Friday, June 27, 2014

this is not a poem, this is the most real thing i have written to a group of people who might read this and i am very scared.

This is coming from a place of honesty. I haven't written as myself in more than six months (i.e. my entire time since moving to Los Angeles thus far), choosing purposefully to write through the narrative voices of made up characters in made up settings with made up scenarios — or poems, so many poems. Often these stories and characters are versions of me, or the people in my life, as is the case with many writers, so it felt like I was still able to express what I thought, experienced and have been feeling. But as I continue to think about it more, I know that this has very much been a response to me not wanting to be really open about my fears, my future, my everything. It's my own little "arm's distance away." And because I love telling stories and creating worlds, and I'm good at it, I didn't know the level of self-destruction I have begun to take on.

There's that term, "take up your arms" when referring to battle. Every day to me feels like a battle, and I am so alone. I am fighting off those I am closest to every single day, and I am seriously fighting off those who could potentially want to be close to me. I'm doing this, and it is sabotage.

I don't want to share.

And, I don't want to do it because I am afraid. I am afraid that the things that make me who I am won't be good enough in the eyes of the people around me: close, far, unknown, known, doesn't matter. This is not ok. And, it's something I didn't know was a real problem until very recently, even though it has been boiling since September 2012, if we're being real, and I am. If we're really being real, then I would say it goes back further, but 2012 was the hardest year of my life. I feel like I'm not conveying the real gravity and impact of this period of my life or that it won't seem like that big a deal, but it really was. I am scared that you won't think it was as awful as I do.

In very short, because I am scared, awful things happened, and then I was fake-ok for a time. Performing was good, and I was insanely productive, but all the while I was going through a very destructive phase that involved things I have only told a very select few. But mostly, it involved me not being myself because I am afraid of being hurt. I don't know if I can go through that again.

The other day a truly good friend of mine was talking to me about her perception of me. Besides the multitude of kind things she believed to be true about me, she mentioned how I once told her that I didn't want to be seen as weak. This struck a chord — the idea of being weak. She said, the things that you say about yourself and believe to be true of yourself are in the eyes of others the furthest from how they actually perceive you. The example in her own life was that she didn't want people to think she was mean, and if there is one person in this world with a gentler disposition, who goes miles out of her way for the benefit of others, it is this woman.

I am so concerned about others seeing me as someone who can handle it; someone who doesn't need others. I thought because I still spent time with friends and family, made phone calls and sent emails, 'liked' things on Facebook, sent a note, whatever — that that was enough, but those things, while good and nice, have to be matched with the freedom to really share. It is not easy for anyone to share honestly. And, truthfully, I don't think one should share everything with everyone all the time — this is not what I am advocating to anyone, and least of all to myself. But for those I'm closest to or want to be close to, there is not real love, compassion, relationship, etc. unless it is met with the vulnerability to say you need someone, you want someone, you care about someone, and open yourself up to the possibility of them hurting you. For real connection, I have to be willing to take down this facade of being too cool, of having a game face, of using comedy and stories and small talk, in order to feign comfort. It's a faux comfort. Real comfort, though, that is what we all crave, and that's why many of us spend so much time alone. I'm the only person I can truly just be myself with. No one knows, no one sees. In truth, I want the comfort I have alone but with someone else. 

But I am afraid, so I protect myself. 

I find myself neglecting people, waiting for them to make the first move, and pretending like I am ok when they don't. I convince myself they don't want to know me anymore, and I am afraid to tell them I want to keep knowing them. It is gridlock because we all do this.

I verbalize the words: "I don't need you" every single day. I've said it to my mom, I've said it to my dad, I've said it to my sister, to my brothers, to my friends, to boyfriends, to teachers, to confidantes, to anyone that could remotely affect me. I've said it to friends about other friends. I say, "I like them, I care about them, but I don't need them." 

This, this is something I have said about those I need most. If I admit that I need them, then for me, it feels like they have the power to wound me. The truth is, they have it anyway, because I do care, they just might not know how much. And this perceived notion that I don't care lets them off the hook to show how much they actually care, if indeed they do. (That last bit was me protecting myself even as I write about being open. It never stops.)

The truth is, I care about the people in my life deeply. If you're in my life at all, I care about you. I am so afraid that I don't have the capacity to share who I am fully. I am so afraid that I will be rejected. I am so afraid. It's like a sickness, my fear.

Even as I write this now I find myself censoring my words, my heart. I'm afraid that someone will read this and think: "God, she is so freaking dramatic. I'm so glad she moved to Los Angeles so I never have to see her again unless she makes it, in which case, ugh, I am so jealous, because honestly, she isn't even funny or pretty, or nice, or anything."

I thought this thought the other day: "We are all scared people pretending not to be." I am a huge offender. 

Another phrase I use to hold people at bay is this: "Everyone is the worst, and I am the worst of all."

This comes from a place of shame. Shame is like a cancer, and it will destroy you if it isn't addressed. Shame is what we feel about who we are, and it's why we hide. It can come out of regret, it can come out of past hurt, it can seemingly come out of nowhere. For me, it comes out of past hurt, of past heartbreak. Not always the kind involving a girl and a boy, though it's been known to happen (both me breaking and being broken), but also heartbreak from friends, of let downs from my parents, of jobs I didn't get, of hugs not given, of love and compassion I didn't give myself; in short, when something happened that made me feel like I was not enough.

I listened to a Ted Talk another friend emailed to me (I know, haha, Ted Talks, but those are good!) and the woman, Brene Brown, talked about shame, courage, authenticity and vulnerability. 
She said this:  
"Shame feeds into our sense of worthiness. Those that have a strong sense of love and belonging believe they are worthy of connection. "
After talking to another dear friend about how hard it is for comedians to accept praise and compliments, I concluded that for me, it has a lot to do with the innate feeling that nothing quite fills me — discontent. The irony is that performers are perhaps the neediest people when it comes to them, but accepting praise (love and belonging) is difficult because we can stop for a second and be ok with our apparent success. For me, I always felt being content was the opposite of being driven. This is faulted. It is just not true. Being discontent, not accepting love from others, keeps us out of and feeling unworthy of connection. One can accept love/praise/compliments/etc, and still strive to be a better version of themselves on stage and otherwise, a more real version of yourself, yourself. Your real self.

To have real connection with others is a result of both parties being authentic: letting go of who I want to convey I am, and just be who I am: being vulnerable. 

I am not a vulnerable person, and my personality and actions are often calculated. As I'm writing this, I am rewriting, trying to be more clear, trying to show what I want to show, trying to be authentic, but somehow feeling like I am not, while still writing well, while still making a point, while I don't know. It's as if I want to share more about the specifics of my life, but the truth is I don't want everyone to know my truths. But, I want to be open to those who want to know me and who I want to know. The nitty gritty truths of our experiences aren't what's truly important, but rather they're things that draw us closer to each other. I don't think it's appropriate to tell everyone everything all the time, I'll say it again, but we're not alone in those experiences. And to try to go it alone is an upward and losing battle. I'm realizing this, and to keep myself an arm's length away is really hard and very lonely, and it's not worth it.

I'm just trying to have courage to share what I am going through as a person, because I think a lot of us go through this. A lot of people think we have to be some version of ourselves so someone somewhere will think something of us. Some. Some. Some. I'm trying to tell the story, the truth of who I am with my whole heart. I'm trying to have the courage to be imperfect, to be compassionate to myself so I can show compassion to others, to be real, to accept not except that being vulnerable means being ok that someone might read the first line of this and think, "Fuck this bitch. She is too much for me." It doesn't feel good, but it's necessary in order to be open.

I might be too much, but I would rather be all of me, then just some of me.

There is more, there's always more, but this is where I am at today. Hopefully I don't delete this tomorrow.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

And I love that.

There's a cat in the alley.
And I hate it.
But she belongs to someone.
Some little girl.
A neighbor perhaps.
And that's nice.
I can recognize how very nice that is.
And I love that.

There's a smile on the face of the man.
The old man in the stairwell.
I see his crooked teeth.
And his inviting face.
He is one of those people.
Those people who smile just because.
Because they can't not.
And I love that.

There's a girl on top of her roof.
She's alone there.
Taking it all in.
And there is so much.
She can't possibly soak it up.
But she's there.
She's not going anywhere.
And I love that.

Hello, My Name is.

I'm forgetting
what it's like
to be a human being
to breathe breath
to talk words

there are beads spread out
all over the floor
of this small apartment

you always said it was so little
with your big house
and your big bigness
how very big of you

when the sapphire
fires
there will be a blue haze
overcoming me

and i will be there
but not
because i forgot

that's what happens
when you can't breathe breath
you lose yourself
bits and parts of that little brain
how very little
how little of me is left

circular circles
with holes cut out
strung strings
the stuff of paupers

this is the stuff
stuff's made of
atoms and bombs and car phones
and hearts and bloody bloody bloods

don't forget about me!
i forgot me at home
i forgot to pick me up at school
i forgot that today's my birthday

any day is a day
every day feels the same
erase it restart it get over it forget it

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

make believe 3

as we sleep
we imagine all of each other
as we really are.

we imagine the people there
the ones whose bodies lie, that
we see inside each other.

our quiet forms
quiet from dreaming
our quiet dreams.

we trace our hands 
across each others faces
we do it, and we don’t know.

as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we’re someone else.

we pretend we're not who we are
that we are unaffected 
we're not.

our quiet forms
quiet from not sharing
our quiet selves.

make believe 2

as i sleep
he imagines all of me
as i really am.

he imagines the person there
the one whose body lies, that
he sees inside me.

my quiet form
quiet from dreaming
my quiet dreams.

he traces his hands
across my face
he does it, and i don’t know.

as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we’re someone else.

he pretends he’s not who he is
that he is unaffected
he’s not.

my quiet form
quiet from not sharing
my quiet self.

make believe 1

as you sleep
i imagine all of you
as you really are.

i imagine the person there
the one whose body lies, that
i see inside you.

your quiet form
quiet from dreaming
your quiet dreams.

i trace my hands 
across your face
i do it, and you don't know.

as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we're someone else.

i pretend i'm not who i am
that i am unaffected
i'm not.

your quiet form
quiet from not sharing
your quiet self.

Monday, June 23, 2014

the shape of your mouth.

a whisper takes you in.
come here.
hot, damp breath beckons.
come here.
air breezes by.
no suffocation and no hesitation.
come here.
as subtle as an arms graze.
gentle and inviting.
there is no waiting.
"come here."

She said.

She said I loved the kind hearted man.
The one with a soft soul

The old tree without leaves
Hugged by the earth as it dies a slow death

She said I wanted the one who didn't know what want was.
The one with an empty unfillable hole

The grass matted down
Crushed from the weight of the sun

She said I hoped to find that which cannot be found.
The one whose existence is a myth





*For Colleen.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Saturday, June 21, 2014

it can't.

When there's a flower in bloom it's so small.
It's so incredibly small.
It's incredibly small.
Small.

But remember all the other flowers?
They used to be there too.
They were so small too.
So small.
Small.

But the blooms can't stay.
None of it can stay. 
None of it stays.
Stay.

When the bloom is gone the stem is there.
It's hearty and full of promise to stay.
It's full of promise to stay.
Promise to stay.
Stay.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

moms book club.

The women gathered around Mary Tristan's kitchen table. Each held a copy of their latest fictional conquest, Dance While They Watch, a stupid novel that should only be sold at grocery store checkouts, but which they purchased in bulk from Sam's Club because Sandy Robinson had a 10 percent off coupon. It was the sort of empty, garbage novel that people leave on airplanes, or in hostels.

"I just loved how the author really seemed to...connect...with her characters," swooned Dawn Blanchette, one of Mary's neighbors who just "could not wait to join this book club!" She was the sort of woman that wasn't used to waiting around for an invitation.

"I know," replied Mary. "So interesting how the author, what's her name..."

"Isabelle Lawrence," filled in Kit Jeffries, who everyone could tell would have preferred to read Katharine Graham's memoir Personal History, which told the real story of the first female publisher of the Washington Post. When she attempted to throw the book into the running, everyone said they just wanted to have something to escape to, so Kit dropped it, knowing they meant they didn't want to feel bad about not being more accomplished themselves.

"Right, yes," said Mary, "Isabelle just seemed to really be able to jump into the reality of the story." Kit thought it was weird that they now were calling the author by her first name as if she were there and part of their little club.

"I know," cooed Dawn. "It's so hard to believe that every writer, especially one like this, hasn't just lived the lives of her characters."

"I know," chimed in Mary again. "I wish I could live all of these crazy lives, but what can you do?"

Kit sat at the end of the table where Mary's husband normally sat at dinner. She looked up at Mary's remark and decided to rejoin the conversation. "You know, we can live crazy lives if we really want to."

"Please," giggled Dawn. "My idea of a crazy life is walking up the street to Mar's here holding a bottle of wine in a paper bag in one hand and this little ditty in the other," she said, pointing to Dance While They Watch.

"Well, what does the back of the book say?" asked Jane Levinson, veering back to the book. Jane, a beautiful brunette who lived in the next neighborhood over, was invited to the group after Mary's daughter Emily became fast friends with Krissy, Jane's daughter, during an after school year book meeting. She normally didn't read books like Dance While They Watch, but thought it might be a fun exercise in doing that which you don't want to do to fit in.

"Well," of course Dawn stepped in, having already flipped over the cover of the book. It was a taupe colored cover, the title printed in cursive burgundy, with a woman's body from the waste down, in a tango position, wrapped around a man's outstretched leg.

"It says, 'Isabelle Lawrence has been hailed by the Global World Book review as 'one of the world's most popular authors, with over 400 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international bestsellers include Night Crawls, Visions of Shelby, Under the Gate, Everybody's Guest, One Week Left to Live, Elephant No More, The Bells of Churches, Afternoon Magic, Royal Wigwam, Belly Up Veronica, Sitting Alone Thinking, and the popular trilogy A Father's Daughter, A Father's Wife, A Father's Adopted Granddaughter, and other highly acclaimed novels.'"

The five women each sipped from their wine glasses taking in just how many books Lawrence had penned. Even Kit was a little amazed at the sheer ability to write that many words, despite the clear formula Lawrence employed: wealthy female protagonist meets someone/anyone, there are notions of crime, suicide, jail and fraud — and drama ensues!

"Looks like we have some reading to do!" said Sandy. "Good thing they sell these at Sam's! I don't know what my husband would do if I bought all of these full price!"

"Mine would give me a stern talking to," said Dawn a little too seriously, but then laughing, mostly from the half bottle of wine she had somehow swallowed down over the last 20 minutes of chitchat.

"Hearing all those titles makes me want to write a book," said Kit, surprisingly self-conscious all of a sudden. "Of all the things that her characters do, you think she'd write a book about an author."

"Ugh, I hate that sort of self-involved stuff. That'd be like me writing a book about being a wife and mom and trying to pass it off as if it were something special," said Dawn.

"You don't think it's something special?" asked Mary, slightly miffed.

"No, it's not that," Dawn shot back softly, in that passive aggressive tone that makes being a suburban housewife worthy of the reality TV show franchise The Real Housewives of Fill-in-the-Blank-City.

"I think what Dawn's trying to say," poked in Jane, who had been mostly quiet, not knowing her place in the book club, as it was her first meeting, "She was trying to say that it's easy to make your life seem special on the page, but in reality everyones life is pretty..." 

"...boring," finished Kit. 

"Even if you are a wealthy writer or a lawyer or a trapeze artist or whatever," qualified Jane.

After a few more minutes of lightly discussing the book, which featured a scintillating scene where the protagonist, a buxom ballroom dancer from Asheville, North Carolina, runs away from home into the arms of her father's old business partner, and they begin to tango in the middle of the streets of North Carolina, the group's thoughts on Dance While They Watch fizzled. Everyone seemed to think that was a beautiful moment, except Kit who wondered at why Isabelle Lawrence didn't specify which city in all of the state they danced, let alone on which street.

"I think it's more metaphorical than that," reasoned Dawn with difficulty. Mary nodded her head in agreement.

"Sometimes you just dance through a whole state in a moment," added Mary.

"That's ridiculous," Kit responded.  

"Well, what I think is ridiculous is that this whole thing is gone," remarked Dawn, pointing to the empty bottle of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio she'd drunk almost entirely alone.

After the women left Mary's home, she straightened her kitchen chair cushions, vacuumed the beige shag Pottery Barn rug in her front hall atrium, and took out the recycling. Her kids, Eric and Samantha came home later from a friends house and a soccer game respectively.

Mary asked them about their days, made them a dessert snack, which consisted of sliced up apples and caramel sauce. They said thank you, and left the table without clearing it. Neither of them asked how their mom's night was. 

Kit, Jane, Dawn and Sandy each had similar experiences once they too got home. Their next meeting is in a month. They're reading Captive and Captivate by Emily Daltessi.

Monday, June 09, 2014

they laughed easily.

The coffee mug Ben finished sipping from left a ring on Kate's refurbished wooden coffee table. She had sanded it herself and after two hours at Home Depot found the right color stain to match their Goodwill end table find.

"Come on, Ben," she said, exasperated.

Kate Sanders is sort of anal about using coasters. Ben obviously isn't. Ben, a just-a-friend friend, despite her roommate Tish's insistence that there was "something there," spent a lot of time at their house. He said it was because he could just chill without the continual buzz of gnats in his ear, apparently an ever present situation at his own apartment. Ben's roommate was a filthy guy he went to college with, but didn't know very well until they both ended up in Seattle three years after graduation from Denison University in Ohio.

His roommate's name is Arnold, but everyone calls him Arnie. It's not exactly a cool guy name, but Arnie was cool. That's the thing about a name, you sort of let it own you or you own it.

"I just am who I am," Arnie would say between flipping channels on his couch. Ben would look up from whatever it was he was doing, probably looking for a clean dish in the kitchen and say, "Yeah, but who are you talking to man?"

"You," Arnie responded from the couch, probably dusting off crumbs from the cookies his mom mailed for his birthday that afternoon.

These interactions were what Kate and Tish imagined when Ben wasn't at their apartment taking up space. It was a fun pastime for them, imaging the conversations between people they knew.

Kate met Ben a few months earlier at the coffee shop she inhabited on Saturdays. He'd noticed her when he was ordering, something about that curly blonde hair, kind of a  Shirley Temple look, he remembered thinking from time to time since they met. Kate had come up to the register three times asking if there were outlets, if she needed a key to the bathroom, what the Wifi password was, you name it. It didn't take Ben long to find her charming, and after her coming in about 10:30 in the morning three weeks in a row, ordering a hot chai tea, and holing up in an available corner at Espress Yourself, he introduced himself. It had taken Kate weeks to find a coffee shop she liked, and when she finally got over the name "Espress Yourself," she never went anywhere else. "It has the perfect blend of good drinks and available chairs."

"You know, they shoud really change the name of that place," Ben said to her from the couch. He was eating frozen grapes, not doing anything much.

"No," Kate responded, offering nothing else, going back to the book she had to read for her book club. The club had a dumb name, too: Literary Ladies. This name was harder for Kate to get over, but whatever. "What's in a name?" she eventually conceded.

"Oh, ok then, I'll just go on thinking something different then..." Ben saracastically responded, quietly drowning himself out, waiting for Kate to give him the response he believed his thought to have earned. Closing her book on page 134 with the wooden book mark she'd gotten on vacation in Thailand, and sitting up straight, she groaned and went into her logic.

"I thought the same thing for a while, but I think it keeps out pretentious douches who spend all day and order one thing."

"Like you?"

"Yes, essactly like me," Kate said, smiling. "Too many of us and it's not fun anymore."

They laughed. Kate could never understand what people meant when she'd hear or read the phrase "they laughed easily with one another" until she met Ben, this Ohio-born and bred guy. It was such a stupid idea to her. They laughed easily. Vomit. It was the sort of phrase you'd here at a eulogy or a wedding. But when she met Ben, it wasn't dumb. It was nice. To her, that phrase meant she didn't have to put up the facade of thinking something was funny or unfunny when she heard it. She could just react.

"Essactly," Ben said, chuckling. "That's funny, Kate."

"Thanks," Kate said, closing her book for good. "What are you doing for the rest of the day?"

"I don't know. I could work on this grant proposal that I should have finished at work Friday — or I could just sit here and watch you read while I think my thoughts or google babies eating lemons for the first time."

"Babies eating lemons?" shouted Tish from the kitchen. She was loading the dishwasher.

"Yeah," Ben shouted back. "It's the best."

"Well, whatever you do, do it well, sir," Kate said in her dad's military-man-voice. "But, I'm done with this for today. I can't concentrate when I have puns to think of."

"Hey guys," Tish said from the living room doorway, a bowl in her left hand, a towel in the other.

"Hey lady bit," Kate said turning around.

"What're you doing today?"

"Other than absolutely nothing?" said Ben.

"We're deciding whether or not productivity is worth it today," said Kate.

"It's not," said Ben. "But, we deal. It's Saturday."

Ben picked up his mug, stood over the coffee table and walked over to the kitchen doorway making Tish step into the living room. It was one of those swinging ones. Tish had it propped open with a door stop. The hinges weren't great because the owners of the house had painted over them so many times between different renters.

"Excuse me," Ben said to Tish.

"Well, I think I'm going to go ride bikes with some people, so if you want to come, you're welcome to." Tish was sitting on the end of the ottoman near the front door by all the shoes.

"That sounds fun," said Kate.

"I love kid things," said Ben from the sink.

"Ben does that sound fun? It sounds fun."

From the kitchen, "Yeah, that sounds fun. I just said that. I mean, does it sound as fun as babies eating lemons? No, but let's do it anyway."

The three then collected in the living room, each putting on their shoes: Ben, a pair of navy blue Vans, Tish, a pair of closed toed strappy sandals from Steve Madden, and Kate, a pair of orange Converse.

"Is it OK if I leave my backpack here?" asked Ben.

"Yeah. You'll probably want to come back here after anyway," said Tish, smiling at Kate.

Glaring at her and mouthing "Please," wondering why people always make things into stuff they aren't, Kate then opened the door, and grabbed her keys from the hook.

"Shall we?" Ben asked.

"We shall," Kate said.

"Indeed, sir," Tish grinned wryly.

And the three of them bowed and curtseyed to one another.

"We are so dumb," Kate said, giggling.

Then all three of them were laughing. Tish closed the house door, and then Kate locked it.

Thursday, June 05, 2014

Open Your Eyes, 2007

“It's fine,” I yelled up the stairs. “Don’t worry about the converter. I don’t need it.”

She shouted to me as I opened the door to leave something about outlets and voltage.  That was one thing I would sometimes get impatient with, all the shouting, not even anger, just loud voices; I loved her, but there was simply no way.  Outside a jet black Buick honked notifying me of its presence.

“I have to go Katy.”

The creaking wood floors beneath her soft footsteps and the smell of her as she brushed up against me for one last embrace made me want to stay, but I couldn’t.  I just couldn’t.  Again I opened our front door, which now seems not mine at all, but hers, all hers.  We painted it the day we moved in.  She told me on our first date that her favorite color was red, but not just red.  She described it with her hands, brushing through the air of my imagination a violet-red-rouge color that at the time I never knew I would one day see.  We painted our front door a year into our relationship later.  She picked it out at Inman’s Paint on the corner of Ledge and Morningside just past Don’s Finest Foods downtown.  I remember her coming home with three large cans for about six square feet.  She always knew how to make me laugh, even if it was unintentional.

That was two years ago, and we were still in graduate school at Stanford.  She was there for a Masters in Art History and printmaking.  I was finishing graduate school and beginning the strenuous process of receiving a PhD in International studies.  We met at O’Keefe’s, a local bar rarely visited by the loads of undergrad students who frequented the downtown scene.

***

She tapped on my shoulder. 

“Do you have a cigarette?”

I turned around to find a short brunette woman smiling coyly.  The freckles across the bridge of her nose danced as she smiled at me.  At that moment all I wanted was a cigarette to give her — Parliaments, Virginia Slims, anything.

“Damn, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” I said.  Feeling like an idiot for listening to the Surgeon General, I leaned back around to pick up my Heineken.

“Great. I don’t either,” she said taking the seat to my right. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t because man, I hate it...Hi, I’m Katy.”

“I’m James,” I said extending my hand.

And that’s how we started.  Shortly after the pop quiz we left O’Keefe’s.  It was only about 7 p.m so we strolled about looking into boutique windows and speaking about ourselves, then I walked her home.  She gave me her number and we just sort of started being a ‘thing.’  At first she was pretty anti-titles, so I never called her my girlfriend and she never called me her boyfriend.  We just sort of, were.

***

I got into the car bound for the San Jose airport to make my 10:53 a.m. flight.  That’s one thing I never could quite understand, the way flight times are — never 11 a.m. or 6 p.m., simply 1:38 a.m.  Be there or be square.  I felt so old planning my flight, taking action in the decisions I know will affect me wherever I end up ten years from now.  It’s May, and I just graduated.  I’m now Dr. James Napier.  I wasn’t trained to clean wounds or heal the lame, I wasn’t taught to listen to the problems of others or use a stethoscope.  Being a doctor of International Studies, doesn’t seem like much of a doctor job.  My specialty’s in human rights, while I mostly deal in issues of human trafficking in third world countries from Bangladesh to Laos.  Straight out of the University of Chicago where I attended undergrad, I applied to work for the United States Peace Corps in Malaysia, but I pulled out after only six months on sight.  Since then I haven’t been able to sleep through the night.  

Even after I came back to the states and started with school again, I knew I couldn’t live as an academic forever, and Katy always knew I wasn’t planning on being stagnant in California forever.

“So where are you off to?” asked the driver.

“Going to Cambodia.”  Hearing myself say it made the tiniest hairs prick up on the nape of my neck.  I was surprised that my hands weren’t shaking, but as I repositioned myself in the back of the car I rubbed my clammy palms against the soft black leather seat.

The driver’s eyes darted back at me in the rearview mirror as I said it. “Off getting yourself a tan?” he asked.

I cracked a smile and said, “I can get a tan here. No, I’ll be going there to research human trafficking.”

“Oh,” he said. That was it.  

“Have you heard of what’s going on over in East Asia at all?”

He seemed to be concentrating on the road as I tried to pry my way into his mind.  Holding the wheel with two hands he slid in and out of lanes passing the green exit signs with caution as not to miss the terminal.

“I’m sorry, what was that, sir?”

His voice seemed tired, slightly distressed and very uninterested.  Glancing out the window I starred up at the clear skies and then down at the shadows of palm trees gliding along the pavement.

“Oh, it was nothing.”

***

When I got to Cambodia it was 96 degrees and the locals were getting ready for the autumnal floods headed their way over the next few weeks.  I was stationed in the country’s capital to do most of my research through one of the NGOs I randomly picked after scanning through the list the previous spring.  I chose the Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association and when I told one of my professors of my decision to work there he told me it was the leading organization in the fight against Cambodian human trafficking.

The airport was a sea of colors and languages and music and animals.  I had never seen anything like it.  I got off the plane headed for the baggage claim along with the hundreds of other foreigners streaming into Cambodia’s singular international airport.  “Sir, sir, sir, sir!”  Those were the first attempted English words I heard people shout at me as I picked up my luggage in Phnom Penh International Airport.  I suppose my dehydrated, pallid face nearly pristine white to them gave me away as an outsider.  My pathetic attempt to disguise myself rather as an experienced traveler was clearly a failure upon arrival as my camping-styled Mountain Hardware hiking bag’s front pocket exploded with about twenty Ralph Lauren Polo socks.  Immediately I was taken up by the flood of invitations from Cambodian’s to ‘come with them’ and ended up getting a ride to a hotel around the corner from my new place of business by way of a kind gentleman named Prahsuit.  He seemed to know English well and after speaking with him for a few minutes I had found out about nearly his entire family and learned of how he had been learning English for the last fifteen years driving tourists here and there.

“Where you from?” inquired Prahsuit.

I hadn’t been expecting much conversation initially, but I answered plainly, “The United States.”

He laughed showing his rotted out gums reminding me that I hadn’t gone to the dentist myself in close to a year.  

“I know you from U.S.A., but where you from?” he continued.  “I know people who live there.”

Of course he knows people who live there. Of course, already I was the American guilty of underestimating the rest of the world.

“I’m from Michigan.  It’s close to Canada.”

“Canada?  Oh, Canada.  Not French.”

It struck me as odd that he seemed to know a little about French colonization in the Western hemisphere.  Taking out a reporter notebook I bought at Walgreen’s a few days before I wrote down the remark and placed a large star beside it.  Below it I wrote to buy an international cell phone, but in the mean time to call Katy using the hotel line.

***

“James Napier?”

A loud receptionist at the head of the waiting room finally called my name.  She said it like it was doubtful if I would actually be there or not—like they didn’t have faith that a real down on the farm Michigan boy couldn’t possibly find himself at the other side of the globe.  Maybe it was just my insecurities shouting into my psyche.

“Yes, yes, that’s me.”

She nodded her head, which carried with it a code of ‘come with me.’  I followed the tiny woman to a small, vacant room with two chairs, one desk reminiscent of post-Soviet Union classrooms, and a small window that had large steel beams cross over it.

“Your advisor will be with you in a moment.”  She left me in the room where I made myself comfortable sitting in one of the chairs.  The linoleum floors and cement block walls reminded me of my first dormitory at UC.  There were traces of foot prints and dust bunnies everywhere.  Before I could speculate more Dr. Marvin Shuckhorn preceded into what I learned was his office.

“Hello,” he said extending his large callused hand.  “So how are things so far?  You’ve been here, what, a few days?  Have you met your colleagues?  How are they?  Do you guys get along?  Are you all here for the same purpose?”

After his machinegun shoot-off of questions I was finally able to answer.

“Things so far are, well, for sure they’re different.”

“Well of course they’re different,” he said with a Santa Claus-like twinkle in his eye.  “You know it’s not USA college life out there, is it?”  He trailed off laughing at his own ‘dad joke.’

“Yeah, it’s no USA,” I said skeptically.  “Anyway, I’ve met a few people.  I noticed that this is much more of an international workplace than I had expected.  I was sort of thinking I’d be the only American in a predominantly Cambodian office.  It’s interesting for sure.”

“So you think the ‘melting pot,’ if you will, works here?  Good, I’m glad.  You know, we were a bit worried that a multinational group would lose sight of the human rights for Cambodians would be a problem.”

“No, no, it’s good.”

“Good.  Yeah, I guess it does work.  Yeah, because, hey, we’re all people here.  We all need rights, and have them, innately, that is. Hmm, so who do you have a connection with in the group so far?”

“Oh, well, I met a French woman named Marion Clair.  She’s from the town in France my sister studied in.”

“Yeah, Marion, she’s a good girl.  Very smart.  Interested in reporting human rights issues, I hear.  Good girl, yeah.  Very pretty, too, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Oh, yeah, well, she’s fine, but I have a girl at home, so,” I said.  Then trying to change the subject, I added, “So yeah, the other members are great so far too.  I met a Belgian some other Americans and a few Spaniards—yeah, we all live in the same housing complex up the road.”

“Right, ok,” he said.  Getting down to the real meat of the meeting, he said, “Now, let me see here...”
Adjusting his bifocals so they’d sit on the brim of his large nose rather than the tip where they continually fell, he said, “So, I see you’re a doctor?”

“Yeah, but not in the way you might think.  I’m a researcher.  I study human development and specialize in the human trafficking that has become a phenomenon over the past few decades.”

At this he gave me a half smile and said sarcastically one word, “Phenomenon?”

I had heard all the arguments before regarding the time period before, but I was prepared for Shuckhorn’s undoubtedly longwinded explanation of the time frame.

“Phenomenon?” he repeated.  “Let me tell you something, human trafficking is anything but a phenomenon. It’s a damn catastrophe.  I tell you, if people think major environmental disasters are a problem, think about the estimated 600,000 to 820,000 men, women, and children that are trafficked across international borders each year.  I mean, Jesus.”

At that he placed both hands on his brows.  His brown eyes darted from side to side as he meticulously calculated the amount of human suffering that must occur each day in this godforsaken world we live in.

“We live in a world where crafty businessmen think it’s their birthright to suppress the suppressible, stomp on the weak and sell the ones left over.”

As he said this I starred up from my hands which I had been cracking rapidly during his much deserved soliloquy.

“You want to see your life here researching ‘phenomenal issues’ matter?” he asked in a tone more like a statement.  “Then don’t go on telling people things that are just plain false.”

For a while we both were quiet.  I was back in my place as a subordinate to a much higher ruling party than I and was ready to receive information about my time constraints, financial measures and permanent living assessment.

“Now, you’re here to get your assignment and to explain your proposed research inquiry.  At the end of your session here you will turn in a short report regarding your position on the issue of human trafficking in Eastern Asia, in specific regard to Cambodia.”

He stopped to breathe.

“Is this clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered.  “It’s clear.”

“So, go ahead.  Explain briefly your reasons in working for the CHRD.”

I was taken off-guard.  I hadn’t realized until that very moment why I had decided CHRD, why I had decided on human rights.  I couldn’t remember for the life of me why I was there, why I felt like I needed to make a difference, why my life could impact the lives of others.  For a while, probably a few seconds that felt like a few hours we both sat in silence.  Dr. Shuckhorn’s clothing smelled unwashed and faintly of river water and sweat.  His odor made it difficult to concentrate.  Perspiration pockets built up beneath my armpits and a single bead floated down my spine dipping into the small of my back.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “You want me to explain right now my position on trafficking in brief and give a smaller version of my research topic?”

Shifting in his seat leaning toward the open window, he said, “Yeah, if you can.  If you aren’t prepared or need a few minutes, that’s fine.”

“No, no, that’s alright.  I can explain it now,” I said.  Then it came to me.  All my ideas surged out in one big splat of an idea.  “Ok, so the United Nations has in the past put sanctions on Cambodia after various other nations have left their footprint in the Cambodian sands — well, the UN ruled under transitional authority from ’89 to ’93, but they left the country to the restored monarchy in ’94.  That said, serious sex trafficking was witnessed and reported increases after peacekeeping forces moved in and after they left.  I plan to explore the link between these peacekeeping forces like the UN and NATO and increased amount of sexual human trafficking in Cambodia, while also using countries like Bosnia and Kosovo as other examples.”

I came out like tidal wave of well-researched thoughts.

“What do you think?” I asked Shuckhorn.

“Sounds like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you’ll uncover something those other payroll researchers haven’t yet.”

With that he stood up to shake my hand and bring me out of the office.  Walking at his heels I noticed his balding blonde and grey swirl of hair on the top of his head and the sun marks like wrinkles and sunspots popped up at me.  I suppose that’s what one would look like if they lived her for the rest of their days.

“You’ll need to set up an appointment for every third of the month to check up with research and theories.  Let yourself out.  It’s been nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too,” I said. “Thanks for the input on ideas.  I’ll see you in a month.”

By then he was practically at the end of the hallway, but then turned around slightly to add in another tidbit of wisdom.

“Don’t forget what I said about phenomenon.”

***

I had been researching on the local trade culture regarding the deals involving slave trades or similar trades like sex trades and favors for about a month already.  So far it didn’t seem anything out of the normal in regard to the nature of selling humans for financial gains.  The UN had pulled out of the country just over a decade before and the bulk of my studies dealt with the overwhelming aftermath of their lack of paying attention, while they were in country, to the underground thriving industry of the sale of men, women and children.  According to past statements they said the ‘phenomenon’ of human trafficking in Cambodia is relatively new, although globally it has been a problem for centuries upon centuries.  The issue has come to light as a problem in the ‘90s, but very little knowledge of why it is occurring there or who is participating is known.

After reading up on the sexual exploitation of mainly women and children who live in the country region of Cambodia and their recruitment into this line of work under the guise of factory jobs I couldn’t look out my window without feeling like all of these people were victims.  Even the victimizers have their reasons for exploiting others.  It’s a cycle of country self-destruction forming from the alarming amount of poverty.  For days at a time I couldn’t read anything on the issue without throwing up in sheer disgust and pain for the abused.

***

“There’s no way I can get into the field work part of the job and have it count as ‘research’ Shuckhorn?  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I was pissed.  After two months in country and after having read every article, book, seen every amount of video coverage and scoured the Internet for anything else I missed, the last thing I had to complete was to see it with my own eyes.

“I’m sorry James.  It’s just not part of why you’re here.”

“Not part of why I am here?  Not part of why I am here?” I was shouting now and couldn’t for the life of me come to terms with the amount of my very heart and soul I had placed in my work.

“I need to see it Marvin.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He left the sterile office from our first meeting and returned fifteen minutes later with a consent form and a visiting journalist named Brimt from Laos.

“This is Brimt, he needs someone to bring him up to speed in mini detail on the topic,” said Huckshorn, sighing in relief that I was no longer going to be at his heals begging for an opportunity to see the story I’ve been reading about before my eyes.

A week later I had filled in Bremt, no gaps without a line to fill it in.  He was just as passionate about it as I was, but perhaps less, as I did have a much stronger foothold in the topic.  We were set to leave for Battambang where sex trafficking has been known to occur and appear on and around the streets frequently.

***

“When are you going to be home James?” asked Katy.  Her connection was going in and out.  All week I had trouble getting a hold of her.  She was either working or our time zones were off or the phone simply wasn’t working.

“Home?” I said. “Yeah, home, I should be home within the next month or so, hun.  There are just a lot of new things happening every day.”

I sounded like one of those workaholic fathers that never got the chance to make it to one of their son’s soccer games.  I never meant to become that guy, but while big things are going on its easy to loose sight of certain things, no matter how important what a person may be doing at the time.

“You’re not sure then?” she said.  “Well, if you aren’t sure then I can’t figure out when to book your flight for and I don’t know if I should get you a ticket to Chicago to visit my parents over Christmas because if you do come then we have to go to Michigan because it’s your year.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Kate.  The line’s getting fuzzy and I can’t understand everything you say.  I’m getting about every third word or so.”

“O-K-well-never-mind-then,” she said slowly.  “I-will-just-get-the-tickets-late-then-if-that-is-O-K-with-you.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. I gotta go now Kate,” I said.  “I, I gotta go.  I love you.”

“I love you too,” she answered back. “Bye.”

***

Bremt and I boarded a bus bound for Battambang the following morning.  He was to pose as a possible costumer at a local restaurant who was also looking for other types of appetite-feeding activities.  I was his uninterested friend who was married with four children, just in case anyone asked.

“Hello, do you speak English?” I asked a waitress at the front of Angkor, a well-known eatery in the middle of the city.  We would have stayed in the capital, but while I hadn’t been to every place in town, the identities of most of the employees working against trafficking are known among sellers, so we had to go outside the walls into more rural parts then into other slightly larger locations.

Entering into the restaurant was almost surreal.  One moment we were offered a place to sit and offered beverages.  As a side course the restaurant manager offered Bremt and I an added pamphlet.

“This is only for special costumers,” he said.  “Special price, just for you.”

I looked at the paper written in poor English with little consideration as to punctuation, spelling or grammar, but these were the least of my worries.  I handed the paper to Bremt.  Then I proceeded to take my camera out and take a picture with the manager, smiling and posing as though we were interested participants.

“I bring you out three ladies, and you chose,” he said.

“Oh, oh, no, no, I am not interested,” I said, “but my friend here is.”

I pointed to Bremt, who was holding the pamphlet with an eager facial expression.

“Oh, ok, I bring them out for him.”

Ten minutes later a procession of three girls, eight, twelve and fourteen years old wearing thrice recycled clothing from when I was a boy came out of the back food preparation area.

Bremt and I looked at the faces of these three children.  I took a picture of the girls without the knowledge of the manager so later someone would come back for them.  Walking out of the restaurant completely famished and aching all over in pain and  distress I got back on the bus to Phnom Penh with Bremt.  Their faces were etched in my mind, and the last thing I wanted to do after I saw their faces was leave.  I wanted to punch out the manager and raid the place in search of the multiple victims.

***

“No honey, I won’t be back for Christmas...Hello?  Shit.”

Standing in the middle of Phnom Penh in a bad excuse for a telephone booth almost two months after I left California, one month over due to return home, I realized that I simply couldn’t leave yet.  Katy and I just had our first trans-country fight.  I skulked back to where other researchers and volunteers of the foundation were standing waiting for me so we could get back to the office.

“Are you alright?” asked Marion.  “You look really upset.  I can tell, because you have those concerned eyes.  I haven’t seen them since the first day you got here.”

Opening my now quite worn Marmot backpack I grabbed one of the granola bars my mom had mailed to me earlier last week.  Food like that here was a precious commodity, but in reality I actually didn’t mind chomping on curry at every meal, or trying new things when the option arose.

“Things are fine,” I said. “— No, they’re really fine — they’re fine.”

I tried to convince myself of this as I crouched down balancing on the balls of my feet, but I kept thinking of those children in Battambang.  I rubbed the sweat beads gathering on my dusty forehead dripping down the sides of my bearded cheeks.  After I broke my razor during the orientation days I skipped shaving entirely and instead favored a pair of Crayola scissors for mere trims.

“No, it’s just, my girlfriend.  She’s there, and I’m here, and we’re not together.  And, god I just don’t know.”  I could have gone on and on like that forever.  There seemed to be no way out of this perpetual letting down process I was doing to her, myself, my colleagues and to the victims of these violations of human rights.

She bent down next to me and placed her hand on the soft spot of my back in between my shoulder blades and rubbed her hand around like a mother after a bad day.

“I’m sure everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”

I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of sunlight coming through the splits between her straight honey-colored hair.  All I could think was that she didn’t know how hard this was.

“Don’t give me that, you don’t know what I’m even talking about,” I said standing up leaving her on the dusty side walk.

I had met Marion on my first day of orientation at the foundation.  Her French accent stuck out amid the numerous American’s, along with a few international citizens of humanity.  I had studied in France for a semester during my sophomore year of college because I was originally an International Studies and French double, but mid-way through college I switched from French to Human Relations.  Marion and I hit it off right away.  She had been working there for close to six months at the time and had already invested herself in the people and culture much more than I could have thought possible.

I could hear the racing footsteps behind me as Marion came nearer. “You know, just because you think you know everything about me and why I’m here and who I am, doesn’t mean that you actually do.”  She was out of breath and annoyed by the time I slowed down to hear her out.

“I may not know your relationship with this girl and what exactly you hoped to accomplish in a few months in one of the poorest countries in our world today, but you know what, fine,” she said, gaining momentum. “You’re an arrogant ass —”

Before she could go on and on and on, I said, “Perhaps, I don’t want to tell you everything or whatever, but you can’t just go giving advice without knowing something.  What do you know anyway?  We’re here in this country and it seems like no one cares and nothing is getting done and people are still being treated like cattle, and my girlfriend a million miles away is upset that I can’t foresee myself coming home for Christmas —”

She stopped to look at me again.  “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I just, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.  I just never thought she could be so selfish.”

Marion stood up from where she was sitting and turned toward me.

“She isn’t being selfish James.  She’s being, I don't know, a person on the other side of the world who just, just...she doesn’t know.  That’s the fault of the rest of the world, and you’re assuming she has seen everything you’ve seen over the past weeks.  You’re assuming she knows what its like to see thousands of women per day be scooped up from the streets and thrown into a situation where they’re forced to have sex or die.”

She sat back onto the curb outside a local pop shop.  Clasping her hands together and placing them on her knee caps she starred back up at me.  “She just doesn’t know James, and communication is key.  That’s why my concentration is journalism and human rights, how to get the word out in an affective manner.  People get desensitized.  They can’t help it.  If you’re not faced with it every day in a real way, then there’s nothing you can do but guard yourself against feeling.”

Putting my arms through the backpack straps I sat down next to her and didn’t say anything. Everything she was saying made so much sense.  We sat and looked out onto the street before us bustling with farmer produce, animals, juxtaposed with the honking of several Honda’s in a long polluting procession of vehicles.

“God, the third world,” I said, half-thinking to myself.



vultures.

Her name was Vanessa, and she doesn’t want me anymore. Had she ever? Every day after us I ask this question. Her hair was more blonde than strawberry; her face was pale, and she was everything. I miss her.

We were happy. It was like a disease, and it engulfed her. She had eaten us up every day for six years and now she was through — through gorging herself on our feelings, and our passion, and our sick, obsessive “us.” She didn’t want to have me anymore.

People don’t do this. They don’t talk about relationships like an insufferable meal. Even the best thing isn’t something you want every single moment of every single day. You need variety, and she stopped fighting it; she stopped fighting that urge to eat shitty take-out. 

David was shitty take-out. And she knew it. She knew it, I knew it, and she didn’t care. Because, that’s how we are. That’s how every fucking person is. If it wasn’t her, it would have been me. The truth is, it could have so easily been me eating shitty take-out. But because of how timing works, I get the benefit of being the one left. Whatever benefit that is.

I read a passage recently in one of those self-help books that really only helped the person who wrote it feel better when they were down. My mom sent it to me after she found out about David and Vanessa. Vanessa had been the one to tell her. That’s the fucking balls of it. That gaul. The fucking nerve. I had successfully avoided the preying eyes of my mother from two-thousand miles away during the first weeks of our split. My mother, a subtle vulture, who just can’t stop herself from snapping at my dying body in the middle of the Mojave. 

The passage said this…it said: Most people who don’t look life squarely in the eye want to avoid what’s making them unhappy.

Vanessa was unhappy, until she wasn’t — until she looked me in the eyes.

She was a mouth, and I was the lukewarm taste that that mouth couldn’t help but spit out the window from the apartment we used to share.

I live here now. Alone. And it’s ok. She left mostly everything, so now I have a floral bedspread I don’t want, a key holder sign that signifies that I’m “home” in cursive, her contact case, and a million other pieces of her. I don't wear contacts. 

Her soft ruby lips, flakey from being in the sun too long, the freckles that dusted across her collarbone, the delicacy of her fingers brushing along the ridge of my brows moments after an uncontrollable desire to press everything about ourselves together. She would kiss me, and every few minutes, she would separate our faces, look at me, like she was trying to memorize me, and then just as I was ready to kiss her again, she would breathe me in, wrecking me for anyone else. I couldn't believe she was mine. 

And I should have known. 

Why? 

I don’t know.