November 7th, 2003

It has been quite some time since I wrote a post about grief.

I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe it’s that I’ve had so many things happen recently that I’m too distracted to think about my dad. Maybe it’s because I typically write during downtime at work and am unwilling to go there. Maybe it’s part of getting older and distancing myself from my dad’s death. Don’t get me wrong – I miss him often. The Eagles Super Bowl, my brother having a baby, my nephew’s music career taking off… but it has been awhile since I’ve felt true grief.

Today I’m breaking that streak.

I’m writing a book about the year my dad died. All of the time I’ve spent on the book so far has been on the events leading up to his accident. The weight of replaying his death was pushed aside as I reveled in taking a walk down the path that led me to my 8th grade friends. It stung a bit when I talked about the ways my dad and I didn’t quite see eye to eye but I’ve made peace with a lot of that.

Maybe I’m more of an optimist than I give myself credit for because I didn’t think it’d be hard to replay the days right before his accident. I thought that since I replayed them in my mind hundreds of times, writing them down would be no different. Oh, how naive I was mere hours ago. Because as I started to write about the last time my dad picked me up from school, I had to choke back tears and fight to keep myself together until I got to a good enough stopping point to grab my stuff and head back to my apartment.

I know writing this book is ultimately good for me. It’s helping me realize things about myself that I truly didn’t know existed. It helps me process my thoughts and gives me some sort of control over such a horrific part of my life. But sometimes it reveals parts of me that I wish didn’t exist.

My guiding light is to be as truthful as humanly possible when writing about events that happened fourteen years ago. The whole reason I’m writing this book, aside from my own selfish desire to record my life and prove that I went through it for something greater than pure pain, is that I want other kids going through similar situations to know they’re not alone. I would have given anything to know a story like my own when I was a teenager. I would have loved to be told by someone who has been through it that it’s okay not to be okay. That I’ll never fully have it all figured out but the good days will eventually outweigh the bad and at the end of the day, the worst year of my life would also hold some of the best days of my life. So I’m not masking how I feel, which I’m coming to find is hard as fuck.

The chapter that got me today is called November 7th, 2003 and is about the last time my dad picked me up from middle school. He called me out on wearing a skirt that my mom told me I couldn’t wear to school and I was irritable. He took me out for ice cream and our conversation was forced. He was trying to reach me and I just wasn’t there. I didn’t want to be reached. I was a pissed off teenage girl who just wanted to be anywhere but with her parents.

I told him that he needed a new car. I was embarrassed because we had an old car and I was now going to a school where a lot of my friends were more well off than we were. He told me the only way he could afford one would be if someone crashed into him. I secretly hoped it would happen. I didn’t want him to be hurt, or anything like that, I just wanted the car to be banged up a bit so we could get a new one. That’s not what I’m having a hard time with. I understand and accept that it was an uncanny remark that ironically foreshadowed what was to come. While I was convinced at first that those words caused my dad’s death, I didn’t live in that ridiculous theory for more than a day or two.

The part that haunts me the most is what came next. My dad parked in our driveway and sat for a few seconds in the driver’s seat. I wondered why he wasn’t getting out. I followed suit and allowed the awkward silence to float over the car. After a few more seconds he looked at me and said the sentence that I wish I could erase from my brain.

“Sometimes I feel like you don’t love me.” 

“Of course I do!” I shot back. But despite my best attempt, I don’t think I convinced either of us. He smiled at me, got out of the car and headed into our apartment. I remained there and felt like I had just been punched in the gut. Because the truth was, I couldn’t find it within myself in that moment to love him. I wanted to. I knew my dad was one of the best around and that even our recent inability to see eye to eye couldn’t erase that.

I sat in the car for a few minutes eating my ice cream between sobs. I wanted so badly to be able to tell my dad that I loved him and mean it. I searched and searched for the love I knew he deserved but kept on coming up empty. I wanted so badly to be able to run up to him, throw my arms around him, and tell him that I loved him but my broken thirteen year old heart had been through too many changes in too short of a time and I blamed him for all of it. In the moment, I couldn’t tell him that I loved him. And I knew I couldn’t fool either of us.

I felt like the worst daughter in the world. I knew my dad was a good man and that I was lucky to have him as a father. I wanted so badly to say that I loved him, I knew deep down I did, but I didn’t feel it in my heart. I couldn’t help but wonder – What was wrong with me? Why was I so broken?

After calming myself down, I made my way up to our apartment. My dad, resilient as ever, already outwardly moved past what must have been one of the most heartbreaking exchanges of his life. He was all smiles when I walked in, as if nothing had happened. Looking back, I’m sure I hurt him. Every parent fears the day their child resents them. While they recognize that it’s the natural way of things, and that it’ll pass, no one enjoys the moment it knocks on their door.

And I know every teenager goes through a period like that. But not every teenager’s dad gets in a car accident the next night that would eventually end in his unexpected death.

That’s what’s so cruel about losing a parent at thirteen. You don’t get to grow up and apologize for how selfish you were as a teenager. On the day you finally realize everything your parent did for you, they’ll be long in their grave. You don’t get to look back and laugh at the way you acted and you don’t get to make up for your mistakes.

With my mom, I was able to have that conversation where I tell her I see how much she sacrificed for us and she tells me it’s a mother’s job. Where I tell her that I’m sorry for the way I treated her and she reassures me that every teen is like that. I didn’t get to do that with my dad.

And yes, I know he knew. I’ve been told every single comforting phrase from every single person in my life. He’s watching over me and knows. Everyone is like that as a teenager. He would never want to see you beat yourself up. He loves you and you love him and that’s what matters. I’m a good person.

But there’s a difference between the closure you get when you can have that physical conversation with someone and trying to read the mind of a ghost.

No matter how much I’ve tried to forgive myself, or how many times I’ve been told that he knew I loved him, I’m sitting here fourteen years later with the same pit in my stomach and hole in my heart. And honestly I don’t think it can be repaired. The only way I could ever patch it is if I had been able to have a conversation with my dad about that day. That opportunity is just something that can’t happen.

And that’s okay.

We all have sharp, broken pieces. We can smooth out as much as possible, but there will always be some holes. It’s part of being human. We try to ease our suffering as much as possible but there will always be some things that hurt as bad as they did on the day we got those wounds. And we will spend so much time trying to twist them and pretend they’re not there. We’ll search for any words from friends, family, therapists, teachers, books… anything to try and fix it. Our loved ones will try and patch it up for us because it hurts them to see us hurt. But at the end of the day, we can’t fix everything. And that’s one of the most beautifully human things about us.

I don’t hate myself and don’t live every day regretting what happened on November 7th. It’s one unfortunately timed day out of a million wonderful moments that made up my relationship with my dad. It wasn’t the defining moment. My worth isn’t defined by that single exchange and I can live with what happened. Most days I forget it even happened.

But sometimes it creeps up, or you decide to rip it wide open by writing a book about your life, and you want to crawl back into your thirteen year old body and hide away in you reading teacher’s classroom or group therapy room or behind your stack of books. Those nights are hard, lonely, and unable to be smoothed over with good intentions or reassurance.

I’ve been down this road before, and know that at this point in my life, it ends with waking up tomorrow feeling fine. But tonight I’m sad. And that’s okay. Because my dad died as the result of car crash when I was thirteen and that really fucking sucks.

That’s what grief is.

It’s ugly, it’s uninvited. But it’s real, and it’s the truth.

Teens these days.

(Photo: Carol Kaliff, Hearst Connecticut Media)

Today kids across America walked out of school to protest gun violence and the inability for our government to pass common sense gun control.

That’s incredible. I can only imagine being a government & politics teacher, or any other branch of history/American studies, and witnessing your students actively participating in and organizing peaceful protests. Or deciding not to participate because they didn’t agree with the protests. Either way, it’s a teach by doing moment. It’s teaching kids to be actionable instead of simply memorizing facts or spitting out theory.

Facebook is flooded with posts of alum, teachers and parents talking about the school walkouts or walk ins, where assemblies are being held in memory of the students killed due to gun violence. CNN is live-streaming the walkouts and the words of our CT Senator Chris Murphy. Across the nation kids are holding up signs stating their beliefs and desire for the adults in charge to be actionable. They are no longer complicit and trusting that adults will get the work done. The Parkland students showed them that their voice matters even when they are unable to vote. That you don’t have to wait until you’re 18 to voice political opinions.

I was young for my grade and didn’t turn 18 until I was in college. I remember being furious that I couldn’t vote in the primaries that year, even though I would be 18 by the general election. I was always highly opinionated when it came to politics, thanks to my mother who was always a well-informed citizen and my brother, who walked into the Democratic Headquarters at 16 to start volunteering. I would tag along with him, making calls to remind democrats and independents to vote, checking in on our elderly residents to see if any needed rides to polls, attending Chris Murphy’s debates when running for Congress, joining the Young Dems chapter my brother helped start and my favorite part of the process: going from poll to poll on election night to watch them count then ending back at Headquarters or a restaurant to hear the results roll in. I couldn’t vote, but I was more engaged in the political process than most adults.

Which was why I was furious when adults would undermine my intelligence in my teenage years. I would often hear that my opinions, and the opinions of my peers, were just echos of my family’s beliefs. I understand the thought, and recognize that may be true in some cases, but I could never understand why my civics teacher would take so much time explaining our nation’s workings to us, only to tell me that my opinions were just something I inherited from my parents when I got in a fight with a classmate over Bush’s reelection. Of course my family influenced my beliefs, but I was also smart enough to research and act on my own. I was old enough to hold opinions.

I remember a car ride where my mom and brother were talking a politics. I listened without much input, thinking instead of my recent civics lesson on political parties.

“What if I’m a Republican instead of a Democrat?” I asked my family.

I was constantly the lawyer of the family. I always wanted to think about situations from a different angle. A contrarian, always thinking of the other side before agreeing with my family.

“Your beliefs line up with the Democratic Party,” my mom replied.

“But what if they don’t? What if I’m a Republican instead?” I asked.

“Then you can be a Republican.”

I went home and did all the research I could on both parties. I spent hours trying to understand the difference and political platforms. I weighed policies against my moral beliefs and found that I did side with the Dems.

All of this was done my freshman year of high school. Clearly I was already intelligent and thoughtful enough to question my beliefs and recheck them against my political affiliation. My thoughts and opinions haven’t changed much. They evolved slightly with the times and my maturity. Whereas I used to think we should eliminate marriage entirely, calling everything a civil union, so we can eliminate the religious context of marriage, I’ve realized that battle gets misconstrued and calling everything a marriage is a better angle. I used to be much more fiscally liberal that I am today. I used to be pro-choice under medical necessity but am now entirely pro-choice. Tiny tweaks, but my adult mind is still in line with my teen mind.

So I still get angry that I was always underestimated. That adults did not believe that I researched my policies enough. To be fair, this still happens. I was constantly accused for siding with Hillary instead of Bernie because she was a woman, when in reality I thought she was the most qualified candidate we ever had and her fiscally moderate policies enabled me to reap benefits while still covering costs of social security and welfare.

People may say that I was a different type of teen. That not everyone was as mature. Well then, why not teach them to find their own opinions instead of dismissing them?

I think adults fall into an awful habit of thinking kids don’t know enough. We talk down to them and assume they can’t possibly understand. But clearly they do.

Today’s teens are living in a world where any question they have can be answered in a matter of seconds on their phones. Teenagers are actually MUCH better at recognizing “fake news” than we are. Aside from their obvious increased technical literacy, they’re also taught how to seek out information. As students, they have access to online encyclopedias and academic research. They’re constantly being told not to trust sites like Facebook and Wikipedia, and instead fact check every piece of information they want to use. They’re writing research reports and getting graded on whether or not their facts are confirmed. They’re much better at finding the truth than we are.

Without the ability to vote, I believe they’re getting antsy. I remember talking to my cousins, just shy of 18, about how much it sucked to be unable to vote in such an important presidential election. And now here we are, with massive school shootings happening at levels that I can’t even comprehend, and they’re done with us adults. They can’t vote, but they can speak for themselves and remind politicians that they’re voting very, very soon.

We need to stop underestimating kids and instead listen to them. That’s how I treat the kids I babysit. I never want to influence their own moral and political beliefs, so I just listen to them and encourage them to think about where they stand. The other day a kid I babysat was doing a project on trans kids and I found that she knew way more than even I did. I offered no opinions and instead just let her inform me on the topic. When I was watching some younger kids, someone came to the door who was running for local office. What followed was an hour long conversation with the kids about what their platforms would be and how they can run for office within their school. While I would steer at times, like suggesting they invest in scientific research when they said they wanted to stop all hurricanes, I let them carry the conversation.

We invest so much time and money into our kids and their education. But often when they want to show us the results of that investment, we don’t listen. While what happened at Stoneman Douglas was horrific, it is inspiring to see the students use their voices and speak up for themselves when a politician is dismissive of their question. Unless you’re a teacher or school employee, the topic of school shootings will ALWAYS impact the kids in your life more than it will ever impact you. Empower them to use their voices, especially if they’re teenagers. I’m so proud of these teens who are speaking up for the students in Sandy Hook who are still too young to speak for themselves. There are no longer only parents representing their students, but students themselves being actionable.

Keep going teens. Stand up for what you believe in and know that your mind is worthy of respect and your opinions are worth being heard.

Moving on.

When I moved to Chicago, I thought I’d leave before college graduation.

I wanted to be a teacher and it made sense to my seventeen year old self to only go to an out of state college for three years then come back to CT or NY to get certified within that state. But when I changed my major three days into my freshman year, that plan went out the window.

I was supposed to move back to the East Coast after college graduation. Actually, I did move back to the East Coast. Well, kinda. I did not renew my lease in Chicago. I packed up and planned to move home but was called in for a job interview. The day before going home, I put all of my stuff in storage then went on the interview. I figured that if I didn’t get the job, I could come back and get my stuff. Then I packed all my clothes and headed home. We immediately went on vacation for a week where I found out that I was being called in for a second interview. After vacation, I headed back to Chicago and took the job. So essentially, I just over packed for vacation

When I started working in Chicago, I had no immediate plans to leave. I always knew I would eventually end up on the East Coast, but I never had a definite time frame. My standard answer was that I would be in Chicago for two more years, which turned into three, which turned into four. Two years ago, I was ready to pack up everything and move to Los Angeles but breaking my knee put those plans on hold. I wasn’t too upset about that though because Chicago always pulled me back.

I’m nine and a half years into my extended stay in Chicago. I love this city with my entire heart. I love the people I met and the strangers who greet me with the kindness and optimism that can only be traced back to the Midwest. I love taking an hour long walk after work along the lake and finding myself still in awe of our skyline. I love the neighborhoods I lived in – Lincoln Park, the Southport Corridor of Lakeview and now Uptown. I love that I always find something new in the city like how expansive Montrose Park is or where to order the best Chicken Shawarma plate. I love when I find myself back on DePaul’s campus and replay the memories: the quad where I used to run through the sprinklers after a night of drinking, the dorm where I met my best friends, the hall where I was initiated into Chi Omega. I feel the pit in my stomach churning when I find myself by my old place on Cornelia, wishing I had enough money to buy the townhouse that I loved so much. I like the way we all gather inside for long nights of beers and Christmas lights in the winter and eat outside every night in the summer. I love Eagles games at Mad River, our annual Christmas Trolley and late nights after comedy shows at Old Town Alehouse. I love how it’s in the middle of the country so flying to either coast is not a hassle. In college I cried on every ride to the airport down Lake Shore Drive. I knew I would be back soon, but I never wanted to leave. I would strain my neck looking back at the skyline on the way to Midway until it was completely out of view.

I never wanted to permanently live in Chicago. I stand by that. For every reason I have for loving Chicago, I have another reason I want to be home. The thought of raising children so far away from my family is worse than leaving Chicago. I don’t want to be a long distance aunt anymore. I missed a lot of my nephew and cousins growing up and while I don’t regret my time here, it’s bittersweet to see all the time lost whenever I realize how old they are. While I pride myself in being a lot more present these days because I’m more financially stable, I want to be able to join in on all the little things the next generation of my family will bring. I want to be at sports games and school plays and whenever I have my own kids, I want sleepovers with cousins and dinners with grandma. Beyond family, I miss New England. I miss having four seasons instead of two and being so close to so many major cities. I don’t like that each time I come home it’s an event. I want to be able to visit with friends without feeling like I’m stiffing my family. I’d like to be able to relax instead of making sure I got to see everyone while home. And I miss New England falls. GOD how I miss New England falls. I miss the hills and the trees and the mountains. I miss the foliage and the scent of October. I miss being able to hike up real trails instead of city paths.

But each time I think I’m ready to leave, something pulls me back. It’s not easy being in love with a city so far from home. I wish New York or Philadelphia had the same vibe as Chicago.

I know that in the next few years I’ll be leaving this city. Where I’m going next I’m not too sure of. I don’t know if I want to spend a year in LA living in warm weather for once before returning to the East Coast, or if I just want to head straight home. I’m not even sure of where on the East Coast I want to live. While I’m 90% sure I’ll end up in New York City, which would split the difference between my extended family in New Jersey and my immediate family in Connecticut, I’m not positive. I may jet out to California in a year then head over to New York City a year or two later. But whatever way I split it, I have two years max left in Chicago.

I’ve set dates on moves before, so I know things can change. But the problem is that I keep on delaying my departure which makes it more difficult to leave. I fall more in love with this city with each passing year. There are some good reasons why I haven’t left Chicago, like breaking my knee and wanting to stay with my medical team until completely recovered, but the truth is that I’m also terrified. I wasn’t scared of going to college. Everyone made some sort of leap that year. And while I was constantly scared after college, it was also a normal transitional period. But here I am, in my late twenties, and there are no external forces like going to college or joining the workforce to push me out. This decision is completely self-motivated and I’m the only one that can execute it. I’m scared that I won’t find the same support group I have here. I’m worried that moving closer to my family will keep me from hustling in comedy. I’m concerned that my constant indecisiveness on where to live will be what keeps relationships from forming.

My friends in Connecticut and Los Angeles will all confirm that I’m not a great long distance friend. I miss and love them but get distracted when I’m in a different city. I push away from the ones I’m really close to because it hurts to know we no longer live close enough to be dependent on each other. I try to separate myself so I’m not disappointed when their life eventually goes on and they find someone to fill my void in their new city. I want to change these things about myself, but I know that it’s something I struggle with.

I know that Chicago will always be here to visit. But I loved being a resident. I know my close friends will remain my close friends and I’ll probably come back as often as I jet to the East Coast right now. And I know that if I ever find that I made the wrong decision, there’s a three story walkup on Cornelia Ave. that I’m more than happy to put a down payment on.

I chose the perfect city to become an adult in, both legally and mentally. Any pain or hurt is almost always the result of loving something, so I’m thankful that I found myself in a city that I loved so hard.

After almost 10 years, I’ll finally answer the most frequently asked question of an East Coast transplant: Chicago is WAY better than New York*. But sometimes the thing we love most isn’t what fits best.

*(Except for the pizza. NYC thin crust over Chicago any day.)

Let people lead their own stories.

As a Chicago resident who is also a huge Eagles fan, I spend almost every Sunday of the football season at Chicago’s Eagles bar, Mad River. This past season I went alone for the first time. I was scared of going to a bar alone but figured if I got there early enough, I could grab a bar seat which would make my solo journey a little less noticeable. When I got to the bar there was one seat left at the end next to a woman around my age. I figured she was saving it for a significant other, because I’m a bad feminist, but decided to ask anyways. To my surprise, she was also alone. I soon found that there are a lot of solo riders at sports bars. East Coast transplants who don’t have the energy to convince their Bears friends to peel away from their own game for an afternoon to come to an Eagle’s bar. I spent the rest of the season sitting at the bar and getting to know new Eagles fans.

Over the season, I inevitably made new friends. When you’re spending 6 hours, or 12 hours during playoff games, at a bar, you get to know people well. We exchanged stories of superstitions, trash talked Chip Kelly and shared fond memories of watching games with our families.

After the super bowl, one of my friends and I went back to Mad River for one last drink at the bar that brought us so much luck that year. Without the distraction of the game, we got to chatting about our lives. During the season I had been at Mad River healthy, was absent for a couple weeks, then came back on crutches. As I recovered, I went down to one crutch then eventually was able to start walking without them. Everyone knew I had knee surgery, and made sure to keep a close eye as I stood on the bar pouring champagne into the mouths of fellow fans after our NFC championship game, and she wanted to know the full story. I proceeded to tell her all about the accident and struggles with my first doctor. Before I could get into the story with my first doctor, she asked: “Did he let you get an MRI?” “No!” I responded, with a hint of excitement of recognition in my voice. “You always know a bad doctor when they won’t prescribe a MRI,” she responded. I could tell that she had experience in that area.

She proceeded to tell me a story about how she almost died due to a doctor not prescribing a MRI. When she pushed for it, her doctor still wouldn’t budge so she stopped complaining. On a visit home, her mom forced her to a different doctor, who saved her life with emergency surgery.

I was speechless. Here was this person who I got to know well over the course of several months, and I had no idea that she had such a near death, life defining experience. I knew she preferred American to Whiz but didn’t know why she had a scar on her head. It’s not so much that I didn’t notice it, I just didn’t really care when I saw it. Chalked it up to a childhood accident, or car accident, or who cares what, it’s not my business.

One thing I’ve realized about myself is that I don’t really ask anyone their story. It’s not that I don’t care about the story… in fact, I often find it the most captivating part of a person. I have just realized over time that people will tell you their story when they’re ready to tell you their story.

There are large chunks of my life that I’ve told to a stranger but am not willing to share with my close friends. There are things I don’t want my coworkers to know but broadcast on the internet. There are points in my life where I would tell telemarketers that my dad was traveling, or tell guys at a bar that he worked in IT, because I didn’t feel like being reminded of his death.

I’ve also learned a thing or two through life. My mom always taught me that there were things about people that were far more important than race and when I would refer to someone as “my Hispanic friend” she would press me to help her remember who the person was beyond their heritage. What was their personality? Where could she have met them before? My friends have expressed how much they hate that the “where are you from” question is the first question asked of them. I’ve learned that friends have hometowns they don’t like to be reminded of and asking about family life is not always a warm opening.

Through all those experiences, I’ve learned that we never need to feel pressured to hit every base right away when getting to know someone. I remember I used to hate when I would disclose that my dad died, only to be asked how immediately. I thought that was so self-indulgent. Why does it matter? So you can quantify my hardship? So you can make sure it was a freak accident that wouldn’t happen to you? The only time I was ever cool with it is when people asked because they could relate. My dad died in a car crash, their mom died in a hospital. Not an exact match, but enough of a community.

A lot of times we ask abrupt questions because we genuinely want to know more about people. The intention is fine – we’re curious beings and want to know about the others around us. But after my dad died, and I hated being asked that question, I started challenging myself to not ask other people questions that are too pointed. When I did that, I started finding out that the stories eventually come out anyways… now they just come out on the owner’s terms. I have to imagine that’s a much healthier way to go about things.

For quite a few years, I’ve trusted that I’ll eventually come to know the things about my friends that I’m curious about. I’ll learn their heritage when we’re in the middle of a conversation about our grandparents and they talk about their immigration process. I’ll figure out where they grew up when they tell me about their favorite baseball team. The reason they limp will become evident when they disclose their birth defect after a long night of chatting about god knows what. Eventually everything comes out, we just have to decide who sets the pace.

I usually find more out about people when I’m willing to talk about my scars. I expose some of mine, which makes them comfortable to do the same. Humans want to connect and we will unravel those complexities eventually. Let’s just find a pace that suits both of us.

I don’t always follow my own advice, and sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me, but I try to remind myself to work on letting others tell their own story. Allowing them the space to tell it, but also not asking the type of questions that will force them to. We always get there eventually.

I think the world is a little healthier if we let people lead their own stories.

Cultivating a creative mind.

I spend most of my day thinking about The Lion King.

I sit next to a window and over the past month or so, they’ve been letting the grass grow to what I can only describe as “Lion King grass.” Every morning, I raise my fancy ergonomic desk to the stand position and imagine a chorus of “aaaahhhh zabenyaaaa” in my head. That’s the way my mind works.

I run into cubicles daily. I have bruises on my arms from routinely running into the shadow boxes that line my office’s walls. I dislocated my thumb by accidentally sitting on it at my desk. You see, my depth perception is depleted as I concentrate on more important things: narrating my life, creating character profiles of the people I pass, wishing I was Simba.

I have a creative brain. More specifically, a writer’s brain. Which means it never stops. Podcasts help keep it busy, but even then, I find myself writing down lines, phrases and words that I like. By the end of the day, the notebook I keep next to my keyboard is filled with quotes, titles and ideas.

Recently, I was reading a friend’s status about being an art teacher these days and it made me really, really depressed. She talked about how she’s at the bottom of the totem pole – deemed a privilege instead of a necessity. Schools are struggling to keep up with standardized tests and art electives are being replaced by additional test prep.

I would have never survived that type of atmosphere. I’ve always been smart, but not in a way that was reflected on a standardized test. My above average english and reading scores would make up for my below average math scores and at the end of the day, I was very average. I hated math and science. My mind just didn’t work that way and I found myself bored – staring out the window and making up lines to a story that didn’t yet exist.

However, my school, teachers and family understood the way my mind worked. And I didn’t go to any fancy bougie school. In fact, the school that I went was publicly exposed as a “failing school.”

This is what my “failing school” did for me:

– When I wasn’t challenged enough in my reading classes, I was pulled out of class and into a room with a few other students to learn at a pace that was more individualized and catered to me. Since I already knew how to read, it emphasized basic writing skills and encouraged me to journal. Our principal, who had ten thousand other things to worry about, took time out of his day to let me come into his office and read my latest installment of “Annie’s Life.”

– In kindergarten, my teacher took time out of class to let us make a band called “The Lion King Band.” Instead of going over the alphabet again and again and again, we practiced and would perform at school lunches, picnics, and assemblies.

– When I was in 4th and 5th grade, I was placed in All-City Orchestra, which was an orchestra composed of kids from different elementary schools that met and rehearsed at the middle school a couple hours every month. I’d be pulled out of math, my worst subject, to go to this without hesitation or opposition.

My parents were just as supportive. Instead of grilling me about my below average math skills, they let me just get by, understanding that I’d never be great at it. They encouraged me to try a little harder, but didn’t let the D that I got in science get in the way of celebrating the fact that I got the highest English score in my grade. Instead of forcing me to study for a subject I hated, they let me continue to write stories, poems, songs and movie scripts that would never get turned in. My mom let me drop trigonometry when I complained that the hours of homework were too much for something I didn’t care about. Instead, I took another study hour which I would spend in my theater teacher’s room rehearsing, discussing Broadway shows and coming up with new ideas. I took the math and science classes necessary to graduate, got the SAT score needed to get into the college I wanted to go to, but stopped there. Instead, I spent hours writing, reading, rehearsing and took four different english classes during my senior year.

While the STEM life is definitely for some people, it wasn’t for me. It was painfully boring for me to learn those disciplines. I didn’t think that way, nor was I interested in thinking that way. I went to school on the cusp of NCLB – narrowly escaping it’s impact on my school. My teachers weren’t very concerned about my inability to think further than the basic level when it came to math and science. They didn’t push me against my will to get better at them so that I could bring the school average up. They let me get by, didn’t dwell on my weaknesses, and instead celebrated my accomplishments in english and the arts. My teachers came to my plays, let me rehearse for talent shows during our down time, and let me learn individually when I was going a little faster than the rest of my class. There was nothing standardized about my education.

I wouldn’t be where I am today without that. I was given the advantage of following my passions and having a supportive atmosphere in which to do so. Art electives were deemed necessary to keep me functioning in school and “just getting by” in math and science was fine, because they knew that I didn’t have interest in either. My “failing school” was the perfect environment to grow up in and is a large part of the reason why I’m able to perform, write and follow what I love to do. There wasn’t a single person telling me that I couldn’t, or shouldn’t, seek a career in the arts.

Cultivating a creative mind doesn’t mean that you have to sacrifice education. It just means that you understand an individual’s limits and passions. You listen to them and what they love to learn about. Even with a “creative mind” that was raised in a “failing school”, I still graduated college with a dual degree and obtained full-time employment. And because the school I went to embraced all the facets that made my mind operate, I am able to write, create and perform at the same time.

My two sources of stability.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t write about grief so much. I wish I didn’t talk about it, I wish I didn’t think about it, I wish I wasn’t that person who can’t seem to let it go. But the truth is that 11 out of my 24 years were spent in the world of grief – almost half of my life. It’s what I know and, like it or not, it defines who I am. It’s what I consider myself an expert in. It would be much cooler to be trilingual or a dog whisperer, but ya know. Whatever. I’m learning to accept my fate.

My dad died as a result of a car crash when I was 13. What makes as a result different than in? Well, to make a long story short: someone crashed into his car, he was fine, and then he wasn’t. It’s a bitch because it gives you this thing called hope then robs it from you. Yeah, I’m a little bitter.

When I think back on that time, there are two things that gave me the stability I so desperately needed. These two things are what I am thankful for every single day, because without them, I have no idea how I would have survived.

The first is my relationship with my 8th grade teacher, Bevin. I can’t mention this time without mentioning her. I wrote a post about her last year that I urge you to read. In addition to the many life lessons she offered, she taught me that you have to reach out to people.

I hated being vulnerable, and I still don’t love it. I’d rather hide behind writing. Bevin was the one person I could talk to, which was convenient because I couldn’t run from her. I loved to run. I could run from therapists, my family… practically everyone. But Monday through Friday, without fail, I had to see her at least once in her class.

This taught me a very important coping mechanism. I don’t like reaching out to many people. So when I do, I make sure it’s to someone I can’t avoid. Someone I have to see at least once a week, no matter what. I don’t always reach out looking for answers or advice… sometimes I just send a cryptic text full of bullshit. Putting it out in the world makes me feel better – it’s like an insurance plan. Most days I’m fine, but in the off-chance I freak out, there’s someone around who already knows what I’m going through because I’ve sent them a text saying “I’M SUCH A FLAKY BITCH” or “WHO THE FUCK DO I THINK I AM?”. Someone who I don’t have to explain anything to. Someone who can just calm me down. I’m a high maintenance friend and I’m incredibly thankful that these people put up with me (Sophia, Jay, Katie, Annie Con – thanks for dealing with my shit, guys).

The second is a place called Healing Hearts. It’s a bereavement center for kids and teenagers. I grew up there, and as much as I wish I never had to step foot in the place, I’m so incredibly thankful that we found it.

Healing Hearts taught me that I’m not alone. In a world where I was forced to mature early, I was able to be a teenager here. I felt normal, a feeling that I still desperately try to chase. Everyone just got it. I wasn’t different, I wasn’t pitied… I could just exist. Having a community like this was everything… (Christine, Diane, Samm, Hannah and E.J. – I owe you guys the world.)

I could complain about things that I felt awful complaining about to anyone else. I was able to complain about my mom working so much without feeling awful. I could complain about how jealous I was of my sister. I complained about how my teachers were unsympathetic, how my brother ruined my chances with boys, and how unfair it was that I wasn’t cheerleading captain. Most of all, I could complain about the way the world treated me in this new normal. We were able to make charts with the title “Things I Wish My Living Parent Understood” without feeling guilty.

I could admit my darkest feelings of guilt. I could talk about regret without hearing the “no regrets” speech, because everyone else regretted things unsaid too. I talked about how much I hated myself, how I couldn’t even fathom a way to like myself after how awful I was to my dad. We were able to make charts with the title “Things I Wish I Could Tell My Dead Parent” without feeling guilty.

I could choose to not talk. There were days where I was so incredibly depressed that I didn’t even have the energy to talk. That was okay. I was never pressured to talk. No one thought I was hiding some deep, dark secret in my silence. Even when I didn’t talk, I had my feelings affirmed through hearing my friends talk about what was on my mind. We were able to make charts with the title “Things I Wish I Could Say” without feeling guilty.

I could find the humor in my situation. While the group was open to anyone who lost an immediate family member, we all had dads that died. So we made dead dad jokes. We laughed at strange things that happened at funerals. We made fun of people who didn’t understand how to talk to grieving people. We were hysterical over all of the times we used our dead parent as a cop out for homework we just forgot about. We laughed our way through things like “Emotional Bingo” and found it hilarious that someone made a living out of making board games for half orphans (what we called ourselves, “Hos” for short). We shared in the wonder of nailing the college essay. We were able to make charts with the title “Things That Are Still Funny” without feeling guilty.

I could be selfish. My life was now consumed by wondering how everyone else was feeling – is my mom okay? How’s my brother? Is my sister hanging in? How can I be less of a burden to everyone? But when I walked into Healing Hearts, it was all about me. I was separated from my family for an hour when I could sit in a room with my friends and therapists. Not my family’s friends, mine. For at least an hour, it was all about me. At the same time, they took care of my mom too. There was a parent’s meeting at the same time. I knew she was getting the community she so desperately needed as well. Knowing that she was getting help freed up my mind and allowed me to focus on myself. It also brought my mom and I together. As much as I rolled my eyes at memorial ceremonies where we would bring in my dad’s favorite food and light candles, it forced my mom and I to grieve together. We were able to make charts with the title “Things That Make Me – ME! – Feel Better” without feeling guilty.

Most importantly, I was in a place that understood me. That didn’t try to fix me. Everyone else was trying to fix me, like I was some machine that could be oiled up and sent on my way. They didn’t do that at Healing Hearts. The teenagers in my room, as well as the adults who worked with us, understood because they have been there. They don’t tell you that everything will be okay, because sometimes it won’t be. They don’t tell you not to feel guilty because they still feel guilty too. They let you sit in the shit, talk a little about it, then walk away with a little less than what you came in with. That’s what it was. Moment to moment, get a little better every single day. Take one step forward, fall fifty steps back. There’s no measured progress, as new years come with new challenges. Just show up. Just get there.

When your world falls apart, you desperately seek some sort of stability. You feel like anything could be taken away from you at any moment and thrash around trying to grasp onto something. That’s what a community does. Take it one moment at a time. We’ll always be here.

My notice to the grammar police.

Whatz up, grammar police? I used to be one of you. I hated when people used incorrect grammar. Then I realized I was kind of being a dick.

If you’re my parent, editor, teacher, director… please correct my grammar. That’s your job. If I’m asking you to review a piece or if I’m composing an email that represents our company, please correct my grammar. Everyone else can chill out.

I write my blog as a personal challenge. I try to write at least three entries during my lunch break each week. I’ll write them, let my mind cool a bit, then come back to them during another break to read before publishing. I considered writing these the night before I post them but then I realized that half of why my readers like my posts has to do with my lack of editing. I don’t have time to go back and second guess everything. I don’t have time to question whether or not people will think I’m an asshole for being so blunt. I don’t have time to judge myself.

Which means that I always don’t have time to catch every single grammatical error or typo.

I used to be very self-conscious about it. Growing up, English was my favorite subject (shocked, huh?) which meant that I was one of those people. I looked for something wrong in everyone’s writing. I mined my classmates’ hard work in hopes of finding a grammatical bomb to drop. I thought it made me entitled and intelligent… in a competitive class, it gave me an edge up. I thought people who used poor grammar were stupid. My younger self was so damn proud of my impeccable grammar.

But my younger self would also never start a blog. I was too self-conscious about making mistakes. Each piece of writing I produced took endless hours. I googled everything – hoping that I wouldn’t get a single thing wrong. That I would remain grammatically perfect.

I understand the point of correcting grammar for good reason. You want people to have the best chance at success. When I read something on Huffington Post or even The Onion, I expect the grammar to be perfect. I’d harshly judge someone who publishes a book with an obvious grammatical mistake. But that’s because it’s their job to get it right.

However, when you’re constantly stopping your 25 year old friend’s story to tell them that they used “who” when they should have used “whom”, you’re just being an asshole. When you put up a passive aggressive status saying that Jewel employees need to go back to school for using “since” instead of “because”, you’re just being an asshole. If there’s anything that I want my readers to understand, it’s that no one likes assholes and dicks.

Bite your tongue and realize that you’re probably doing more harm than good. When you point out flaws, you keep people from feeling free to express themselves. Ask yourself if it’s your place to correct them. If it’s not, just keep it to yourself. No one is perfect. By pretending that you are, you’re actually just putting a huge target on your back… oh, just you wait until you make one little mistake…

English teachers should have impeccable grammar. Published authors should have impeccable grammar. Politicians making speeches (or actually, their ghost writers who are writing them) should have impeccable grammar.

So give your friendly bus driver who says “I’m doing good!” a break… (or, you know… your favorite blogger who uses “you guys” constantly while claiming she’s a feminist. ) Use your perfect command of the English language in a more useful way… like coming up with creative puns so you can stop being so tense! Thanks guys… I’m here all day. 

Please give me the opportunity to talk to you about one of the biggest influences in my life. This was before comedy, college or any concrete dreams. I often talk about her, but haven’t told her story. So please, if you’re any type of fan or enjoy my writing at all, indulge me in the guilty pleasure of reading about one of my favorite people in the universe.

Recently, I came across this article and it made me think of my 8th grade teacher. When I was 12, my world changed. My family moved to a new part of town, which meant that I would have to start a brand new school in 8th grade. While some people may think nothing of this, my world was falling apart. Not only did I have to start a new school, but my cheerleading squad was dissolving and we had to start from the beginning. To an 8th grader, nothing in the world could be worse. That is, until my dad died. To understand what my teacher meant to me, you have to understand where I came from.

On my 13th birthday, my dad decided to throw me a surprise party. He brought my two worlds together (my old friends from my previous school and new friends) and we had a blast. I was incredibly happy. After the party, my mom wanted me to write a thank you note to him. Since I was a 13 year old, I cried and refused for hours until I finally wrote it down. A few weeks later, my dad picked me up from school and took me to get ice cream. After the trip, he told me that sometimes he felt like I didn’t love him. Two days later, I got a phone call at my best friend’s house saying that he was in a car accident.

His injuries weren’t life threatening. He was supposed to be released. On November 10, 2003, my mom and brother went to the hospital vending machines to get my dad a soda. I was left alone with him. His dinner was delivered and since he had bad whiplash, he needed me to feed him. Newly thirteen, and I had to feed my own dad. I remember pleading with God… telling him that if my dad made it out ok, I would be the best daughter in the world. I wouldn’t let him doubt whether or not I loved him for one second. That night, we were told that he was cleared for release the next day. I planned on taking off school to help my mom bring him home. His doctor stopped by on his way out and literally said, “Welp, I hope I never see you again!” We said goodnight and left the room, knowing he would come home tomorrow. After we left, he called me back for a second. He said, “Hey, Bird!” (my nickname). I leaned back to see his face. “I love you,” he said. “I love you too,” I replied. That’s the last time I ever saw him. About six hours later my mom woke me up telling me that he died overnight. To this day, I don’t know why.

Only hours after the news, I was begging to go back to cheerleading practice. I couldn’t wait to leave my house. When someone close to you dies, your entire life becomes mourning. I didn’t like that. I wanted to leave. Finally, a week later, I was allowed to go back to school.

I remember the day I went back. I was standing at my locker in the morning and thought, “Well Annie… you can either be funny or be pitied.” The second someone came by me, I cracked a joke. I wanted to let people know that I was still Annie. I wasn’t about to let that identity go, especially in a new school. My school set up a meeting with our child psychologist. To please my family, I went to the first meeting. After that, I ditched. Every. Single. Time. I didn’t want to be different. In a world that was crashing down, I still wanted to be known as Annie.

I kept up this facade for about a month, until my friend Cristin realized that it was all just a facade. She told my 8th grade teacher, Bevin, that I was struggling. She arranged for me to meet her during lunch because apparently she was “easy to talk to” however, Cristin didn’t know that I wasn’t easy to move. I remember being in line for lunch when Cristin told me Bevin wanted to chat with me. I’m not exaggerating when I say that Cristin had to drag me there.

The first thing Bevin asked me was whether or not I wanted some of her soup. After that, there were no more questions. I was allowed to just speak. I spent two whole periods in that room, and for the first time, I opened up about how much this killed me. About all the impossible guilt I held. About how awful I was to my dad. About how unfair I was. I cried. She cried too… because it was sad. She admitted that she didn’t know much about the subject because she never lost a parent. I told her I didn’t care. For once, I had someone just sitting there ready to listen. She didn’t evaluate me, she didn’t try to diagnose me, she didn’t even try to make me feel better. She just listened.

Do you know how important that is? To just listen and respond as a human? In a world where everyone was trying to relate to me, to understand me, to study me… she just listened. She didn’t have a predetermined script to read from. We had human conversations. My entire life had become professionals trying to read me like a textbook and Bevin was just.. well, there for me.

I went to her at least once a week during lunch, if not more. And it wasn’t until I had a 9-5 job where I realized how big that is. During her “break”, she helped students. Do you know how many times someone has come up to me during lunch wanting me to do my job? I always respond with, “oh.. I’m on lunch. Do you mind coming back?” She never ONCE did that. Her room became the only safe place in my entire life.

When I graduated middle school, our relationship didn’t stop. Instead of lunch breaks, she spent hours after school with me. Why? I wasn’t even her student anymore. She could easily ignore me and go home. But she never did. She was ALWAYS there.

I love her with my entire heart. In a world where I would talk to no one, she was my person. She single handily kept me alive. While everyone commended me on my strength, she looked past it and saw that I was breaking down. She was my rock… the only thing that kept me going until I graduated high school. She never said no to extra hours put in, she never made me feel like I was wasting my time, and she always went above and beyond to make sure I was okay. I feel like there is nothing in this world that I could possibly do to make her understand how incredibly appreciative I am of her love. She’s who kept me going.

But what makes me mad is that the school board doesn’t know this. The administration doesn’t understand. The parents of children who are failing won’t stop complaining. Tests will never reflect the depth of her love and character. She will never be evaluated on saving someone’s life.

I don’t understand it. When I look at how successful I am today, it’s not because I was a decent student. To be honest, I wasn’t a great student at all. Because when you’re a part of a single family home, you are just trying to keep your head above water. You spend so many sleepless nights worried about how much your mom has to work… or heartbroken over how the love of her life was taken from her without any justice. You lay awake paranoid that someone else will die… or that someone will break into your apartment and take your family. The worst thing in the world already happened, so what’s keeping anything bad out? You feel extreme guilt over the death… wondering how things would be different if you were a little nicer. So it reflects in your schoolwork. Deadlines pass without you realizing it, tests come without having time to study and endless lectures are spent with your head a million miles away. So to be honest, I don’t remember the lessons.

I remember the open door. I remember her offering me soup. I remember her crying, saying that she’s so sorry she can’t relate… only to be relived that someone is finally being honest with you. I remember her teaching me to feel through books and express myself through poetry. I remember year long conversations of her telling me it wasn’t my fault until I was finally mature enough to believe it myself. I remember her trying to teach me how to drive when I was terrified to do it myself. I remember her staying hours after school let out to talk to me.. only to drive me home and stall dropping me off because we still weren’t ready to say goodbye. I remember a moment during my 8th grade trip to DC where I was homesick, only to have her turn to me on the bus and ask me if I was ok. I remember going away to college and getting a phone call from her saying she was finally engaged… then married… then eventually pregnant twice… and not being able to convey my feelings of joy over her own dreams coming true. To this day, no matter where this crazy life has led me, I still feel like I’m at home with her.

And when I see that she’s frustrated with the school system these days, I get upset. Because I never want her to compare her success as an educator with a standardized test. I never want her to second guess whether or not she’s meant to be a teacher because of an administration. I never, for a second, want her to feel inferior or doubt her profession. Because if she never found this job, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I owe so much of who I am, and who I will be, to the endless hours in her classroom… well after the automatic lights turned off and we waved our hands to turn them back on.

This is what I want the school system to see.

I’m so incredibly happy in life these days… that wouldn’t be possible if you weren’t my teacher. I love you so much… and thank you from the bottom of my heart.