Shameless

His eyes grew larger. I clearly hit a nerve. I asked him why he didn’t want to join us for lunch. It seemed fairly simple to me. If it was about money, I’d help, we all struggle sometimes. His cheeks reddened. “I just can’t,” he replied. I didn’t push. It was about money. Money was tight. In his family, maturity equaled financial stability. He didn’t have financial stability. Years of listening to his parent argue about finances had caused an undue worry in him, a fear of absolute financial failure. He held money tightly. There never seemed to be enough in his savings. But he didn’t want anyone to know. It seemed too embarrassing for anyone to know he ever struggled with money. His thoughts were his reality.   

Shame is such a bitch. She’s manipulative, sinister, and crafty. She quietly digs her way into your life. You won’t notice. She hibernates until the worst possible moment, then comes out swinging, often disguised as something else entirely. We mislabel her. We call her “privacy,” “personal,” or “no big deal.” That’s sustenance to her. It keeps her growing.

Shame lives deep within me. I didn’t understand it for a long, long time. It leaked out from time to time. Every time I felt embarrassed by anything my body reacted. My chest seized a bit, eyes welled. It happened when I received any kind of coaching--they knew I wasn’t perfect. It happened when someone rejected me--they know too much to love me. It happened when I hurt someone--I’m not nice or good enough and now they know. I could not identify it and believed something was deeply wrong with me, only adding to the feeling. Shame.

Recently in a book I read, the author described shame as, “the knowledge that someone knows something about you that you’d rather they not know.” He acknowledged that shame can be warranted and the result of a poor choice a person made. However, most of the time, it’s an illegitimate shame resulting from the way a person had been treated in the past. A weight lifted. There wasn’t something wrong with me, I was simply ashamed of so much! I held it all in, hid it, or tried to. Primarily things I had absolutely no control over. What freedom that realization provided. I’m allowed now to let myself show more, show the real me. Everyone fails. 

Shame doesn’t just go away. It’s a process and there are plenty of people out there who want to add to it. They prove this in the way they talk to and treat us. It’s the idea that if they can make you feel like something is bad, or your fault, then nothing has to be theirs. Then we won’t know anything bad in them. Typically, they are dealing with their own feelings of shame. Isn’t that ironic?

Understanding that everyone wrestles with shame at some level helps. We can attempt to not add to it. We can give them grace, give them an out. Communicate in our own ways that it’s not a big deal that we know about what they don’t want us to know about. For the most part, it really is not a big deal anyway. Often the thing we find the worst about ourselves, has no affect on those who learn of it. They love us the same. There is great freedom in that.   You think your shame is more warranted? You think I don’t know how bad you are? You are right, I don’t know. But ask yourself this question: Is it about something you did, something someone did to you? Let go of the things you can. Everyone fails. It’s okay.

Why I Write

I’ve noticed lately that I don’t always seem to fit the traditional descriptions of what or who makes a “writer.” I’m inherently an extrovert. I’m not particularly artsy. I’m not constantly cuddled up with a book. Yet, I love to write. It’s been my constant my whole life, what I always return to, what I always find time for, my true love.

When I tell others I am a writer they always ask me similar questions: What kinds of things do you write? What do you want to do with your writing? What are your goals? Are you ever gonna publish a book? Have you already been published? How long should it take? Why do you write? Have you considered self-publishing? These questions often stump me. I want to have a beautiful, concise, succinct answer, but often fail. I want to sound impressive, like I have it all figured out and have already had marked success. This (along with the fear of not paying rent!) in turn, causes me to second guess just what in the world I am doing! I worry about what others must think of my process and quite frankly, my job. I wonder, silently to myself, how long do I keep trying to “make it,” when do I give up?

So why do I do it? Why do I keep going. The simple answer is because I just can’t stop! It is what I was created to do. No other job I have ever had has satisfied and filled my soul in quite the same way--even the great jobs. There is something that God is wanting to communicate through me that only the written word can satisfy. I am not sure it has come out yet. I think of the projects I have started and stopped as I search for the right one. I consider it all practice, all worth while.

There may never be a New York Bestseller in my future, or a Pulitzer, I may never make much of a living--ha! But I must write. I must keep trying. I do and will continue to get jealous of other writers who have found their voice (some seemingly really quickly!) as I look for mine. I will continue to wrestle with thoughts of inadequacy as I long for something substantial that communicates to the masses that I have “made it” as a writer and therefore, a human. I must be willing to fall on my face over and over, to fail. I must be willing to make an absolute fool of myself and then put it all down on paper. Why do I write? I simply can’t not write.

The Dump

The truck rumbled. The engine so loud it drowned out the low music. I sat cross-legged next to dad on the bench of the truck, only space between us. The smell of motor oil filled our lungs. As the truck moved along, I bounced on the spring loaded vinyl seat. It was the ’80’s and no seat belt held me in place. Instead the black upholstery with rigid seams held me tight as I strained to peer over the cracked dash board.

Dad in his cut-off shorts, tank top, knee-high white socks, and tennis shoes pulled us into the gas station where we stopped for beef jerky and soda--an-anytime-we’re-in-the-truck-with-dad-tradition. I waited in the cab for my grape-flavored Crush. He’ll be just a minute. Soon he returned and asked me to open the beef jerky, teasing me not to take any in the process.

We were headed to the dump, a favorite of ours; a special time for dad and I. What more could a young girl ask for, but time with dad, soda, beef jerky, and trash? We had spent the morning cleaning and clearing. The anticipation of the trip making it all worth it. Soon we near my favorite intersection. We crossed one street into another part of town, all that closer to our destination. Dad sped up, well above the limit in anticipation of the jump, the cross street having a slight rise. I grabbed hold of something, anything. Here we go. Dad laughs. “Ready?” he asked. Soon the truck jumped over the intersection, my bottom separating from the seat as I giggle with just a little fear.

After what feels like minutes, we settled back on the ground, both of us laughing. “Did you like that?” “Yep!” We pulled into the dump, but I was already thinking about the ride home, thinking about the leap we will take again. In the meantime, I watched the seagulls circle the piles of “stuff people just couldn’t live without.” The Christmas and birthday gifts, the impulse buys, the replace-ables, the rejects. The smell of trash surrounded us, a mixture of rotten apples, dirty diapers, and dust. Yet somehow the smell brought comfort. Somehow it symbolized this time with dad.

Soon we headed home. Another trip to the dump, done. We head home to resume accumulation, and these trips continued till junior high deems it uncool. I didn’t realize how important these trips of trash were for many years. I will only knew I liked the soda and the beef jerky and the jump of the truck. Not till adulthood did I recognize the time spent with dad was what I would remember the most.

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Alone

This is a fictional piece written as the result of a prompt about loss. 

I ride the bus alone. I used to never be alone. He used to be with me all the time. For 38 years I couldn’t get a moment’s peace. Now here I am riding this bus--alone. Not a single person knows where I am, where I’ve been, or where I am headed. Not a single person will know if I get home late. He used to always know. I’ll be home soon. No one waits for me there, except a half-eaten frozen lasagna that does not sound remotely delicious. Its congealed cheese and sausage hint at nutrition, yet only vaguely resemble food. He always did the cooking. He knew I hated the whole process, from shopping for groceries all the way to sautéing the onions. Now I am forced to do it all, even if it remains half-assed. Perhaps tonight a bottle of wine will push the food down. For 38 years I couldn’t eat alone if I wanted to. A frozen lasagna would have been absolutely out of the question! Now I am headed towards an empty table; towards a dinner I “made” myself and don’t even want. 

We’re nearing my stop; the bus trudging along, loaded with passengers and bikes. I look out the window as the numbers zoom by. I count the streets, waiting for my stop. I notice the homes we pass, longing for the companionship inside. For 38 years noise filled my home; not talking, just noise. Now I hear my heart beat as I am surrounded by silence. It invades every nook and cranny. His clothes and various sundries still strewn about taunt at it. These items tell stories, share memories; memories I am not in the slightest interested in discussing.

A young gal sits across from me on the bus, her whole life ahead of her. Her 38 years waiting. My whole life behind me; my 38 years gone. She too looks out the window. I wonder what it is she sees. Does she also long for the companionship within those sacred walls? Is she headed home to a half-eaten frozen lasagna? Does she know what it is she longs for? I smile at her. She looks away. Two strangers following different paths, on the same bus.

Finally, I exit the bus. I make my way to the front door and turn the key slowly. The neighborhood is quiet. The kids living nearby have gone in for dinner leaving their bikes and basketballs flung about in their yards and driveways. He used to love to listen to their chatter as he watered the lawn, sometimes losing all track of time; said it kept him young long after our kids took lives of their own. 

Walking in I sense the memories crowded into the small space, many more than the space has room for. Furniture now sits quietly, afraid to make a sound for fear of further rejection. I close the door set down my bag, drop pieces of clothing along the way to my bedroom. I skip the dinner and simply crawl into my bed still warm from his body. For 38 years, I shared this bed with a snorer. Now it is empty and quiet and I notice how it creaks and moans with every movement.

Thirty-eight years ago, I decided I didn’t want to be alone. Yet, here I lay. Alone. I close my eyes.

To TriMet with Love

Riding the city bus (at least in Portland, Or) could easily be classified as an exercise in observing the human condition. It is easy to lose your sense of the outside world whirling around as you focus on the nuances of those sitting nearby. If you take the same route often, you begin to see familiar faces. However, even if you mix it up from time to time, you can find similar themes running through, like the string of lights on a Christmas tree--each branch a little different, yet, the strand itself stays unchanged.

As I ride the number ## bus (like I am going to tell you what number it is!!) several days a week, I have begun to notice some of my fellow riders. At the front of the bus sits a gentleman with white Avia tennis shoes, baggy-straight-legged-faded-denim dad jeans, and a short sleeve button down shirt. His hair resembles a well-manicured crew cut, except for the five to six inch rat tail in the back. His wife, an average-looking brunette in khaki pants and pastel cable-knit sweater, sits next to him. They sweetly hold hands for the entire ride, every day. I find myself wondering what her thoughts are on the rat tail. Does she like it? Does it feel youthful to her? Does she tolerate it because it’s just one of those things he values and she loves him? Or does she dream each night about tip toeing into the kitchen, into the utility drawer, pulling out anything resembling scissors or a dull knife, and sneaking back into the bedroom to cut it off? She realizes the next day there will be questions, possibly consequences, and she hasn’t perfected her alibi.

Across from this couple sits a professional gentleman. Likely in his late fifties, his salt and pepper hair betraying any remaining youth. His suit distinguishes him; his brown leather shoes and carefully picked out navy blue tie suggest attention to detail and regular trips to the dry cleaners. Each morning, I find him at the front of the bus. A faded brown leather briefcase rests gently in his lap just below a small Moleskin-like notebook. He writes feverishly, head down, paying attention to no one. What captivates him so in that notebook? Is it work notes? His to-do list for the day? Is he journaling? Is he writing a novel? Is he taking notes on the sociological observations he is making about others on the bus?

Behind me sits a young man. He wears baggy sweat pants, tennis shoes, a hoodie, and a flat-billed ball cap. He silences the world with his ear buds. He does not appear gruff, but quiet. As a tattered and well-used backpack sits on the floor between his feet, I notice his fingers tapping against his leg. His head bobs to the beat as he gazes out the window. Something about this college-aged young man tells me he wants people to think he doesn’t need them; that he’ll be just fine without anyone’s help. Yet, his searching eyes defy him and share the deep need he has for relationship, for acceptance. I want to reach out to him and say hello; to find some way to encourage him. But I quickly realize I am not the one he wants approval from. To him, I might as well be BFF’s with his aging mom. To him, I am middle-aged. Instead he’s got one eye on the cute 25 year-old three seats over. She plays with her iPhone for the duration. She doesn’t have time to make any eye contact, she is much too busy texting, tweeting, and Instagramming. What could have been the next great love affair has succumbed to the power of social media, for another day. Maybe tomorrow he’ll talk to her. Maybe tomorrow they’ll become Facebook friends.

The bus comes to a startling stop as we all lean forward, then jerk back. I move one foot to steady myself and attempt to display an ounce of grace. The majority of the bus rises to exit as we settle into the first downtown stop. A line forms in the aisle and the bus empties one by one, as we head to the lives awaiting us. Some give salutations to the driver on their way out, most behave as if they do not see her, their own awkwardness, fear, or oblivion getting in the way of their humanness.

We don’t generally acknowledge our standing appointment to see each other every day. Many spending more time with their fellow commuters than their extended families. But still we’ll do it again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Oddly it will give us a sense of safety to see each other. We’ll look at each other and feel a level of community without knowing each other’s names, jobs, or passions. And we’ll do it again the day after that.

The Cop and the Courthouse

I got a speeding ticket. It was the first one in over 10 years. It was one of those camera ones. You know the kind. The ones you don’t even know about that suddenly show up in your mailbox. Crying or flirting won’t get you out of those! But I wasn’t giving up with a fight. I didn’t believe I was actually going as fast as the ticket said. This landed me in the Multnomah County Court House.

8:00 AM: I walked into the large downtown building with trepidation. Fortunately, I had not spent much time in courthouses. I was nervous about going to the wrong place, the wrong room, being late, getting yelled at, crying. I had no idea what to expect. Once past the metal detectors and guards, I did my best to follow the signs and crowds. I stood in line with the rest of the “offenders” unsure and lacking confidence. I heard a clerk repeatedly (and with growing irritation although her day had just begun) tell people this was the line to stand in if you have a traffic ticket. I fought my doubt and waited in line. Finally, I heard someone talk about what to do if you had already contested the ticket. Of course, I was in the wrong place and now late.

8:32 AM: Stepping into the (correct) court room I thought about how helpful it would be if there was someone standing at the door to answer questions; perhaps a concierge. But alas, there is not. I asked a police officer to help. He gave me some basic info and pointed me towards another officer I could talk to if I wanted. As I approached the officer, I meekly mumbled something along the lines of, “I was told to talk to you about my ticket.” He asked me to sit down, he’d be with me shortly.

8:36 AM: Again, reminded how foreign the whole situation was to me, I tried to think through what I was going to say when my turn came. The officer finally called me over. His exact words were, “What do you want to talk about?” Um, I don’t know. How does this work? It’s annoying that clearly the more you have to do it, the more savvy you become. What about those of us who aren’t savvy? I mumbled my way through an explanation of, “Well, I don’t usually drive that fast, is there a possibility the camera could have been wrong?” This was apparently not his first rodeo as he explained how the van/camera situation worked. He made it clear to me, that there was no doubt in his mind I was driving as fast as he said and no point in arguing with him.

8:41 AM: As I eventually stood in front of the judge for about two minutes, I received my reduced fine and left, thankful for a good driving record and hopeful my insurance wouldn’t increase. It turned out this was the easy part. I headed down stairs to pay my fine.

8:45 AM: I stood in the same original line for the next forty-five minutes, thankful I had brought a book to read. I periodically looked up from my distraction to observe what was going on around me. I gazed down the hallway. My line crawled around the corner as a variety of people stood impatiently waiting their turn at the post-office-like window where clerks worked with no sense of urgency. Across from us was a window dedicated to criminal acts. I found myself judging those around me. I looked the “criminals” up and down. I made decisions about what they were wearing, the tattoos they bore, their cavalier demeanor. I made decisions about what their lives were like. I found myself assuming they were also the people who made poor decisions about who they spent time with, they bounced checks, they always played the victim.

9:00 AM: I also looked at the people in my own line. I was surprised when I saw someone dressed professionally or someone I thought was attractive. “How can that be?” I thought to myself. They have gotten in trouble with the law! I quickly realized I was in the same line. I felt shame. I felt like I was a bad person. Here I was clumped with all these other “bad” people. I couldn’t deny it. I too had gotten in trouble with the law.

9:30 AM: I finally reached the window, pulled out my checkbook and paid my fine. Sure it stung a bit, but I deserved it. I’m still not 100% convinced I was going the speed he said I was, but I’m equally unsure I wasn’t. Furthermore, if I am honest, if I didn’t deserve this ticket there are certainly others I did; others I had gotten away with. I hear all the time people talking about how the police are “out to get us.” If that’s the case, they don’t have to try very hard. We provide a lot of opportunity. If we really want to show them, we can obey the law. That’ll stick it to them for sure.

The moral of this story is (in case I have to point it out to you) someday you may find yourself heading to the court house because you got a speeding ticket (yes even you “good” people out there!). Be sure to bring a book! :-)