Went to the ranch for Thanksgiving. Its not the same ranch we grew up going to. Its across the highway from that one, much smaller but still very much adored by our family. The Frio River runs through it. It was really full this time, due to the floods during the spring and summer. The water is almost fluorescent blue, flowing over the road that crosses it. Legend has it that this crossover was the same one used by Santa Anna when he took the Alamo. Right there on our land. I heard that for the first time this Thanksgiving.
I spent two days there and got to see my entire family. I got into my car to head home and immediately started crying. What is it about being with family that makes me feel more alone than anywhere else in the world? My immediate family of six…my parents and four kids…has blown up to sixteen now that everyone has families of their own. I have seven nieces and nephews ranging from six months to 14 years old. I love getting to hold babies and having all the kids running around.
I was looking forward to seeing everyone so much before I left. I am completely baffled that I was so disengaged while I was there…avoiding conversations, engrossing myself in a puzzle as if it were the boyfriend I never get to bring to family gatherings, always so sleepy. When I get with family I feel like every bit of energy is sucked out of me taking my entire personality with it. Then I leave wondering why I feel like no one really knows me.
I used to blame it on the tryptophan in the turkey, but recently found out that I would have to eat an entire turkey in one sitting to have the sleepiness attributed to it. So I think I will have to admit that there is some stress, however unconscious it might be, that is related to being with family. They say stress manifests itself in different ways. Some people get panic attacks or high blood pressure. It seems I tend more toward narcolepsy and binge eating. Like when I used to get overwhelmingly sleepy during finals at school or when it was time to sit down and do a research paper. All of a sudden that leftover piece of cake in the fridge is calling my name and I’m pretty sure if I just go to sleep now and get up early the next day I will have much better clarity of mind to write an entire ten-page paper.
I am so happy to be where I am in life. I think I can truly say that. I like being on this side of my identity crisis. I feel much more secure in who I am and the flexibility that comes along with that. I know that my personality is not set in stone, will continue to change over time and in fact changes daily depending on my work schedule or the weather or any other number of variables. I am finally comfortable with it, like a worn out sweatshirt or running shoes. The people who know me best find me predictable at times, which makes me feel sane and irritated at the same time. The people who know me best like me for me, I can finally accept that. They know how corny I can be, that when I say certain things I really mean something else, that when I’m really sweet its usually because I’m angry and when I’m sarcastic, I’m having the most fun. The people who know me best are not my family.
I think there’s something about being the youngest that makes that pretty hard. I grew up as a spectator. My siblings are some of the most amazing people I know and I got to grow up watching them become the unique people they are. The four of us are so different. We aren’t just in different places, we are the four directions on a compass rose with arrows that point to the never-ending expanse that separates us. I went to countless basketball, baseball and football games, studying them and keenly aware of everything. I didn't study them like I studied for my finance tests. More like the way we study a hobby...or the way American culture studies movie stars. I watched in awe as they prepared for their proms, walked across the stage during graduation, got married, had children. I soaked it all up and it was part of my identity. Since I was young, I have had this way of losing myself around my family. I remember being asked a question once at a family function and before I could answer I had to remind myself that I existed and was actually present in the room.
My family loves me. I have never doubted that. But sometimes I wonder if they love some version of me that doesn’t really exist. Often they ask me questions and don’t stick around for the answer. I don’t blame them. I mostly feel that their lives are so much more interesting or pressing than mine, how could they be expected to stick around? I think my singleness and my lifestyle are an enigma to them. They don’t understand it, and so they aren’t comfortable with it. I can’t possibly find the words to explain to them what life is like for me. I can’t open for them the amazing personalities of the people I do life with or give them glimpses into the dinner parties we have, laughing around a table. I visit their lives, they don’t visit mine. That would just be silly.
Birth order is an interesting study. I don’t think older siblings are as wrapped up in each other as the younger ones. I left the ranch while they were all still there. They’re parents now and so they are distracted. I got fleeting goodbyes as they ran after kids or fed babies. I felt so alone when I got in my car and headed down the road. The first two of the six hour drive were a pity party. The closer I got to home, the more normal I felt. I talked to a few friends on the way and realized that my life is very full. In fact, I love my life and I am blessed. I just can’t take it with me on holidays.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Papa
Papa was one of the most impressive people I have ever known or will ever know. He was tall. When he wasn’t wearing a suit, he would wear his starched shirts snuggly tucked into his starched slacks, his v-neck undershirt barely visible. He always smelled of aftershave and he always, always wore boots and a cowboy hat. He was a South Texas rancher. He was a South Texas banker. This was not a 50/50 identity, it was 100/100. There was no part of him that wasn’t a rancher and there was no part of him that wasn’t a banker.
He had jowls. I don’t think I ever notice jowls, but that’s the first thing I remember when I think of his face. His jowls shook when he hocked lugis. He could hock a lugi like no one I’ve ever met. He always had gum. He had a million numbers stored in his head in file cabinets with a sharp-minded personal assistant that could retrieve them at any moment. He slurred his words in a distinctive lisp that he had since he was a child. I’ve always wondered if he was made fun of for it when he was young. I can’t imagine anyone making fun of my grandfather. He made a lisp seem distinguished and almost elegant.
He had a pet leopard, was best friends with a former governor of Texas and once played tennis with Bill Cosby. He called his wife Babe until his dying day, kept a sawed off shot gun hidden under his desk at work and went to Wimbledon and the U.S. Open every year he was able to. He grew up with red hair but it was grey by the time I knew him, his hands were strong and elegant…so appropriate for a rancher/banker. My oldest brother has the same hands. He went to his ranch after work everyday…to feed the leopard and check on all the exotic animals. Driving around the ranch around sunset feels like the movie The Lion King has come to life. One time a Saudi Arabian prince came to hunt on his ranch.
He grew up a poor farm boy, the fourth of five kids. He learned how to work hard. It became so much a part of him that it was a chronic addiction and he required it of all who were around him. He went to the war, returned to his hometown, married his high school sweetheart and made his living from the ground up. He lived to provide for those he cared about. His hard work gave countless people opportunities they otherwise would never have had.
He had jowls. I don’t think I ever notice jowls, but that’s the first thing I remember when I think of his face. His jowls shook when he hocked lugis. He could hock a lugi like no one I’ve ever met. He always had gum. He had a million numbers stored in his head in file cabinets with a sharp-minded personal assistant that could retrieve them at any moment. He slurred his words in a distinctive lisp that he had since he was a child. I’ve always wondered if he was made fun of for it when he was young. I can’t imagine anyone making fun of my grandfather. He made a lisp seem distinguished and almost elegant.
He had a pet leopard, was best friends with a former governor of Texas and once played tennis with Bill Cosby. He called his wife Babe until his dying day, kept a sawed off shot gun hidden under his desk at work and went to Wimbledon and the U.S. Open every year he was able to. He grew up with red hair but it was grey by the time I knew him, his hands were strong and elegant…so appropriate for a rancher/banker. My oldest brother has the same hands. He went to his ranch after work everyday…to feed the leopard and check on all the exotic animals. Driving around the ranch around sunset feels like the movie The Lion King has come to life. One time a Saudi Arabian prince came to hunt on his ranch.
He grew up a poor farm boy, the fourth of five kids. He learned how to work hard. It became so much a part of him that it was a chronic addiction and he required it of all who were around him. He went to the war, returned to his hometown, married his high school sweetheart and made his living from the ground up. He lived to provide for those he cared about. His hard work gave countless people opportunities they otherwise would never have had.
Monday, November 5, 2007
People
I love it that I’m working with people so much now. My job at Starbucks is constant interaction. Its stretching at times…like when I get in the mood where I am focused on what I am doing and don’t want to be disturbed, or when I am frustrated and don’t want to smile at a customer. There are people who are looking for problems and use unsuspecting baristas as their guinea pigs. I think these people work in buildings all day and are looking for drama anywhere they can find it. People make me madder than anything. I never got that frustrated in my cubicle at the bank.
I turned to my manager Brandy today, as I watched Elizabeth (grande hazelnut no foam latte) leave the store and get into a bright yellow mini cooper, that I wish I knew everyone’s story. She is a beautiful middle-aged woman with grey hair and a soft voice. I love it that she drives a canary yellow mini cooper. I wish I knew what she does everyday after she walks out with her drink. What is her job? Is she married? Does she have grown children? Grandkids? Is she from here? What twists and turns has her life taken to get her here?
A little later a blonde woman is getting out of her SUV and my fellow barista Josh comments that this woman was a former neighbor of his. He said she has a young son, an artificial leg and used to walk around her house naked without regard for open windows. Sure enough she grabbed her son from the back and limped to the door.
On my second break today I was looking forward to the ten minutes I had to sit outside and read this new book I am enjoying immensely. A little black man with a baseball hat that I recognize as a regular customer (short coffee, marble pound cake) is sitting at the next table and begins to ask me questions. There is a battle that goes on in me when this happens. I feel my natural inclination to answer quickly, make it obvious that I want my time, but be friendly enough so as not to appear snobby. There is another part of me that knows that other people is where the life is. If I don’t allow others into my life, how can I complain about loneliness?
I choose to engage in conversation with Cheeshah (no idea how to spell his name.) Cheeshah is from Ethiopia and has lived here for four years. I recognize his English abilities are far superior to four years in America. He said he learned English in Ethiopia and that anyone with a high school or college degree there learns it. He had studied Political Science and Economics and spent fifteen years being a television journalist. This was before he spent five years in Kenya as a refugee.
Now he lives here with his family and cannot find a job. Before he was a television news reporter he worked as an operator of television equipment. He says that there are no jobs available like that here. He seems restless to find something to do, some way to prove he is educated and worthy of contributing to something.
I ask if he has refugee friends that were placed here too. He then explains that his best friend was the one who was killed down the street last week. I had not heard of it. I looked it up and his name was Abate Z. Hailu, he owned a Fina down the street and was shot during a robbery. Cheeshah said he was very educated and wealthy. “He was my best friend,” he kept saying.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened to this little man talk. I wondered what in the world he has seen in his life. How a man like his friend can escape war in Ethiopia only to get gunned down in America. I wondered how hard his parents worked and how much they sacrificed to make sure that Cheeshah was educated in their poor country, for him to end up bursting with talent in a place where people like him are so easily overlooked. I tried to imagine him reporting news in Ethiopia, walking down the street in his suit, microphone in hand as the camera followed him, viewers hanging on every word as he articulately gave the latest on some of the gravest situations our modern world has ever seen.
When my break timer went off, he was talking about a book he has started about political science. I was hoping he was going to say it was his own biography. He asked if I would mind editing his rough draft, to make it sound more American. I would be honored.
So, yeah, I guess there is more life in people than in burying my head in some book.
I turned to my manager Brandy today, as I watched Elizabeth (grande hazelnut no foam latte) leave the store and get into a bright yellow mini cooper, that I wish I knew everyone’s story. She is a beautiful middle-aged woman with grey hair and a soft voice. I love it that she drives a canary yellow mini cooper. I wish I knew what she does everyday after she walks out with her drink. What is her job? Is she married? Does she have grown children? Grandkids? Is she from here? What twists and turns has her life taken to get her here?
A little later a blonde woman is getting out of her SUV and my fellow barista Josh comments that this woman was a former neighbor of his. He said she has a young son, an artificial leg and used to walk around her house naked without regard for open windows. Sure enough she grabbed her son from the back and limped to the door.
On my second break today I was looking forward to the ten minutes I had to sit outside and read this new book I am enjoying immensely. A little black man with a baseball hat that I recognize as a regular customer (short coffee, marble pound cake) is sitting at the next table and begins to ask me questions. There is a battle that goes on in me when this happens. I feel my natural inclination to answer quickly, make it obvious that I want my time, but be friendly enough so as not to appear snobby. There is another part of me that knows that other people is where the life is. If I don’t allow others into my life, how can I complain about loneliness?
I choose to engage in conversation with Cheeshah (no idea how to spell his name.) Cheeshah is from Ethiopia and has lived here for four years. I recognize his English abilities are far superior to four years in America. He said he learned English in Ethiopia and that anyone with a high school or college degree there learns it. He had studied Political Science and Economics and spent fifteen years being a television journalist. This was before he spent five years in Kenya as a refugee.
Now he lives here with his family and cannot find a job. Before he was a television news reporter he worked as an operator of television equipment. He says that there are no jobs available like that here. He seems restless to find something to do, some way to prove he is educated and worthy of contributing to something.
I ask if he has refugee friends that were placed here too. He then explains that his best friend was the one who was killed down the street last week. I had not heard of it. I looked it up and his name was Abate Z. Hailu, he owned a Fina down the street and was shot during a robbery. Cheeshah said he was very educated and wealthy. “He was my best friend,” he kept saying.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened to this little man talk. I wondered what in the world he has seen in his life. How a man like his friend can escape war in Ethiopia only to get gunned down in America. I wondered how hard his parents worked and how much they sacrificed to make sure that Cheeshah was educated in their poor country, for him to end up bursting with talent in a place where people like him are so easily overlooked. I tried to imagine him reporting news in Ethiopia, walking down the street in his suit, microphone in hand as the camera followed him, viewers hanging on every word as he articulately gave the latest on some of the gravest situations our modern world has ever seen.
When my break timer went off, he was talking about a book he has started about political science. I was hoping he was going to say it was his own biography. He asked if I would mind editing his rough draft, to make it sound more American. I would be honored.
So, yeah, I guess there is more life in people than in burying my head in some book.
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