A Royal Pain in the Arse

Many little girls dream of being a princess. They dress up with a tiara in their hair on prom night, design their wedding dress to emulate Grace Kelly, and set their alarms for 4 a.m. on a workday to not miss a single second of Royal Wedding television coverage. As democratic Americans, we have to live vicariously through the lives of monarchs in other countries, but luckily we have Disney movies to condition little girls to believe that Princess is the ultimate title to strive for, rather than Chief Executive Officer or President of the United States of America. When commoners like Diana and Kate Middleton ascend to noble status, our hopes are kept alive that one day Prince Charming will actually appear on a white horse (or in a Rolls Royce) and carry us off into the sunset.

Like so many things with glamorous mystique, closer inspection of the history of the Royal Family reveals that the closets in Buckingham Palace are actually filled to the brim with centuries old skeletons, and years of tradition have placed rigid expectations on anyone granted a regal title, that extend well beyond perfect curtsies and daintily sipping (not slurping!) tea with pinkie finger extended and saucer in hand.  In the midst of the hoopla surrounding the recent nuptials of Catherine Middleton to His Royal Highness Prince William Arthur Philip Louis, Duke of Cambridge, Earl of Strathearn, Baron Carrickfergus, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Master of Arts, enough information has surfaced to confirm that besides the ridiculously long name on your marriage certificate, marrying a blue blod would royally suck in many ways.

First, you have to contend with all the creepy uncles and aunts you’re gaining from his half of the family tree. Like Uncle Richard III who imprisoned his nephews Edward V and Richard, Duke of York in the Tower of London in the summer of 1483, and subsequently had them murdered, or possibly left to die in the Tower to avoid any competition for the throne.  Or Aunt Elizabeth I who suffered baldness and terrible scars all over her face due to smallpox, and insisted on wearing bright white cake makeup and garish wigs at all times, even in her sleep.  As a new princess you must also be wary of incest, adultery, closet homosexuality, alcoholism, gambling addictions, and spies among your in laws. Congratulations!

If that isn’t enough to deter you, the royal treatment also includes rules about basically everything that is fun and awesome. For example, you will no longer be allowed to have questionable friends on Facebook. Picture links that include anyone smoking pot, defacing public property, or dancing in various stages of undress will be severely frowned upon. Commence the de-friending! Additionally, you yourself are no longer allowed to get rip roaring drunk in public, use profanity, or blink in photographs. As a Princess, anywhere you go including the doctors office or to the loo, is now considered PUBLIC. Expect paparazzi at every turn, also expect that you are never allowed to get a zit or have a bad hair day for the rest of your life. No pressure!  In addition to acting and looking perfect at all times, as a Princess you are no longer allowed to work, and your only access to money is in the form of an allowance. Good luck squeezing enough dough out of Grandma for those Kanye West tickets you’ve been wanting (Grandma is definitely afraid of black people, especially those outside colonial borders).  Also, kiss your kinky sex life goodbye. The only reason a Princess is allowed to have sex is to make babies, and babies are no fun at all.

Cheers!

More, Now, Again - Review

Anyone who ventures to write a memoir must posses some degree of narcissism. If not, why would they consider their particular life journey worthy of public consumption? Some writers choose to portray themselves in the very best light possible, while others include all the gory details, winning their audience over through personal expression and sometimes pure shock value. Although writers frequently pull from their own personal history for material and inspiration, Elizabeth Wurtzel has enjoyed a literary career based solely on talking about herself: her depression, her genius, her beauty, and now, her drug addiction. 


More, Now, Again chronicles Wurtzel’s self destructive path from casual prescription drug overuse, to full blown cocaine addiction while writing her second book Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women.  Following the success of her first memoir Prozac Nation, Wurtzel finds herself well behind on her editor’s deadlines for finished pages. Her doctor prescribes Ritalin to help boost her motivation and curb her concentration problems. Having struggled with substance abuse in the past, Wurtzel quickly finds creative and excessive ways to up her Ritalin dose and catch a much needed buzz.  She starts crushing and snorting the pills, going from two pills per day to three pills every half hour in record time. After using up every excuse and connection to secure more pills, her habits follow a predictable pattern to harder and harder drugs, until she is having eight balls of cocaine Fed-Exed to her apartment several times a week. 


Although her addiction story is hardly unique, her literary talent is undeniable. Unfortunately, she often uses her writing powers for evil rather than good, spending paragraph after paragraph shucking responsibility for her own actions, criticizing her friends, family, and colleagues, and generally over sharing every intimate detail of her thoughts and feelings with the reader. As a Harvard educated, beautiful, healthy, obviously smart young woman, the incessant whining is hard for many people to swallow. I am not one of them.

Most of Wurtzel’s detractors (and there are plenty) focus on her lofty education, and her classic good looks as reasons for her to have little to complain about. For those of us who share the human experience of feeling inherently wrong inside, while others make a fuss over how great we look outside, I identify with her anger, resentment, and cynical attitude towards mankind. Just feeling depressed is frustrating, especially when the general consensus is that you’re too smart and too pretty to be sad.  Throw in a serious drug problem however, and people start to cut you a little more slack. Personally, you now have somewhere to direct your anger and frustration (these drugs are ruining my life), and publicly people have an easier time reconciling the disparity between how you look, and how you act or feel (don’t blame her, she has a DRUG PROBLEM). 

Drugs classically represent a sexier, more dangerous kind of crazy. Prominent, talented, widely loved figures such as rock stars, actors, and politicians struggle with addiction issues publicly. Many different kinds of genius are associated with turning to drugs to cope with reality, and modern media such as music and film help us associate larger than life, attractive, rich people with the drug user lifestyle. Drugs also fit in nicely with everyone’s perception of how a pretty girl should experience the world, because everyone knows that women who are beautiful are also damaged. They are treated differently from an early age because of their appearance, conditioned to value their looks more than other aspects of their identity, and basically psychologically raped by society from an early age. The crazy/beautiful dichotomy is alive and well in More, Now, Again, but Wurtzel's own clarity on this phenomenon offers a refreshing, often biting perspective that eviscerates her literary critics and cements her place as an intellectual force to be reckoned with.


In More, Now, Again  Wurtzel succeeds in addressing, and illuminating the very issues she struggled so profoundly with during the creation of Bitch. Her experience as a difficult woman impacts her decisions and the direction of her life through several stints in rehab, many failed relationships, and eventually sobriety. However wavering her commitment to positive self-construction is, her story prevails with an eloquent, simultaneously self absorbed, yet entirely self-aware voice that makes even her most narcissistic comments tolerable.

White Oleander - Intro

A writing teacher once told me to be careful about overusing adjectives.  By over describing, and giving every shred of detail outright, he warned that I took away from my reader the pleasure of creating that place or thing in their own mind. He called it a “sign of overreaching, a signal of unsureness on the writer's part”.   As a reader, I’m inclined to agree with him. As I make my way through a book, I appreciate being led, not pushed into making decisions about a character or a setting. I don’t want to be told that someone is racist, has poor taste, or lacks judgment.  I want to make that decision myself after that character describes Oprah as “nothing but a fat nig-nog who doesn’t hold a candle to Sallie Jesse Raphael”.  A skilled writer will make you work to be a part of the foreign world they create on the pages of your favorite book. You learn new slang, adapt to a character’s quirky pattern of speech. You create a road map in your mind of unfamiliar street names and building landmarks that you’ve never seen in real life. You imagine what an Oleander smells like, or what desert heat feels like even if you’ve spent your whole life surrounded by pine trees and coastal fog.  And regardless of how exotic these new characters and places are, you relate. In providing some of the details and omitting others, the writer offers you the opportunity to find parts of yourself in even fictional characters. You recognize scenarios or emotions that are tangible memories, not simply created in the mind.

Astrid Magnussen’s life doesn’t resemble my own in any way. I stumbled upon her story accidentally while home faking sick from school one day in 1999. As I lounged in luxury, watching daytime television in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, I was introduced to her coming-of-age struggle through the Los Angeles County foster care system.   Our positions in life couldn’t be more different; I lived a comfortable life with my family in rural Maine, she bounced from home to home after her mother was imprisoned for murder. I had friends at school and support from my teachers and parents, while Astrid dealt with domestic abuse, statutory rape, suicide, and isolation.  Although chosen as an Oprah’s Book Club selection, Janet Fitch’s “White Oleander” lacked the irritating optimism that I identified with the Oprah Winfrey brand.  As a somewhat depressed middle school student, I yearned to feel raw emotion good or bad, to have tragedy and drama and challenges in my life beyond petty squabbles on the playground and arguments with my parents over my clothing allowance.  I was drawn to this novel, and devoured it cover to cover in one sitting. It remains one of my favorite books to this day.

Generally I gravitate towards memoirs and biographies, but of the hundreds of books that I own, I come back to “White Oleander” time and again.  This novel, set in southern California, chronicles the fictional, extraordinary string of events that make up Astrid’s survivalist journey.  Although I generally prefer to read about real people and real events, the world that Fitch creates is so authentic and believable, yet altogether alien, that it continues to offer me a unique type of escapism, and opportunity for self exploration each time I read it.

I’ve probably read this story six or seven times over the last decade. Initially I was drawn to Astrid’s story because I wanted to experience a world more exciting than my own. Subsequently I fell in love with the style of writing in this book, the juxtaposition between poetic tangents and specific descriptors.  Fitch doesn’t shy away from foul language, sex, violence, or drugs. Nothing is gratuitous.  Her confidence as a writer shines through in the decisions she makes about how much or how little to reveal about a specific character or events.  Although she never reveals too much, she communicates each fragmented part of Astrid’s reality fully enough to offer a framework for exploring the very human, very relatable themes of love, loneliness, abandonment, self reliance, and ultimately survival.  

TheSuperficial.com

Growing up in a small town I know first hand the human tendency to talk about other people’s lives. I know how rumors get started, and I recognize that sometimes they are based on reality, and other times they are made up entirely, a diversion from boredom or a malicious attempt to slander someone else.  I know that when you have a senior class of nine people, and a town population of less than 500 with no movie theater, no restaurants, and no ferry running after 5pm, gossiping is often the only activity available.  

Now, long after fleeing the nest and surrounded by a bustling city with plenty of stimulation at every turn, I am still drawn to the nosy habit of gossip. Every morning after the dog has been fed and a pot of coffee has been made, I am tempted to switch on the TV rather than fix breakfast.  If watching Elizabeth Hasslebeck tailspin into a panic attack as she is verbally beat down by her co-panelists proves too redundant and uninteresting on an given morning, I can plop myself in front of the computer and instantly access ten different blogs that succinctly summarize the day’s “news”, considerate enough to lead with the celebrity lifestyle items, and leave that serious stuff about Japan or the Middle East out of the mix. If I get ambitious and decide to click over to CNN or the BBC, I am still inundated with stories that all but ignore the serious issues affecting the world, and instead chronicle Charlie Sheen’s self-indulgent addiction fueled meltdown. The modern state of the news raises questions about the rest of the country. Are we really all just small town gossip mongers at heart?

The blogs I read everyday serve as the equivalent of my generation’s morning paper. Except instead of getting caught up on current affairs and international news items, I scan through page after page of speculative gossip. So and so might be pregnant, that couple is getting divorced, this young starlet went on a 48 hour drinking binge and blamed her tardiness to the set the next day on “exhaustion”.  Even reputable news outlets lead with entertainment news items, because the public demands it. These stories increase page views, raise advertising spending, and ultimately feed the conglomerate media machine that controls the majority of news today. These manufactured gossip stories subliminally promote new movies, books, or albums, utilizing cross promotion by making sweeping judgements about the personal lives of the actors, authors, and musicians responsible for today’s hottest new material.  We are a culture obsessed with celebrity, living vicariously through the lives of otherwise ordinary people whose looks or bad behavior have somehow catapulted them to stardom, placing them on a pedestal that sadly, many aspire to, and even more strive to tear down.  

What about those important people in New York City and Los Angeles, don’t they have better things to do than discuss how many pounds she gained and how many affairs he had around the water cooler? Aren’t there actual important issues facing our country, like health care reform and defense spending, and the state of the economy? What about Libya and Tunisia, and the nuclear weapons Iran is surely hiding? Or what about the environment, and the growing disparity between the rich and the poor. What about the Tea Party, besides just making fun of them for being nut-jobs, doesn’t anyone else realize how potentially dangerous those people are?

NO. No one cares. We are so obsessed with entertainment news, we can no longer even distinguish between actual content and shameless promotional advertising. Journalism itself is a dying industry, taken over by conglomerate media interests that protect profit margins and advertising budgets rather than promote meaningful content.  Reality television is a multi-billion dollar industry, spinning the artificial lives of uninteresting people into half hour long segments of product placement and shameless self promotion.  Although we are a generation of media savvy end users, few of us have the tools necessary to distinguish fact from fiction, and even fewer of us care.

Conglomerate media companies, who have grown so large in the last decades that they completely overshadow the few independent sources that still exist, are more concerned with their profit margins and less concerned with fair and responsible journalism. When journalism is viewed as a corporate business, instead of as a public service or as an essential part of upholding democracy, profits usurp ethics. Responsible journalism is characterized by four main points: fair, balanced, broad, and in depth coverage. Hard news must be timely, and must affect a large portion of its audience. The trend of “infotainment” or soft news (including gossip and entertainment items) does little to uphold these core tenants of journalism, but has nonetheless gained momentum because it increases viewership, and in turn increases profits for large media conglomerates.

It is hard to blame large media conglomerates for ruining American journalism and threatening our democratic way of life without acknowledging that these conglomerates themselves are a result of our free market economy. They are examples of how much success is possible within a capitalistic society, as they have survived and thrived through fierce competition and by protecting their own interests. It is also important to remember however, that despite the freedom of our economy, these conglomerates are subject to federal regulations and they also depend on government funding and special monopoly licenses in order to operate on such a large scale. So not only are these conglomerates biased towards programming that increases their profits, they are also biased towards programming that protects their political interests.

Although it is human nature to be interested in the lives of others, to be curious and speculative, our obsession with celebrity as a culture prevents millions of people from being active, engaged citizens. We collectively have the wool pulled over our eyes by big business, who take comfort knowing their populace is distracted by superficial information, unconcerned with the serious issues that affect us all.  The larger reality is that political and social issues do eventually trickle down and affect everyone on a human level. Instead of ignoring hard news and getting wrapped up in the artificial realities of people most of us will never meet in real life, we should take a cue from these celebrities and function in a more self-involved manner, demanding content that matters and refusing to get wrapped up in the small-town mentality of big business.

Barcelona

People and things clutter the long crowded expanse of La Rambla. Indian men hock noise makers and other useless plastic novelties, while street performers pose to take photos with paying tourists and do back flips in the middle of a demilune crowd. Restaurants line the sides of the street, selling overpriced too-sweet sangria and flavorless paella. My guide book highlights the top ten sights: Gaudi and Goya, Picasso and Miro, tapas restaurants with the best Basque wine and underground bars where serious women sweat under lights, stamping their feet to the syncopated beat of a Flamenco guitar player.  My book has subways maps and hotel recommendations, and a small section in the back listing gay-friendly clubs and currency exchange rates. I trust the information in the book, making sure to visit the must-dos and deferring to the Lonely Planet expertise on where to eat the best Jamon Iberico de Bellota, but being my fifth visit to this magnificent city, I have my own favorites as well. I try to impress my travel companion (a first time visitor) with my limited Spanish and knowledge of local customs. I mention the stern warning in my book to look out for pick pockets, feeling overly immune to the threat, having left my tell-tale fanny pack, bright white sneakers, and matching windbreaker at home. 


I don’t look like a tourist. My Spanish is passable, my over-the-knee flat black leather boots on-trend and chic. I wear a cross body bag, like all the locals. It has a zipper that I keep my hand over at all times, knowing better than to be distracted by all the tall buildings, staring up with a gaping mouth like the hoards of school tours here on their spring vacation with matching backpacks and loud American voices. I’m not afraid to use the metro, but I refuse to ask for directions unless absolutely necessary. I make sure to fold my map in such a way that it is small and manageable, not drawing attention to my foreign status. 


We go everywhere. We visit Park Guell, a child’s dream playground with its mosaic tile and signature Gaudi gingerbread house style. We sit on the serpentine bench that overlooks the city, the view stretches over the Olympic Stadium, all the way to the beach in Barceloneta where in a few months time topless women and men in Speedos will line the sand.  We eat in El Born, on Calle Agentine where the waiters speak Italian amongst themselves but the menus read in Catalan. We sit down to dinner at 11pm, finishing plate after plate of shiny cured ham and Manchego cheese, olives and Cava straight from a communal, passed around spout.  We see museums, architecture, the fanciest well-dressed women with the best smelling perfume that only comes from Paris. We finish the night in dark smoky bars, drinking tiny cups of vermouth feeling like an early 20th century bohemian. I imagine Toulouse-Latrec or  some other visiting artist sitting down at the tiny wrought iron table next to us, asking for a cigarette and then launching into a rant about love and loss and everything that is tragic in this world. 


It is impossible not to get swept away in the beauty of this place. The combination of old and new that sets the best European cities apart from those here in the States is exciting and romantic. The medieval palaces and cobblestone streets date back centuries, to a time when blood was spilt during wars, and empires were built on the backs of peasants.  The same settings that inspired Picasso and Dali to re-envision reality and a subconscious aesthetic that challenged the Academy and the existing status quo. Despite my best efforts to blend in and hide my alien status, I cannot help but be impressed by my surroundings. I easily understand the motivation of ex-patriots to abandon American life and take refuge in the culture of Europe, learning new languages and leaving behind Yankee ideals.   

In the midst of my awe, I am robbed. I am pick pocketed by a girl my own age, on an escalator on the way to the airport. She sees me struggling with my luggage, all the tell-tale signs of a tourist present like my “Iberia” luggage tag and carefree attitude. Underground in the subway, she is able to unzip my bag and take out my wallet. I notice moments later, my travel companion running after her, confronting her, and successfully recovering my vital belongings with more cajones than I could ever muster myself.  I feel angry and embarrassed, violated and scared. How did I let myself become a target? Why did I let my guard down? To think that more than once I actually moved my suitcase to the side and said “Perdón” when I thought she was accidentally bumping into me.  


Despite my idealized impression of this romantic city, I was confronted with the sad reality that culture and history do not cancel out poverty and greed. I am grateful that I had a loud-mouthed American with me, with no reservations about causing a scene or demanding a confrontation to get my stuff back. My vision of sophisticated European culture conveniently glossed over the realities of urban living, which in America, Europe, or any other continent still include crime. Countless writers, poets, artists and musicians have been inspired by the tragic juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness, of love and violence.  As much as I fell in love with that city, in the end it hurt me and scared me. Next time, I will know better than to take the metro to the airport. Instead I’ll do what the locals do and just take a cab.

Sammy

As dinner service winds down, a line starts to form outside. Girls in short dresses stamp their feet to stay warm as most of them didn't wear jackets to avoid the hassle of the $4 coat check charge.  Guys in jeans and button down shirts smoke cigarettes and yell into their cell phones. A bouncer towers by the door calmly repeating himself again and again "Doors open at ten".

Inside the doorway someone else is yelling into their cell phone. Taking calls, furiously sending text messages, and surveying the crowd outside searching for groups that look like they can afford to cut the line.  As he thanks the departing dinner guests for coming, the radio in his ear crackles.  He counts out tickets and wristbands, dividing them into groups of "VIPs" and "Reduced Guest List". Ten different people have questions and problems. He runs to the elevator taking it up to the top floor where the DJ needs extra cables and someone to show him how to set them up.

As people start trickling into the club, he is shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Escorting groups to their private tables, he introduces the cocktail waitress with a wink and a nudge to his new buddies.  He hands out business cards and sends over free drinks here and there, answering calls and yelling into his radio piece like a frantic secret service agent.

His name is Sam, and he is a promoter. Unlike New York, Miami, and Las Vegas, Boston is a small pond with few big fish.  The nightlife industry in Boston consists mostly of Irish pubs, sports bars, and college dives catering to the type of crowd who prefer cheap domestic beer and chicken wings rather than private table service and world-class DJ talent. Sam packs them in every Friday and Saturday night. They line up and wait in the cold to pay $20 a person just to get through the door, $12 for cocktails, and upwards of $1000 for a private table.

A Cambridge native, Sam grew up hanging out in the "pit" in Harvard Square. While blond lacrosse players and Asian bookworms walked to class, Sam and his friends tried out skateboard moves, hustled dime bags, and heckled the suits coming out of the T station.  

A nice Jewish boy living on Lexington Ave, Sam had always had an entrepreneurial spirit. He got his first job on a paper route when he was 12. While most kids would want to sleep in as late as possible, Sam had enough hyperactive energy to make the rounds delivering the Globe at 5am rain, snow, or sun. Sam stayed back in first grade, back when scientists and educators were first toying with the new term “ADHD”. A case study for attention deficit disorder, Sam had trouble listening and paying attention. He had trouble reading and staying on task, preferring instead to talk to his classmates and steal the spotlight from the teacher.

Hoping to find an outlet for Sam’s creative energy, his parents enrolled him in summer theater camps. Sam, with his enthusiasm and unwavering confidence, was a natural and landed the lead role in countless school plays, and even on a kids program during Fox 25’s Saturday morning lineup. The year after starting the paper route, Sam began attending countless Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. The entertainment was always the same, some corny guy on the microphone trying to get everyone to do the hokey pokey and mispronouncing family members’ names. Unimpressed, Sam cashed in his paper route savings and bought turn tables and a dual CD player. Sam was comfortable on stage, and naturally intuitive about how to hype up a crowd. He saw a business opportunity that played to his strengths, and he capitalized on it.

It was the mid-nineties, and hip hop and grunge were already considered old by most teenagers. Transplanted from London and gaining popularity at underground Chicago warehouse parties, electronic music was just creeping its way to the Northeast. Like fans of punk in the 1970's, Sam and his friends saw this new genre of music as an active form of rebellion, something completely foreign that their parents didn’t understand or want to hear about.  Techno, as some people called it, involved mixing different synthesized hooks and melodies together. With plenty of Bar Mitzvah experience already under his belt, Sam became a full fledged DJ, playing at raves inside abandoned MIT buildings and getting his first taste of the nightclubs on Landsdowne Street.

ADHD held Sam back in school. His initial diagnosis named “language processing” as a weakness in addition to attention deficit and hyperactivity.  At theater camp he excelled at improv, could easily imitate emotions and play off his fellow actors, but needed extra help memorizing his lines. Music and numbers made more sense. He liked the fast paced beats per measure of electronica, and the tangible dollars he could count after each successful gig. The 12 year old mind that had convinced the Globe to let him have his own route in West Cambridge was the same mind adding up the numbers every time he attended a large scale event. It didn’t take long to go from wondering who collected all the money these people were paying for entrance fees and drinks, to becoming that person himself.

At Bentley college Sam learned the ins and outs of business. He also threw the biggest parties his fraternity had ever seen, tripling chapter profits in less than a year and avoiding ever having to pay dues of his own.

Sam is a big fish in the small pond of Boston nightlife. He is successful in an industry he helped create, an industry that his hyperactive and distracted personality blends seamlessly with.  He knows how to massage egos and promote his own, making his events seem fun yet exclusive. At the end of the night, he makes sure everyone gets a flyer for next week's party.  Counting the cash drawer he checks off a list of people to pay:  the DJ (someone else now that he is in charge), the group of guys he calls his "subpromoters", the guest list girl, and the bouncer who let in those international kids with fake Saudi ID's.  He hands out envelopes of cash with a smile and a word of encouragement, keeping everyone on the team motivated to produce next week.  After everyone and every dollar is accounted for, he goes home with double.

An education

I can’t tell time on analog clocks. I never learned how, because I skipped the second grade. My cursive is not very good either, I don’t remember how to write a capital Q or Z.  Skipping the second grade and having a birthday at the end of summer means that I was freshly 10 going into middle school, had just turned 13 when I started high school at a private boarding school, and still 16 when I went to the summer week of freshman orientation for college.   My age was problematic in some ways, a convenience in others. I had to use a fake ID to get into R-rated movies with my boyfriend in high school, but I could pay the child rate at all the museums when I first moved to Boston. Even after skipping ahead I usually ended up in the “advanced” groups or honors classes, which reassured my parents and teachers that they had made the right decision in moving me forward at an accelerated pace.

My homeroom teacher in sixth grade was Mr. Cole. He seemed intrigued by me on the first day at my new school in Blue Hill.  I was very short and smalll, I was younger than everyone else, but I raised my hand a lot. We studied ancient history in social studies and when Mr. Cole asked for examples of history on the first day of school, I was met with incredulous stares by my teacher and classmates when my answer was “the ancient civilization of Mesopotamia” instead of “cavemen”.  I won the geography bee that year which Mr. Cole moderated, against a 14 year old eight grader named Cliff who was also president of student council and a starter on the varsity basketball team.

Skipping a grade didn’t present a problem academically, I thrived in a classroom setting and aced every standardized test placing well into the post-high school percentile in 7th grade. But physically I was developing well behind my peers. This was most obvious to me when I started boarding school, and the girls living in the room next to mine happened to be in their post-graduate year, both having stayed back numerous times but doing the extra year in order to secure hockey scholarships at one of the frozen four universities. One of my neighbors was 18, the other about to turn 20. They would talk about diaphrams and urinary tract infections, while I was still shopping for training bras.

As a method of social survival I developed ways to play down the obvious age difference between myself and my peers. I knew I was younger and smaller, but intellectually I felt the same, if not more sophisticated than the teenagers around me.  Luckily my love for reading exposed me to a lot of things I wasn’t otherwise experiencing personally so that if nothing else, I could keep up with the conversations the girls in my dorm were having. I could provide statistics about STDs and tips culled from the pages of Vogue and Cosmo about which were considered the best brands of mascara and perfume. I became a walking encyclopedia of facts that made me sound mature beyond my years. The more information I collected, the older I felt. It made me gravitate past my 9th grade classmates and form friendships with popular juniors and seniors. I dated the most desired older guys too, and soon added first-hand knowledge to the scores of trivia facts I had memorized about sex and relationships.

Back in the classroom my yearning for maturity made me gravitate towards literature that dealt with darker subjects. I read Plath and Wurtzel, Vonnegut and Thompson. I dove into philosophy, overwhelmed but fascinated by Nietzsche and Sartre. I was obsessed with feminism and communism and so many other subjects that trying to pick a college or university, let alone a major, felt like an insurmountable challenge. Despite my love for learning and the social status I had achieved,  I lacked direction and during my high school graduation I sat silently while my classmates names were called over and over for different awards and scholarships, listened as their future alma maters were read allowed. After my name, only “undecided”. After getting to the end of the race ahead of the pack, I stalled in college and never actually crossed the finish line to receive a diploma. I’ll be graduating at 24, years after the first grade classmates I left behind in elementary school.

There has long been a debate within the educational community over skipping “gifted” children ahead in school. Opponents claim that social development is just as important as intellectual development, and just because a child is book smart doesn’t necessarily mean they have the skills to navigate a social scene where everyone is older and more physically developed. Others feel that since everyone learns and grows differently, we shouldn’t cling too strongly to traditional parameters and let children develop at their own pace, whether that means making them stay behind and repeat a grade, or skipping them ahead if they clearly demonstrate that they can handle advanced curriculum.  

My personal experience hasn’t left me decidedly pro or against the issue. What is has taught me, is that humans are resilient and possess the extraordinary ability to adapt to their surroundings.  I value the social skills I learned in school as much as the facts I memorized or the books I read.  More importantly I’m happy I got to see that subscribing to the status quo or the preferred system isn’t vital to success. Whether you develop faster or slower doesn’t matter, what matters is that you develop at all.  I was ahead, and now I’m behind, but I’m confident that I have the ability to survive and adapt to whatever life throws my way.

Waitress...slash Actress (revised)

Somewhere in the deep darkness of my brain a synapse fires, sending shooting pain into the space behind my eyeballs. Slowly, I pry my crusted eyes open and adjust to the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the cheap plastic blinds. The air conditioner hums in the corner, ten floors below a Vespa revs its engine.  Sitting up my vision blurs, I see flecks of bright light, reminding me of the reflection the disco ball made off the glass art deco style bar last night.

Making my way into the living room, I am assaulted by the smell of an overflowing ashtray. Empty beer bottles and rolled up dollar bills litter the smudged glass coffee table. Our guests left hours ago, another wave of new found friends infiltrating our empty apartment, lured by my beautiful best friend. She got them to throw down for a bag with the same ease she uses to convince customers to spring for the most expensive bottle of Dom Peringon or transform herself into the character in a script. In the late hours of the morning we finished the stash, fuel to share life stories and dark secrets. We bonded in an opiate fueled haze, everyone yearning for intimacy among strangers. She probably talked more than anyone else, in a rapid fire voice, making jokes and doing impressions, holding the spotlight with her quick wit and devil may care attitude. Everyone left once they realized the drugs were gone and the clothes weren’t coming off,  returning to their seedy world and helping themselves to our liquor cabinet on the way out the door. If those bills had been anything but 1’s, they would be gone too.

I chug ice cold water until I can’t hold my breath anymore, gasping for air as the cold numbs my throat and dulls the pounding in my head. I take a shower, squatting and clutching my knees as viscous bright yellow bile swirls down the drain, physical evidence of my body combating the chemicals I force it to ingest. I'll be sweating and shaking for the next several hours. Every time I vow it's the last, but it never is. A couple drinks and my judgment wavers, she’ll suggest this party or that one, get a call from some guy she met the other night and off we’ll go. She can make friends with anyone, and she brings out the extrovert in me that I’m sometimes reluctant to reveal as anything but her sidekick.

We met years ago, at the bar.  She taught me how to hustle tips with a smile or a smirk depending on the clientele. We were instant friends and spent hours talking about life and love, sharing our insecurities with our bodies and complaining when men showed too much interest or not enough.  We both saw humor in the darker side of life, adhering to the notion that self destruction is often tragic and beautiful and intense in a way that everyday life is not. We were restless and bored, searching for something more, something that Boston could never provide, something we were determined to find in Miami.

She isn’t awake yet, but her cat is waiting patiently in front of her locked bedroom door. I don’t remember if one of the boys stayed over, but either way I know we were in an argument last night. I’ll walk to the convenience store on the corner and buy her a 12-pack of Corona, our favorite, cat food and another pack of Parliament lights, two Vitamin Waters, a bottle of Excedrin migraine, and a scratch ticket if I have any money left over. We never stay mad at each other for long.  We are partners in crime, underachievers living out our reckless youth both knowing full well that we’re too smart to make such dangerous decisions. When she wakes up we’ll laugh about the night before, about the tattoo parlor we stumbled into and the broken angel wings she’ll have on her back forever.   We’ll vow never to chase that dragon again, it doesn’t fit that glamorous notion of South Beach that they show in her favorite movies anyways. No, definitely better for her image to get high instead of low, staying awake on Colombia’s finest instead of the dirty tar they have across the bridge in Little Haiti.

She isn’t awake yet, so I watch a movie on the couch about three brothers taking a train across India to see their mother. She is the only one that appreciates the twisted humor of Wes Anderson films as much as I do.  Sometimes I wonder if all those years on stage, playing a character larger than life has clouded her notion of reality. These days fact imitates fiction, and she either stays in character for days on end, or hides in that bedroom with the curtains drawn and the lights off. The end credits roll and I switch to CNN. There is poor Heath Ledger, dead at 26 a waste of raw talent overcome by demons. Creative types are always haunted by their talent. Her cat is still waiting, meowing and clawing at the door. As the sun sets over Biscayne Bay, I make plans to go out.

She isn’t awake yet, and she's never going to be.

5) Waitress...slash Actress.

Somewhere in the deep darkness of my brain, a synapse fires, sending shooting pain into the space behind my eyeballs. Slowly, I pry my crusted eyes open and adjust to the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the cheap plastic blinds. The air conditioner hums in the corner, ten floors below a Vespa revs its engine.  Sitting up my vision blurs, I see flecks of bright light, reminding me of the reflection the disco ball made off the glass art deco style bar last night. 

Making my way into the living room, I am assaulted by the smell of an overflowing ashtray. Empty beer bottles and rolled up dollar bills litter the smudged glass coffee table. The boys left hours ago, in the late hours of the morning once the stash was gone, helping themselves to our liquor cabinet on the way out the door. If those bills had been anything but 1’s, they would be gone too. 

I chug ice cold water until I can’t hold my breath anymore, gasping for air as the cold numbs my throat and dulls the pounding in my head. I take a shower, squatting and clutching my knees as viscous bright yellow bile swirls down the drain. I always feel better after throwing up, I like seeing the physical evidence of my body combating the chemicals I force it to ingest. I'll be sweating and shaking for the next several hours. Every time I vow it's the last, but it never is. 

She isn’t awake yet, but her cat is waiting patiently in front of her locked bedroom door. I don’t remember if one of the boys stayed over, but either way I know we were in an argument last night.  I’ll walk to the convenience store on the corner and buy her a 12-pack of Corona, our favorite, cat food and another pack of Parliament lights, two Vitamin Waters, a bottle of Excedrin migraine, and a scratch ticket if I have any money left over. We never stay mad at each other for long.  When she wakes up we’ll laugh about the night before, about the tattoo parlor and the broken angel wings she’ll have on her back forever.  

She isn’t awake yet, so I watch a movie on the couch about three brothers taking a train across India to see their mother. She is the only one that appreciates the dark humor of Wes Anderson movies as much as I do.  Her cat is still waiting, meowing and clawing at the door. As the sun sets over Biscayne Bay, I make plans to go out with friends. She isn’t awake yet, but I’ll leave her a note so she won’t worry when she wakes up.  She isn’t awake yet, but I wish I could borrow her little gold purse for the night.   


She isn’t awake yet, and she's never going to be.

4) 1990

I grew up in The Colony, a tiny neighborhood within a tiny community consisting of one tiny loop of a road and eight or nine houses.  Our house was the first on the Colony Road, and it was on a corner with a huge wrap-around yard, a field of long grass and raspberry bushes, and two maple trees with perfectly equidistant branches, ideal for climbing.  My father built a tree house in the crab apple tree out front one year, and after that my house became ground zero for summer evening games of kick-the-can, and fort building expeditions into the neighboring woods.  

My neighbors and playmates were all boys, the youngest two years my elder. Not only was I younger than them, I was smaller in stature and slower in speed.   They tolerated my company, not only for the perks of my sweet pad, but also I imagine because they looked forward to daring me to follow along on their adventures, to see if I would climb to the highest branch in the maple tree, or steal lawn ornaments from Merle Pendleton’s house across the street without getting caught.  If they ever tired of hanging out with a girl, they would race away on their bicycles so I couldn’t keep up, laughing and hollering like a proper pack of hooligans. 

When my father took me to Ames on my fourth birthday to pick out a bicycle, I walked straight past the pink bikes with wicker baskets and streamers coming off the handle bars, and begged and pleaded for a bright blue Jammer with a straight bar and removable training wheels. I eyed those training wheels like a pair of spiders I wanted to smush with my Velcro sneaker. Despite the advice of my parents, upon returning home with my new bike I immediately and adamantly searched my father’s shed for a wrench, and demanded those repulsive training wheels be removed. I imagined I would master the art of bicycle riding in a matter of hours and start training for the Tour de France by the next afternoon.  

My driveway connected to the paved one lane Colony Road, a veritable luxury compared to the long dirt driveways that most of my friends lived down.  Thanks to the sporadic and slow moving traffic, I had free use of the asphalt to practice riding my new bike, and practice I did. Without the help of training wheels, every day I would force my parents or older sister to walk along behind me with one hand steadying the seat in case I started to lean to one side or the other.  I refused to let the neighborhood boys witness my progress, preferring instead to reveal my innate bicycle proficiency once I had mastered riding the two wheeler with no assistance. 

My two favorite movies at the time were Grease 2 and a behind the scenes documentary about the Ringling Brother’s and Barnum & Bailey Circus.  Not only had I memorized and performed every song from the Grease 2 soundtrack and my own rendition of the circus trapeze routine in my living room, both films showcased motorcycle stunt montages, and I secretly fantasized about wowing a crowd of friends and family with wheelies and jumps on my new Jammer.  When the boys asked why I never rode my new bike with them, I flippantly responded that I was training to be a stunt artist for the circus, and due to copyright agreements I was unable to reveal my moves to the public at this time. If they were lucky and they let me borrow their Ninja Turtles action figure collection, I would invite them to attend a private showing at a later date. 

After weeks of wobbling up and down the street in front of my house, I started to find my equilibrium and didn’t need someone holding the seat anymore to keep me upright. I was at once ecstatic, and subsequently crushed to find out that neither my parents nor my sister had any tips for how to learn a wheelie, or a backwards flip through a flaming ring of fire.  In fact, my parents were so intent on crushing my lifelong dream to be a motorcycle stunt woman that they enforced a rule that I was not allowed to leave our driveway on my bike without adult supervision.  

I spent the next several days making sullen car-lengthed circles on my bike in our severely inadequately sized driveway. The pavement was only feet away, a golden road to freedom and independence that I could see but not touch.  My blood boiled as the pack of neighborhood boys zipped by on their 10 speeds, laughing and yelling for me to join them, making jokes about all the gnarly tricks they couldn’t wait to see me perform.

The next day as my mother hung up laundry in the back yard, I stood straddling my bike in the front driveway, longing to escape from the brutal confines of my tyrannical and insensitive parents. As I gazed down the road I was overcome with frustration.  Without a second thought, I pushed my left foot onto the pedal and slowly crept to the end of the driveway. Another little push with my right foot, and the front wheel of my bike rolled across the ridged metal water pipe that divided our driveway from the road.  I glanced behind me, but my mother wasn’t watching.  Another pump of the petal, and there I was, in the middle of the road, alone and unnoticed, free at last. I waited nervously, expecting my mom to come running around the corner of the house, as if she had an internal radar detector that could sense my whereabouts at all times. I held my breath and counted to ten but she never appeared. 

Riding down the road alone for the first time felt better than anything I’d ever felt in my four years on earth. It was better than ice cream, better than getting to visit the statute of Andre the Seal on the mainland, even better than having the best hiding place of all the boys’ in kick-the-can.  Unfortunately my bliss was fleeting, abruptly interrupted by a long deep crack in the road, left over the previous winter's frost. My tire got stuck in the crack, and I veered sharply to the left. Losing control of the bike,  I toppled head first into a ditch, the Jammer not far behind me.  Lying there in the wet cold muddy ditch, my bike pinned on top of me, the world felt like a very cruel and lonely place. I couldn’t call out for help, my pride was too strong and I feared consequences, horrible Draconian consequences like not being allowed to watch the Cosby Show before bed.  

I spent hours, maybe days lying in that ditch, but my mother says she found me after 20 minutes. When she asked me what I was doing there, and I why I hadn’t called out for help, I had to explain to her in the simplest terms so her feeble brain could comprehend, that the impact of hitting the ground after a fifty foot quadruple back flip was enough to knock the wind out of anyone.    

3) St Martin/ San Maarten

After an hour of waiting, I started to lose hope that Don Nicholas would arrive with our Jeep Wrangler and directions to our new home for the next ten days. Growing up on an Island you become accustomed to variances in time relativity (it always takes longer to drive to the ferry when you’re about to miss the last boat, and there will always be too many cars in line when you have an appointment to make that can’t be rescheduled), but here, Island Time referred only to a vague notion of regularity. Basically, people get where they are going when they feel like it, and any expectations of punctuality are a waste of time.  

When Don Nicholas finally did arrive, the shiny 4 x 4 we were expecting resembled something more like an Apocalypse Now prop reject, covered in mud and dents and reeking of exhaust fumes.  Fitting our luggage and ourselves along with the ample girth of Don Nicholas was a feat in itself, but once we were in, any expectations of a lackadaisical drive went flying right out the window, along with nearly all of our hats and sunglasses. Don Nicholas whipped the Jeep into gear and took off full speed ahead ignoring speed bumps, pedestrians, motorcyclists, and every traffic law I ever learned in Driver’s Ed. 

As we made our way from the airport on the Dutch side to the French side of the island, casino lights and happy hour signs faded quickly into the distance. The sun began to set over the Caribbean Sea just as rental cars full of sunburned retirees gave way to scooters precariously piled high with three or more passengers and livestock roaming freely.  Arriving at our apartment rental, we paid Don Nicholas his fee for the Jeep and off he went with a huge smile and a chuckle. 

My boyfriend Sam and I chose St Martin for our winter vacation because of its white sand beaches and reputation as the gastronomic capital of the Caribbean.  Jointly owned by both the French and Dutch, the island is split down the middle with the tacky Margaritaville style American resorts, nightclubs and casinos on the Dutch side, and according to French locals, the best of everything else on the French side. The apartment we rented on the beach in the town of Grand Case came equipped with strong roasted coffee ready to brew on the stove, a bidet in each bathroom, and we were allowed to smoke wherever we wanted without judgment.

After unpacking our suitcases and changing out of our travel clothes, we decided to venture into town and sample some of the delicious French food that Grand Case is known for.  Exhausted from the flight, we decided to skip a fancy ten course dinner and instead ended up at a casual strip of beach side barbeque joints known as the Lolos (locally owned, locally operated).  Native islanders manned enormous steel drums full of charcoal grilling racks of pork ribs, chicken and Caribbean rock lobster.  Bottles of Heineken only cost $1 and you could haggle for the price of your meal if you were so inclined.

Several beers and plates of food later, we strolled home on the beach with the waves lapping our feet and stars twinkling in the night sky. We were ready for bed after a long day of travelling and a perfectly romantic first night of vacation. 

“Elena, hey can you bring me some water? My stomach feels funny I think I drank too much”.  As I switched on the bedside light Sam’s face came into focus. He was pale with a slightly green tinge to his skin, covered in beads of sweat, his hands clammy and shaking. I was familiar with this look, and I was certain Sam’s affliction wasn’t caused by too many Heinekens. I’d seen identical symptoms on the face of my fellow travelers after too many street cart tacos in Mexico City and after accidently swallowing too much water while brushing their teeth in Belize.  Delhi Belly, Montezuma’s revenge, whatever you call it, Sam was in for a very unpleasant experience, and as his cohabiter of a very small condo with an open floor plan (meaning no door on the bathroom) I too felt a pit of dread developing in my stomach. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and after that first night in St. Martin the word intimacy took on an entirely new meaning in our relationship.  Several bottles of purified water, Gatorade, and Pepto Bismol later, the color came back to Sam’s face and we resolved to enjoy the rest of our vacation.  

Orient Beach is considered by most the best beach on St. Martin. The long bright white strip of sand stretches for over 4 miles, its aqua blue water calm and shallow. Vendors jockey for attention, persuading tourists to pay for parasailing, jet skiing, and water trampolining.  Beach bars and gift shops line the strip, giving off a spring break meets St. Tropez vibe.  Hoping to escape the crowds and find a quiet spot, Sam and I set off on another romantic walk along the beach, to the southernmost tip of Orient Bay.  The weather was perfect, and we were happy to soak up some rays and work on our tans for the first time in months. I don’t know if the breathtaking scenery served as a distraction, or if my rum punch induced buzz clouded by vision, but neither of us noticed as we passed a sign that read “Hôtel Naturiste, .5 km”.   Gazing out at the horizon, surrounded by paradise with the man that I love I didn’t have a care in the world.

The farther we walked the more empty the beach became, but we saw a crowd of people in the distance. As we approached I could make out what looked like aerobic steps built into the sand, and we could hear an instructor with a microphone yelling out commands.   How nice, I thought to myself, an outdoor exercise class.  As we reached the end of the beach, the naked bodies of 30 or so retirement aged French couples came into focus.  They huffed and puffed as they side stepped and clapped in unison. Legs lifts and squats, toe touches and jumping jacks combined into the most horrifying callisthenic display I’ve ever witnessed. Like a driver passing by a car wreck my eyes were glued to the scene and I couldn’t force myself to look away before the image was forever emblazoned upon my memory.

Disturbed and frustrated, our attempt at romance foiled again, Sam and I returned to the trusted Jeep, determined to find privacy on St Martin.  Friends back in Boston had recommended a beautiful hotel that was several thousand dollars a night out of our price range called La Semanna, known to occupy one of the most beautiful private stretches of beach on the island, and to be staunchly exclusive. As we pulled up to the gates of La Semanna, we finalized our game plan strategy: keep a low profile, act as if we’re hotel guests and no one will know the difference.  I stuffed the beach towels we had brought with us from the condo under the front seat and out of sight, and off we went.

La Semanna consists of a series of Mediterranean style villas perched on a cliff overlooking Baie Longue.  Private cabanas dot the pristine sand that is combed and redistributed everyday at 4am.  Cabana boys in immaculate white shorts and matching polo shirts cater to guests’ every need, supplying cold water bottles and cocktails, fruit plates and sunblock application services.  There are massage tents and three different swimming pools of varying temperatures if you prefer salt-free water.  Walking down the steps to the beach we chose an unassuming pair of beach chairs away from the cabanas and stretched out to finally enjoy a peaceful romantic day together.

On a list of top ten most embarrassing moments of all time, being forcefully removed from a luxury hotel for trespassing would rank in the top five.  Luckily, that didn’t happen during our visit to La Semanna. What did end up happening is that not five minutes after we sat in our beach chairs, hoping to fly under the radar and not draw attention to ourselves, an enormous gust of wind came up out of nowhere and carried our eight foot wide beach umbrella out into the Atlantic Ocean.  The outdoor music skipped a beat as every single person on the beach stopped what they were doing and stared in our direction, trying to piece together how that just happened. Within seconds the entire army of cabana boys was dispatched and came running down the beach to rescue the umbrella.  Ten grown men fully dressed with sneakers on went diving into the water and carried the umbrella back to the beach like a scene out of Baywatch.  The other half of the cabana boy army came running over to our table, profusely apologizing, assuring us that that had never happened before in the entire history of the hotel and making sure we weren’t injured or otherwise inconvenienced.  We might as well have hired a marching band to announce our arrival. 

Although our attempt at peace and romance was spoiled once again, the umbrella incident served as a turning point. Not only did La Semanna pick up our entire drink bill for the nuisance of our beach umbrella being carried out to sea by natural forces, the rest of the vacation went off without a hitch.  No more violent fits of nausea and indigestion, not more overweight naked tae bo enthusiasts, and no one ever discovered that we weren’t hotel guests. 

2.) Night shift

A jet-black pile of clothes lie on the floor next to my purse; tights, a short skirt, a low cut v-neck t-shirt. On the other side, a collection of necessities: Emergen-c vitamin supplements, lip gloss, eyelash glue, perfume, my Charlie Card for the permanently behind schedule green line, a cell phone charger, and a pair of sky high heels.  

The clock on the nightstand glows neon green, reminding me how late I’m running.  I will stop for coffee anyways.  Frantically jamming everything into my purse, I’m thwarted by crumpled receipts, broken cigarettes, pieces of gum with no wrapper, lone Tic Tacs, and a tangled set of headphones connected to nothing.  

My purse is large enough to qualify as a weekend or overnight bag. But I’m not going very far with this baggage tonight. 

I look straight ahead into the mirror and I see my naked face.  Tan skin, almond shaped eyes, stick straight brown hair. This face is less familiar than the one I will create with brushes and pencils.  I apply the makeup layer by layer, a comforting ritual. I know the shape of my eyes and lips, the angle of my cheekbones. I know how to darken one area, and lighten another to accentuate my best features.  I curl my hair, piece by piece until it resembles a Southern beauty queen, teased and sprayed to unnatural heights.  Better for my hair to be too big, it will deflate as the night goes on. 

I glance in the mirror as I gather all my things together.  I see a strong and confident woman. She is outgoing and quick witted and a compassionate listener. She can toss out a joke or a jab without ever seeming downright impolite and she never loses her temper, or rolls her eyes if a customer is looking.  I do not see the kind of girl who has gum with no wrapper covered in bits of tobacco stuck to her headphones at the bottom of her purse.

Standing on the platform I stamp my feet impatiently. I crane my neck and peer into the darkness of the subway tunnel for the fifth time in three minutes. Finally a headlight shines back at me in the distance.  As the train approaches I scan the cars for empty seats. I slide on my headphones and take out my book, ignoring and avoiding the sideways glances and blatant stares that come my way. Are they surprised that I can read? Are they suspicious of my overdone makeup and stiletto heels poking out of the top of my bag? I concentrate on my book. I'm not required to interact, in fact, like most public commuters I am encouraged by social norms not to talk to or make eye contact with anyone. If I actually paid my taxes like I’m legally supposed to, I guess I’d be more up in arms over my 25-75min commute, but rampant tardiness and probing stares aside, I relish my time on the T. With my job, most nights I practically pray for signal failures or disabled trains ahead. I will definitely get yelled at if anyone notices me coming in late tonight.  I can’t blame the train every time; everyone knows it is notoriously unreliable. 

The bathroom is empty except for me.  I check my hair in the mirror and adjust my bra.  The room is silent.  These are my last moments of peace before another night of work.  I sit to put on my shoes and struggle with the tiny buckle clasp.  My hands are shaking from too much Starbucks and not enough real food calories.  These heels are outrageously high and uncomfortable, but they make me look taller and skinnier I’m almost positive. Between Beacon and Charles Street I must have lost at least a pound or two, I’ve been fasting all day. I can already feel my feet throbbing and I haven’t even started walking. 

Tonight I will walk over four miles, to cater to the needs of pushy men and ungrateful boys.  I will ignore their rudeness, their sense of entitlement, I will smile and flirt.  Tonight I will make a lot of money in a relatively short period of time. The faster I go and the bigger my smile, the more money these men will give me.   As much as I hate them, they do pay my bills. We have a symbiotic relationship where I provide a service and they compensate me generously, most of the time.  I am here to make money, and get paid. I’m not here to look pretty and make friends, but if I play my part well enough, no one will know the difference.  

My breath mixes with smoke as I lean against the cement wall. It’s my third smoke break in two hours and I know my manager is irritated.  The ground in frozen and my toes are pink and criss-crossed with straps that will surely create enormous blisters by the time I sit down in 6 hours. I can feel a slight ache in the small of my back from bending over again and again. I am alone and it is quiet except for ambulance sirens in the distance at Mass General.  This is a moment of cold stillness before I return to the chaos that lies on the other side of that wall.  

I am moving as fast as I can. Bending over, scooping ice, pouring liquor.  I am popping open three bottles of beer simultaneously with one hand while swiping a credit card with the other.  People are yelling at me, they are calling out their orders and pushing each other for space at the bar.  Loud electronic music pulses and thumps. I can feel every beat down to my core and I strain to hear the difference between “jack” and “black” as in Johnny Walker Black Label. 

The crowd tonight is definitely under-grad, definitely Ivy League.  They buy each round on a different American Express card. They sign their own name but without the necessary numerals that distinguish them from their father.   The boys who wear watches have Datejusts or Submariners, the junior varsity league for Rolex.   They take shots, round after round until I stop adding vodka all together and laugh to myself as they down sour mix and lime juice shaken and chilled.  The girls in the crowd drink gin and tonics because they’re underage and don’t know any better.  This is a shitty crowd for tips, but I’ll use the oldest trick in the book and add a drink here or there and make up the difference in cash.  Now that they’re wasted they’ll never remember how many drinks they’ve had, and they aren’t the ones paying the credit card bill anyway. 

Last call: my favorite time of the night. Stragglers remain, but most people scattered like cockroaches as soon as the house lights came on.  A couple makes out sloppily in a corner before being moved along by the bouncer.  I run the till on my register and count up my sales and tips. I pour myself a shift drink, three times larger than we’re supposed to, and swear up and down that it’s my first and only of the night, even though everyone knows I started hours ago. 

I count out the bills, smoothing each one and making sure they face the same way, separating them into piles of fives, and tens, twenties, and hundreds.  The hundreds are my favorite.  I might have junk like Tic Tacs at the bottom of my purse, but my cash is always immaculate. This money is mine, and I earned it.

1) Migration

The line of cars stretches well beyond the first bend in the road as I approach the ferry terminal.  Large cement trucks line up in the first half of the line, while shiny German cars with out of state license plates crowd the reservations area.  Dodge pick-up trucks make up the rest of the line. A circle of locals stands to the side, taking bets on whether their vehicle will make it on the boat or not. 

The sea looks calm and glassy, dark blue with no whitecaps in sight.  I watch as the ferry crew unties the massive Margaret Chase Smith, a sparkling white beauty in her heyday, now her hull is marred with rust stains and peeling paint.  As the long line of cars inches forward, I recline my seat and stare out the window. She only holds forty cars, less with the work trucks that appear all summer long. I won’t be going anywhere for while.  

The early morning sun shines on the east side of the bay, peeking through the blanket of fog that lingers over empty moorings and skiffs.  The lobster boats are long gone, and won’t return until well after lunchtime, their captains and sternmen convening on the float to weigh the day’s catch.  A family make’s their way down the gangplank to the dock, carrying coolers, canvas bags, and life preservers to unload onto their sailboat. 

The air is crisp and cool; dew covers the dandelions that grow along the road.  It will warm up in a few hours, but for now people wear fleece jackets over their pink shorts and polo shirts, their Wranglers and work boots.   

On the far side of the cove tall pine trees loom, their dark green branches weaving an impenetrable blanket  of dark, damp forest. A bird glides over the tree tops, coming or going from the morning’s first fish.  The bird is smaller than an eagle, larger than a crow. Its brown wings span three times the length of its body. Even in the distance I can make out its razor sharp claws and beak.  I know this bird well, but forty years ago they were almost extinct.  When Joni Mitchell opined on the dangers of DDT, she must have had the osprey in mind.

Like most Mainers, the osprey is tenacious and hardworking. Fiercely loyal, they mate for life and will protect their offspring to the death.  Nowadays many ospreys call the midcoast’s rocky outcroppings home.  They spend the best months here, arriving in early spring to comb the salt marshes and build their nests in preparation for new editions to the family. When the lupines and lilacs start to bloom, the chicks are born, hungry for fish and ready to learn to fly on their own. I watch as the osprey flies back and forth, surveying the water and stalking its prey.  It glides smoothly over the surface of the water until it spots a fish, then dive bombs abruptly, its beak and claws disappearing for a brief second. It returns to the nest fish-in-mouth to a harmonized chorus of “feed me, feed me!” When the air turns cold and the sea turns dark gray, parents and children alike know it’s time to head south for the winter. 

The boat should be leaving the other side by now, packed with construction workers and the mail truck, and an 18 wheeler full of groceries to be delivered to the general store. Later in the day the last straggling summer people will arrive, just in time for 4^th of July. Like the osprey, the ferry makes this trip back and forth, eight times a day delivering sustenance, in the form of food and supplies, news from the mainland, and business for this struggling fishing economy. Islanders, as self sufficient as they’ve grown to be, still rely on the ferry for reassurance, for a connection to the outside world.

The air is cooler today, the heavy fog absent. The dew forms tiny ice crystals as the thermometer rises in the early morning hours.  There are no dandelions, no lilacs or lupines.  The forest is dark green, with shocking patches of yellow and orange.  The wind blows, and the sea forms frothy white caps in the distance. As I come around the first bend in the road, the ferry line has dwindled. Seven or eight cars idle in the front of the line, their exhaust smoke rising and mixing into the gray air.  People sit in their cars, next to heaters and radios.  No one is taking bets today. All the plates say Vacationland, the out-of-staters left weeks ago, closing the shutters of their cottages, and draining their pipes in preparation for winter.  

As I drive onto the boat I see the osprey nest, empty in the distance. All month long the new chicks practiced flapping their wings on the edge of the nest before taking their first flight. They fished these waters growing strong and capable and finally, when the wind felt right they took off, embarking on a dangerous but necessary journey.

As the boat moves out of the pen and into the bay I look back at the island. Quiet and serene, the island is resting for another winter, the seasonal hustle and bustle suspended.  For now, most people are gone, most places are closed, and the ferry only has to make three trips a day.  I am leaving, but like the osprey I will be back next year.