A Second Day to Live in Infamy

I've been planning for a week to do a September 11 post, but wasn't sure which direction I wanted to take with it.  Last night, I searched my hard drive to see what I've written about September 11 in the past.  While I was going through some of my old pieces, I found some notes I had taken in one of my creative writing classes about the idea of "cultural memory."  This phenomenon is perfect for a September 11 post with how it relates to history, American culture, and memory as a collective experience, not just an individual experience.  

As I wrote this early this morning, I have cried three times.  I hope that I can provoke your emotions and memory as I've done to my own.  The point is that, even though sometimes the things we do as a nation can be maddening and frustrating and downright ridiculous-- I love this country so much, and I would like to think that you do, too.  Through all the nonsense, the USA is the greatest nation on Earth.  I love you, America.

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An Ever Changing Silence

Within the construct of this nation exists sites of cultural memory.  There are memories of many mediums of settlers, of migrations, and of war.  There are memories of battles of people groups and places that make up the history of the present.  There are memories of why things are the way they are now because of what happened in the past.  There are memories of greatness and lowliness--there are memories of change.  And there are memories of the time the nation stood still, when the silence was deafening, and the heart of the nation was shaken.

There are memories of times that have left us ashamed, and there are timeless periods which capture the greatness of the nation.  Amongst these, there are few unforgettable moments where the nation is brought to its knees; its citizens redefined by unexpected events.  The people are momentarily uncertain about their reality, their reaction, and their future.  And the silence that was deafening became a somber silence, and the heart of the nation was tested.

But the nation would never be silenced or let itself be defined by those who sought to silence it.  The cultural memory of many sites before-- of those whose bravery, persistence, endeavor, and commitment to the nation to create a place free from fear, was brought to the minds of its citizens.  Its citizens sought Justice, even though they were not even sure what she looked like yet.  The nation would prepare for battle.  And even though it was told the battle was righteous and justified, the silence that had become somber became a confusing silence.  The heart of the nation bled.

Months and years and elections passed.  The confusion became greater.  The nation that was once united in its grief became divided because of it.  There were those who made a mockery, there were those who took advantage, and yet still, there were those who chose to be passive and ignorant.  The nation still bickers about matters great and small, it still allows that unexpected site of cultural memory to be part of its identity.  That is who we are-- it is what we do.  The confusing silence continued and the heart of the nation was transformed.

What the nation has been transformed to is still uncertain.  That unexpected site of cultural memory is still too present, and hindsight has not lived long enough.  Though it is believed that the heart of the nation was rebuilt, it is still a heart filled with anguish.  So the nation goes through the days, hoping and praying and waiting for its full restoration.  But on the day it remembers, the confusing silence becomes a courageous silence.  And the heart of the nation, if only for the day, is strengthened. 

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Please take a moment to listen to this photo documentary of photographers who had their cameras with them in New York City on September 11, 2001.  Make sure your volume is turned up and that you have tissues.

http://inmotion.magnumphotos.com/essay/september11

Memories from a Twenty-Something

I've moved eleven times since May 2011.

That's hard to believe.

What went on during the past two years is really confusing, so quite frankly, I'll spare you from the explanation.  The point of bringing up my moves is to say that I've had the chance to go through my "things" eleven times, and then make the judgment as whether or not that thing will make that move, or if I will get rid of said thing.

It's really hard for me to get rid of things.

Not hoarder status or anything, but ever since I was in junior high, I just always felt like everything was significant and that I will, one day, want that thing again, or I will want to be reminded of that memory that the thing invokes.

I still have everything from my past.  Or at least the important things.  I think my original assumption was that my parents will live in this home, my home in Artesia, forever.  And I will keep these things here, and when I come home, I will have the chance to occasionally sift through these things and memories and be consumed with nostalgia, which is what is supposed to happen when you visit your childhood home/parents' house as an adult, right?  Well, that didn't happen, because my parents moved from my childhood home.

The most recent, and perhaps most reflective time, just happened last month when I moved from my parents' house in Midland to my new house here in Albuquerque.  Luckily, I had the chance to go through my stuff in its entirety and decide what to keep, what to get rid of, and what to bring with me to Albuquerque, and what to leave at my parents' house in Midland (thanks Mom and Dad).  I spent close to two weeks going through all this stuff, which gave me the time to go through boxes from my childhood, my teenage years, as well as my college years.  

For the majority of the past two years, most of my stuff from my childhood home in Artesia have been in boxes in storage that I have not had the chance to access until last month.  A lot about me has changed in my last two years of adulthood.  So, when I was reunited and confronted with certain things and memories, my feelings on these things and memories had evolved into something completely different than I ever expected .

I found way too many things that remind me of way too many things. Things tend to stay the same as the way you left them when life was different.  I'm not sure if I think this is a harsh reality that your life has changed or a refreshing fantasy that you can relive the past.  

When I committed to moving to Albuquerque, my parents made me go through the mountain range of boxes that was my accumulation of 24 years of stuff.  I procrastinated the task for days because 1) it was July in Midland and all my stuff was stacked in the garage among a layer of dirt and 112 degree heat and 2) I knew that I wasn't ready to see all those memories just yet.  But, my parents made me do it anyway.

I was quickly confronted with two decades of keepsakes from travel, knickknacks from my early childhood nursery, yearbooks, class photos, hundreds of photos taken by myself from age 12-18, old love letters, old friend letters (before the days of texting), six years of every single school assignment (very neatly and impeccably organized), and various things that I once thought were the most important things in high school like my dried-up corsage from prom and my date's crumbling boutonniere.  You know, things that matter. Or they did to me then, and quite honestly, they do now, too, as much as I know my dad is tired of having (and hauling around!) all my "things" in his house.

I made progress.  One of the recurring conversations my mother and I have had during these near-dozen moves we've made is how liberating it is to get rid of "stuff."  Yes, that's true.  There is still a lot that I can't bring myself to get rid of (My dad is thinking, "Yeah... six years of school assignments would be a good place to start!), but I was able to let go of some things.  Now, a month later, I am proud of myself for letting go of some memories, or emptying the metaphorical and physical luggage that I've been carrying around for so long.  

I finally forced a drawer of memories from an old love that started when I was seventeen-years-old to the curb.  I was able to donate two boxes of his clothes to a local clothing bank, thus rescuing myself from the temptation of dressing myself in these whenever I was sad.  These clothes have been overstaying their welcome in my various closets for the past six years.  It might sound silly to you, but if you know me, you know that that is progress.

One of the greatest thoughts that came to me as I was going through my things was the idea of forgiveness.  And that perhaps getting rid of some of my things/memories was really about forgiveness.  Forgiveness is an interesting game.  Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish whether we are waiting for someone to forgive us, or we are trying to forgive ourselves, or if we are trying to forgive someone else.  Some of the memories I was confronted with were entirely just that--remnants of a forgotten game of forgiveness.  It is intriguing how we entrap ourselves either way, feeling like the book is still wide open until some external factor (like moving and being forced to face your things) sets things right, when really we can close the book any time we want.  It took a sweaty, dusty, teary-eyed me sitting in the garage to finally let go and forgive.  

It all makes me think about the people in our lives who have no idea that they contribute so much to our lives and our past and who we are today because of them.  There are so many friends and people in my past who have taught me so much and they probably don't even know it.  There are so many memories that I've been harboring, and the people involved in the memories aren't even part of my life anymore just from innocent drifting away and moving on with life.  Sometimes people make their contributions to your life and then they leave.  It also makes me wonder what things I may have contributed to someone's memory mountain in their garage.  We almost inevitably keep small reminders of these people, mere tokens of their existence relevant to whatever small role they may have played in the grand scheme that is our life.

The sentimentality of things isn't pointless then, I suppose.  I remember sitting on my floor with years of things spread out all around me and sending an overwhelmed text to my friend Logan saying something about wishing it would all just disappear.  I don't really want that.  It all means something, or at least meant something at the time.  Some people and experiences are there to take us for a ride.  What we do with those memories are up to us.  I've chosen to retain them and make them glorified images of my past, sometimes to later realize that it is time to let that one go. 

It is interesting how most of the keepsakes we hold refer to experiences that we had, while some of them point to things that never actually happened, and they were never intended to be "keepsakes" in the first place.  

They are the cliffhangers.  The intentions that got cut short of becoming actions. The half-written story that we read through years later and wonder what we had in mind for the ending back when it was a work in progress.

Or maybe we hadn't even thought about the ending at all.  Maybe we just didn't like to end stories.

The Hood

My dad is going to be super unimpressed by what I'm about to say.

I live in a hippie neighborhood.  And I love it.

When I was in college, I would drive through the neighborhood I live in now with my friend Heidi, and we would say things like, "If I could live anywhere in Albuquerque, this would be it."  We now both live in this neighborhood.  Life throws you for unexpected loops like that.  

This neighborhood is just a street north of Albuquerque's famous Nob Hill neighborhood.  I'm not exactly sure what my neighborhood is called.  I've seen signs saying Altura Neighborhood, Washington Street Neighborhood, and North Campus Neighborhood.  Even now, as I look at Google Maps, it is telling me Pueblo Alto Neighborhood, which I've never heard--so, who knows.  The name isn't the point.  The point is that it is wonderful, and just what a neighborhood should be.  

When I was growing up in Artesia, I lived in a neighborhood where people lived normally and did normal, real-life things.  We watered our lawn whenever it needed watering, and when our grass was too tall, my dad or my brother would mow it.  When our driveway was covered in dirt (happens in southeast New Mexico), my parents would sweep it.  Kids (including my brother and I) would ride bikes, play driveway basketball, draw Tic-Tac-Toe games with chalk on the sidewalks, and come home for dinner at the whistle of their dad from the front porch.  We would walk or bike to and from school with the neighborhood kids, without a single hesitation from our mothers.  We would take our trash to the dumpsters in the alley, which were emptied weekly by a garbage truck.  In the summers, we would let the sprinkler run for hours while we hopped back and forth through it to keep cool--the dog running, biting through it with us.  

In the evenings and on weekends, people would walk their dogs, and stand in their yards and talk about their children's school teachers or their latest do-it-yourself project with their neighbors. 

Ah, the good ol' days, huh?  The quality of life was good.  People did not seem to be living out of their means, and we were in love with life and the small town with which we belonged.  I'm sure not much has changed.  

As I'm writing this, enveloped by nostalgia, it occurs to me that I have a completely naive perspective on where I grew up.  As I think back now with my "adult brain," I realize that gun shots were often heard just three blocks to the east.  A man was murdered in his ex-wife's front yard when I was 13-years-old just three blocks from my house on the same street.  Just thirty yards from my beloved childhood home, was a rundown, stucco, eight-unit, poverty-stricken apartment building.  One afternoon, an undercover police office asked my mother if he could stake out the apartments from our front lawn.  My mother tried to shield my brother and I from the echoing late night noise and the naked bodies that graced the top floor.

Behind the manicured lawns and the joyful children, were destructive families that couldn't shake the grip of divorce and drugs and depression.

But the neighborhood was real.  There is no doubt about that.  Real lives, real people, doing real things. 

When my parents moved to Murphy, a northeast suburb of Dallas,  in the summer of 2011, we all realized how much "normal life" as we knew it was now over.  People in your own neighborhood were no longer waving to you.  In fact, they were no longer even spending any time at all their front yard.  The extent of activity in pristine front yards was the weekly presence of brown-skinned laborers--doing the "normal" work for the rich.  One morning, my mother was in the front yard picking some weeds and was scoffed at by two women in their upscale "workout" clothes, "Is she picking her own weeds (gasp)?"  

Neighbors would pull in to their garages and wait until the garage door came to a complete closure before exiting their vehicles.  No sign of any neighborly normal as we knew it.  Mothers of luxury and live-in nannies had to go inside the school building to retrieve their children--the reality of walking home with the neighborhood kids did not exist there.

My parents started referring to their new strange way-of-life as "Polycartville."  This came from the absence of dumpsters and being forced to implement the "prissy" way of disposing of trash by placing a large trash bin at the edge of your curb once a week for the garbage truck to empty.  

In Polycartville, you couldn't even have your own garage sale--no, of course not, that would be tacky.  You couldn't leave parked cars along the curb, unless it was your "help" coming to clean the pool, mow your lawn, or even clean your aquarium.  Polycartville didn't allow any flag flying, front-facing garages, and a number of other "normal-life" things.  This is a neighborhood for the rich, and you better act rich while you live here, or you'll get a nasty letter from the neighborhood homeowner's association (HOA).

I must give my mother credit, though.  For any of you who have not met my mother, you are missing out. She didn't let the annoyances of Polycartville stop her from doing somewhat normal things.  She made friends with the neighborhood women, still wore her workout clothes from Target, and still went out in the front yard to pick her own weeds.  (Although she did hire a pool boy.)  She adapted well.  She's a champ.  You should meet her.  

I'm not sure how I got all twisted off on that whole thing, but the point was to discuss my new neighborhood.  I guess I felt that background was necessary for you to understand where I'm going with my new neighborhood praise.  My new neighborhood is beautiful.  Not a single home looks like the rest.  It's old, and has large, overgrown trees and vegetation.  Each yard is different and unique, there are parks throughout and often.  People are walking their dogs, kids are skateboarding, my neighbor up the road has a self-created sandbox in his/her yard.  People live sustainable, wholesome, healthy lives.  

In our neighborhood, we have healthy grocery stores and safe streets and parks to be active in.  When out for my walks, I see men working on their cars, people walking their dogs, kids playing soccer, and a yoga class in the park.  The grass is green and lush.  The trees provide relief from the golden New Mexican sun.  There are recycling bins (come on people, its time we got real about the benefits of recycling #realtalk).  People keep up their old homes, as my parents once did in their old home.  When something breaks, they fix it.  People know their neighbors and pet each others' dogs.  

This was taken on one of my walks a few days ago.  This house is on my same street. I cannot describe the joy this brought me.  Neighbors encouraging neighbors to be artistic and creative.  I'm no poet, but I support this endeavor so much, that I will attempt to write one.

The quality of life in my neighborhood is good, sustainable, stable, kind, and naturally beautiful.  I'm happy to be here, and when neighbors feel like that, that's when our quality of life goes up.

If I'm being thoughtful, and we all know that's what I do--sit around and think and over-think and rethink, I feel like all these qualities are missing in the more "conservative" neighborhoods.  Perhaps the hippie/free-spirited lifestyle is more "neighborly" and lends itself to the idea of living healthy and being in sync with one's surroundings.  In this neighborhood, there are weird things in people's front yards, like couches, and sandboxes, and campers.  No one gets mad about that.  There is no HOA telling you that you can't have that stuff on your own property.  People who live in this neighborhood have embraced that those things are all part of real life.

After all, who wouldn't want to live in a neighborhood like that?