Super Powers

Years ago, I went out on a date with a fine young fellow. It was a first date; the getting-to-know-you date. Dinner was at an underwhelming Mexican restaurant, six blocks from my house (because first dates shouldn't be afforded more of a commitment than a ten-minute walk, one-way).

On our way back, strolling down around the food complex, leftover bags in hand, we had one of the most interesting first-date conversations to date:

We talked about our super-powers:


"I have the ability to crank out a pretty decent essay, the day it's due. That superpower has come in handy way more often than I'm proud of."

"I can fit into ridiculously small spaces. My hide-and-seek prowess is off the charts. I'm still the reigning champ. Of every game I've ever played..."

"I have Super-Shower Powers. Like lightening-speed shower skills.2-4 minutes. 5-6 tops. I always get the first slot if girls are ever fighting over the bathroom. Because by the time they finish arguing, I'm already out, squeaky clean." (-Me)

Suddenly, two people bolted by. Dressed in black, they ran right in front of us, pounding the ground at full speed. They were each carrying a plastic bag, and at the cross road, they split apart, turning different directions.

Before we could register what was happening we heard a shout from the back door of the restaurant, "HEY! HEEEY! Somebody! Stop them!"

But it was too late. Stunned observers, He and I were totally useless on the sidelines of this crime.

The person shouting went back inside, presumably to call the police, and after a minute of silence, we kept walking.


..."Man," I said, "I wish I had better superpowers."


...


I think I went to graduate school hoping to gain some super powers. I mean, I'd be a Master. (from Harvard).

However, staring down the barrel of my graduation, I feel significantly less powerful and mostly just more aware about the extent of the evil-nemeses we're up against.

I wish I had the powers:

to fix the school-to-prison pipeline,
change our systemic racial and cultural biases,
support disenfranchised and oppressed voices,

among so many other things--to find solutions to these massive problems.

But I do not.

However, I find hope in the people trying to solve them. I found great inspiration from my classes on leadership; reading about people like Ernest Shackleton, Nelson Mandela, Oprah Winfrey, Rachel Carson, even Ann Hopkins, who faced enormous challenges, and led others to overcome them. Hearing about my own classmates' work with innovative programs helping to break the cycle of poverty, and bigotry, and oppression.

I think some of my friends here are no less than super-human-heroes for fighting to help change our worlds' issues with education.

So I suppose that's what we do. We become inspired by the heroes we see and hear about;  we motivate ourselves to question more, learn more, innovate more, serve more, become more Super, one little act and one little change at a time.

And maybe collectively, we have more power than we think.

Me and Breakfast at Tiffany's

Trapped in a flying metal tube, 10,000 of feet above the ground, there's a wonderful phenomenon: one cannot feel guilty about NOT being as productive as one could be, because you're trapped in a flying metal tube 10,000 feet above the ground. So sometimes one has the luxury of 6 uninterrupted hours in the middle of the day, where one can read a book in one, albeit forced, sitting.  Last week, I had the enormous pleasure of one-sitting, in-flight reading: "Fifth Avenue, 5:00 AM: Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany's, and the Dawn of the Modern Woman." 

I highly recommend the book--interesting historical factoids about Truman Capote, the movie's production, the fashion and social trends at the time, and why the movie was so revolutionary. (Did you know that Audrey Hepburn hated danishes, and wanted to shoot that opening scene with an ice cream cone instead? But was convinced that ice cream isn't a very good Breakfast). 

While reading it, I thought the author's flowery and romanticizing language might have aggrandized the film a bit. But then I watched it for the first time in ten years. 

It was magic. t's stuck with me. No, more accurately, it's sticking on me. Like the residue of a peeled-off band aid, or glue. It's still on me. Like I just walked through a Breakfast-at-Tiffany's perfume cloud, and the scent is all around. I can't stop thinking about it. Something about it lingered, followed my memory, something about it... 
bothered me.. 

"Holly: You know the days when you get the mean reds?

Paul : The mean reds. You mean like the blues?
Holly: No. The blues are because you’re getting fat, and maybe it’s been raining too long. You’re just sad, that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid, and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"

absolutely.  

Holly Golightly is fabulous. She's feverishly independent. She's impulsive and careless. She's elegant and a complete mess. She feels so deeply, but can't really let anyone into those depths. Maybe one time she allowed that, but then one day realized a surface-level interaction is much more easily manipulated, and so she stayed there. 

Then it hit me. why I'm so bothered:

I am Holly Golightly. 

“Never love a wild thing...If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky...

It's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear.” 

I am Holly Golightly. 
Oh dear. 

Paul shouts to her in frustration: 
"You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself... It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.” 

But the people who have had the guts to call me out,  have not stayed around in my life to see if anything changes. That's because I usually didn't want them to (for other reasons). But still. Starting over again on a frequent basis can lead to a lack of identity. Which Holly has. So afraid to be tied down to anything, even her own identity. 

That heartbreaking moment at the end, when she shoves Cat into the rain, you could replace her name: 

"I'm not Holly. I'm not [Averill], either. I don't know who I am! I'm like cat here, a couple of no-name slobs. We belong to nobody and nobody belongs to us. We don't even belong to each other." 

I am Holly Golightly.

But I think we're all a little bit Holly Golightly. 

Trying to charm our way to any sort of stability because there's no rules or maps as to how to get there any other way. 
Internally, we're afraid, 
and reckless
and sexy
and confident 
and terrified
and chaotic
and passionate 
and careless
and all of those things together.



We're sorting all of the fractured elements of one of iconic literary figures within ourselves. 

I guess maybe I'm waiting for my dramatic scene in the rain where true belonging feels possible. 

                 Or maybe I should get a cat.

Atmospheric Pressure

When I was 12 years old, I broke the radial bone in my left forearm. Pedaling my friend’s bike back to her garage, I wanted to ride it up her steep driveway. About half-way up the climb, I realized I didn’t have the strength to make it. I tried to dismount, but it was too late. I fell, my forearm crushed by the frame. It was just a sliver of a fracture. Because there was no outward show of injury, I got little sympathy for the excruciating pain when I tried to lift anything, even a pencil. But eventually the pain died down, and we all sort of forgot that I was ever even hurt.

“Oh, my bones are aching. It must be about to rain.” 

- Everybody’s grandpa, ever.

               Later I noticed an odd phenomenon: my arm could predict the weather. Sort of.  When a big snowstorm was arriving, or even just rain, my forearm would ache. Fun scientific fact: when a storm comes, there’s a drop in barometric pressure, which causes soft tissue and fluid to expand, especially around joints or old injuries—even ones that are entirely healed.

              I know what you’re thinking—“With a talent like that, why wouldn’t you drop out of school and become the world’s most interesting local weather person?” but here’s the other part: this ache is unpredictable. Sometimes a storm will arrive without any signal from the arm, and sometimes it will hurt with sunny skies the whole day long. But for the most part, it’s an unexpected change in atmospheric pressure that will cause this old pain to return. It’s not a sharp pain, or an agony in discomfort, it’s just… an ache.

Heartache feels similar to me. Immediately after the loss, people empathize with your pain—there’s a tangible, socially-expected, sympathetic response to “He’s gone.” Then enough time passes, and the cut, the wound, the crack-- even if it was only ever a fracture--heals. Eventually the oppressive, excruciating pain stops following you.  You can go about functioning with all your normal faculties. You can even be genuinely happy for your lost lover. And with every passing day, the pain dulls a little more until you feel confident in saying the break is no longer broken.

But every once in a while, there will be a change in atmospheric pressure. You’ll hear a song on the radio, or see his favorite something-or-other, remember an inside joke, or see a picture of him and his new family, or sometimes there’s no trigger at all. But you’ll suddenly feel a dull ache. Like a bruise that you didn’t know was there until someone poked it. I still ache with a sudden change in “weather,” and I don’t know if that experience will ever go away.

           
  But there’s power in memory. This ache means you hurt once. The break itself is evidence of an ambitious trip—maybe you didn’t have the momentum to make it all the way up the driveway, but the attempt isn’t something to belittle. There’s a piece of pride that should revel in the ache, because it’s proof that we're alive. That we're attempting to live.

“It is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.” I vacillate between believing this quote and hating it. Written by Sir Alfred Tennyson, when feeling optimistic, it is the hope we bring to every new relationship. It is the balm that soothes the panic that if we end up muscling through a relationship, and fall, and get broken, we might ache for years into the future. It's the risk we take. And I believe we’re brave—maybe even noble for taking it. Because even after all the pain, and the remnant aches, I can’t say I wouldn’t have loved the people I lost.  

Would you?

Scream and they Come Running

My highest level of productivity usually comes when avoiding something else. For some reason, any time a large assignment is coming up, I have a burning desire to deep-clean my dorm room.

Tonight was one of those nights. I put in a load of laundry, cleared off my desk, and made my bed. I was so inspired by this burst of productivity in procrastination, that I turned to the giant suitcase of winter items in storage. It was finally time. 

Unpacking a suitcase with clothes you haven't seen in a while is like reuniting with a old friends. 

Hello, scarves! I hung up some extra command hooks, and draped the scarves on the wall. Hello, sweaters! I made room for a new pile of sweaters into my drawers. And then, my dear, old black trench coat. Hello trench coat! It's been so long! 

On the collar was a curious white circle. when I looked closer, it was a spider. wrapped in his own smooshed web. 

 It must have suffocated under the pile of clothes in my suitcase all summer. 

I took a picture, for my brother, who has a mild obsession with the disgusting little creatures. I went to zoom in, so he could examine every creepy little fuzzy leg, then ...

It started moving. 

IT STARTED MOVING. 

It was alive.  Like some demon creature emerging from the depths of hell it was crawling out of its web cocoon to eat me.

So I did what any rational and calm person would do:

 I threw the coat in the hallway and shrieked. 

I'm comforted to report many of my dorm mates poked their heads out to come to the rescue of a screaming fellow student. Should there ever be a real emergency, apparently, I have great neighbors. 

To Joe--the man at the end of the hallway--you're truly a hero among men for retrieving the loose and speedy arachnid, and putting him outside. For the rescue. Thank you for saving both the spider's life and my sanity. 

There's no chance, no chance in the underworld that spider came from, I'll be able to sleep tonight. 

It's happened to us all...

It's raining. 

I have no umbrella. which I do not mind. It's just a little wet. 

I'm in a maxi skirt and my giant raincoat, and trying to go to the bathroom. Somewhere in the shuffle on putting my backpack and water bottle down, and trying to lift my giant skirt, I hear a terrible, gut-wrenching...

 "PLOP"

"Oh no oh no oh no!" 

I fished the phone out of the toilet bowl in horror, while a girl washing her hands called through the stall, "...is everything alright?"

Rice. I need uncooked rice to absorb the water in the circuitry. this is not my first phone-in-water rodeo. 

To be clear, this is not a fact I'm proud of. 

The following sequence of events are all real, and happened with exponentially-growing panic:

• I rush to the small and overpriced corner store.The nearest grocery store is a 30 minute walk, and it's raining. it's as good as we're gonna get
•  ask the lady at the front desk, "Do you sell rice?"
• she looks at me like I'm speaking a different language, and responds with a blank stare. "Great. I'll check the back" I say
• scan the shelves: noodles, coconut flakes, rice flour. Useless. 
• finally see rice--but it's Garlic and Spanish Rice boxes. Gah! ...no other options here...
• quickly purchase a box--the garlic one. 
• rip top of box open, realize the flavoring is in a separate pouch. hooray!
•  shove phone in. 
• clearly there's not enough rice to submerge the stupid, toilet-drenched device. 
• run back to the shelf 
• purchase box #2 (this time, Spanish Rice)
• rip open top, pour box #2 into box #1
• spill rice all over the counter

At this point--everyone in the store is looking over, watching this crazy lady throwing rice around the check-out counter. But I'm too passionate about my purpose to be distracted or shamed by strangers who don't know my plight. But the box thing isn't working. I ask the front desk lady if she has a plastic bag of some sort. "trash bag...? anything?"

• she says, bored, "banana bag?" 
• excellent idea. 
• I rip a fruit bag off the stand 
• go to pour the rice in
• there's a hole. you've got to be kidding me
• Because it's raining, there's plastic bags out front to hold wet umbrellas
• I grab one of those. pour all the box's contents down the skinny plastic tube
• It's long and narrow, and I am having trouble moving my phone around in order to completely cover it with rice. 

The woman at the check-out counter watches me struggle, and finally says, "what are you trying to do...?" 

"My phone...is wet..." I say, looking up at her, deflated. 

• She holds up a finger: one second. 
• Comes back with an empty protein bar box. 
• Takes the contents of my umbrella bag and expertly places a layer of rice, the the phone, then sprinkles the rest of the rice on top. she must be my fairy godmother. 
• then she turned away, bored again, to help the next customer in line to check out. 

So now I have an open-faced box of Spanish rice-covered phone, and need to transport it without getting it wet. I cover it with the fruit bag--putting the hole on the bottom of the box. then stack the two rice boxes on top--hoping they'll catch most of the rain. I make it home phone in hand--

Time will tell if my efforts were for naught. 

Now I'm eating a cookie. 

Down the Harvard Rabbit Hole

Welcome to September.

Welcome to the beginning of the school year. Do you remember as a youth that feeling of elation shopping for new pens and composition notebooks with your mother? The palpable, electric undercurrent of a brand new year. Here it is again.

As if somehow a stack of brand-new highlighters, new sticky notes, a new planner holds the key to your happiness. As a reflection of your entire future capabilities: "This year, I'm going to be organized... This year, I'm going to read all the things..."

The stack of beautiful, new, blank pages holds a million possibilities.  A recharge of a feeling that
you can do or be whatever you want to be. (Don't worry, the feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness won't come until later) For now, just enjoy the September feeling of infinite potential.

Now please join me, as we start into a new school year at Harvard. The first thing the Dean says is, "Don't worry. This is not a joke. This is not a dream...." audience exhales "...You are supposed to be here. We did not make a mistake. Welcome to Cambridge."
In other words, Wonderland.

You've now stepped down the rabbit hole into an autumnal, scholastic, magical world. Where, "depending on where you want to get to, if you don't know where you want to go, it doesn't matter which road you take" because down any one of them is enchantment.

Not only are many professors at the top of their field, but many of the concepts they're teaching are ones they discovered or invented. This is not an ivory tower--it's an ivory planning zone. The intellect here is only useful as far as it can contribute to the universe. Professors research intellectually but moreover, practically. "How do we use this knowledge to help..."

If there's magic in the world, it's here:
It's in communities like this; conversations and discourse and learning to help better humanity.

I feel so unbelievably lucky to have stumbled down into this particular magical rabbit hole.

School actually looks like this 

But school Feels like THIS

The Dentist Monologue

My inner monologue when going to the dentist:

You're a grown up. You can handle this. it's not actually painful. Stop whimpering. the doctor hasn't done anything yet.

How am I supposed to handle real life pain if I can't handle a novacaine shot? Like if I ever had to get a surgery. Or have a child?

Averill,You're a grown up. Those noises are just a stranger drilling a hole into your precious teeth. AH!

ok, stop crying. there isn't actually any pain--your mouth is numb.

ugh. your mouth is numb. Don't accidentally bite your tongue!

you can't. your mouth is wired open right now.

this is the worst. I hate this person shaving away my enamel right now. I hate you! I'm sorry, Doctor, I don't really hate you. you're just doing your job. but if you could hurry up this process that'd be great.

By the time they finally release me, they treat me like some sort of war hero: "You did so great in that chair.. How you feeling?...You made it out amazingly...Way to stick in there."

A) Did I have a choice? Could I have been... bad in the chair somehow? B) I'm sure they don't feel the need to validate all their patients--just the small children, and the pathetic adults like myself. C) Ya! I did stick in there! I only mildly cried, and only twice. I should get a medal.

And then I get home, hide in a corner until the novacaine wears off and I can smile like a human, and promise myself I'll floss every night for the rest of my life so I never have to go back to the 10th circle of hell again.