A Letter to Chuck: Post from Crisis Week

Dear Chuck,

Are you really killing yourself to live? Are you sure that life is what’s killing you? I’m not so sure. I learned in my Psychology 101 class in college that we are in control of our emotions. As Michelle Obama said in her speech at the Democratic National Convention, “When they go low, we go high.” We always have the opportunity to transcend our circumstances – haven’t you heard quotes about that? “It’s not about the cards you’re dealt, but how you play the hand.” I know you’ve heard that before!

When I ran into you yesterday on the streets of Kensington, you told me that you were looking for love. You told me that some girl named Quincy whom you used to love decided to get married, but that you aren’t upset about it. You told me you viewed her marriage as a loss; it was a game, there was a winner, and there was a loser. You were the loser.

You talked about how certain people become the model for what love should feel like, and that Quincy will forever be your barometer.

I asked why you came to Kensington. You said that you drove until you felt like you’d arrived. I asked what that meant. You said you always knew when you had found love. I don’t know how I feel about your blanket statements, Chuck.

Before you left, you told me that you were dying. You said that every time someone left you, a piece of your soul died – slowly, and then all at once. I asked you to look around. I asked you to read the news. I asked you to question what you were thinking. I asked you to open your eyes.

And, I’m not sure you will, Chuck. You will probably go back to Spin Magazine and fall in love and out of love and continue making melodramatic statements. That’s okay, I guess. That’s okay.

- Bess 

One Last Piece of Apple Pie, continued

I hadn't had anything to eat all day except for half a cookie of unknown origin I had found laying in the back that morning, and now my stomach was rumbling. I pulled off at the first place I found, which took quite a while given how far away from anything I was. I had stopped in some tiny gas station advertising apple pie, empty except for a single employee, me and two women. I listened to the two women talking in the background as I snarfed my pie. I've never been much for manners, but I still figured listening in on a conversation was at least marginally better that sitting in front of two strangers while forcing food into my mouth like an epileptic backhoe set loose on a fresh batch of intolerant kindergartners. It turns out the one of the women -- I assumed the one sitting next to a backpack bigger than she was -- planned to hike the PCT. Seemed like a crazy idea to me, but I couldn't fault her commitment.

God knows what that cookie was laced with. In hindsight, I probably should have known something was a bit iffy when I found, given both the packaging and the taste. But let's be fair -- I had been hungry. In any case, the cookie had finally hit. It's pitch black now. I see occasional streaks of light, but I can't tell if they were shooting stars, other cars, or my own damn hallucinations. A cool breath pools on the back of my neck and a skeletal hand reaches down to caress my cheek. I turn around instantly. Nothing, but now from the front comes a hollow sigh and the hand reaches down to stroke my chin. It can't be a living man: it's far too cold. These are just hallucinations, I tell myself, trying desperately to find a place to pull aside. Funereal music fills the car and just as suddenly stops. It's dead silent, except for my own breath. Except then I hold my breath, and the breath continues, only now it's hollow and scratchy. I resume breathing, and the other breath is still there, staying in sync with my own.

***

High up along the winding mountain roads, a lone Buick coasts through the night. It moves erratically, dancing along the edge of the cliff. A turn comes; the car seems to accelerate, wheel pointed dead ahead. The guard rail crumples and splits under the speeding steel. It falls, silent, into the vast and gaping void.

Make-Up Blog Post due to Crisis Early in the Quarter (discussed via email)

I don’t know much about the Great Migration. We studied it in school, but all I did was memorize facts so I could pass. I grew up with someone named Ida Mae, though, who taught me a lot about the Great Migration. Her great, great, great, grandmother, also named Ida Mae, left Mississippi after one of her family members was almost killed by a white man. Some turkeys went missing, so they moved to Chicago to find safety. Ida Mae told me that this story was the most important narrative in her family history. She said she felt guilty, though, because she grew up on the streets of Kensington. Her ancestors did so much to create a new life for the generations to come, but Ida Mae ended up begging for food, on the street, with me.

            She started getting educated before I did. She was two years older, and graduated from junior high, high school, and college before I stepped foot on the sacred ground. Ida Mae had just graduated from college when Michael Brown was shot to death by a white police officer in Ferguson, Missouri. She remembered her namesake – Ida Mae who lived through the Great Migration – and started protesting. Ida Mae met the creators of the #BlackLivesMatter movement, Patrisse Cullors, Opal Tomenti, and Alicia Garza, in St. Louis as they were raising their voices for all black lives. She sent me texts as she took to the streets, but in a completely different way than we did growing up. She was championing a movement that honored her grandmother and all the women that came before her.  

Meeting Ms. Strayed

Reaching California in this red station wagon Volvo felt like a momentous step in my journey. It's wild how many interesting people I've met along the way. A man with his dog, a man with his motorcycle, a man with his son. You get it, lots of men.

An observation: in road trip movies and movies in general, it's not out of the blue to see men peeing in scenes, but that never happens with women. Why is that? I mean, I guess guys have different hardware and all, but I'm just saying it might be refreshing to see things shaken up a little bit.

Any way, as I sped along into the Golden State, I thought it would be a good idea to take a detour and go into a more remote region, to get in touch with nature some. It was a place called Kennedy Meadows.

Believe it or not, that's a place where a lot of hikers gather who are hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, which spans from Mexico to Washington. I kind of wish I could do something like that, and I suppose I could, but I could never draw the courage to do that kind of thing alone - even though I think alone is the best way to do it.

While people watching, I spotted a young woman ambling by, beneath the weight of an enormous, and I mean enormous backpack. Her gait made me think that she had injured her foot, or maybe even both of her feet. She walked right into the convenience store, alone. I felt profoundly interested in this woman, especially that she was alone, so I also entered the convenience store, at her heels.

She walked straight to the clear refrigerator, to the snapples and gazed longingly. I could see that in her hand was a handful of loose change, and she was counting the coins. I knew she didn't have enough.

"Hey," I said, "I can spot you, if you like."
She glanced over, her face instantly grateful.
I bought her the snapple - just a dollar. And she guzzled it down thirstily.
I found out that her name is Cheryl Strayed and she's hiking this whole trail alone, to find herself because her mother passed away. Cheryl here was very blunt in saying this. I got the sense that she was trying something new, and that the trail helped her to be this way.

I wonder if by escaping to nature Cheryl is doing exactly the same thing as what I am doing.
I wonder if there's a sliding scale of looking for America, starting with doing it on foot like Cheryl, or on a motorcycle. I remember the last guy I met critiquing American car culture, saying that riding around in a car is like seeing America on a television rather than really experiencing it.

I don't know about that. I don't know if I really want to do what Ms. Strayed is doing with her life.

All I know is that I feel like I'm in a rut, and I can see all these people doing something about it, and from the outside it looks like they're addressing their ruts and I still can't seem to move.

I'm glad I got to buy Cheryl Strayed a snapple. I'll definitely remember her, and her cool name.

Kennedy Meadows

      I guess if I had to say one thing that I took away from my travels across America when I was younger, it was an appreciation for transiency. In the young, that is. I learned so much during the time that I rode trains and cars and highways from Nebraska to the West Coast and back. Meeting interesting people (both those that were also on the road and those that were indivisible from the place in which you had met them), changing your plans based on a whim or on the necessities of the road, and taking time by oneself to reflect were the valuable experiences that I gained while traveling, bringing me from a girl to a woman.
     These days I experienced transiency more consistently (as ironic as that may sound). Every summer I travel from my home in Denver to California to observe and watch hikers on the Pacific Crest Trail. In the hikers' lingo I was a "trail angel." For the past few years I had made my place at Kennedy Meadows, one of the earlier stops along the trail where hikers could restock supplies and rest their bodies and souls.
      Early in the summer of 1995 I was manning my post at the Kennedy Meadows General Store when a woman who looked to have encountered more difficulty than most of the other hikers approached. It was rare to see a woman hiking alone on the trail, and she reminded me of the days when I had travelled alone as a young woman.
     "PCT hiker?" I started the conversation.
     "Oh, yes I am," she said, confused. I got the sense that she wasn't used to identifying herself that way.
     "Is this your first stop?" I asked.
     "Yes, it is. I just came from the campsite to get my things" she said with some relief.
     "Well, I'll let you go on inside then," I said. She moved forward slowly, with her huge pack making her movements weighted and clumsy. She haphazardly made her way up the three steps and into the store, her pack swaying rather dangerously with each step. I wasn't sure if I should be amused or saddened by this young, clearly-inexperienced hiker.
     Looking down, I spotted something shiny on the ground. I decided on amused when I picked it up and realized it was a roll of condoms.

blog post week 10

Response to “One Last Piece of Apple Pie”

I was just finishing up a quick hike when I inadvertently entered the parking lot of a small gas station in the middle of nowhere.  I had decided to take a quick hike on my long journey, as I had been so sedentary and knew that there were beautiful hikes around here.  The quick four mile hike I took provided a wonderful break from the days and days of driving that I had endured. 

As I walked through the parking lot I noticed a bright sign advertising apple pie.  I was famished, and started toward the entrance.  As I walked towards the gas station, I passed a woman, who paused, looking me up and down, and fixing her gaze on my hiking boots.  “Are you hiking the PCT as well?” she inquired. 

“The what?” I asked.

“The Pacific Crest Trail. It runs from Mexico to Canada.  A woman in there is doing it and I was wondering if you were doing it as well, as you are wearing hiking boots and all.” 

I laughed and responded that I had only done a four mile hike, and was definitely not capable of embarking on a hike from Mexico to Canada!  She told me that the woman she spoke to inside the gas station was hiking the PCT solo, and commented on how dangerous that must be.  I agreed.  I had been told throughout my journey how dangerous it was for me to be traveling alone as a woman.  But hiking the PCT solo as a woman is probably infinitely more hazardous, and it took some real guts to do it.  I wondered what motivated this woman to embark on this journey, and considered asking the woman I met if she knew.  But I felt weird asking that question, and decided against it. I would just have to wonder about this mysterious woman without ever knowing her story or meeting her. 

On Gratitude: All The People I'll Never Be

Psalm 31:10 says, “You did it: you changed wild lament into whirling dance; You ripped off my black mourning band and decked me with wildflowers.” I went to Standing Rock because I believed in fighting for “whirling dance.” So much of what we hear on the news is about “wild lament.”  My parents make fun of me because every time I open a newspaper because I start crying. It’s not just the news, either. It’s the quiet moments when a friend shares a story of sexual assault and cries because the police department isn’t doing anything to help. It’s the staggering number of friends who have had loved ones pass this year. It’s the people who grew up on the streets with me. It’s the people who’re still there.  It’s the darkest corners of our lives and the simplest, lightest, most singular and luminous moments, because darkness doesn’t break through without light: it’s the rule.

While on the road, I’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude. President Obama ruled that the pipeline be blocked. People are kissing and hugging and singing and laughing at Standing Rock right now, because our President has reminded the country that our voices still can be heard. When we cry, the government hears us, and they listen.

I arrived in Colorado a week ago, and I met someone interesting a few nights ago. Her name is Cheryl Strayed. She just finished hiking the Pacific Crest Trail – all by herself! I’ve always been scared to travel alone, but Cheryl did it! She was alone, in nature, all by herself, and it helped her point north again. She told me about her ex-boyfriend, and the cheating, and the heroine, and the tears on the trail. She talked about the scabs and the books and her mother and the Bridge of the Gods. She seems light and ebullient; her demeanor did not match the stories she told me about her former self. 

I came to Standing Rock because I wanted to help change the world. Cheryl seemed to suggest that there was a way to change ourselves in the process. My mind has been so small for so long – focused only on Kensington, my family, and my future. Someone was telling me about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs the other day. I guess now that I have an education my immediate needs have been fulfilled, and I can now think about the pursuit of happiness. What does it mean to be happy? Am I happy? How can I become happy?

As always, the road has created more questions than answers. Cheryl said something funny last night. After she reached the Bridge of the Gods, she thought about how wild it was, to simply let her emotions be. I didn’t come from a lot of privilege, but I have the opportunity to make a real change now; I can be anyone I want to be. Maybe I’ll run a marathon, or hike a million miles like Cheryl, or move to Greece, or sell all of my things, and stay on the road forever. All I really want, though, is to go back to Kensington. I love my family, and my friends, and my community there. All that matters in this life are the relationships we build and what we do with our love. I want to move mountains with my love. I want to move mountains with the people I've been entrusted to care for in this life -- back home, in Kensington.