I spent my afternoon gutting an attic. It's really, really, hard. For one, it was 95 degrees outside today, and I was in an attic, just inches away from black tar-paper roof. Wearing blue jeans, a bandana around my head, and a mask over my mouth. Then there's drywall. It doesn't look heavy. I think it might weigh the same as cement. First you knock it off the wall with a hammer, and hope it doesn't land on you on the way down. When the floor is littered in drywall, you grab a 20 lb shovel and start scooping it out the window. There's also wood. Strips of wood with nails in them. That's really what makes the job exciting, getting rid of the wood without impaling hands or feet.
None of this is bad, really. I don't mind the heat, or nails, or shoveling drywall. The actualy knocking down the wall part is a lot of fun; I haven't made that much of a racket in years. Manual labor is not what gets to me. The real thing about this job that makes me HATE it: insulation. The pink, cotton candy insulation. It looks harmless enough. But this substance must have been brewed in the deepest chasm of hell.
Let's see how I can explain this. Take some glass and grind it down to powder-sized shards - smaller than sand. Spin that into pink cotton. The put on you regular t-shirt and jeans, and roll in it. You end up with something that looks like a rash, but must be hundreds of microscopic lacerations. My job was to scrape all of the insulation out of the wall and scoop it all into trash bags. I did have gloves, but they only protected my hands and wrists. My arms and neck were getting eaten alive by this stuff. I would not dream it possible to be working my butt off in 115 degree heat and wish desperately for a long-sleeved shirt.
Who would invent something like this? Why is it legal? Can't people just crumple up newspaper and put that in their walls? It's so pink and fluffy and innocent looking and then it eats away at your skin. Look, leporasy in a bag! Yay!
So, only three more days of pink, fluffy hell. And I will be much more prepared. Bigger lunch, boombox, and sleeves. Glorious sleeves.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
The End of the Orange and Black
Somewhere, within the past two days, I made the leap between high school senior to college freshman. Friday I went down to Behrend to schedule my first semester. English 15, Math 34, Earth Science, Newspaper practicum, comprative religons, intro to poly sci, first year seminar. I have no class that starts before 9, and I only have one night class a week, and that's newspaper, so it's ok. I then went home and bought bedding for the fall- yellow and orange. When you live in Erie, you make your room bright. I wonder how my roomie will feel about my giant Italian flag...
Then my graduation day. It's not exactly something you dream about your whole life, just the last half of your senior year. It's more of something that you see in a feel-good movie and you say to yourself "I'll do that someday. I wonder what it will be like. I wonder what I will be like."
There were some aspects of my graduation that you would never see in a movie. The waitress at Olive Garden asking if it was my 8th grade graduation. Trying to use the restroom in a dress and billowey gown. The kid on my left who was high so that he wouldn't be nervous for the ceremony. Spending 20 minutes getting nearly 400 kids in alphabetical lines. Hugging someone and getting the point of their motorboard in your eye or their tassle in your mouth.
But there were some Hollywood moments. 380 students clapping together, first slowly, then faster, until we broke into applause and cheers before the ceremony began. Standing behind the curtain until hearing my name, then breaking into the bright haze of stage light and adrenaline, walking confidently in 3-inch wedges, smoothly shaking hands with the right and reaching for my diploma with my left, all the while hearing cheers from family and friends. Hurling my cap in the air with my classmates in blatant defiance of the last school rule. Dancing up the aisle and out of the theatre with one of my best friends. Taking pictures in the blocked-off street full of penguin-gowned students and their parents.
It wasn't the happiest moment of my life, or the proudest or most monumental. But it was right up there. I wasn't sentimental at all- high school was good. But I'm the kind of person whose favorite holiday is whichever one comes next, whose favorite season is the one around the corner, whose favorite destination just down the road. I was just giddy and happy and proud. It was the moment of a long trip when you stop worrying about what you packed, what life you're leaving behind, what challenges will be ahead. You sit back and listen to the engines of the plane scream and watch the runway drop out from under you, and you feel the speed and the height in your stomach, and you're flying.
So, for the first time in my life, here's to the class of 2011.
Then my graduation day. It's not exactly something you dream about your whole life, just the last half of your senior year. It's more of something that you see in a feel-good movie and you say to yourself "I'll do that someday. I wonder what it will be like. I wonder what I will be like."
There were some aspects of my graduation that you would never see in a movie. The waitress at Olive Garden asking if it was my 8th grade graduation. Trying to use the restroom in a dress and billowey gown. The kid on my left who was high so that he wouldn't be nervous for the ceremony. Spending 20 minutes getting nearly 400 kids in alphabetical lines. Hugging someone and getting the point of their motorboard in your eye or their tassle in your mouth.
But there were some Hollywood moments. 380 students clapping together, first slowly, then faster, until we broke into applause and cheers before the ceremony began. Standing behind the curtain until hearing my name, then breaking into the bright haze of stage light and adrenaline, walking confidently in 3-inch wedges, smoothly shaking hands with the right and reaching for my diploma with my left, all the while hearing cheers from family and friends. Hurling my cap in the air with my classmates in blatant defiance of the last school rule. Dancing up the aisle and out of the theatre with one of my best friends. Taking pictures in the blocked-off street full of penguin-gowned students and their parents.
It wasn't the happiest moment of my life, or the proudest or most monumental. But it was right up there. I wasn't sentimental at all- high school was good. But I'm the kind of person whose favorite holiday is whichever one comes next, whose favorite season is the one around the corner, whose favorite destination just down the road. I was just giddy and happy and proud. It was the moment of a long trip when you stop worrying about what you packed, what life you're leaving behind, what challenges will be ahead. You sit back and listen to the engines of the plane scream and watch the runway drop out from under you, and you feel the speed and the height in your stomach, and you're flying.
So, for the first time in my life, here's to the class of 2011.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Identity.
So you know how last entry I was talking about all of the things that build up my identity. Today I realized that I forgot the most important thing about me.
I'll start with a story. Once upon a time there was a woman named Rachel (not me.) She was just out of school and had a nasty full-time job to help support her family. One day she was running errands and met a man named Jacob. He was a friend of her family, and was coming into town to visit her. While Jacob was visiting the family, he and Rachel fell in love. He asked Rachel's father if he could marry her. Since Jacob was a family friend you'd think the answer would have been yes, but her father would only allow it if Jacob worked on the family farm- for seven years. True story. So since Jacob was such a good guy, and loved Rachel so much that he was willing to respect her father's maniacal demands, he worked in the fields for seven years. If he was 21 when he started, he would have to wait until he was 28 to marry Rachel.
So he worked hard, and they waited, and finally the seven year deadline rolled around and the wedding day came. Except that Rachel's father was a hoorible kind of person. Rachel was going to wear a really old-fashioned wedding dress, probably picked out or handed down by her mother, and the veil was ridiculously thick. So Rachel's father pulled her out of the wedding and hid Leah, her older sister, in the thick wedding dress. So, after slaving and waiting for seven years, Jacob ends up marrying Leah! True story.
All was not lost, this was a charming culture in which a man could have more than one wife. But Rachel's dad said that he would have to work another seven years. Now we're talking waiting until he's 35 years old, to marry the woman he met 14 years ago. And he did it. He didn't steal Rachel, they didn't elope, he didn't give up and settle for her sister. He didn't disgrace her or dishonor her family. They worked and waited some more, dealt with complicated family issues, and in seven years they were married. They had two boys and lived happily ever after.
This is not a Jerry Springer story, it's actually a Bible story. I've known it all my life, and it's only started to astound me now. I cannot imagine someone putting up with my insane family and working for 14 years for nothing but the right to marry me.
And then I got to thinking, I got better than that. Once upon a time there was an ancient, beautiful, wise god. And he fell in love with a woman named Rachel ( that's me!) He fell in love with me way before I was even born. Even though he was this amazing god, that lived in heaven and ruled the universe, he came to earth. He started out as a baby, like us. He let people wipe his bottom and hand-feed him, and then he had to deal with adolescents and curfews and taxes. He put up with all of this, no pay whatsoever, for 32 years. That's more than 14 times 2. And to top everything off, he ticked off some powerful people and they killed him. They killed him in the most painful way a human being could be killed in the history of mankind. He did this so that in 2,000 years, he could have a happily ever after with me. The person who created my universe loved me so much that he allowed himself to be degraded to human form, and endured the worst pain a human form can take, all in the hopes, the HOPES, that in 2,000 years I would love him back.
So. Even though "I have started a life for myself, I have seen far-away places, I have met death, and I have climbed 500 feet of bare mountain wall with nothing but my bare hands and a pair of hiking boots," it all fails in comparison to this. Someone that is infinitely too good for me loved me anyways, loved me enough to die for me, without ever being sure that I would love him back. That is the most important part of my identity.
I'll start with a story. Once upon a time there was a woman named Rachel (not me.) She was just out of school and had a nasty full-time job to help support her family. One day she was running errands and met a man named Jacob. He was a friend of her family, and was coming into town to visit her. While Jacob was visiting the family, he and Rachel fell in love. He asked Rachel's father if he could marry her. Since Jacob was a family friend you'd think the answer would have been yes, but her father would only allow it if Jacob worked on the family farm- for seven years. True story. So since Jacob was such a good guy, and loved Rachel so much that he was willing to respect her father's maniacal demands, he worked in the fields for seven years. If he was 21 when he started, he would have to wait until he was 28 to marry Rachel.
So he worked hard, and they waited, and finally the seven year deadline rolled around and the wedding day came. Except that Rachel's father was a hoorible kind of person. Rachel was going to wear a really old-fashioned wedding dress, probably picked out or handed down by her mother, and the veil was ridiculously thick. So Rachel's father pulled her out of the wedding and hid Leah, her older sister, in the thick wedding dress. So, after slaving and waiting for seven years, Jacob ends up marrying Leah! True story.
All was not lost, this was a charming culture in which a man could have more than one wife. But Rachel's dad said that he would have to work another seven years. Now we're talking waiting until he's 35 years old, to marry the woman he met 14 years ago. And he did it. He didn't steal Rachel, they didn't elope, he didn't give up and settle for her sister. He didn't disgrace her or dishonor her family. They worked and waited some more, dealt with complicated family issues, and in seven years they were married. They had two boys and lived happily ever after.
This is not a Jerry Springer story, it's actually a Bible story. I've known it all my life, and it's only started to astound me now. I cannot imagine someone putting up with my insane family and working for 14 years for nothing but the right to marry me.
And then I got to thinking, I got better than that. Once upon a time there was an ancient, beautiful, wise god. And he fell in love with a woman named Rachel ( that's me!) He fell in love with me way before I was even born. Even though he was this amazing god, that lived in heaven and ruled the universe, he came to earth. He started out as a baby, like us. He let people wipe his bottom and hand-feed him, and then he had to deal with adolescents and curfews and taxes. He put up with all of this, no pay whatsoever, for 32 years. That's more than 14 times 2. And to top everything off, he ticked off some powerful people and they killed him. They killed him in the most painful way a human being could be killed in the history of mankind. He did this so that in 2,000 years, he could have a happily ever after with me. The person who created my universe loved me so much that he allowed himself to be degraded to human form, and endured the worst pain a human form can take, all in the hopes, the HOPES, that in 2,000 years I would love him back.
So. Even though "I have started a life for myself, I have seen far-away places, I have met death, and I have climbed 500 feet of bare mountain wall with nothing but my bare hands and a pair of hiking boots," it all fails in comparison to this. Someone that is infinitely too good for me loved me anyways, loved me enough to die for me, without ever being sure that I would love him back. That is the most important part of my identity.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Just Call Me Burly Mountain Girl
I went camping this week. There are some things I really don't like about camping. I don't like stinking for days on end. I don't like bugs and pollen. I don't like changing my clothes in a tiny tent 4 feet tall. I don't like sleeping in a 5-man tent packed with 6 girls. But there are some things I love about camping. I love the Adirondack mountains. I like being truly hungry, and campfires deep into the night with friends and marshmellows. I like how simple and raw it is. I liked coming home, in reeky bum clothes, and feeling too loud and too strong and too big for my house.
At one point we scaled the rock face of Avalanche mountain. A net of fallen trees (from the alvalanche of '91) created a 30-foot long bridge from our trail to the rock face. The 12 of us had to climb through 15-year-old loose timber to get to a section of mountain that was so steep that nothing could grow on it, and then we climbed that. I have never done anything like this in my life, and I'm not ashamed to say that I was terrified.
You learn a new kind of problem-solving quickly. The logs with moss on them are the sturdiest, but they're also slippery. Always be holding onto something with your hands, so when your feet slide or break through you can hang on. Sometimes you just have to jump and catch yourself as best you can. And never look down, ever.
Then came the rock face. From far away it looked flat and smooth, but up close it was gravely; hard on your hands and slippery under your boots. You used your hands and your feet to you bear-crawl up as quickly as possible. Sometimes your boots would slip and you would have to flatten up against the wall until you stopped. I was the last one up, and when I reached the rest of the group I slowly turned and perched on the moutainside in a sitting/squatting position.
The view was worth risking life and limb. Adirondack mountains, dark blue against a bluer sky. Green timber covering nearly every inch, and lakes covering the rest of it. Rocky mountain peaks past the timberline. It wasn't a scenic stop on the expressway; this is a view that very few people have ever had, a view that you had to earn. The kind of view you can't take a picutre of because a camera would never survive the journey. We were 500 feet higher than our trail- I could see my pack where I had left it and it was the size of the eraser on a pencil.
We picked gravel out of our hands and our knees, examined our scratches ("Alright, who's bleeding?") and started down. Down is much, much harder and more dangerous than up. Some people used a controlled-fall approach, tumbling down the mountain and stopping when they got going to fast. I slowly and timidly picked my way down the 500 feet. But when I jumped from that last branch onto the trail, and my boots landed with a loud thud that sent up a dust cloud, I felt about 50 feet tall. I felt like I had conquered the entire world. I had braved to go where only ants can exist.
There are some things that grow you up. Finding a college, cancer, last days of school. Climbing a mountainside with only your own body and some friends for life support does it, too. When I was sitting on that wall, looking over the mountains, I knew there would be nothing that would scare me for a very long time. It's the kind of thing you can add to your identity. I have started a life for myself, I have seen far-away places, I have met death, and I have climbed 500 feet of bare mountain wall with nothing but my bare hands and a pair of hiking boots.
Sometimes you need to risk your life to change your life.
At one point we scaled the rock face of Avalanche mountain. A net of fallen trees (from the alvalanche of '91) created a 30-foot long bridge from our trail to the rock face. The 12 of us had to climb through 15-year-old loose timber to get to a section of mountain that was so steep that nothing could grow on it, and then we climbed that. I have never done anything like this in my life, and I'm not ashamed to say that I was terrified.
You learn a new kind of problem-solving quickly. The logs with moss on them are the sturdiest, but they're also slippery. Always be holding onto something with your hands, so when your feet slide or break through you can hang on. Sometimes you just have to jump and catch yourself as best you can. And never look down, ever.
Then came the rock face. From far away it looked flat and smooth, but up close it was gravely; hard on your hands and slippery under your boots. You used your hands and your feet to you bear-crawl up as quickly as possible. Sometimes your boots would slip and you would have to flatten up against the wall until you stopped. I was the last one up, and when I reached the rest of the group I slowly turned and perched on the moutainside in a sitting/squatting position.
The view was worth risking life and limb. Adirondack mountains, dark blue against a bluer sky. Green timber covering nearly every inch, and lakes covering the rest of it. Rocky mountain peaks past the timberline. It wasn't a scenic stop on the expressway; this is a view that very few people have ever had, a view that you had to earn. The kind of view you can't take a picutre of because a camera would never survive the journey. We were 500 feet higher than our trail- I could see my pack where I had left it and it was the size of the eraser on a pencil.
We picked gravel out of our hands and our knees, examined our scratches ("Alright, who's bleeding?") and started down. Down is much, much harder and more dangerous than up. Some people used a controlled-fall approach, tumbling down the mountain and stopping when they got going to fast. I slowly and timidly picked my way down the 500 feet. But when I jumped from that last branch onto the trail, and my boots landed with a loud thud that sent up a dust cloud, I felt about 50 feet tall. I felt like I had conquered the entire world. I had braved to go where only ants can exist.
There are some things that grow you up. Finding a college, cancer, last days of school. Climbing a mountainside with only your own body and some friends for life support does it, too. When I was sitting on that wall, looking over the mountains, I knew there would be nothing that would scare me for a very long time. It's the kind of thing you can add to your identity. I have started a life for myself, I have seen far-away places, I have met death, and I have climbed 500 feet of bare mountain wall with nothing but my bare hands and a pair of hiking boots.
Sometimes you need to risk your life to change your life.
Monday, June 11, 2007
LAST DAY OF SCHOOL...EVER!
Today, the moment I have been waiting for came. After minutes, days, weeks, years of waiting and anticipating and dreaming, the last 2:00 bell I will ever hear rang for me.
I was standing in between my psych room and my english room. Seniors were seaping into the hallway, teachers barely able to hold us back. We kept a countdown starting at 2 minutes. I was shifting my weight from foot to foot, barely unable to stand the suspense. Finally, after a small eternity, the last afternoon anouncements came on. Our assistant principle's dire warnings of making wise decisions were lost in raucus cheers from the upper classmen. But when the overhead voice stopped, silence fell as we waited for that glorious sound. The bell that had sounded temporary freedom for four years of our life was about to release us into the great, wide world for good. And it came! "Bing......Bing.....Bing!" Arms went up, books and papers flew, and an almighty shout went up. I have seen many beautiful things. But the sound of that Last Bell was the most gorgeously incredible noise I have ever heard.
All fo the underclassmen heard the bell ring, "summer....summer....summer!" Many senior heard the bell ring, "the end....the end....the end!" The only thing I heard was "Go....Go....Go!"
I am free. I am done. I made it. And I am so, so ready.
PS: I did sign my name- in the corner of the radiator in my english room. Don't tell anyone.
I was standing in between my psych room and my english room. Seniors were seaping into the hallway, teachers barely able to hold us back. We kept a countdown starting at 2 minutes. I was shifting my weight from foot to foot, barely unable to stand the suspense. Finally, after a small eternity, the last afternoon anouncements came on. Our assistant principle's dire warnings of making wise decisions were lost in raucus cheers from the upper classmen. But when the overhead voice stopped, silence fell as we waited for that glorious sound. The bell that had sounded temporary freedom for four years of our life was about to release us into the great, wide world for good. And it came! "Bing......Bing.....Bing!" Arms went up, books and papers flew, and an almighty shout went up. I have seen many beautiful things. But the sound of that Last Bell was the most gorgeously incredible noise I have ever heard.
All fo the underclassmen heard the bell ring, "summer....summer....summer!" Many senior heard the bell ring, "the end....the end....the end!" The only thing I heard was "Go....Go....Go!"
I am free. I am done. I made it. And I am so, so ready.
PS: I did sign my name- in the corner of the radiator in my english room. Don't tell anyone.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
The Last Locker
I cleaned out my locker for the last time today. I threw out old trash; smelly lunches, salad dressing, random french papers from December. I collected gym clothes, saying things like "So that's where that t-shirt went!" and "My socks!" I actually found a plate in with some notebooks. I discovered english books that I thought I had lost, and unearthed my psych textbook, which I actually thoght was under my desk. I cleared out old swimming notes that hung all ripped up on the walls. I took out the "what a whore" sticker that Emily had up all year- and had bugged me, all year. I found my bright stripey scarf, that was good, too. I put all of my binders and notebooks together, packing up the ones I wouldn't need anymore, consolidating the rest. I dismantled the locker shelves, setting them aside for next year (for my brother, not for me.) I shoveled all of the trash into an empty garbage bag I had scavenged from a janitor's cart and looked for a garbage can. A boy rolled past with one, and I asked how empty it was. My massive sack of trash just fit, and he asked how many lockers it was from. I said "just one," and grinned, almost maniacally. As I walked away, his face was wrinkled in disgust, yet filled with awe as well.
I had kind of planned on my last locker clean-out to be quiet and sad. Sentimental reminiscing, fond memories, and the like. it was more of a joyful purge; getting rid of everything I no longer need. One of my best friends was wandering nearby, intermitantly mocking my pigsty. There were some social studies teachers, only a handful of years older than I am, hanging out in the halls that I chatted with and who also mocked the extent of my mess. I saw my english teacher walk down the hall with a pile of books higher than her chin and added my books to the heap. I threw stuff into the trash bag with a "to hell with it all" kind of attitude, hoping that I wouldn't need any of it to graduate, knowing that I won't need it.
The Last Locker is clean, empty, echo-ey. All I am leaving behind is some space surrounded by smelly tin. Except I think I'll sign my name and graduating year somewhere in my locker, or elsewhere in the school. I feel like I have to leave my mark somewhere, my name. Maybe someday when I'm rich and famous someone will find my name, and it will become a tradition for every freshman to try and find it on their first day in high school. Probably not. But it's a nice thought, isn't it?
I had kind of planned on my last locker clean-out to be quiet and sad. Sentimental reminiscing, fond memories, and the like. it was more of a joyful purge; getting rid of everything I no longer need. One of my best friends was wandering nearby, intermitantly mocking my pigsty. There were some social studies teachers, only a handful of years older than I am, hanging out in the halls that I chatted with and who also mocked the extent of my mess. I saw my english teacher walk down the hall with a pile of books higher than her chin and added my books to the heap. I threw stuff into the trash bag with a "to hell with it all" kind of attitude, hoping that I wouldn't need any of it to graduate, knowing that I won't need it.
The Last Locker is clean, empty, echo-ey. All I am leaving behind is some space surrounded by smelly tin. Except I think I'll sign my name and graduating year somewhere in my locker, or elsewhere in the school. I feel like I have to leave my mark somewhere, my name. Maybe someday when I'm rich and famous someone will find my name, and it will become a tradition for every freshman to try and find it on their first day in high school. Probably not. But it's a nice thought, isn't it?
Monday, June 4, 2007
Almost There
My last day of school is in exactly one week, and I'm not even a little bit sad. When that final bell rings at 2:00 on Monday afternoon, I expect to be the happiest person for miles.
I'm so ready. I have sucked high school dry, there is absolutely nothing left for me anymore. I'm ready to have long summer days and nights to hang out with my friends (and work). I'm ready for week-long vacations and camping and white water rafting trips and bonfires on my patio all the time. I'm ready for summer movies and impromptu trips to the beach and swimming in my pool. I'm ready for getting ready to go off to college in the fall. I'm ready to make new friends and get involved in tons of new things and learn about things I like. I'm ready to try living on my own. I'm ready for new dreams and goals.
The friendships that I care about are strong enough to test. The relationship I have with my family is good enough to add two hours of distance. The person I know I am is strong enough to throw into a completely new environment. Sometimes the idea of all new things scares me half to death. But most of the time, I just want to walk across the stage in my cap and gown and grab my diploma, and I want to get work and make money for next year. I want to see how much fun I can fit into a couple of months with my friends. I want to see what my own life will look like, and I want to meet the friends that will roll my way, and I want to learn about what I love and figure out what else I like.
I don't want to leave my friends, but I know that when next summer comes around, we'll be sitting on my patio in our dripping swimsuits, making s'mores. I'm willing to bet that things fall apart less radically than it feels like right now.
I came, I saw, I conquered. And I'm so ready for whatever comes next.
I'm so ready. I have sucked high school dry, there is absolutely nothing left for me anymore. I'm ready to have long summer days and nights to hang out with my friends (and work). I'm ready for week-long vacations and camping and white water rafting trips and bonfires on my patio all the time. I'm ready for summer movies and impromptu trips to the beach and swimming in my pool. I'm ready for getting ready to go off to college in the fall. I'm ready to make new friends and get involved in tons of new things and learn about things I like. I'm ready to try living on my own. I'm ready for new dreams and goals.
The friendships that I care about are strong enough to test. The relationship I have with my family is good enough to add two hours of distance. The person I know I am is strong enough to throw into a completely new environment. Sometimes the idea of all new things scares me half to death. But most of the time, I just want to walk across the stage in my cap and gown and grab my diploma, and I want to get work and make money for next year. I want to see how much fun I can fit into a couple of months with my friends. I want to see what my own life will look like, and I want to meet the friends that will roll my way, and I want to learn about what I love and figure out what else I like.
I don't want to leave my friends, but I know that when next summer comes around, we'll be sitting on my patio in our dripping swimsuits, making s'mores. I'm willing to bet that things fall apart less radically than it feels like right now.
I came, I saw, I conquered. And I'm so ready for whatever comes next.
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