I wonder what you intend

I wonder what you intend


It’s work exploring
why some do cry
when contrasted with the emptiness
of the dark
needing a close reading
to be a successful piece,
nicely unusual,
you try to be consistent
in simply saying
the unsubstantial opinions
of how you feel.

Pink

A week and a day ago, I woke up to the trilling sound of my cell phone alarm. Immediately my stomach began to flutter and jump. In a few hours I would be running in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Central Park. I wanted to grab some food, but my friend who I was staying with in Harlem hadn’t been shopping since her vacation. So my pre-race meal included a banana I’d brought with me from home, a cup of coffee, 2 glasses of water, and a mango ice cream bar. Perhaps not ideal, but I’d stuffed myself with pasta the night before ($30 for a pasta dinner; this is why I can’t live in NYC).

I took a shower (yes, it was basically pointless since I’d be showering again in about 3 hours, but I hate running with greasy hair. That sounds quite vain as I write it down, but so be it.) and said goodbye to my friend.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come and watch?”

She rolled over in her bed and looked up at me. “When you run the marathon, I’ll come and watch.” And she rolled back over.

OK, fair enough.

I got on the 1 train downtown, heels bouncing nervously as I sat on the hard orange plastic seats listening to the Black Eyed Peas “I got a feeling”. As I got off the train at 72nd street, I saw a large group of runners heading out of the park. Despite knowing that the race was in Central Park and despite having gone and eyed out the starting line myself the day before (in the rain!), I was somehow convinced that these people knew something that I didn’t and that the race had somehow been moved.

After I got over the irrationality, I headed towards the park. There were hundreds of people converging on Central Park West. 15 blocks had been shut down.

I met my friend and her boyfriend. They were both sipping on Starbucks. In my head (and in my elitist, I’m a “real runner” way), I thought, “Well that’s just stupid.” (But by mile 2.5 I was pushing myself to keep up with her....hmmm...)

There were thousands and thousands of people. Mayor Bloomberg was there. Along with Uma Thurman and Stephen Colbert. Well, theoretically. We heard them on the loudspeaker, but I never caught a glimpse of them. We heard the announcement, “Walkers, are you ready?” and looked at each other with some trepidation. We weren’t walkers damn it, we were runners! What was happening?

With 15,000 people, the run became more of an obstacle course. It was difficult to get a steady pace, though as my friend said, it was never boring. Our pace was about 10 minute miles, which is my steady pace on the treadmill. And speeding up after mile 2 seemed difficult. My body didn’t want to move or get any faster; instead, it wanted to stop. My muscle memory is set at a certain pace, and I’m finding it challenging to push through that and run faster and run longer.

My running issues aside, the run was to raise money for breast cancer research. I laughed at the t-shirts that said, “Save the tatas!” And on etsy I found some lovely pink items (some specifically for breast cancer, and some just beautiful pink items). Enjoy!

Clockwise from top left:

• One 5 Ounce Cotton Blossom Breast Cancer Awareness Soap - Donation to Susan G. Komen for the Cure by http://layla.etsy.com/
• Breast Cancer Awareness Hot Pink and Pearl Sterling Silver Earrings (3) by http://pookieandpierre.etsy.com/
• Silk PEONY RHINESTONE GEM Flower CROCHET Waffle HEADBAND Baby Toddler HOT PINK by http://miaboutique.etsy.com/
• Pink Bird of Hope by http://middleburg.etsy.com/
• Large Frame - Brown on Pink Damask by http://girlbyaileen.etsy.com/
• Audrey necklace pink pearls and black ribbon by http://kristinmc.etsy.com/

The art of losing isn't hard to master

Cold gel squirted onto warm white flesh. A fuzzy black and white image on the screen. Anxious and cautious excitement from first time parents at what they thought would be the first of many ob visits.

A mother’s heartbeat, even and strong. But no other. No reassuring, echoing thumpTHUMP thumpTHUMP from the baby inside. So not even a mother’s heartbeat, just a woman’s. (Does a baby that stopped growing after eight weeks still make you a mother? A bundle of cells half an inch long, but complete with fingers, wrists that bend, eyelids, a heart, though a heart that stopped beating.)

Calls were made a few weeks before. Too excited to hold in the news. A baby! The first baby! Ring the bells and fly the flags! More calls had to be made now. Oops. Just kidding. We take it back. No baby will be coming.

The aching impossibility and implausibility of life. How is it that any heart keeps beating? Why would one stop and not another?

This is my life

I am a migrant worker. At work, I am quiet and in the background. Ruffle anyone’s feelings or step on the delicate toes of the administration or full-timers, and in a few short months, I could be found out of work. Any questions to the status quo, any suggestions for change would be tantamount to handing in my resignation letter. I drift by, like a ghost in an old Victorian mansion; a presence you accept and expect, but not something that you wish to talk about or invite home for dinner. I float in the background, quietly doing what I’m told, no matter how tedious and time-consuming the tasks might be.

My paycheck arrives in time to pay for a place to live and food to eat and not much else. I don’t bother to nicely and politely I ask, “Please, could it be possible to have just a bit of health insurance so that if I get in a wreck on my hour commute, I wouldn’t be made instantly bankrupt?” I can only dream of the day of being able to afford it on my own. Pay rent or pay for health insurance. I can choose one of these. Not both.

Instead of picking apples or harvesting wheat, I am an adjunct lecturer. For anyone who doesn’t know about the job, to say that I teach writing at the college level gets an “ooohh...how amazing/interesting/fun/fulfilling.” I generally agree, because, again, I’ve become socialized to not make waves. It is easier to simply nod; far more difficult to explain the stress at hearing a class has been cancelled because of low enrollment. To hear that on average per hour (including office hours, prep time, grading, (ir)relevant administration, and commuting) I make less than a high-school babysitter or barista.

Yet if I apply to be a babysitter or barista, I am considered over-qualified and therefore unhireable. Instead, my degree in creative writing has somehow translated into teaching reluctant undergrads how to write a set of instructions for a user manual. Finding a full-time job (much less TENURE!) is just about as likely as my paying off my student loan in under 10 years. Even if I get a PhD (read more student loan), the chances are slim. The market is flooded with seemingly misguided humanities lovers who have been told/tricked into thinking that an advanced education will mean a chance at a career with more stability than a cashier job at McDonald’s or Wal-Mart.

As I was lying in bed a month ago, I had a sudden and breathtaking realization. This is my life. I am living my life as an underpaid, nearly invisible “educator” to surly and uncaring students. I have little chance of advancement and stability. Any suggestions?