has already made this story longer than it needs to be. Moving on.

So bro searches high and low for this damn desk. He finds tons of beautiful desks, but not what he wants. Then, one glorious, miraculous day he finds it. The oak, claw feet...oh wait, shit. No pigeonholes. Well, he thinks, it's close to what I want. And I've looked for so long, I may never find exactly what I'm looking for, so I better get this one. Wedding bells! But after the honeymoon, when they get home, every time he looks at that beautiful desk, he doesn't see the smooth finish on the oak, or the gracefully curbed legs and claw feet. All he sees is -- you guessed it -- no pigeonholes.

I think that's what's going on with my two friends. We settle for what we think we need, because the idea that what we want exists is too good to be true. We've been taught to stop complaining and be happy with what we've got. But again...that shit don't fly for intangible needs like love and companionship.

Me and my friend both want passion. I mentioned this to unhappy man #2 and he was a little condescending about it. "You want passion all the time, huh?" Well yeah, fuckface, I do. You just don't understand passion. When you see an elderly couple, 75 years old, married 40 or 50 years, and they're holding hands? That's passion. Passion is just loving and believing in something or someone with all of your being. It doesn't always have to be set-the-world-on-fire, although that's super rad and I love when that happens. It's sitting on the couch watching TV in silence, and she reaches for your hand, or he plays with your hair, or you just smile at each other and share that wonderful kind of knowing everything. When your heart has that strange, indescribable fullness, that's passion. You fight with passion, you fuck with passion, you sit silently with passion.

And I refuse to believe wanting that is unreasonable. Wanting that fiery crazy stuff all the time may be unreasonable, yes. But I think that's only a tiny slice of what passion truly is. It's truly believing in something other than yourself. It's seeing the magic and beauty in something that others may not, and being determined to use every fiber of your being, everything you've got, to make it shine. And it's the contentment that comes from knowing that you've got something great. You feel that about things all the time, don't you? My mom is passionate about riding her Harley. I'm passionate about writing; I've felt all of the things I've described here even as I wrote this. That's probably why it's so real to you right now. Authenticity, my friend, is the hallmark of something something something I don't know.

So maybe it takes a long time to find that same kind of passion shared with another person. And that sucks so hard. I hate it. But if we choose to stop looking, we'll definitely never find it, right?

But I'm never getting married again, just in case

Promise Me

It started early this year. The sky isn't the proper shade of blue; it's too deep, too alive. The clouds are too full. Only July and yet, I feel it. The anxious fear, smoky whispers curling around my thoughts. I imagine my fear is the same color as those wispy September clouds.

It's her fault. It's because I see her every day, rising above, a constant reminder of the horror. But I forgive her, because she also brings a promise for the future.

In the morning she reflects the sun. Sometimes a warm and brilliant gold, sometimes a sharp, blinding silver that seems to harden the Hudson River into steel at her feet. She commands attention, and you can't help but answer that silent demand.

She stands right at the gates of Hell, a sentinel to watch over the lost. If you ever saw that smoldering pile, if your senses were ever assaulted by that indescribable stench of burning death, you would know why I call that place Hell. I remember walking the streets a few weeks after the worst day, dust and broken glass at my feet. Papers lifted and twisted by the wind that whips through urban canyons. Lighted candles and a chain link fence that was the most gruesome sight of all, because it was where hope went to die. Photos, letters, "missing" posters scribbled by a child's hand, but you knew. You just knew. Daddy wasn't coming home. The feeling of helplessness was unbearable. It only added to my shame.

I cannot fully explain the magnitude of my terror that day. I remember it as if it were yesterday, vivid and painfully sharp. I remember the way the air felt that morning; how crisp it was, the kind of subtle chill that marks the start of a late summer day. I remember the color of the sky, the whispy clouds, the smell of the dew, and the way the early morning sun felt like grains of sand in my tired eyes. And I remember nearly losing myself in a fear unlike any I have never known.

I had felt terror before; as a child I was in a terrible car crash that nearly killed my younger sister. Crunching, breaking, shattering glass, and both my baby sisters screaming. So I knew what panic was. And yet it paled in comparison to this. This was raw and visceral. Perhaps because now I was an adult. At 9, there was nothing I could have done. And that was understandable and acceptable to me, because I had had such a limited experience of the world. But at 23, I was grown. I was not helpless. And yet there I was, once again a terrified child trapped in the passenger seat, doomed to watch as the ground came rushing up and my life changed forever.

But when the death I watched in New York suddenly exploded at my feet in Washington, something changed. Looking back, it seems strange that I would feel such fear watching those horrors unfold 300 miles away, and yet when death was just minutes from home, calm resolve took over. 

My mother begged me to leave, come home. And I, this woman who just moments before had been completely blinded by fear, explained quite calmly to my mother that the Chesapeake Bay Bridge was a viable target, (where that brilliant bit of common sense came from I have no idea), and leaving was not an option. I had a job to do.


I went back to work, having just left an hour before. What else could I have done? The day still seemed so normal, a day like any other, and yet just miles away one of the most secure buildings in the world was burning. I immersed myself for hours in the ordered chaos to which I had grown accustomed. Until midday, when it became clear there was nothing anyone could do. Sleep came slowly, almost painfully, for weeks. Months. Some nights it still does.

It's hard to explain what I lost that day. It wasn't a loved one, it wasn't innocence. But something inside me died. Or perhaps it was awakened; a darkness, cold and empty, the kind that consumes and devours. It returns every year around this time, clawing at my insides, burning behind my eyes, icy dread pooling in my veins. Helpless, useless, hopeless. 


The flashbacks are my own private slice of hell. They come along with the icy void. It's almost as if the images and emotions of that entire day are condensed into a single second. It washes over me, through me, and I am lost. The sobs come quickly, stealing my breath. I instinctively bury my face in my hands, rocking, perhaps in some futile attempt to comfort myself. It's as if I stop existing for a moment, swallowed alive by that newborn emptiness. How can I explain this trauma? It's not a physical wound, or even a coherent thought. It is intangible, unseen, a shadow that disappears when you turn your head. But it is very real.

As is my shame. Perhaps that is what awakened in me. The realization that even as adults, we are little more than children. It is still possible to be helpless and useless. And there is a time you must stand idly by and do nothing while everything you know crumbles to dust at your feet. I know that I have no right to feel this way, and yet every year I indulge in the torment. My shame is endless.

But I have hope now, that perhaps I may finally find a reprieve. Maybe this silent sentinel can do for me what I have been unable to do for myself for more than a decade, and calm the madness that steals my late summer thoughts. I have hope that one day I will be able to look at her without tears in my eyes and a tightness in my throat. For while she is a reminder of my shame and horror, she is also a promise for the future.

When aliens attack don't say I didn't warn you

So my kid is obsessed with this dumbass series of apps called "Talking Friends". Lemme tell you something. These things are not your friends. There are several characters, animals mostly, with Santa as the one exception.  Yes, Santa. Somehow the developers managed to sully not only kittens and puppies, but that paragon of childhood innocence, the fat man in a red suit. And Santa Claus. 

I will say this, you can punch the characters in the face, which is about the only redeeming quality I've found. The killer is the mimicry. You say something, and they repeat it back in a horrible high-pitched voice that was originally used as a Klingon torture device. It provides hours of agonizing torment fun, for the 5-year-old set, but not so much on the adults who treasure their hearing and sanity. Sanity is one thing; my sense of hearing? Forget it.

Apparently the free version of the apps has pop-up youtube videos of the various characters singing karaoke, of which I was unaware until I heard "We are neva, eva, eva getting back togetha" coming from the back seat, where I thought my beautiful 5-year-old had been sitting, not some Kidz Bop-loving pop princess body snatcher.

The next few minutes were a blur, but the snippets I did catch made my blood run cold. I threw up in my mouth a little bit at "Katy Perry"and "Taylor Swift", although the "Who Let the Dogs Out" reference was this.close to being funny. But the last of my sanity broke when the words "Gangnam Style" came out of her mouth. Immediately I blurted "Oh my God", and not in an 'oh what a horrible surprise' way, but a walking-in-on-your-parents kind of way. Incredibly I somehow did not blurt something more colorful, as is my style. Proof positive I lost my mind.

Her father informs me she sings that shit with her friends at school. What kind of parents are these people, to let their kindergartners listen to the worst music ever in the history of ever, ever? I have forever lost my faith in humanity, and await the day alien overlords chain us to tree roots and force us all to mine for floride, which is apparently what this particular alien race needs to survive (who knew?). And mark my words, punishment for insubordination will include a pair of headphones and "Gangnam Style" on loop. And then you all owe me 20 bucks. 

We Are...[you decide]

This is the second time I have felt the absolute need to post about college football. I am a Miami Hurricane. I bleed orange and green (gross, I know). I understand those who bleed blue and white. I understand those who proudly fly their team's logo from their upstairs bedroom window, or on those stupid car window flags.

 Especially when the entire world seems to be spitting all over it and dragging it though the mud. We Are those who know what school pride truly is. We Are those who know what it means to spend hundreds on a trip "home", to scream yourself hoarse at the game, and to tear up when the band plays the alma mater. We Are those who hold our heads high even after the most devastating loss. We Are woven into the fabric of our schools. We Are an important part of its history, and it is an important part of ours.

Now is the time, my rival Nittany Lions, to show the world what We Are. I've read a lot about the disgusting events that have sullied your school's proud name, and I have been sickened. First by the allegations, and now by the actions of others. Or the reactions, I should say. I read a comment from a person who said the greatest person in the world to Penn State, Joe Paterno, was shat upon with utter disrespect. That made me want to scream and puke at the same time. How could you say something like that? How could you say you have school pride, and yet say the greatest person in the world to you is a man who passed the buck when he was told a boy was raped in his facility's shower? The on-campus facility he is responsible for? The man who didn't call 911 immediately? The man who told his boss, and what amounts to security guards (campus police), then walked away and forgot about it entirely?

Yes, Joepa did what he was legally required to do, but there is more to pride than that. Disrespect? He shat on all the children whose innocence was brutally stolen after he turned his back. Paterno was a great coach, maybe the greatest, and it's a shame his career has been sullied by this. But there are more important things than football. Those of us with school pride know this. Like integrity. Like morality. Like leadership. He showed those on the field. But when it really mattered, Joepa failed miserably.

And now the students are doing the same thing to their school. Rioting in the street? Throwing bottles at police?? Tipping over a news van??? I understand what it feels like to see the values you hold dear violated by those who are supposed to uphold them, to be embarrassed. I love my alma mater dearly. But you are not displaying school pride. You're sending a message that Penn State is made up of a bunch of kids who think football is more important than the lives of those children. Ask yourself, would anyone care if Paterno was a mediocre coach, who had been there for just a few years? Doubtful. The students are shitting on their school with utter disrespect. They are the ones spitting on their school logo and dragging it through the mud.

As a Hurricane, the Nittany Lions are my sworn enemy. But for now I put that aside, and I beg of you, you stupid Nittany Lions, to band together and show everyone exactly who We Are.

We Are hurting. We Are humiliated. We Are angry. And We Are standing behind the children 100%, even if it means turning our backs on the man we love so dearly. Because We Are more than that. We Are proud.

Go Canes!

Deathly blue September skies

It starts with the sky. It always starts with the sky. A particular shade of blue, wispy at the edges, yet with a kind of crispness to it. The weather always seems to match that sky, a perfect powder-blue temperature. And there it is. Curling around the edges of my mind, ethereal tendrils of anxious fear, whispering. I know this deathly beautiful sky, a mirror image of that stunningly perfect Tuesday morning. Ah yes, I remember you.

The fear always comes at the end of August, a yearly alarm clock, in case I've forgotten what month it is, and what lies ahead. It begins in my stomach, a cold, hard knot, and ascends ever-so-slightly, until by the 10th of September it's a barely-contained hysteria pushing at the back of my eyes. I'm weepy by now, constantly taking gasping breaths in a futile effort to hold back the tears that will eventually spill over.

Thank you for asking, but no, I don't want to talk about it. There's nothing to talk about. There aren't words, or actions, or even coherent thoughts to work through. There is only a feeling. A raw, visceral emotion that claws at my throat and eyes, something between terror and madness, something that sets every nerve in my body thrumming and threatens to burn me alive from the inside. It's how I felt.

I have flashbacks. I go back to the chair, the room, the images. I relive my frenzied panic, my screams, that animal urge to run. I hyperventilate and bury my face in my hands, rocking back and forth, just like before. Tears streaming; no, no, those poor people, please God, they're going to kill us all.

And then the ordered chaos of a buzzing newsroom, the only thing keeping me sane, even as explosions rocked our cameras in the field, our reporter ducking for cover. Authorities commandeering our chopper to get a better view of their burning five-sided fortress, now with a massive gaping wound, black smoke billowing as jet fuel burned. 

 A traffic camera on route 66, knocked on its side by the low-flying plane, showing the scene through a shattered lens. Reports of fires and explosions all over the District. The anchor, my friend, fighting back tears on the desk, a New York native watching his home town burn. The jumpers. We stopped showing them after a time, but they continued to jump. I watched countless fall to their deaths, nothing making sense except our singleness of purpose: tell the story.

In the days after, 12 hour shifts; midnight to noon for weeks. Bloodshot eyes and a desperate quiet in the station at night, the crew dozing in the control room, watching live images of the Pentagon burning, still burning. From the pile in New York, seeing the initial excitement, hurried movement among the firefighters as a discovery was made, then the visible slump of their shoulders when it was just another body. Over and over, body after body, covered in American flags, gently removed by an assembly line of the hopeful. I saw too many.

And the stories, the stories. A group of children on Flight 77 on a field trip; an entire Maryland family wiped out, including daughters Zoe and Dana, ages 8 and 3. Imaging their terror in the final moments of their short lives, their first airplane ride their last. Mommy, what's happening? Stories of phone calls and voicemails, eyewitness accounts, soundbites from survivors, and the bitter reality that death ruled the day.

I took breakdown breaks. I could only write so much, see so much, before I had to get up (calmly), go into the bathroom, and break down, slumping down the wall, hugging my knees on the floor and sobbing. Then, I (calmly) got up, blew my nose, composed myself, and returned to the torture of watching, over and over, body after body. The Pentagon burned for days.

And my shame. It follows me to this day. Shame that I watched this horror unfold from behind the safety of a camera lens. Shame that I could do nothing but cry; me, who lost nothing, not compared to those with flesh and blood losses. My loss is intangible, my trauma unseen; a thought, an idea, a feeling. I am invisibly scarred, and will shamefully hide those jagged wounds until death takes them from me, as it did so many others.

Ten years later, I still take breakdown breaks. The Pentagon still burns, the pile still smolders, seared into my mind by hundreds of gallons of jet fuel.
 
To the lost, I am so sorry. I pray I told your stories with respect, gave you the dignity you deserved in death. God give me the strength to continue to carry out this responsibility, to pass your legacies on to my 4-year-old child, and her children after her. To this end I endure my personal pain with a terrible honor, and will do so until the day I die.

Southern suns and sky blue water

As you may or may not know, my parents and I dumped about 100 grand into the University of Miami's coffers a number of years back, and I am proud to call myself an alumnus. You also may or may not know that the school is being lambasted in the media -- mainly sports media -- because of accusations levied by a career liar convicted felon. Goes by the name Nevin Shapiro. He was a Miami sports booster, donating money to the University, money that may have been funds from his Ponzi scheme. (Did I mention he's a convicted felon?) Now his allegations threaten to bring down one of the most storied football programs in the country, by virtue of the NCAA's so-called "death penalty".



I'm not here to say whether Shapiro's allegations are true or false. NCAA investigators will determine that. It's easy to think of these guys as pro players in miniature, but we're talking about 18 and 19 year old kids. You throw money in a kid's face, one who most likely came from a poor family who can't even pay the electric bill, living in a bad neighborhood (go spend some time in Miami's Overtown if you need a frame of reference here), and you expect that kid to walk away? I think this man preyed on young men who had big dreams. I am not saying these kids are completely blameless. But to kill an entire program because of the alleged actions of a few?


This hurts my heart more than you could possibly imagine. I am a Hurricane, a proud one, and I always will be. This stains the school I love and the 4 great years I spent there. What's getting lost in all of this are the students, the alumni, and the players themselves, those young men who actually do have big dreams.

There is something about college ball that is so much more than the game. It is about the love of your school, and the pride of being a part of something special. Whether ranked or unranked, Division 1 or Division 1AA, college teams mean something, they stand for something, because of the students and alumni they were built around. There is a power that comes from what each of us give to our school: a little piece of ourselves. Those years of joy and tears, disappointment and triumph. I am a part of the fabric of the University of Miami, as each of you are a part of your alma maters. We are a part of that proud history, as that proud history is a part of us, as well.

Top row, 2nd tuba from the left. Hi Mom!

I was a band geek, you know. Yes, I voluntarily put on an ugly polyester uniform in 110 degree heat and 98% humidity, just for the sheer joy of being a part of my school, my team. I will never forget my first game, running onto the field of the Orange Bowl as my heart pounded and butterflies filled my stomach, the crowd roaring. I remember those first notes I played, with all the breath I had in my lungs, as the hair on the back of my neck stood up, sweat pouring into my eyes. And the crowd, the crowd cheering and singing the fight songs as we played. I was so proud to be a part of that, something so much more than myself, something so special. Even though those uniforms were fugly and hot as hell.

My heart breaks for my alma mater and my team. But I tell you this: no matter what happens, I am and forever will be a Miami Hurricane, and I will wear that mantle proudly and enthusiastically, holding my head high; not so much because of what I left of myself in Coral Gables, but because of what UM left in me: Hurricane Pride.


Go Canes!

Fear and longing in New Jersey

Tonight is my last night in my current domicile. And while I am excited and happy, I am also sad and frightened. I wrote this in a journal, dated March 27, 2011:

"I don't have a real life. I live in limbo, stuck in space between reality and make-believe, truth and imagination, adulthood and childhood. It's not bad, it just isn't real. This isn't what my life is. At 33 I should have my own place, my own furniture, adult friends. But I don't. I live in a sorority house in central Jersey that could qualify as a TV show for MTV or Bravo. '7 addicts, all strangers, living together'. It's the surreal world. Sometimes I can't help but think this is not my life -- it's not sad or upsetting, just so different from what I one knew. Or perhaps, this is more real than my life before. This at least is honest, and raw, and uncensored. This is truth, this is reality. Perhaps the last 32 years were the dream state, phony. I don't know, but I don't think it matters. I am here, I am alive, and I am learning to live honestly, without fear or lies. I think that is reality. It is the truth, no matter how ugly, but that's what makes it so beautiful."

I am about to embark on the next leg of my new surreal life, and I am terrified. Not that I won't make it, but that I won't be able to rise to the challenge, that I will crumble into a million pieces, unable to be the woman and mother I need to be. I feel unsteady, caught once again, this time between my life as it is, and my life as it will be. I am so lonely. I am so afraid. I have detached myself from those I have come to love, and I miss them, even as I spend my last night among them. It's not as if I'm moving to Ohio, I'm still stuck in this God-forsaken state, just 50 miles north. It is more about how it feels to break away, to start all over again, again. I am afraid. And I am so lonely.