Romeo, Romeo, Where Art Thou Romeo?

I am much more of a Juliet than a Cinderella. Let’s face it, when you’re an independent girl making your own means and providing your own life, you want the kind of guy whose going to love you for being amazing, not the kind of guy whose going to love you because you look pretty at the ball. Though Romeo’s love for Juliet was about the forbidden fruit of the situation, it still manages to trump the desire for the girl who fits a certain slipper, or in modern terms, a certain role. I want to be the kind of girl who sneaks into the party, who listens from the balcony, who daydreams. And I want the kind of thieving conniving troublemaker who is going to read me poetry even when I tell him to go away.
Romeo would be the kind of guy who would know better than to send me flowers, because flowers are a trivial show. He would know that I have no interest in seeing the world on vacation (I’d much rather save it, thank you), that I’m uncomfortable in fancy restaurants, that cruise ships are no fun unless your working as a maid or the entertainer at meals. He would know these things, because he would feel the same way.
Romeo would understand know that the best way to apologize after a huge fight would be to show up at my door and hug me, just to say he was sorry. He would know that a phone call at night means more than chocolates and that cards are a sorry form of expression. He would know what to say when I was down, and when he didn’t, he would know better than to trivialize my feelings or blabber on.
Romeo would be the quiet but strong type, holding his words back until he had something good to say, but he would have many good things to say anyway, so we would still have good conversation. He would know that my fantasies in life include nights under the stars, or mornings spent with my guitar and the sunrise. He would let me be myself, even when the rest of the world laughed at me. And he could even laugh too, as long as he didn’t try to stifle me.
My obligation as Juliet would be to think about the situation, to offer solutions to his problems. It would be my job to provide comfort for him when he was down, to jump with him when he was ready to fly, to support his desires as much he supports mine. And from there, we could create our own life, away from the expectations of the world. Because Romeo would understand that I hate being tied down to a set of standards, that I want to be on my own path, and that I sing my own song no matter what the world says.
Prince Charming, I know that you are out there, and I’m sure you are going to make some girl very happy one day. But be honest- you’re looking for a good girl to cook you dinner and rub your feet. Your looking for someone to accompany you to the symphony, the ball, or the royal court; you want arm candy. You’re expecting someone who can be pampered, who is ready for luxury, and who will compliment you just because you are a prince. You don’t break the rules, you don’t go out of your way to make the effort, and you don’t need anyone. You’re just not my type.
But Romeo, oh Romeo, wherever the heck you are, I’m waiting for you. Because I want the kind of romance that holds on because of the shared memories and strong partnership. And I promise I’ll be smarter than Juliet, and I won’t jump the gun. Even when it seems like you’ll never come to life, I’ll wait for you.

The Teacher

He taught me that if you put the sugar and cream into the cup first, that you don’t have to stir the coffee. I watched him do so a hundred times. Cream, sugar, and then coffee. No stirring. Taste: Perfect.
He was there when my grandmother died, watching over us children while my father and mother ran to the hospital to be with my grandfather. He was there when we woke that morning,shielding us from the coming days of misery. He was there so many other times as well; healing skinned knees, making jokes that would have been inappropriate if anyone else told them. He was there with instructions; his favorite psalm was about an excellent wife, and he read it over and over. His memory floats all over my childhood- a secondary father of sorts.
He left his own family last week- the last of the children old enough to understand that their parents could not make it work anymore. He tried so hard to wait for them to grow up, but it didn’t come together. With overwhelming sadness, I can only imagine, he walked away for a final time. He is a good father- of that I have no doubt. But he does not love his wife anymore.
This year alone I have watched relationship after relationship after relationship fall to pieces. I have watched good people do things that they greatly regret. I have watched some people surface into their true colors. But mostly, I’ve just watched a lot of hearts break, as people realize that they jumped into situations that they shouldn’t have been part of far too early.
I have been part of the romance world. I jumped in, I swam around, and I went under. And all too soon, it was over. And while I am still dealing with the repercussions of a love lost, and of a friend who knew too many secrets, I have the assurance that I have not made any drastic mistakes. I did the right thing. And I can move on with that knowledge.
There isn’t always a villain in relationships. Mostly there are just two people, realizing that they aren’t as compatible as they thought. They find one another, they keep each other warm for a time, and then they go their separate ways. I think the key is that promising someone forever has to be a partnership, not just a romance. But I suppose that is a thought for a different time.
He taught me how to make the perfect cup of coffee. He taught me a lot of things. And in a way, he taught me some serious lessons about what to do, and what not to do in a marriage.
But I mourn for the loss of the life he once knew, and for the tarnished future he will wake to from now on. And I can’t help but thinking about how disastrous it is to jump too suddenly, and how grateful I am to have the chance to know what could have been before I had to suffer through it.

The Weight of a Facade

I confess that there is a specific amount of pain that comes in keeping up appearances. Perhaps it is the world that I live in, or the expectations that have been set for me, or even the ones that I have entrapped myself in, but it seems to me that there is always a considerable amount that I’m holding locked up from the world. I put on the faces that people want to see, and I hold them up well. At the end of the day, my proudest memories rely on how much truth people have really figured out, or more clearly, how much I have kept in.
I am not disillusioned enough to believe that I am alone in the urgency to mask myself. And I do not consider what I do fake in any way- I am not changing personas, just details. I am proud that my personality is able to shine up despite my sealed lips- but I am saddened that I have such a distinct need to seal them in the first place.
There are symptoms and side effects of hiding you life away from the world; there is the stress of knowing that someone may find out, the exhaustion of sorting through you words at fast paces until you know that they are safe. There are the bruises that form as the weight of the façade that you’ve so long toiled over pushes down on your shoulders. There is the loss of appetite, of loved ones, of the people who find out the truth. All of these are subtle- hardly anyone notices.
I am tired of controlling who I have become. I am tired of getting up and dressing myself with clothes, jewelry, and who I will be that day. I am tired of allowing myself to make decisions which create yet another me.
And yet if I concede, if I give in to my desire to let the world in, I would have to begin to trust again. And while the load I carry gets heavier each year, the very thought of trusting anyone is heavier, and the consequences much more drastic. Even my bruises pale in comparison to the broken heart that I risk when I let someone in.
So on and on I go, creating new safe places, never letting the world see who I am or who I have the potential to become. I have hope that one day, my masks will start to reflect my heart, that the courage to be brave and let myself out will one day surface. Until then, I will hide softly, and pray that the world never becomes the wiser.

a tribute to Brooklyn; Journey Home

The rough copy:

The black pavement glistens, wet with the overflow of the clouds- they couldn’t hold it together anymore, I guess, and so down they came, breaking apart the tumbled to rebirth- they will ne reformed to overload, and then fall again. But I barely consider this as I sprint for the bus, anxious to get home to my dreams, back to the family I get to be part of once a week, where I fit in.
Home, at least on Friday’s, is a bus, a train, and a subway away. The second the clock hits five, out of work I run, in a rush to start on my long journey. The next two hours are spent in transit, where I find myself in quiet reflection, decompressing from the stresses of a life without sleep. Every other moment, I am a student, a worker, a friend. But on Shabbat, on Friday nights, I am nothing more than a child of my Father, returning for dinner.
Sometimes I try to explain the allure of this event to others in my normal world. “It’s just relaxing,” I try (of why I go). “I just like being there,” (of how it could be worth the long journey). “They just understand me,” (of my love for the people). Just, just, just. As if this is a trivial phase in my life, filling a hole left by something else, saving the space for the next best thing.
What I can’t seem to express is the truth of my desire to be there. I can’t put into words that the physical traits that hinder me in real life have no power on the Sabbath; on Friday, I am not self-conscious. I am not afraid to wear my favorite baggy sweater. I can stutter and stammer and no one laughs. I am effective in what I say, because I am me.
What I cant get out is that it’s worth every mile, whether it takes two hours or six, because the second I get in the door, I start to breathe again. How with each step leading towards that back walk, my problems start to fall away, and how by the time I sit at the table only the most important issues are left to be discussed. The things that don’t matter are brushed away.
What I just cannot seem to say is that when I start to talk, I am respected. That my opinions are valued, that I never have to make things up. I never have to prove myself because my Brooklyn family has decided that I am credible, and worth listening to. They agree with me on many things, and they disagree with me on many more. But we don’t argue, we discuss. We love each other the way only a family does- we will be there for each other despite the world.
What I don’t realize as I tread over the wet ground, is how like the clouds I am., sustaining myself the best I can until Friday, when I can fall apart and start all over again. For a few hours each week, I get to spend some time, to be real and new. It is a passion that you would have to experience to understand, but it doesn’t matter who gets it anymore. My Brooklyn Shabbats are not filling a gap- indeed, without them is when such a hole would occur.

No Complaining

The Assignment: Have a day of no complaining, and then write about it. Here was my submission.


Disposition is an interesting thing, especially when you realize that you have control over it. We go through these emotional roller coasters and times when the entire world feels so hopeless. But taking a day not to complain is an excellent way to realize that it’s what we feed ourselves mentally that really alters our outlook. Not complaining for a day came at a funny time for me. For the last few weeks, I’ve been on the search for happiness. I started a month ago, after a really good friend admitted that he hated how sad I’d been lately. Always the cynical one, I hadn’t realized that my mood was affecting him as much as it was me.
So my happiness quest, so to speak, was born. I found myself counting my blessings instead of ticking off the things going wrong. I started reading stories about others in unfortunate situations and how they cope- not because I was looking for someone to pity, but because the human experience is about not being alone. There were people who were in much worse situations, doing much better than I was. And the common denominator that kept them all happy was that they wanted to be happy.
I wanted to be happy too. The weather started to get better, and so did my mood. I changed what I was listening to on my IPod- the beats got better and so did the words. I started to find joy in things I had once loved and had been ignoring, like reading the bible or playing video games. These things seemed trivial, but to me, they were mood stabilizing. They gave me something to look forward to.
And then I started to change my interactions. I stopped letting my shyness get in the way and started making friends. I invited the cute guy from work to my birthday party, and made a good friend because of it. Things were getting better, because I was letting them get better.
Enter this assignment- one day without complaining. I loved the idea the moment I heard it. I was already seeing what a change my frame of mind was making, and it seemed more than plausible to imagine that not complaining could have good results as well. So I took the challenge, posted it to a few other friends, and looked forward to Saturday, the time I’d chosen.
Saturday morning rolled around, sunny and gorgeous. Despite the late night I’d had before, I felt pretty good when I rolled into the classroom to teach. The kids were in good spirits too, and so getting them away from topics they normally complain about was a cakewalk. Spring was finally coming, and everyone was excited about it.
But then I thought about other people who might be complaining. I thought about my grandmother, who was in a lot of pain because of an inflammation she was suffering from. What would help her not to complain?
The sure-fire answer was a visit, and so off my older sister and I went. We put the top down, blasted cruising music, and headed off to Tom’s River. The sky was bright and despite the cold, it felt good to be out and about.
We got to my grandmothers just in time to get her to her favorite Saturday event, Bingo. When we go visit, we go with her to play the game. The firehouse floor quickly fills with people waiting for their big break. It is a fascinating experience to be part of.
But that night, the bingo caller was bad, and the regular players felt cheated. Since I could not request they all stop complaining, I tuned myself out and onto my board, ignoring their comments. My older sister, however, listened intently, and her mood grew worse as the night poured on. When we talked about it later, she described the other players as vicious and bitter. I tried to explain that they felt cheated- this man did not respect their game (he ate during it, mocked numbers when they were called, and took his time). The reasoning did not help- her bingo night had been ruined, despite the fact that she won fifty dollars.
But for me, the night felt good. I spent dinner afterwards entertaining my grandmother with stories of my job and the things going on in my life. We were having so much fun, that our waiter kept stopping by to hear our tales. He was a nice guy, and I may have even flirted with him a little. I was feeling really good.
The car ride back left me reflecting on all the things going right in my life. I didn’t have much to complain about. Sure, the next day was bound to be exhausting, but I felt right about how I’d spent my time.
I look forward to comparing with my friends. Many of them are happy people to begin with, so I think we’ll be in good shape to chat. But I can see how what you dwell on changes how you feel. The sunshine of my Saturday cannot be entirely attributed to the weather.