All Insane Together Now

“It’s easier to get your heart broken when there are tons of people around getting their hearts broken at the same time…”

This is the first part of a direct quote that I issued during a conversation last night. I find it particularly illuminating in regards to the sometimes pathological community that is Carolina basketball.

You see, I realize that I’m sort of insane. I also realize that I come from a family of very insane people, and that if/when I procreate I will do my absolute best to pass the insane genes down to the next generation. My sister and I have made vows that our children will come home from the hospital in Carolina onesies. And yes, they will be in blue no matter what the gender. It’s all about initiation into the Carolina community at an early age.

What I was referring to specifically was watching the UNC/UK game last weekend at the Crystal City Sports Pub. It’s the designated Carolina watch bar in Arlington, so there were tons of people up there in UNC gear, drinking beer out of blue cups from He’s Not, and cheering like banshees for the entire game. Occasionally an enterprising individual would bellow “TAR,” and like good UNC minions, we all responded without a beat of hesitation with a resounding “HEELS!”

We clapped. We swore. We threatened the refs with bodily harm for the shoddy officiating. And when John Henson’s last-second shot to win the game was swatted away and the clock dribbled down to nothing, there was a collective groan and then silence. It was the silence of a community of hearts shattering.

As silly as it sounds, I’d rather be there than watching the game than by myself on the couch. I’d be miserable no matter where I watched the game, but I feel slightly less like a crazy person when I’m marinating in misery all around.

In the same vein, it’s so much better to witness a huge victory with other Carolina fans around. The best is when you’re actually at the Dean Dome, and everyone pours out the doors in a jostling, euphoric frenzy, slapping high fives with complete strangers, singing the alma mater, howling cheers to the sky.

The best Carolina community moment I can remember was the day after the 2005 National Championship. After the trials of the Doherty era (8-20…), the media frenzy of Roy’s abandonment of Kansas and return to home, the long drought between national championships, the team that was not enough of a “team” and had no chance against the Illinois juggernaut, there was nothing sweeter than walking outside on that Tuesday morning to mild temperatures, a Carolina blue sky, and a campus full of the happiest people on earth. Seriously—people couldn’t stop smiling, all day. Everyone was just a little bit nicer to everyone else. You could stop and talk to just about anyone on campus that day about the game and feel like you’d known them forever. We were a family in triumph and it was glorious.

But, like I said earlier, I know that I’m a little bit insane. Because here’s the second part of my quote:

“…or at least, people who are almost as heart broken. I don’t think anyone was as heartbroken as I was.”

To be honest, being a Carolina fan is sort of a competitive sport. Who knows all the players names, even the benchwarmers? Who knows how many assists Kendall Marshall is averaging per game? Who can recite the most arcane bits of Carolina knowledge at a moment’s notice? It’s all about proving your love, and like any big family, it pays to be at the top of the food chain.

Thank goodness basketball season is finally here. Here’s to a long season of insanity…

This week’s synchroblog topic was community. You can read the other synchroblog posts here:

The Creative Collective

Welcome Back

A few weeks ago, my friend Katie wrote about being fired from the company we both used to work for. I had already left the company in September, but when I heard the news a few weeks later I was filled with the same disbelief and indignation and frustration and fury that had plagued most of my previous year at the company. I had the same thought: how could they do that to someone who played such an integral role in the company for three years?

But Katie, I was lucky enough to see you a few days ago, and I know you’ve already figured this out, but it doesn’t hurt to stress the point—this was a good thing. You were more like my friend Katie in that short time we had lunch together than you had been for most of the past year. Your spark is back, your engagement with what’s going on around you, your love of the unknown. The Katie of the past year has appeared to be mired in a fog of apathy and unhappiness, weighed down.

One thing I’ve always admired about you is your fearlessness. When you decided to buy a house a few years ago, I thought it was a little crazy. But you’re young! my internal decisionmaking compass shouted. The real estate market is nuts right now! You’ll be stuck with this house forever, tied down, wings clipped!

But those were my fears, not yours—you attacked the process of buying a house with determination and single-minded intent to succeed. It worked out exceptionally well, as anyone who’s been over to your house can attest.

Now that you’re out this job, I know you’re going to do great things. Whether or not it’s the project we talked about at lunch, or something still unknown, I know it will be something that is challenging and inspiring and fulfilling.

Welcome back, Katie—can’t wait to see what happens next.

This week’s synchroblog topic was to respond to a post from a fellow synchroblogger. You can read Katie’s original post here, and the other posts from this week here:

The Creative Collective

Reflections

I am a baby, and I am bathed in the crab pot on the sun-drenched deck of my family’s beach house in Emerald Isle, North Carolina. I imagine that the sun is shining and the breeze is gentle and the sky is azure blue. I don’t remember being bathed in the crab pot, and fill in the details as needed. I have been on the receiving end of so many jokes over the years, however—every time the pot is dragged out for cooking—that I believe I am entitled to stretch my imagination. The deck is saturated by sun, the water as warm as if it’s been gently simmering on the stove for hours. My parents run wet hands up over my forehead and tufts of hair, and it is as close to baptism as I will get.

I do not have a church or temple or mosque, but I do have the beach.

Emerald Isle takes its name from the stunning green clarity of the water, but I can remember one summer in particular when it embodied the name better than ever before. That summer you could walk for what felt like miles in knee-deep water that was so pure and clear that you could see every blemish on your toes as you walked, see tiny minnows darting in the water, spot fantastic shells and scuttling crustaceans. The world dropped away. All that mattered was the water and the teaming life that existed all around us, invisible until that day when the water parted the curtain; illumination.

I am like a battery. Every pilgrimage I make to the beach is a kind of recharging and restoration. I rely on the beach to keep me going through fall and winter and spring and all the bad days and hard times sprinkled in between. I have become a lazy battery in recent years. It used to be I had one week to get my fill of sun and sand and water and then an entire year to eke out the remnants. I was very efficient. But in the seven years I lived in North Carolina, there were weekend trips, Memorial Days and Fourth of Julys and Labor Days, and the ubiquitous family vacation. My battery was overflowing. Now that I live in another state, I hope I can sputter along until summer.

On clear nights the stars crowd the night sky with reckless abandon, caught in the gauzy haze of the Milky Way. Sometimes the moon is full and it hangs over the water, creating a moonlit path that stretches out into forever. It looks so real I can imagine taking one step and then another onto that path, walking without care.

A few years ago I was alone at the beach in early October. It was cloudy and the wind was enthusiastic, whipping the sand into a frenzy. I stayed up on the deck with a book; it was far too chilly to venture down onto the beach. At one point I paused in my reading and put the book down on the wooden bench next to me. At that moment there was a break in the clouds and bars of sunlight sliced down into the water, illuminating just a small patch of water in front of my house. The sunlight was a visceral thing, solid enough to touch. I remember thinking the only thing that could make this more beautiful and then before the thought coalesced a group of dolphins sliced the glittering surface of the water. One, two, three fins cut the shimmering blue-green glass.

How could they have known the sun would be shining in that particular spot? How did I happen to look up at the precise moment they appeared? Why in front of my house?

Things like this make you believe. Things like this keep you going the other 364 days of the year.

This week’s synchroblog topic was water. You can read the other Creative Collective posts here:

Water

Of Metros, Pizza, and Identity

An identity crisis, large or small, can come at the strangest times, and they very rarely offer up any warning. Not so much as a “Hey, by the way, you’re going to have an identity crisis on your way home from the metro today.”

Here’s how it happened. It was late, somewhere after 12 but before 1 on a Saturday night in Arlington. It had been a long day; running in the morning, watching possibly the most pathetic UNC football game of all time at noon, horseback riding at 4:30, and dinner and drinks with friends in the city that evening. I was tired. I was also by myself.

I don’t really mind the walk home from the metro. Sure, it would be super convenient if I only lived 5 or 10 minutes away, but it’s kind of nice to get out in the neighborhood. It also helps make up for the calories I sink into beer/wine/sangria/insert your favorite drink here that usually accompany my trips into the city. The only time it really becomes a problem is when it’s late and I’m walking home alone in the dark. I could take a taxi—there’s a hopeful line of drivers outside the stop at all times—but I’m stubborn and I don’t like to admit that I get a little jumpy being alone in the dark. I especially don’t like to admit that being young and white and female and alone makes me stand out. I keep my keys between my fingers, my cell phone within easy reach, and I walk. So far it hasn’t been a problem.

On this particular Saturday night I was also carrying a box of pizza leftovers from dinner. I’d had any number of homeless (and maybe not homeless) people ask for my pizza that night. I was a little annoyed; I paid for the pizza, I went to the trouble of boxing up my pizza leftovers and carting them all over the city, and I’d be damned if I was going to give them up. I’m poor at the moment. DC is a money pit and I don’t get paid for another 4 ½ weeks.

At least, this is what I told myself after I turned down every request, feeling more and more guilty after every negative shake of the head, every averted gaze as I pretended not to hear the words coming my way.

I was about halfway home, walking down one of the darker parts of Randolph Street, and I saw a girl in front of me waiting for the bus. Just as I got up to her, I heard her say “Excuse me.” Not again, was my first thought. I tucked my head and quickened my pace. “Excuse me,” I heard again.

My gait faltered. For a split second, I debated stopping. The voice was hesitant and quiet and sounded a little frightened. Maybe this girl really needed my help. But then I thought about how dark it was and how alone I was and all the other people I’d ignored that night. I thought about who else could be waiting in the shadows for me to stop and talk to this girl. I ducked my chin and hurried past.

I thought about that girl the rest of my walk home. In general, I think of myself as a good person. I’m sure most people like to count themselves as good people. But what are my definitions of good? I work hard. I follow the law. I recycle when I can. I try to be a good friend/sister/daughter/etc. But when it really comes down to it, what do I do for anyone else? What do I contribute to make the world a better place?  I’m so selfish of my own safety—so concerned with preserving my own skin—that I won’t even stop to see what a girl alone on the side of the road needs from me.

Maybe identity crisis is too strong for this particular incident, but it’s something that I’ve been thinking about a lot the past few days. Should I look up volunteer activities in the area? Maybe, but putting in a few hours a month and then burying my head in the sand again doesn’t make for any great change, in myself or for others.

I don’t have an answer, but I am thinking about it, and maybe that’s the best first step I can take.

This week’s synchroblog topic was Identity Crisis. You can read the other posts here: The Creative Collective

A Very Bad Idea

My family did a fair amount of hiking when I was growing up, especially in the fall, when it’s a crime not to take advantage of the brilliant northeastern foliage. We used to go hiking at local trails and also took longer day trips to state parks. We kept up a healthy competition for who could catch the most number of falling leaves before they hit the ground, chased various family dogs that inevitably dashed into the woods after tasty-looking squirrels and rabbits, and brought up the long-standing joke about trolls living under footbridges. [Even long past when we believed that the trolls were actually down there, my dad stomping on the bridge or throwing rocks into the woods to create ominous noises could make us shriek.] Somewhere along the line, my feet also picked up a pair of nicknames: Flopsy (right foot) and Mopsy (left foot).

If there was a root buried under a pile of leaves, Flopsy picked it out, squirmed underneath, and sent me sprawling. A rock in the path? Mopsy tracked it down like and scent hound and pushed me into a merry nosedive. Together, Flopsy and Mopsy made every hiking trip just an exciting adventure. Every stagger and stumble led to the inevitable question, “Was that Flopsy or Mopsy?” The endless ribbing did not exactly instill a great amount of self-confidence in my hiking ability.

This is why, at least to my mind, the proposed hiking trip down into the Grand Canyon was a Very Bad Idea.

The path was about three feet wide at most. There was no guardrail. There was nothing but a few scraggly trees and brush between you and oblivion. There were rocks to trip, roots to snarl, and loose pebbles that equaled treacherous footing. It was a playground for Flopsy and Mopsy, and I was terrified. I was convinced that I was going to trip right off the side of the canyon and plunge into the river below. Wouldn’t my parents be sorry for making fun of me then.

I did have one brilliant idea to save me from canyon doom. Mules. The canyon offered mule rides down the canyon. That, I could get behind. Where I was doubtful and skeptical of Flopsy and Mopsy, I had absolute confidence in the sure-footed mules. They didn’t want to die any more than I did—it was in their best interest to take care of me! I was more comfortable in a saddle than walking in pretty much any situation, so this seemed like the perfect solution.

Naturally, my parents shot it down. They wanted to hike. And no matter how much begging and pleading and whining I tried, I was hiking too.

I think we hiked down for about two hours, two hours filled with heart-thumping, throat-constricting, sweaty terror. Every step was fraught with dread. Any second and I could tumble to my death. Flopsy and Mopsy were on red alert for potential obstacles to run into. I stared straight down at my treacherous feet and the narrow path, inching ahead a tiny bit at a time. I did not look at the scenery. I did not admire the red rock and breathtaking vista. I did not commune with nature. I was too busy trying not to die.

Eventually my parents took pity on me and said it was time to turn around. I did a quick 180 and started powering up the trail. Suddenly, I was in the lead and I was going fast. Sections of the trail that had taken me ages to pick my way down were behind me in what seemed like seconds. I flew up that trail like a professional mountain climber. I was fierce in my punishing pace, single-minded in my upward progression. I channeled a little bit of mountain goat during that frenzied climb.

The rest of my family arrived at the top of the canyon 10 or 20 minutes behind me. They found me at the mule pen, hanging with my friends, wondering why it had taken them so long to get back to the top.

It hadn’t been all that bad, after all.

————-

This week’s synchroblog topic was Falling. You can read the other posts here: The Creative Collective

Last Dance

It was fall semester of my senior year at UNC, and I was taking an English class in modernism. Our big end-of-semester research project was to pick some aspect of modernism—music, art, architecture, film, etc.—write a term paper, and then give a 10-15 minute presentation to the class. Once I got over my ruffled feathers from the prospect of public speaking, I got to thinking about what aspect of modernism I should research. And, being the resourceful little student I was, knowing how much professors love primary source research, the answer lived about five minutes away from campus. My grandmother, Dorothy Silver, had danced in the Martha Graham Dance Company in New York City, and Martha Graham is the most famous name in American modern dance.

No one in my family is particularly artistic; aside from my playing the viola and writing, and my sister’s early forays into piano playing, we’ve never shown much interest in dance or theater or the other fine arts. I knew next to nothing about my grandma’s dance career. I think that’s why she was a bit surprised when I first talked to her about the project, but of course she agreed to help me.

We went to lunch at Town Hall Grill, a little place in Southern Village that had a killer plate of pita and humus and was a favorite of ours. I started telling my grandma about the research I’d started to do, trying to narrow down the list of iconic dancers to a handful that could be the focus of my project. When the name Isadora Duncan came up, she was off to the races. She was so beautiful, and did you know she had all sorts of scandalous love affairs, and she always used to wear these gorgeous silk scarves—my grandma arched one arm over her head and then out to the side, recreating with a few gestures the flow of silk in wind. And it was a scarf that killed her. Getting into a car with one of her lovers, the end of the scarf wrapped around the spoke of the wheel, and when the car started moving—that was the end of the show. I was both intrigued and impressed with my grandma’s flair for storytelling.

We sat at the Town Hall Grill for hours as my grandma discussed her early days of dancing, the uncertainty of moving to New York City to try and make it as a professional, the long hours, living in apartments with other struggling dancers, not knowing how to cook and not really having the money to eat, either. And she talked about Martha Graham, her mentor, a woman I mostly knew from the framed black and white photograph that hung on wall of my grandma’s staircase. Her harshness, the scantiness of her praise, her genius.

I had thought I would ask a few questions, take some notes; instead I listened as one story fed into the next, and I began to glimpse the richness and extent of my grandma’s experiences. She was not just my grandma, who loved to fish and cooked up the best blue claw crab you’ll ever have and yelled louder than anyone at Carolina basketball games; she was also Dorothy Berea, a dancer, a woman who was part of the pinnacle of dance in America, someone who was young like me once.

In September that same year, my grandma was invited to dance in a Martha Graham tribute performance in New York that brought together members of the company, old and new, to dance and tell stories about Martha. My grandma was interviewed and quoted in articles, met up with old friends, and somehow, despite having had a hip replacement and serious respiratory issues and finding even short walks difficult, managed to get up on stage and dance. If I hadn’t seen the video, I’m not sure I would have believed it. She was beautiful. It was also the last time she danced; she passed away just five months later. I’m forever grateful that, at least by the end, I could begin to grasp what that last dance must have meant to her.

——

This week’s synchroblog topic was know your roots. You can read the other posts here:

The Creative Collective

A Meditation

There’s something about having a horse stop in midair over a jump that gives you a rather acute appreciation of the principle of gravity. One minute you’re getting about as close to defying gravity as you can get without mechanical aid—lifting, flying, taking off—and the next the momentum ceases, the ground calls to you, and you throttle toward it with the full dismal weight of Newton’s theory drawing you down. You hit with bone jarring force, and for seconds or minutes you sprawl, body reunited with earth. You try to remember how to breathe.

And then you get up. Maybe you’re bleeding. Maybe your wrist is swelling up. Maybe you have lacerations on your back where the metal jump cups sliced through skin. Almost certainly your back or side or bum is throbbing with ever-increasing urgency. Sometimes you’re caked in mud, other times wreathed in dust. And the fear is there—oh yes, the fear settles in your stomach like a brick, chokes up your throat. Your pulse flutters like a butterfly held in front of a candle, futile wings of dread that say stop, don’t, can’t, scared.

But you get back up anyway. What other choice is there to make? And you always fly again. You forget for those minutes or hours you spend in the saddle what it is to be earthbound. You leave gravity behind.

***

I promise I’m not trying to hoard words for next time. I just said all I wanted to say rather more succinctly than usual. This week’s topic was The Earth Around the Sun or The Sun Around the Earth: Centers of Gravity. You can read the other blogs on this topic at:

The Creative Collective