collegiate diversion

A word on humiliation.

It’s a feeling I feel in my stomach and in my toes, even in all years that have passed. It’s just this tight, quick feeling, like how could I have let that happen? I recite the typical mantras: “know who I am,” “I’m secure,” “that was a while ago,” blah blah blah.

But sometimes memories are brutal.

Like I loved this cape, long dark and very Tolkien-style I saw in a magazine in middle school. For Christmas, my mother worked really hard on making it for me. When I was 12, I loved wearing it. It was a statement, it was glamorous, it was my Mom’s love, for me.

But after a day or two of wearing it to school after break, I was bunching it up in the bottom of my locker, embarrassed at how everyone else snickered. When my Mom and I went out for some post-Xmas season shopping, and we bumped into the two girls that made my life hell during those years, I tried to hide, because I was wearing that black cape. They saw me, and I was humiliated in having them see me run away. My Mom was embarrassed too.

Just horrible things you do when you’re a kid.

And I can remember in junior year of high school, bringing up this stupid point in class that is now very funny, but I know people still remember “that stupid thing Samantha said,” and I guess, if you think about these things a lot, they bring you down.(“Why don’t we just deport the ice caps into space?” as my ponderous solution for preventing global warming. OH. My. God!)

But blah blah blah, right? I’m bigger and better than that, I always tried to act like those judgements didn’t bother me, but sometimes they still can.

Talked to the ex, as all great contemplative moments of mine typically start. We talked about affairs recently, different relationships we’ve been having, and I mentioned my older-man fling. He was just 31, but it was still, I suppose, pretty faux-pas for someone my age.

And his response? “You’ve always been into older guys.”

For days I let that sit. How could he say that? I haven’t always been into older men, I was always just into him, horrible love of my life. In high school, I remember this North Andover cop grabbing me and kissing me before my meeting up with a date with my boyfriend. And it really sucked. I felt horrible. At the things we couldn’t do to prevent that…

And then my ex and I kissing outside the library on a park bench, and this pedophile-creep staring at us, this neighbor that once asked my parents if he could take me to the movies. Who had made his move when I was just 8. Or tried.

I mean, bad experiences. Teachers grabbing my ass, horrible men that don’t deserve to breathe if they think they can take advantage of a little girl.

Now that I’m older though, I’ve grown into the older crowd certainly, and who can resist that “open the door for your date” manner of the thirty-somethings?,
BUT
I just had to tell my ex how badly his judgement bothered me.

He clearly didn’t get it, and I suppose few would. I’ve been thinking about it more now, and it’s not ABOUT making him, or anyone, understand, it’s sadly a thing for me. I used to brush off the older guys doing their creep things, even romanticized it a little bit, and maybe Freud would have something to say about the older people I date casually now…I just didn’t want people to think I was weird because of those weirdos.

I mean, it had to be me, right? Or my body? My mannerisms? My Mom even yelled at me once, for being too funny and happy with that neighbor, who’s playfulness I didn’t and couldn’t understand at 7 and 8 and 9.

It was then just all so humiliating. In contemplation, I realized, it doesn’t have to be though. I don’t have to let that embarrassment plague me anymore. So hip hip hooray. Sorry this just turned so serious and “hurrah” ish. But it did feel good realizing these things.

It doesn’t have to be my fault.

going to start the note this way: “everything just got ridiculously dark in the fog, I cannot even see the city.”

And then, I look out my window and realize everything is back on and apparent. The other half of the hill, and Cornell University which I can see clearly from my thirteenth floor, just went out.

That was amazingly weird. I’m fortunate to still have my energy. Not that I’m more deserving of the electricity, I’m just doing a lot of work on my computer right now that would not be cool to lose in a black-out.

Or brown out? I can never tell.

I do love the sounds though, of all the rain and thunder and cars skirting along the slick roads. What appealing sounds.

It was even fun to be caught in it this afternoon. My one class today was cancelled so I had the entire time to myself.

I woke up to my sunny room at a perfect 10:35, feeling surprisingly very rested. Like I never do. I guess it took my body getting outrageously sick that then I realized the importance of actual REST. You don’t get enough when you’re neurotic like me and want to be awake for all of it, like a James Bond villain all most. No can do, I want to be on the good side.

Or at least, one of those sultry and voluptuous Bond girls.

Did some interviews over the phone from bed, had so much catching up to do now that I’ve sort-of got my voice back. Nice to communicate with the humans again! I even set-up some interviews for tomorrow, but still had to go through the usual brigade of sexist-bullshit.

“Ohh, a college student, so Samantha are you attractive? Us guys at the Fire Dept don’t like to talk to un-cute college journalists.”

Fuck you guy, I’ll giggle if you give me the video slot I requested. You will? Aww, god, you’re soooooo great.

One more selfless-task-of-flirting-and-flaunting-my-sex for some story. Good job me. (for the record, I’m sorry, okay? I am.)

Then an interview at my hero’s office, talking about everything from online journalism to Jon Stewart’s Cramer madness to RING RING!

(my cell goes off)

“Oh, I’m sorry Parkhurst, I have to take this.” And us snickering at the other equally-sexist-and-forward-and-aggressive fireman from the department. I think Parkhurst is as equally SORRY as I am.

I took a bus over to Cornell to put up some posters for the up-and-coming IZZY AWARDS (check it out! Amy Goodman’s coming. ithaca.edu/indy). And then I hopped another bus back to the Commons just in time to grab some macchiato at the Mate Factor (I know I sound like one of those rich-bitch-Starbucks-yuppies, BUT, macchiato is a totally different and EARTHY concoction at the cult-run café).

And then to my surprise, the cult finally approached me (at last, why don’t these guys just go for it!?).

“Haven’t see you around here before…”

But hey, I’m not going to judge the Twelve Tribes Ithaca cult anymore, they are totally cool! And have folk dance nights every Monday. And they invited me. And I want to go. And they made me a “get well soon” special tea brew concoction. Awfully sweet, although the drink was very bitter and kind of nasty. But out of kindness, it just tasted and felt amazing.

And they gave me a copy of their newspaper and pointed out a really beautiful poem for me. I won’t write the whole thing here, although it deserves a full presentation for justice. It was an entire man’s life, how he moved from the worst to the best part. Away from heroin and into marriage and religion with the cult. This is one of the worser, darker parts (which of course, I loved):

“And your songs don’t answer my question.
And you sell your music
And you’re rich and miserable
And I’m miserable and miserable.

I hate the way things are
And have hated the way they happen
And people hate me
For what I’ve put on them –
I have failed at everything except failing

My hope is this –
I want to change
And no one is saying
You need to change
In fact, they assure me
i’m ok
But even they aren’t

It’s not money,
And I always come
Down from drugs
The band always goes
home without me
and my life is injured
and I don’t think God
wants people
to be like I am.”

No name here, but you have to check it out if you can. Very cool - entitled ‘A Simple Story’ in the free Twelve Tribes paper. Get a copy. I urge.

So, those guys were pretty cool. I would never follow their God but, why not hang out? I don’t think it’s that harmful, and I don’t think they’re psycho.

And then I got on another bus to get home, complete with my save-yourself-and-have-mirth-in-your-life (they told me all about MIRTH, doesn’t that sound good?) TEA, and then who should hop on the bus but –

That guy from the Kosher Kitchen at the IC dining hall! Who always seems to be on crack! Maybe he’s not really on crack though, perhaps we were all too quick to judge. Maybe he’s just always that hopped-up, and excited.

We talked about *matza ball soup (of course, they make the best!) and he told me some illegal things he “may be” doing, according to college policy.

Every time he mentioned it (and it’s a fairly harmless thing), he looked around wearily and put a “shh” finger to his lips. I like having a secret with the Kosher Kitchen guy.

And he stayed on an extra bus stop to keep talking to me. This has been happening more and more in my tally of strange encounters in my life, especially on the bus.

I’m going to evaluate myself from now on based on how long people stay on the bus to talk to me.

So, like I said, a very good and beautiful and fascinating day. I concluded it by finishing my paper, and writing a song, and calling my Dad, who told me that all the tests came out negative, his catscan went well, and it looks like he’s going to be okay ☺.

Have always felt a burden to write about my travels.

When my father took me to Europe, that one time when I was seven on a business trip, he pointed out this really stunning looking college-student and said “see all of her notes? Her journals? She’s recording her whole trip…that’s dedication.”

I used to grunt and groan about it when I was a kid, writing for my Dad. Writing this and that, reporting on my readings, articulating theNationalGeographic. He pushed me, but I am certainly a better writer for it.

3.11.09
So it goes without saying that I must write now about the fascinating I met on my way to airport today –

Grandmother hired a limo for me, picked me up, quite an extravagance, but she has always been posh like that. Guess I ruined the effect when I asked the driver if I could smoke in the car (my newly purchased beautiful American Spirits which I indulge in a few times a year). His horrified voice killed the elegance of my spirit.

So I called my mother from my cell phone, to fill her in on all the gory details of my visit. I had called her around 3 a.m. eastern time, with no one else I thought I could cry to about some of the harsh criticism dad’s mother bestowed onto me.

My dad’s criticisms = cool.
Grandmother’s = horribly cruel.

My mom didn’t answer that night but now she wanted to know all about it– but I’m okay now. Grandmother is aged and set in her ways. We had a tremendous time, talking until midnight, me making her a birthday omelet in the morning, discussing politics, and family gossip and then (sort of out of the blue) sexual intercourse!

She didn’t to mind my stance on that, I give her a lot of credit for being progressive.

It’s fun to read through my old diaries from traveling to Paris with my Grandmother as a graduation gift from middle school (nothing so grand for high school, perhaps she couldn’t bare to take me again). I cried a lot on that trip too, at the side-comments:

“Oh Samantha dear, don’t finish all of your soup, you really should be watching your weight.”

And then this time, all too similarly…

“Well dear, I can see that you’ve lost some weight. Really, I applaud you. But you have a ways to go.”

Fuck.

But you know what? Some strong coffee and clonopin and a decent cigarette in the smoking wing of the airport can clear up that anxiety ;).

….I kid, sort of.

We had coffee in the morning, and me, the best shower of my life (I could get used to senior assisted-living homes, like, nice). Then we flipped through old black and white photos. She was so beautiful, and skinny, on the ranch in New Mexico.

I wish I had those white pumps, damn.

So, got to the airport after talking to the driver, a Jewish-Russian immigrant who’s son is studying to become a doctor at Loyola. His wife always wanted to be in medicine, but her gender and religious background left her little opportunity in her home-country.

“So much opportunity and freedom in AMERICA!” he said in a burly and thick Russian accent.

I guess I was just sad, listening to how he must be a driver, carting rich bitches around (present company excluded, my grandmother’s the rich one and paid all).

How sad to forgo his love of the accordion. He played me his music on the car’s CD player – it was decent. Poor guy, he was a well-known musician then.

Alas, I guess, or something dreadfully anti-empathetic like that. (always hated that term “alas”)

He helped me out of the car when we got to O’Hare, grabbed my bags and handed them to me saying “Have a good life.” I said “Thank you Yeffime,” his Russian name, disturbingly altered to the American and colloquial “Jeff.”

Then I stood in line, waiting for security check. Checked myself in on my own, I have to say, I am impressed with myself, keeping it together and being solidly independent. It’s something my grandmother mentioned throughout the remainder of my stay “Don’t be in a rush! Your parents were weird.” Marrying in college she means.

True, falling in love in, getting married at 21, having a beautiful and happy marriage since, being partners in a business. It’s unheard of, really. And a lot of pressure, on me, I have always felt.

But Mrs. Allen is worried I’ll become pregnant with all those ROMANTIC tendencies of mine. But I assured her, I am working on that, really. I find myself to be truly independent these days and SINGLE, with the mild crush here or there.

Met this other man in the security line, told me he was going to Vegas with some friends.
“Been a rough year,” he said.
To go to that town? Must have been.

But I didn’t judge really, he seemed classy enough, and overworked. He was very pleasant, and wished me a safe journey.

Then I spazzed out a little, security lines make me nervous, and thanked myself for remembering to put my make-up in a clear bag this time. However, I foolishly buried it at the bottom of my bag. So as I bent on the ground in my dress clearly embarrassing myself, this girl behind me brought back my level of INDIE confidence –

“This is such a weird question, I’m sorry, but like, do you have anymore plastic bags in there?”

I gave her a stop&shop bag, thought it would help, and smiled. She was so embarrassed but I told her I generally always ask the weird questions of strangers (journalist, and weirdo), I was more than happy to help.

She had to be inspected randomly, got yelled at for keeping her coat on and lost a lot of her liquid shampoos and such. Poor girl.

I’m sitting her now anyway, waiting for my flight to Altanta to bored. I’m excited just thinking about who I can meet there.

3.11.09 (later)

Met Dad and his friend for dinner, a lovely woman, and got tipsy off of so much beautiful red wine. I missed him, it’s been nice.

3.12.09 (currently)

Think I am sick, but I am happy. I came to a conclusion earlier this morning in talking to a friend on AIM (how technological of me!). I rush through my life. And I’m nineteen! I expect so much of others, and consequentially myself. I want to slow down.

Drove for nine hours with my Dad today, only made it to the NC and VA border. We’re staying in a hotel now and it’s lovely fun. We always did get along. And it’s nice having a break to myself.

In a nice finality, I settled some issues with an ex, over a cigarette and some tears on the phone. But everything felt much better when he urged me to “get some sleep” and wanted to help me out.

I hope that doesn’t mean more analysis of me, THE ENIGMA! (or so I glorify my stupid bullshit).

I don’t want it to be that way this time. Or ever again. In talking to my dear friend, and him asking how things were, given the crazy circumstances of the week, I just realized – I am good.

I am driving with my Dad, things are slow and complacent there. Talking, driving, music, America. Memories and analysis.

I’m going to be okay. I think I am already. With the minor road bumps.

hings have taken a turn, for me. But I expected that.

I mean things generally do, I have a very sensitive personality – I wonder why that doesn’t happen. Just because I’m on vacation, it doesn’t mean I can take a vacation from myself.

Things got sort of rocky there for a second, during the play. 6 hours long, and brutal. About father-daughter relationships, and marriages that failed and abortions, and the agony of life.

HOW CAN I BE MORE LIKE AN ATOM? It was a good point. I bet O’Neil had the same thinking I had, life must be so easy to be an amoeba.

And definitely that too, the part about LIFE. LIIIIIIIIIIIIII(phe) – it is essentially one long LIE with a sniffle of anguish at the end.

Ouch.

I cried during the play, not only about this actress that was just absolutely tormented, who I’ve known actually, who I used to hang out with when she was dating my uncle. I also cried because, of course I related on some level, and I missed my Dad oddly, but there were some other things.

It was a lot of emotions, all compartmentalized into those 6 hours – observing a character’s life over the span of 30 years. How fascinating.

After the play, I was still crying. I gave my uncle a really nice big hug, after standing and watching so many of his fans come up and congratulate him. What an achievement – adapting a 350-page play and re-writing the entire thing. Entirely amazing.

I cried into his shoulder in gratification. I’m not sure he appreciated that. But we’ve always had a strange relationship.

STRANGE interlude (name of the play).

So, we didn’t talk until much later that night. And it was nice. I like crying in shared ideologies. I hope you thought it was nice too.

It was just soooo many things! The play, and my Dad being sick, and my ex contacting me while I was on vacation, and missing this complete asshole from the week before…I mean, I really did just break down.

But I really needed a friend, so thank you. Really.

Walking around the city was amazing last night. Being in the Tribune building, even if for a moment. Younger dreams realized. Being a newspaper journalist in Chicago, in that beautiful building. The plan. I mean, not possible (the paper part) but so great to be there.

I have a few hours to myself while you go to class. I think I’m going to go and explore some more.

Let’s call this part one.

Flew out here because I felt like I had to, reconnect with the kinfolk and support the Midwestern Allen-clan. Uncle’s putting on a play, big honor and it sounded too fascinating in a magazine feature my mother read me over the phone to pass up.

I got in later than expected last night, crazy weather in Chicago. It’s bee pouring non-stop and I have to say I like it, especially the lightning parts.

I met my friend at the airport, it was a fantastic meeting and embrace, the best kinds that I think I’ve only experienced in watching films about “Arrival” gates - thanks friend.

On a side-note, my dad told me that he used to take his high school dates to O’Hare, so they could people-analyze and watch the people love openly in this long-lost-person sort of fashion. All at the arrivals gates. Wow Dad, you were such a cool existentialist back in the good ol’ IL days…

I spent the majority of my yesterday in the airport, cursing why these continents-onto-themselves, seriously, sterilized AIRPLANE environments and ports, charge for WIFI. It sucked.

I had planned on posting my thoughts about the whole “airport phenomenon.” 13 dollar tuna fish sandwiches and the elderly being go-karted around. The artificiality of the entire situation…

But that bitter thought in me seems to have flown away, too affected by the raw power of the city, the humanization of the urban places.

I love my friend’s apartment. 15 floors overlooking one tireless city. I feel so Woody Allen, and almost cried when we watched one of his “more dramatic” films last night, but man, don’t I see what he was talking about?

CHICAGO -

has been that place for me. The place I visited when I was a kid, like, “oh boy, the city, here we go!” I mean, Boston has always been the nostalgic family-weekend thing, but Chicago is the spot that was a BIG deal.

I told my uncle how I always dreamed of working in the city, being a journalist out here, covering crime and politics and corruption, and the city lights! But he told me those kinds of places, the Tokyos and LAs and NYCs of the world, you have to build up to getting there. To him, those places seemed like the end of the line, where and when my career will flourish, and maybe even peak

I’ve taken that advice and now I have to see for myself - I’ve wanted this to be the place I end up, the place that I work towards.

I’m attempting to figure that out during my stay here.

I put down my well-dressed toothbrush and left it in the communal bathroom. I wanted to record this somewhere.

Here is me, freaking out. Dry-heaving over the toilet, staring at my eyes and watching them get more bloodshot when my skin turns pale, then green. When I move, my clothes release the sweet perfume I put on my bra days ago. And I stare at my reflection, and how sick I look.

I really beat down hard on myself. I am so happy, now. I like my college, now. But happiness doesn’t necessarily mean I’m okay. There are still so many things that don’t justify the happiness, that may even get in the way of what is me.

Where is me?

My stress. My collegiate need for diversion and distraction.

I am so hard on myself, when I don’t understand the material I love. Communications, journalism, media, it’s all easy. I wonder if maybe that’s why I chose this major, for all the wrong reasons.

Prof asked us the other day to raise our hands if we were attracted to this program because of the lacking MATH requirement: shamefully, I raised. So did many others.

whoops.

I smiled though, in the mirror, in the face of my mental-destructive practice. Stupid, stupid, clueless, unaware silly girl. You do not understand McPhail. You fucking fail.

And I smiled, because I remembered my boyfriend in 8th grade, walking to my bedroom, turning out the lights and holding hands in the dark. He would always say “your room smells so good, your distinctive smell.”

I smelled home on me tonight, while I thought about the possible sour chicken I ate in my room on study break. Through the mask of dank collegeness and academic-fraud, there was me.

Why do I lose sight of that girl so much? I am too critical.

And I thought a lot about the ways I should be injured since the weekend, and I am, believe me. But I’m pretty certain I won’t feel the pangs of that brief sexual-whatever-it-was until mid-next week, when I’m in a hotel. In his city. And he won’t return my calls.

But for now it seems so convenient. Everything is sour chicken stank during midterms week. Everything is masking what I am when I’m at college.

Why did I need a distraction to realize that?

I assume that I am on the verge of something.

You called while I was waiting for you at your house, if I liked Merlot but you knew I love Pinot Noir so you sacrificed your taste and got it for me. That’s very nice.

I assume that this is either my breaking point, where I realize that I have been doing ridiculously over and over the same thing, the same thing, the same goddamn thing. Or, I am changing my life philosophy from here on out.

I’ve been thinking a lot these past few days, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed. Well, I guess you have, you’ve been asking me “are you okay? everything alright?” What do I say to that? I mean, yes.

I love the pond outback and the goose footprints in the snow. I love the cigarettes we smoke and the dead trees outside, 16 degrees and cold breath in the air. Resulting shadows. A flickering lightbulb. Cracks in the white ceilings. Paint globs and inconsistencies in the walls.

I truly love it all.

“I don’t know what I should do with my hands when I am talking to you.”

I’m listening to a band I love while I just wait for you. Something feels entirely unsettling about the entire thing. Or maybe that’s just because it’s so familiar.

But I can say that in spite of my confusion, and the things I know I am treading upon, I am happy.

I just needed to write my gratitude somewhere. Record the thoughts. It was in a verse of a poem I read to you this morning when we were waking up for the fifth time in the day: if we do not feel, then we do not think.

At least, that was Wilbur’s point.