Writings

Different

I'm excited and I'm afraid.  Maybe today will be different.  There are eleven of us and we are going to choose teams.  There will be five people on each team.

I step forward to stand in line, making sure to keep my face down and my hands in my pockets so I don't appear nervous. 

The breeze is caressing my face.  I know the sun is beating down and it's a hot day, but the breeze feels cool because it is drying the slight sweat of my fear.

My feet are shod in tennis shoes that are neither worn nor new.  I see the scuff on the left toe and wonder if I should have polished them.  It always seems such a waste to polish my shoes and then to run and play and scuff them up again.  I'd rather just spend the time running and playing.

We don't sit down because the grass is still wet from the morning sprinklers.  If we sit our white shorts will absorb the water and then look either transparent or dirty.  Standing is preferable to the humiliation of having a spot on the seat of our pants.

The teacher has gone over her clipboard, naming those who will be the captain of each team.  She didn't choose me, so it won't make any difference who she chose.  I'm a friend to many, but a close friend to none.  That means when the close friends are chosen first as a sign of friendship my name is never near the top of anyone's list.  It works out most of the time becasue when there are an even number of players I get chosen because of my skill.  But today is a day when there are an odd number of players.

I hear the sound of the birds chirping and the yells of the kids in the swimming pool.  The captains are calling the names of those they want on their team.  One name after another, none of them mine.  I hope that maybe the sound of the birds was so loud that I missed hearing my name.  I feel my toes curling inside the toes of my shoes and I realize that my hands are clenched.

I twist my neck and feel the muscles in my face move as I begin to prepare, putting on my most enthusiastic smile.  When I look up no-one will see the tears that are seeking to expose me.  No one will see that more than anything I want to be chosen as a member of a team.  I want so much to be just like everyone else.

But now, in my sixtieth year I realize it is not to be.  I just received an email that said "We had such enthusiastic response that all the places are filled.  We encourage you to apply again in the future."  It brought up all the old memories and once again I feel like the outsider.  The tears are close to the surface.  But this time I understand.  This time I know that to claim my true power as a human being I need to claim my individual sovereignty.  I need to be the best I can be, alone, as an individual.

Then Came the Left Foot

My mouth opened and I told my husband, "Call 9-1-1".

It was hot and the traffic was heavy, building to the point of congestion but still moving.  I was driving 75 miles an hour in the fast lane, next to the concrete center divider.  We were in the carpool lane, but it had ended a few hundred yards back and now cars were jockeying for their new positions.

The sky was blue and the sun was glaring off the tops of the cars and the concrete of the roadway.  It was reflecting off the windows of the buildings that surround LAX.  I don't know if there were any planes crossing the road as they targeted their landing place on the tarmac.  There was too much traffic to look skyward.

It was so out of context and so unexpected that my mind almost couldn't register what I was seeing.  It was one of those things that happens in the blink of an eye, faster than a speeding bullet, whizzing past in a blur.  I had driven past, allowing the car to take us to a different place and time before I realized what I had seen was a great big smile.

My memory replayed the scene, superimposing it over the next section of roadway.  First came the smile, lips wide, teeth fully displayed.  Then came the left foot, clad in a tennis shoe.  It lifted itself up and onto the top of the concrete divider.  As the image coalesced and became whole I saw that it was a man, dressed in black and carrying a jacket.  He was positioning himself to sit atop the ledge of the concrete divider in the center of an eight-land freeway.

My mind has so many questions.  How on earth did he get there?  What was he doing?  Had I seen this or was I hallucinating?  But first things first.  At that instant I realized my husband had shut the cover of his cell phone, but I didn't remember him talking to anyone.  What was happening?

"Did you report it?" I asked.

"The recording said all the operators are busy" he replied.

With that edge to my voice that comes with urgency, or with judgment of another person's action, I asked why he hung up.

"Call back", I said.  "You have to keep trying.  Lives are at stake."

My drama elicited the usual response -- disdain and compliance.  He dialed again, and got a busy signal.  And again.  And again.  And again.

By now we were almost home.  To keep trying seemed pointless.  Whatever was going to happen had already happened.  I made sure that I didn't listen to the news.  I didn't want to hear about a fatal accident on the 405 by LAX.

Coincidence

Three shrill whistles blast from the space above my head and it feels as if my body is raised inches above the chair without my conscious awareness.  I can hear loud breathing.  My heart is pounding and my pulse is racing.  What on earth was that?

I had turned off the upstairs lights when I came downstairs during the early predawn hours.  I am in my office, alone, ready to go to work.  The bookshelves lined with books fill the entire wall and extend well above my head.  The shoji screen and the window are closed, blocking me from the building next door and letting in mere tendrils of light from the walkway.  The whir of the computer is the only sound in the silent night.

Dressed in my comfy sweat clothes and slippers I sit with my back to the room, my fingers on the keyboard.  There is a pen and paper to my right in case I need to jot notes as I work.  The old-fashioned, land-line telephone is on my left, waitng, but not anticipating, that it will be used.  I am alone with my thoughts.

I mentally take inventory to make sure I am okay.  Scanning my body from the top of my head to my toes I don't feel the trickle of blood or the pain of a wound.  It appears to be nothing more than a moment of fright as the battery in the smoke detector announced that it needs to be replaced.

I look up and notice that there is no light on the smoke detector.  It is neither green nor red.  It is just blank.

I settle back into my chair, feeling my body relax as I lean against the cushions.  A quick glance shows me the books, the phone, the pen and paper are waiting just where I left them.

I hear a key in the lock.  The upstairs door opens.  Just as I'm trying to decide if I should run or scream my husband's voice calls to me.

"Karen?"

"I'm here" I call as I stand to walk through the darkness to the stairs and find out why he has come back into the house instead of driving to work.

Before I can take my first step I hear his voice again.

"The battery is dead in my car."

I wonder if it was killed by the whistles.

The Outsider

The day is filled with contrasts.  There are black clouds in the sky, and the wind blows gusts of cold around the edges of my clothes.  Richard and I dug deep into his dresser drawers and came up with a Ferrari T-shirt for him and a Motocross shirt for me so we would be in theme with the party.  I considered buying UCLA and USC jerseys, but decided we didn't want to draw battle lines.

We are at Christian's "all-star" birthday party to help him celebrate turning two.  It's cold enough that no-one is interested in swimming, so the dogs have been shut inside the pool gates.  We are free to roam the yard, to smell the roses, and to put our feet on the grass.

Our extended family is gathered togeher, and our side is out-weighed by the Hispanic side by what seems to be fifty to one.  I'm never sure just how we are all related, or even where I fit on the family tree. I got here by marriage.  It's interesting to think in terms of our side and their side when I'm the only one from my bloodline.  In reality, I'm the outsider.

I have chosen a chair at the edge of the patio where I can sit and feel the sun on my back when it peaks through the clouds.  In those moments I am in heaven.  I'm outside, with my unexpressed words swirling and playing in my head.  The wind is caressing my face.  I'm wrapped in the sun's warmth.  And, I'm sitting alone.  I can survey all the activities, watch the interactions, and keep my thoughts and my words to myself.  I would have made a great hermit.

Number 34, in the black jersey, has just arrived.  He is one of the cousins.  He spots Jackie, Christian's four year old sister, climbing into the playhouse with her friend.  He calls something to her, but I don't understand what he said.  I think he mumbled his words.

But Jackie has no problem understanding what he said.  She turns from her friend, puts her hands on her hips, does an admirable job of stamping her foot in her Cinderella slippers, and says, "I don't wear pampers, you do!"

I feel the cold tongue of the wind as it seeks to invade the spaces between my skin and my clothes.  My eyes take in the scene and nothing appears to have changed.  The collectible cars sit by themselves on the dirt, wearing their covers like we are wearing our jerseys.  The decorated paper table cloth is held down by the plastic covering with the edges taped to the bottom of the table.  The tag that says "made in China" is still on the back of the new high backed patio chairs that found places among the old plastic ones.  The two coolers, one for soft drinks or water and the other for beer, are open and people are helping themselves.  The open wine bottle sits on the table next to what seems like a crane that is being used as an opener.  A few isolated cans perch on their napkins and complement the colors of the table clothes.  The birthday presents are stacked on the cold barbeque, isolated but visible.

A group of cousins in crimson and gold are standing at the other side of the patio.  The dogs are poking their noses through the pool gate, sniffing the change in atmosphere.  Groups of people, standing in twos and threes, or those sitting at the tables, continue the soft buzz of conversation as if nothing is happening.  My calm, peaceful thoughts are frozen like icicles driping from the eves.  The warm sun has released its grip on my shoulders and is hiding behind the black clouds.  I am astonished.

Right in front of my own eyes I have seen an example of tribal consciousness.  Number 34 is training Jackie how to be one of the tribe.  He is training her to stand up for herself and to trade insult for insult.  He is teaching her the skills of survival.

I watch, waiting to see what will happen next. 

Number 34 smiles at Jackie with love and says, "No, I don't wear pampers, and you're the pamper girl."

Jackie is learning well.  She gives him a final glare, swishes her skirt like a Flamenco dancer, and turns to go back to playing with her friend.