The Hardest Word To Say

Throughout all of poetry and literary history, life has been compared to a flower. Thomas Gray, Biblical literature, William Wordsworth, Anita Diamant and so many others speak of life as a flower for so many reasons. Its profound beauty and uniqueness, but the overall trait that elicits the flower’s comparison is its brevity. Life, like a flower, can be beyond description and magnificent despite its simplicity, but for all of its vitality and splendor nothing can last forever.

If you live for any amount of time, you will encounter loss and feel the stinging insatiable pain that accompanies death. There is no seminar, no class, no pamphlet, no words that can prepare you for it, not really. While no experience is exactly the same, there is the universal underlying tone that we all understand. Death can be a creator of peace or a source of conflict. For nearly every life that goes, there is at least one person, at least one person in the whole world who grieves its passing, who weeps uncontrollably as all do when we experience insatiable loss.

I’ve had strange experiences with death. Before the age of four, I apparently experienced it first hand. I stopped breathing and my heart wasn’t beating. (I suppose that’s what I get for pulling a plugged in hair dryer into a tub with me.) I stopped breathing and by medical terminology I was no longer living, but my Daddy brought me back. I was very little when older relatives died, but it didn’t touch me because being so young I wasn’t allowed to see the bodies, nor attend the funerals. It was for the best. As I grew older and started to gain cognizance over the comings and goings of life, I realized what death truly meant. It’s the life bit I still don’t have a grasp on. I was in third grade and I had a crush on a boy from church, a boy that seven years later would commit suicide. A young man I adored in sixth grade was shot in the chest at a party my junior year of high school. While these impacted me directly as they had been a part of my life at one point time, there was one death that shook me so badly I’m not sure I’ve gotten over it.

My mentor’s daughter’s baby was eighteen months old when she died from a car wreck. I went to the funerals even though I hate funerals, it’s instinctive I think. I had watched this beautiful little baby, Dayesha, grow up. That child rarely cried and was always smiling and laughing, she was like a warm pocket of sunshine. So as I walked somberly up to that itty bitty casket I had the strange inability to separate her from that warmth. I smiled as tears ran down my cheek, “Oh Day-Day, baby girl don’t you look so pretty.” Like a little doll she had on her pretty white dress and earrings. I stroked her cheek with the back of my fingers, but there was no warmth there. The precious baby girl was as cold as ice and I snapped. I backed away from the coffin to the closest pew and I bawled. I couldn’t stop it because until that point in my life, death hadn’t been tangible but in that moment feeling all the warmth gone from that little girl’s cheek, death became terrifyingly real.

Though it is a risk for many, death was never a factor for me as I faced cancer. The cancer I had was fantastically rare and save for a few scars you’d never know I had it if I didn’t tell you. Yes, I had cancer. It’s weird to think of now and is scarcely worth mentioning save for the reason I am writing this in the first place. I work at Starbucks and when you see so many people in a day, there are a few that stick out to me. One such woman was completely bald and wore the cutest headband with a giant pink flower. It automatically put a smile on my face and made me wish I could have done that when my head was shaved. Apparently my being bald freaked too many people out so I wore a wig most of the time. I asked her how her treatments were going? She just started telling me how they were going really well and then looked at me strangely because I was looking at her and smiling. I didn’t say a word but pulled down the collar of my shirt on the left side until my telltale pink line was showing. This woman smiled at me and said the two words that only another cancer patient would say after seeing only a scar, “What kind?” “Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, Stage 4a.” The woman nodded with a smile and introduced herself as Kay.

Kay and I had a strange friendship, she praised God that I was healed and healthy and I was so proud of her that she wasn’t vain and wore her bald head proudly. Kay just laughed, “Them wigs are hot.” I told her I was still working at Starbucks while I was receiving treatment, so I had to wear something for the sake of the customers. Kay just shook her head and laughed, “Oh honey, I’m too old to care about a silly thing like what people freak out about.” It turns out that Kay’s husband had been my health teacher in high school. Every time Kay came through my drive through window, it brightened my day, like a bald beam of sunshine just for me. We were kindred spirits she and I. It’s something that cancer does to people. While people say “I understand what you’re going through,” they don’t. They can’t and that’s okay. My best friend goes to church with them and told me that yesterday Kay went to the hospital because her liver was failing and told me to pray as they were all praying, that she would make it through. That still small voice spoke inside of me and whispered, “Kay’s going home tomorrow.” I couldn’t tell my friend that as she drove off to the hospital to see her for what I knew to be her last hours. So rather than praying for what I knew would not pass, I pleaded something different. “Dear God, let her pass peacefully in a room so full of love that it feels like Heaven before she even closes her eyes. Let her have a smile on her lips and joy in her heart, be with her, don’t let her be afraid.” So when I got the news shortly ago that Kay didn’t make it, I was finally able to mourn. Strange thing about cancer, that some of us make it with hardly a scratch and some of us don’t. I’m not going to pretend I understand that I understand it, nor that I have the answers because I don’t. All I know is that for the brief moments we spent together I loved her and she loved me and few people get to have that chance.

Being the nerd that I am, I thought of an episode of Doctor Who in which The Doctor, this immortal Time Lord able to travel through time and space in a police phone box called the TARDIS. In this episode, he has the unique opportunity to speak to the TARDIS’ soul as it has been placed inside a person. Through varying circumstances, this soul is released from its human body into its true form. She speaks to The Doctor one last time:

“I’ve been looking for a word, a big complicated word, but so sad. I’ve found it now.”

“What word?”Alive. I’m alive.”

“Alive isn’t sad.”

” It’s sad when it’s over. I’ll always be here, but this is when we talked and even that has come to an end.”

C.S. Lewis once said, “You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.” I can’t stop crying and that’s OK. While you may not believe as I do and that is your choice, I do find solace in that I believe that who she truly was, that beautiful ray of sunshine has transcended this fleeting mortality to the eternal. I believe that with all my heart. I believe that the wonderful and lovely Kay Sampson is truly home now. The hardest word to say is the one we think we’ll always have tomorrow to express. The hardest word to say is difficult because there is such a profound finality to it. The hardest word to say sometimes has to be expressed so that we may reconcile that in time all things fade from the world. The people we care about, regardless of their brevity in our life, the people we love we will lose. The hardest word to say is more than the end it is a well wishing until we see them again. So on that note I say:

GOODBYE KAY SAMPSON

To Build a Home- The Cinematic Orchestra

BORDERS: A Wake

So as I am sure you have noticed, there is no more BORDERS. As a corporation they no longer exist save for the poor souls in offices signing the loads of paperwork that I am sure accompany the ending of a company. They are closed after, “40 years of igniting the love of reading in generations of customers.” (Mike Edwards, CEO) While most of us shrugged and walked on, moving forward with the inevitability of it, there are those of us who will mourn. It’s only natural when something that we cared about leaves us. Why did they go under? What happened? Well the CEO in an email to subscribing customers said this, “In a nutshell, following continued negotiations and the best efforts from all parties, no bidders presented a formal proposal to keep our company operating as a going concern.” Essentially, BORDERS went under because nobody was willing to save them. Granted, it would have been a financial risk, I understand that. Books, it has been said, are dying. In the world of mass media and Nooks and Kindles and visual over-stimulation, not as many people read books for simple recreation anymore. Why bother, when you could just buy the e-book on Amazon?

I, for one, adored BORDERS. The one in Turkey Creek was my favorite. I enjoy attending midnight premiers of movies, decking out in costume and enjoying the movie with the hard-core fans. After eating, we’d have hours to spend before the line even started, it’s 9pm on a weeknight, where else was there to go? Even in costume, people glanced but didn’t stare and there’s something kind of peaceful about being among your own people. I’d spend hours in BORDERS, perusing the isles, buying tasty beverages I could get from my own place of work for free, utilizing the free wi-fi to create literature of my own, browsing the graphic novels and hoping one day I’d be able to afford all the many titles that I wished to own. From time to time, I’d find something on clearance that I couldn’t pass up. You know, like a paper weight that was made out of glass and glowed in the dark. (I never said I was practical) I’ve gone to midnight book releases at that store, discovered new authors, bought beautiful notebooks that are now full of stories of my own, I bought my first Moleskin notebook there. I could spend the day just being there, writing, because there is something about that place, about any bookstore that fosters creative energy, ignites it, or at least it does for me.

I told a friend that they were closing and she said, “Oh no. I love that place, it’s a great place to hang out.” I felt my heart sink a little. I suppose that was a part of the company’s problem, it was a great place to hang out. I thought back on every excursion I took there. More times than not it wasn’t to buy something and I wasn’t alone in that. There were teenage girls looking at the young adult section, giggling over the puzzles and pencil holders that featured beautiful and unobtainable boys. There were grown men taking over entire tables in the cafe to write business proposals. There were students (usually medical) who sat for hours doing research and homework. There was a young man I knew who would go there and read books every week and never had any intention of buying them because he never had to.

So when I found out that they were closing their doors, I mourned. My little brother scoffed at my strange attachment to a corporation. It’s not so much the corporation as what the corporation was, what it stood for. It was a bookstore. I’d mourn if any bookstore was closing, much less one in which I spent so much time. I am a bookworm, I have been my entire life. I read Romeo and Juliet in third grade and even though I didn’t understand all of it, I could appreciate the beauty and magnificence of the story. I would read in class in fourth grade because I had read ahead and already knew what the teacher was talking about. (Yeah, I was one of those kids) I was scolded for doing so and because I told him that it wasn’t smart to discipline somebody for increasing their knowledge particularly when the subject that he was teaching on was something I had already read about extensively, he gave me detention and didn’t let me go into the gifted program since it required the student’s teacher to provide a recommendation. I found it highly ironic now, but then I was angry. He told me specifically that it was because I had been disrespectful by reading in class and had argued with him in front of the other students, not because I wasn’t qualified. Nice. It didn’t dissuade me from reading. So I have always had a soft spot for books and as a result for the vendors who sold them.

As with any ‘going out of business’ situation, there was a ‘going out of business’ sale. I went once a week. One particular trip I was able to procure a notebook and all of Shakespeare’s major plays in book form for under twenty dollars at a saving of seventy five dollars. I was beyond ecstatic about that. With each progressive visit, the shelves grew increasingly bare. The Seattle’s Best cafe was gone within a week. The glass partition that separated me from a particularly beautiful barista boy was gone but so, of course, was he. Each empty shelf stood like a sarcophagus paying homage to what once was. I paused among the people walking up and down the empty isles, searching silently. There were little huddles as they searched out something familiar, something friendly in the somethings that were already gone. I hing my head and chuckled, I knew this scene all too well. This was more than a sale. This was a wake.

So the pictures within this blog were taken the day after they closed. I went to visit one last time and anything that I recognized was gone and the inside was empty and barren. A place that had caused me so much happiness was now eerie and quiet. I peeked through the glass doors, carefully reading the quotes that I had almost forgotten were there. I had hoped that like my beloved Knoxville Pearl, BORDERS would pull up out of its nosedive and remain open, but it wasn’t to be. It broke my heart and in the corner of the window was a sign that said: Coming Soon: The Ham Store. I scoffed and fumed. That would be the story of my life, something I once adored gets replaced not by something similar or enjoyable, but by something I’d rather never step foot through the doors. I hate ham. I hate ham so much.

So now it’s over. BORDERS is gone. Mind you, directly after leaving Turkey Creek, I went over to Barnes and Noble and walked through the isles. They weren’t so different really and if I squinted just enough it was like being in BORDERS again. I promptly got a Barnes and Noble card and resolved that it was going to be all right. Maybe I was being overly sentimental, but maybe I’m not the only one. A girl next to me accidentally pulled out her BORDERS card as she was paying. I looked over as she blushed and she looked at me. I smiled sadly and she nodded, almost like she understood. I mourn BORDERS in my own way as does anybody. I’m not sure which stage I am in the cycle of grief, but I am pretty sure I am nearly to acceptance.

When the Towers Fell

It came upon me far more suddenly than I was expecting. That’s always the way it happens isn’t it? There are such significant events that impact our lives in ways that we cannot describe, and we swear to ourselves that we will remember, that we must remember. Then the day of commemoration comes upon us and we realize that it did so with our scarcely noticing. They say that each generation has an event that they will be able to remember with detail where they were when it happened, what they were wearing and how they felt about it. JFK’s assassination, Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination, the moon landing, all of these events are etched into the hearts and minds of those that experienced them. My generation has such an event and it is this event that we commemorate today; September 11, 2001, the day that the Towers fell.

It has been ten years. That is so surreal to me. It almost feels like it was yesterday and oh yes, I remember. Where were you when the Towers fell? Ten years ago I was fifteen, a sophomore in high school. I was such a dork back then, a nerdy and awkward pubescent girl who was too smart to be well liked. I was wearing jeans, hiking boots and a green shirt. We were sitting in my second period English class when a teacher from across the hall burst into our room, “They just flew a plane into the Trade Towers. Turn on your TV! America is under attack!” The woman ran to the next room and we all looked at the teacher, she looked scared. We were scared. As we turned on the TV, it was on ESPN, so we switched it to the closest news station. We didn’t say a word but watched the pillows of smoke and the looping film of the plane’s descent and the subsequent explosion as it collided with the first tower. One girl started crying because her uncle worked there and asked if she could leave and call her Mom. The teacher simply nodded and when the bell rang to signal the class change we just sat there looking at each other. The teacher’s voice cracked, “You should probably go to your next class.” We all got up from our seats and the halls were abuzz with everybody talking, those who hadn’t gotten the announcement heard now and we were all rushing to their next class. The TV was already on in my Economics class and Mrs. Bauman declared that though today was going to be a review day for a test we were going to have then next day, the test would be put off.

We wanted to cheer about it, any day a text was delayed was a good day, but not today. Cheering seemed like the opposite of what we should do. Mrs. Bauman muted the news for a brief second. “These images are probably going to be disturbing, if you don’t want to see them, you can call your parents and have them come and get you. Any of you can do that and it will not be counted against you,” she paused, “they are saying that another attack is probably going to happen and we are pretty high on the list of possible targets, so if you want to call your parents and have them get you, that is also fine.” Oak Ridge is nothing if not a target..for a lot of things. We watched in wonder as she turned the mute off. We watched the falling man and we watched the towers collapse. We watched the brave men and women of the NYPD and the NYFD as they fought to find survivors, to find hope. A friend turned to me, shaking her head, “Nothing is going to be the same after this. ” She was right.

While so many other people wanted revenge, wanted the people who did this to pay, I couldn’t help but think of all the kids whose Dads weren’t coming home, of the husbands whose wives wouldn’t be coming to dinner that night. It’s insane to think about it. That’s all you heard about for the next few weeks as the plane crashed into the towers again and again. It was nauseating after a while. In its own way, America has survived, Americans have continued on with their lives, but every year on this day we remember. We mourn those that we lost and we try to heal. Facebook and Twitter updates carry the commemoration. We visit the memorials all across the country. There’s one in Oak Ridge, right in front of the high school. A mangled piece of metal from the towers in the shape of a dilapidated cross. It’s been painted to keep it from rusting, but there it is. We pass by it and we remember. Where were you? Where were you when the Towers fell?

Gothic literary movement doesn't wear eyeliner

Imagine for a moment that literature were capable of becoming a human being. Rather than living its life in chronological order as every human does (save for the case of Mr. Button, but all sorts of weird things happen in Cajun country), literature would be stuck as a perpetual teenager. It's like those kids you knew in high school that could never decide what group they were a part of. One day they were the smartest kids in class and when that became unpopular, they decided they wanted to be jocks though they didn't have an athletic bone in their body. They adapted despite it and were accepted for a time, but soon found that it wasn't who they wanted to be anymore so they bought a nice Nikon camera and took pictures of dandelions and allured every beautiful creature who walked past them. Soon it was too much work to paint things as lovely and the world as some sort of waterglobe with flowers and well wishes so they focused on the newly discovered idea that life is pain and painted their nails black, wore oddly tight pants and put so much eyeliner on that they looked like a raccoon had a few too many tequilas and woke up swearing that there were demonic voices in its waking unconsciousness. Yeah, literature would be pretty much like that.

http://sparkcharts.sparknotes.com/lit/literaryterms/section5.php

Literature goes through phases in an ever changing flux of characteristics while still maintaining its heart and soul. So...maybe literature is like Doctor Who? No? Maybe? I think so. Much like everybody has 'their Doctor' and everyone had the group in high school that they most identified with and spent excessive time believing that our little circle was the only group of people that would accept us. While I was never one of them (my Mom would've loved it/ killed me she's...weird) I was most fascinated and drawn to those Goth kids. I suppose I had it coming (Mom comes from Cajun country) but being drawn to the darkness is in my nature. The Gothic (literary) movement is the namesake of the popular teen angst ridden trend perpetuated by the color black. Which is fantastically appropriate considering the literary movement was marked by darkness and the supernatural. Where the 'emo movement came from I can't be sure and it didn't even exist when I was a teenager and I'm not even that old. I don't get it and I don't think it gets it either.

I think it's hilarious personally. Regardless, I find the Gothic literary movement to be beautiful and haunting. I suppose I'm a sucker for a movement that while holding tenatively to it's Romantic roots took a departure to the Dark Side. Gothic Fiction is considered to be primarily from 1764-1820 and featured writers that remain some of the greatest in the realm of horror; Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley, and Edgar Allen Poe. The significance of this particular movement is that while it kept most of its roots in Romanticism it began the departure from the movement which made way for movements like Realism, Naturalism and Modernism. It also popularized the idea of the romanticized vampire and my goodness, where would this world be without that?

http://cheezburger.com/View/53733635

Despite the fact one poor Irish man would roll over in his grave over what has been done to his beautiful creation, the Gothic literary remains one of the most pervasive in modern culture, be it British or otherwise. (Sometimes stupidity truly is universal)

Oh Knoxville what have you done?

There are those gems in Knoxville, those beautiful little places that earn a place in our hearts. They are those little hole in the wall spots, not a franchise but one of a kind and unique. These places become a sort of second home, a sanctuary and a place where you bring friends and family because sometimes the truly great secrets need to be shared. These strange and sweet solaces offer us a place to be ‘safe’ to be ourselves, even if it is a little Chinese restaurant where they know you like lo mein instead of rice or the video game store where they call you up to make sure you want to pre-order the new Assassin’s Creed because they already put your name on the list they just wanted to double check or the bar where they have your drink ready when you get there because they called you at work to make sure you’d be there. Like a modern Cheers, it is the place where everybody knows your name. Places like that are hard to find and apparently they are even harder to keep.

Case in point: The Knoxville Pearl. If you have been to the Old City and walked down East Jackson you have probably walked right past it, maybe you have even looked inside and all you could see were the vibrant colors on the wall and kept on walking. It’s nestled right in between the Pilot Light and Barley’s and if you blink you miss it. The Knoxville Pearl is a cereal bar, yes a cereal bar. It does all you can eat cereal in nearly any assortment you can imagine and a great variety of milks. They also sell pudding and oatmeal and Pop-Tarts and pop (soda I guess most people around here call it) and their most interesting offering: bubble tea. For those of you who don’t know bubble tea is (which is likely anybody reading this) it is either a fruit or milk based iced tea with tapioca balls at the bottom. It is an acquired taste, sure, but let me let you in on something: The Knoxville Pearl is my great gem. It took me forever to find it, this mysterious cereal bar that nobody seemed to know where it was, but everybody knew about it. The first time I went I even created a Facebook event called “Search for the Pearl” (the Knoxville Pearl without consequence has a cardboard cutout of Captain Jack (Sparrow not Harkness, but if they did it would be doubly awesome and quickly stolen) alluding to perhaps the play on words in the name). The Knoxville Pearl with its cartoon characters and oddly painted walls, broken piano, coloring books and games with missing pieces is my true happy place. Bubble (or boba) tea is my Kryptonite, I will drink glasses of it until I am sick (which I inevitably do). I spent Halloween there and birthdays and my friends’ bachelorette parties. The Knoxville Pearl was my happy place, my safe place. I say ‘was’ because as of Saturday for reasons that I do not yet know, The Knoxville Pearl is closing.

To say that I am heartbroken is a bit of an understatement and let me tell you why. The Knoxville Pearl was one of the last ‘safe’ places to hang out at night. Any other place even open that late is either a bar, a club, or sells waffles. I am not a club kind of girl. I can dance but attractive boys intimidate me, but so do unfamiliar social settings. Oh sure I could put out the air of confidence, but this is another discussion for another time. Bars can be scary places at night and since the list of my friends who are night owls is short, drinking alone is not something I want to do. I’m not one of ‘those girls’ who can just go to a club or mingle with complete strangers, not easily. Clubs and bars and often 24 hour breakfast joints scare me…Waffle Houses scare me. The Knoxville Pearl is/ was different. You could hang out there for hours and eat a Pop-Tart and not be bothered save for the occasional curious onlooker. An onlooker would occasionally come in as we sat on couches watching adult swim or better yet, a drunk. Yes, Old City is simply full of them particularly on the weekend and sometimes one would wonder in drunk out of their mind murmuring about how their friends left them and all they wanted was to find a place to pee and odd comments about hamsters. I wish I was making this up. The owners (who are wicked cool anyways) will get them coffee (often for free because they’ve not the presence of mind to find their wallet) and let them sober up on one of the many couches. This place is a beautiful place full of weird things and as of Saturday it will be gone.

I am not sure why they are closing. It could have something to do with the fact that the rent is getting hiked up for downtown Knoxville businesses. Maybe they don’t want to raise their kids in an often scary neighborhood. I wish I could save this wonderful place single handedly, but it is unfortunately too late for that. I suppose Knoxville is not big enough for a little cereal bar joint that sells bubble tea. Could we, as Knoxville, have done more to save it? Probably. The reason that they’re closing doesn’t matter all I know is that I will be there on Saturday to send them off, you should come and if you do late that night you will see me, not only me but others (including my brother and new sister in law) who have come to adore this place as much as I do. If you see me, say hello. Aside from being a little creeped out, I will secretly love the fact you came.

The picture? Cherry-lime bubble tea and Kix; midnight snack of champions and possibly my favorite meal. Oh and just so you know, in the unlikely case they are selling them, I call dibs on the ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’ tables.

And That's How I Found Bird Seed In My Underwear...

Weddings. The very word stirs different emotions in different people. I have already written a blog about why I don’t hate weddings. Let me tell you something that I do hate: strapless dresses. Sure I know that most of them come with those little bitty straps that you can attach in, but they are for all intensive purposes completely useless. Bra straps are not that tiny (which kind of defeats the purpose of having straps at all). Now apparently guys find strapless dresses and tube tops “sexy”. Sure, if shoulders are your thing (I happen to think I have very pretty shoulders) but here is my real problem with these items of clothing: I am not small chested. Maybe you cute little A and B cups can pull off the look, but I don’t care how great your strapless bra is, gravity will always always win. As much fun as constantly having to pull everything up is, I am awkward enough without having to worry about my dress pulling a Janet Jackson (an old reference I realize, but you understand what I mean, so it’s still valid if outdated).

It is wedding season in case you are not aware. The wedding in question was that of my younger brother this past weekend. I was wearing a (you guessed it) strapless dress and in all fairness the bride was kind enough to let me choose my own dress. This is awesome for so many reasons. Firstly, sometimes in an effort to match the wedding colors colorful monstrosities the shade of which should never be on a girl as pasty as I am. Secondly, one dress does not fit all. I am rather…curvy and the matron of honor was pregnant and the other bridesmaid was a lean and fit athletic girl. Yeah…that wouldn’t work if it were one single dress style. So I brought it on myself really. I know this and I will come to terms with it. Thank God for Victoria’s.

I have now been a bridesmaid a total of five times. Yes five. At my now sister’s (and I say that because I hate the term in-law. I love her like a sister and she is a part of my family, ergo, sister’s) bachelorette party one of my friends, I dare say one of my best friends said, “So Alicia, are you working on 27 dresses?” I love her, please don’t misunderstand that, but I wanted to punch her in the mouth. Yes, I am one of those “always a bridesmaid…” girls right now. While we’re at it, this weekend I have caught six, yes six bouquets. Used to be I wouldn’t try, they would just seem to come to me or I would catch it before it hit the ground because the other girls avoided the silly thing. I couldn’t even sit it out because inevitably I get called out and dragged up there. Yes, thank you so much for that wonderful reminder ladies. I somehow have brides that throw it practically right at me, but I didn’t really want to catch it. Now, my competitive drive takes over and I just want to beat everybody else at one of the suckiest games ever invented. By the way, do you know why they throw the bouquet? In medieval times a bride was considered to be especially lucky on her wedding day. This was so strong a belief that at the end of the ceremony the single women of the crow would rush her and try to rip her dress off of her. So the tradition of throwing the bouquet to the single ladies to appease them so they wouldn’t rip the bride’s dress to shreds/ trample her to death (which happened rather frequently back then). So I must be extraordinarily lucky by now or something like that. I’ve kept a few. I think I’ll burn them on my wedding day.

Ah yes, to the title of this whole thing. There is the tradition of throwing rice (which has been changed because apparently birds will blow up if they eat it, which is totally not true and has been proven to be a myth because birds eat that stuff in the wild, but oh well) and now we throw birdseed. I personally prefer blowing bubbles. Why? Bubbles don’t hurt. Birdseed does. (Rice/ birdseed was thrown for luck and to represent fertility in the marriage…in case you were wondering.) So the tradition goes that the friends/ family of the couple makes a tunnel to the car the couple will be taking and the birdseed is thrown. There is one very crucial flaw with this: there are people on the other side of the couple and most people have no aim/ believe it is a practice for MLB. So as these stinging little shards started hitting me, I batted them away and I’m sure I looked a bit like Raoul Duke in the desert. Now batting away birdseed is ridiculously ineffective and inevitably (another curse of strapless dresses and big chests) a decent amount went down my dress. How did it end up in my underwear? Well, I’m not quite sure on that one to be honest. I suppose a combination of most of it getting caught in the top of my dress and perfect timing as the seeds fell had something to do with it. Oh well.

The Not So Dirty V-Word

So I suppose there’s only a few v-words that be considered dirty before they could be considered ‘not so dirty’ and before you ask, no it’s not that one. It’s the other one. Though I’m pretty sure fewer people say it than any other ‘dirty’ word. After all, the only power that truly exists in words is the power that people give to them. A word in itself is nothing, simply vocalizations or scribbles on a page, but when a word is given power it has potential to bring down the most mighty of men. I suppose the same is true of this word, though I am not a guy (despite several debates) so I can’t presume to speak for them. This word has become so ‘dirty’ that I’m sure you as a reader has only uttered it in reference to someone else, in reference to a record label, an 80s song title, or more likely have used it as an insult. The word?

VIRGIN

That’s right, you read me correctly. Virgin. Think about it, the word has become ‘dirty’ in our culture. It is used as a punch line for jokes and the underlying theme of quirky romantic comedies (think American Pie), a word synonymous with ‘rookie’, or an understood trait of most nerds who cosplay and play excessive video games while living in their parents’ basements (though it is assumed that most nerds are virgins). By the way, my nerdy friends more often than not get more ‘play’ than my ‘normal’ friends. That is not the point. I suppose all of this started in my fiction writing class. I wrote a story about a girl who sold her virginity on eBay to pay for her tuition (I was not aware that this had actually happened, and I am aware that eBay would ban it, ergo the ‘fiction’ bit) and as a part of the assignment, we had to distribute a copy to everyone in the class who read through the story and write all over it; suggestions, criticism, things they liked, things they hated, or whatever random thought that popped in their head. There is a line in which the narrator says that colleges should offer scholarships for virgins as a sort of consolation prize. I got a few responses to that and they well…they weren’t what I expected. I got fussed at in a manner of speaking. One young lady in my class professed herself a virgin and said it was nothing to be ashamed of. Then the next is what kind of surprised me. A young man wrote and said pretty much the same thing. That’s
right, a boy.

Now I realize that there are plenty of virgins out there who are male, most of the virgin jokes are targeted at them. However, very rarely will they come out and say so. Particularly to a girl, whether they are attracted to them or not. This guy did and it surprised and delighted me. It reminds me of the myth of unicorns…no, I really am serious. You see, the myth of the unicorn actually started in ancient Greece where the unicorns were believed to be real creatures who were extraordinarily powerful and were the very image of beauty, grace, strength and purity. As the myth goes, no man could catch this elusive creature. The only way to capture it was with a virgin maiden. How did she do this? Well according to the writings of one of the greatest geniuses this world has ever known, the virgin simply sits down. The virgin simply is and the unicorn “because of its intemperance, not knowing how to control itself before the delight it feels towards maidens, forgets its ferocity and wildness, and casting aside all fear it will go up to the seated maiden and sleep in her lap, and thus the hunter takes it”. (http://www.universalleonardo.org/work.php?id=438) This great mythical beast who had the power to skewer a man and rip him apart simply comes up to her and sleeps in her lap. Who is this man who held such reverence for the purity of a virgin and the ability of the maiden to subdue such a great beast(mythical or otherwise)? Leonardo Da Vinci. Yeah, you know him don’t you?

There is a strange correlation between unicorns and virgins, you see virgins have become modern day unicorns. Nobody believes virgins exist. Try to think of ten virgins that you know who are your age. It’s difficult if not impossible. I find myself writing about them frequently, virgins that is. You see, one of the first lessons they teach you in writing is to write what you know. I suppose the reason I write so often about virgins is the fact I AM ONE.

You read that correctly. I, Alicia Farrar, am a bona-fide, legitimate, non-mythical, real-live virgin. Despite the feeling that my story gave people, I am not remotely ashamed of it, nor do I believe it is a shameful thing. I am quite proud because it is more than a state of being it is a choice. I am a virgin because I choose to be a virgin. You’d be surprised the number of people who are completely shocked by that. I suppose it’s mostly because of my age, I am twenty five. Now we virgins each have our own reasons for our state of being. My faith has a big role in my decision to remain a virgin and yes, I am one of those odd ones who wants to stay a virgin until I am married. Now all my reasoning behind why I want to do this is another discussion for another time. Virginity is nothing dirty or insulting or anything to hide. I am a virgin and I am not ashamed to admit it. I suppose that is one of the greatest effects that the confession of the young man from my class was able to have. Although, sometimes it’s just nice to realize that you are not nearly as alone as you feel.

Virgin. It’s the not so dirty v-word.

I still don't like chocolate

I wasn't really sure what to write this week. I suppose it's because I feel like my life has been floundering. It's the middle of the semester, I have around three different projects due this week and it's midterm and I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do to volunteer this summer with middle school students and I'm helping with little facets of my brother's wedding. So it's sufficient to say I'm feeling a little overwhelmed right now.

I wish I could hide in a corner and...well not cry, that's too easy and crying just makes me feel like a perpetuating feminine stereotype. I already have enough occasions to hate my uterus, I don't need more. Additionally, I don't feel the catharsis from crying that others seem to. When I'm upset aside from getting frustrated about the fact that I'm upset and then frustrated about the thins making me upset (I've become a pro at that) I pray about it and then I release my anger by listening to music and writing and laughing, or sometimes I play video games where I can shoot something. Videos on YouTube are my saving grace for laughter. I could watch funny YouTube videos until my ribs hurt from laughing so hard. Bloopers from my favorite TV shows and movies are particularly effective for this. YouTube is also where I find new music that I like...that and the newest music mix at Starbucks.

I am in a fiction writing class. Yeah, me writing, who saw that coming? I like to write and while that is a very big part of the class, an even bigger part of it is reading the writings of others and then critiquing it. I think it's interesting to read the writings of others because in its own way it gives you a glimpse into their mind. It makes me curious sometimes what people think when they read what I write (if they read what I write). What impression do I give people? Do they think I'm clever or witty, do they simply write me off as just another writer on here with a series of ramblings? In all likelihood, they probably think I'm nuts. They'd be right, but I came to terms with my lack of sanity a long time ago.

I find the UT campus itself to be a fascinating creature and that's what it seems to be to me, UTK very much feels like a live being to me. This is particularly true at night. I like walking around at night. I am quite fond of the evening. I am a night owl hard core. If I could get away with staying up all night and sleeping all day, I totally would. UTK has a life of its own, it truly does. This mood is not surprisingly affected by the weather. It is particularly unhappy when it is cold, which leads me to think it is a girl...or a cat.

I think by my next blog I'll be able to do more than ramble. At least I hope so. Maybe I'll write one of those super clever and catchy blogs that are kind of funny while pointing out a very obvious flaw in our culture or campus. Maybe, but then again maybe not. Who knows? I certainly don't. All I can promise is that for better or worse, I will be back. Sooner than later I hope.

-Alicia

PS: For those of you who are curious about the title. It's an allusion to the fact I don't like chocolate. That's right, I am less of a woman for admitting that. I don't care. I don't like it, not by itself. I'll eat the heck out of a Twix and brownies are tasty, but just regular chocolate, chocolate kisses, chocolate covered fruit, almost every candy bar besides Twix (I don't know what it is, Twix is magical I guess, the brownies (on the other hand) are not, I simply do.

I don't like you chocolate. Not even platonically.

St. Patty’s: Werewolves, and Vampires and Ghosts Oh My!

So I am writing this on the eve of Saint Patrick’s Day. A lot of things come to mind when people think of March 17; the color green, Ireland, shamrocks, Guinness and even Saint Patrick himself. However there is one theme that is far more prevalent: alcohol. Americans love any excuse to drink, if you can make it a national holiday, even better. Most people couldn’t tell you a single thing about Saint Patrick or in some cases Ireland, but when March 17th rolls around, you better believe we claim our Irish heritage, true or not. In the same way, hardly any of us know anything about Mexico’s fight for independence, but Cinco De Mayo…mas cervesa por favor. It is the American way. Not that I’m completely complaining, I will get swept up in the lovely madness of Saint Patrick’s Day, I haven’t gone a single year without wearing green. I made that mistake when I was a wee lass of first grade, and I never made that mistake again. Though I did hear folklore about wearing the color red, so I would wear it…just in case. Yeah, no luck on that one…ever. Holidays, innocent in their intention or otherwise, have one rather wonderful trait: they unite people.

There is something rather fantastic about getting swept up in something greater than yourself. I suppose that is really what holidays do for us. Most Americans are patriotic on any given day, but don’t think about it, not directly. However, the fourth of July, we will rock red, white and blue and eat hot dogs and burgers until we are sick. God bless America! We all do that though don’t we? Some turn to religion for that very reason, they want to be swept up in something greater than themselves. Obsessions come naturally to us. Humans long for something to belong to. It is the way we were created. So even if it’s not a good thing to get involved with, we are blinded when we are in the middle of it. On that note…it is with much shame that I will admit…I was one of those Twilight girls. I will admit it, I am embarrassed that I was a member of the craze and in hindsight, it was a little foolish. I have since then read them over and realized that they are not terribly well-written, the plot is iffy. I have since then seen the error of my ways. Though for that short while, it was nice to be involved with something that was so unifying, so ridiculously universal. If I had one of those books out, it was almost guaranteed that somebody would talk to me. It was…nice. Even if you don’t respect Meyer for her writing, one has to respect the fact that what she has done has become an cultural phenomenon. Like her works or not, she has done something that few people have been able to.

Vampires and werewolves have become such a huge part of American culture. I could do a whole dissertation about that, but that is another blog for another time. Most of the shows and movies that feature these creatures are laughable at best. Perhaps this is a shameless plug and I will accept that. The TV show Being Human is my new addiction. I am speaking of the English version. For those who are huge fans of the British version, first of all…what are you doing reading this? I doubt you are, but believe me when I say I have every intention of watching the British version. I just really wanted to see the American version for two reasons. Sam Witwer (who played Doomsday on Smallville) and Sam Huntington (Mimisiku from Jungle 2 Jungle, *giggle* Mimisiku) and it is rather fantastic. Two lead characters who are gorgeous and talented, sign me up! For those of you who don’t know the premise, it is a vampire, werewolf and a ghost who are all in the same house. It is wonderful and engaging, if you can’t tell…I’m a big fan. Mostly because Sam (who is the werewolf) is super awkward and I am a huge fan of socially awkward boys. So you should check it out. In case you are reading this the day it is released, a very Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to you!

My First VolBlog

This is by no means my first blog...clearly. However, I am trying to get 'out there', so I am now an official contributor for volblogs.com and this my first one.

Typically one would use their first blog post to introduce themselves. This is my life, this is who I am, these are the things I like, I am this old and have been to school for this long. I find that a bit boring. If you want details about who I am, you can ask and I’ll work it into a blog. This isn’t about me as much as my writing, and I think that in writing, a soul can be expressed better than it can be explained.

So rather than putting into words the way I perceive myself, or the way that I want you to ‘see’ and understand me, I’m going to write. Believe me, who I am will show itself, manifest through my words, I can’t help myself. Of course, that leaves the awkward first blog subject. I am going to write on something close to my heart, female nerds.

There is a rather odd misconception about female nerds. The first and foremost being that they don’t exist. This is clearly not true and I am living proof of this. The next is that guys love female nerds, this is not completely true. Nerdy guys love nerdy girls, not necessarily in the romantic sense of things because that would imply that they’d have the social graces to love something other than their World of Warcraft wife. Nerdy guys love the idea of nerdy girls. It’s a person who likes the same things they like, play the video games they play, read the comic books they read, watch the anime they watch, and would cosplay like they cosplay, but with the added bonus of boobs.

However, we nerdy girls are just as misunderstood as our male counterparts. We simply get the frustration of walking to the men’s section of Wal-Mart to get halfway cool looking, clever nerdy shirts. Apparently we nerdy girls like pink and all things covered in glitter. I, for one, do not. I don’t like pink, I’ll say it. The color irks me and if pink irks me, fuchsia makes me downright irate. Glitter is the herpes of the craft world and for some odd reason, clothes makers think it’s a great material to use on shirts that have an excessive amount of interaction with other clothes. I will not lie, I went through a glitter phase…and I am still finding it in the most random places. Years ago if you opened any of my clothes drawers, you’d think I’d had a vendetta against fairies and after killing them, stuffed their little winged bodies in the corner where they slowly dissipated into flecks of shiny.

There is something rather wonderful about nerdy girls, there are more of us than you think. I am taking Japanimation here at UTK. Yes, that is an actual class. It is classified as Japanese 321, but essentially we read manga and watch anime. I went into that class expecting to be one of maybe two girls in a class of bespectacled nerdy boys. There were more than two of us, actually the class was mostly girls. It’s kind of nice to find out you are not the only one. The diversity of nerds is astounding, both male and female. There is even a difference between nerds and geeks, a little known difference, but a difference none the less. I got scolded and promptly schooled by a geek who informed me of the difference.

Nerds are not so unlike you, maybe you are a nerd yourself. It’s all right, you are not alone. It’s easy to feel that way when it seems like you are on the outside of society itself. I kind of like it here though. It’s far more interesting than being ‘normal’ and I would rather be weird anyways, you get cooler badges and more achievement points anyways. So begins our marvelous little journey together. I’m very much open to ideas to write about so if you are actually reading this, thank you and comments are always appreciated.

-Alicia_F

Daddy, can you get me a green apron?

Children say the darndest things. Though I suppose that could be said about anybody, but it pertains particularly to children. "I just wanted to let you know you are such an inspiration to me," the voice that spoke to me now was not a child at all, but a woman in my Zumba class. I stood there in warm leggings and a skirt I use as pajamas most of the time. I was in the middle of grabbing my belly skirt and putting on my hoodie as her soft voice spoke. I did what anybody would do in that situation, I looked around for the person she was talking to. "Me?" I questioned with doubt edging in my voice. This girl, or rather this woman had been in this class nearly as long as I had and while uncoordinated as a three legged dog, she tried so hard. You could tell too, she was shrinking, slowly, but if you'd seen her as many times as I had, you'd notice significant change in her body, she was shrinking and I am in awe of how well this class was working for her. "Yes, you," she continued, "you are so good at this, you are an inspiration to me."

I was stuck dumb as my friend Brittany who was standing with me, smiled and nodded. "Wow, thank you," I managed to stammer out. The large blond woman, pushed her glasses back up her nose and walked away. I, in the meantime, was suspended in a momentary state of disbelief. Nobody had said that to me since I'd had cancer. This woman said it now and why? Because I happen to find a niche in dancing as a form of exercise and I am pretty good at shaking what my Mama gave me? I love Zumba class, while the changes in body are not nearly as noticeable, they are there. My friend Brittany it would make sense to be called an inspiration. She inspires me because she has worked hard and is losing weight so quickly and I'm so glad that I dragged her to try the class with me. Now her siblings come too and having people I know there makes me happy. Zumba is something I've found that I'm good at, good enough to be an 'inspiration'? I don't think so. To be honest, I don't know why she said it. Personally, it makes little if any sense to me. I was flattered and honored, don't get me wrong. It struck me as...well, odd and to be honest, it was a little frightening. People notice me. The very notion is strange. People watch what I do and whatever I do, it causes a response in them, whether that is positive or negative, it is a response. It reminded me that we have eyes on us all the time. Our attitude, the way we carry ourselves, the light that either shines from within us or is dwindling in the dark echoes in the lives of people we never knew we affected.

This brings me to Lily. Lily is the young daughter of a friend of mine that used to be in a small group with me. I adore Lily. She is the embodiment of a precocious little girl. Her Dad, my friend Daniel stood over next to his beautiful wife Samantha as I was arranging the drinks in the case below our pastry case at good old Starbucks. Lily runs over to me. "Hi Alicia," her little voice pipes. It's one of the only time she has managed to remember my name. "Hello Lily," I respond with a smile, remembering the time she looked at me with sleepy eyes as dinner was being made. "Are you tired Lily?" Lily nodded and looked up at me with a question in her eyes that I'm not sure she was sure she could ask, but I knew that look. "Do you want me to hold you for a little bit?" Lily nodded and I picked her up and held her, feeling her little heart beat through my shirt and her breath slow as she fell asleep in my arms. Lily was not tired now, she was full of questions, "What is that?" Lily points to a glass container. "That's green tea." "What's that?" "That's orange juice." "What's that?" "That's chocolate milk, like what you had earlier." "Oh...I like chocolate milk." I chuckled as Lily ran back to her Dad.

I grabbed two trash bags and went to change the trash in the cafe. Picking up the outer container, I noticed Lily look at me in an odd wonder and Daniel, spotting me, came over to talk. Lily snuck up behind him and started to try to lift the trash can on her own. After nearly falling over and several tries she asked, "How'd you do that?" Lily's voice was strained as she was trying to lift up something taller than her. "I eat my fruits and vegetables and I got strong enough just to lift it right up," I replied. The good old eating that stuff will make you strong. Classic. Daniel chuckles. "Do it again," Lily requested. I lifted it up and her eyes get big. Lily stays there as I talk to her Dad, but it is the conversation that happened next that put such a smile on my face that it...inspired me to write this.

"All right, I have to go now. I have to put the trash up," I declared to Lily in a sing song voice. "Where you put it?" Lily asked and I caught Daniel shaking his head. "You see that space back there?" I pointed to our back room and getting on tippie toes to see the door frame, Lily nodded. "That is a special back room you can't go in and in that room at the very back we have a big trashcan that we put all of our trash in," I explained. Of course, like any child she caught the one rule in the whole statement. "I can't go back there?" Lily asked sadly as though I had denied her access to Disney World. "No ma'am," I replied with an odd smile, "only people who work here and have a green apron can go back there." Lily looked at my apron, looked at that back room and smiled as she turned to her Father. "Daddy, can you get me a green apron?"

I laughed outright at the little girl's question and her Dad laughed with me. I don't remember what I said after that, but as I told Lily goodbye and walked into the now slightly more magical feeling back room, what just happened hit me. I looked around me, this little back room was nothing to me. I pass through it every day I work, it was profane at best. However, to that little girl, the room was sacred. It was a place that was special and somewhere she wanted to go if only for the sake that somebody told her she couldn't. Aren't our dreams like that? Isn't Heaven like that? We wear green aprons where I work to identify us as someone who belongs there, someone who supposedly knows what we're doing. Lily wanted to have that identity, of course she could have no idea of what that entailed, of the hours we spend wishing we were somewhere else, of how difficult the identity of the green apron can be to us. Lily could care less about that, Lily wanted to take on our identity so she could go into that back room. I wear the apron and in explaining that the apron is the key to my entry into the room, Lily sees me. Lily wanted what I had. Can I say the same about Christ in my life? Is my light something people notice? Is it something they want? Do I explain with my life how to get where I am going? While our back room at Starbucks is nearly the polar opposite of Heaven, it was the vehicle of my understanding. As much as this was about Lily, it was also about the little girl inside of me.

Some time ago, I reached that point in my life where I realized something was...off. I was missing Heaven by the eleven inches between my head and my heart. I knew what it was to be a Christian, I could do all the motions, say all the right words. Unlike Lily, I knew exactly what my new identity would be, what came with it, I knew what I wanted and I knew how to get there. So I looked up at my Heavenly Daddy and asked Him a question in the same fashion that Lily asked her Father. I asked for the identity of belonging. I wanted to put on the symbol to show the world who I belonged to. The eleven inch gap was closed. I remember feeling like a little girl and I couldn't stop giggling. It was an odd and beautiful freedom. I got to go home at the end of my life and I knew it, for the first time in my life, without a doubt.

Maybe I read far too much into a conversation with a little girl who isn't even as tall as our trash can. Maybe. I tend to do that. God uses weird things like that to teach me the greatest lessons. Maybe it was because I identify with God most as a Father. God is Daddy to me, it is my favorite facet of Him and the one I suppose I cling to the tightest because until the day I die, a part of me will always be the little girl asking to crawl into His lap so He can hold me and I can hear His heart beat. Even when I've made a mess of things, completely botched situations that do not come without their consequences, I can run back to Daddy like the prodigal I am. Daddy takes me in His arms and holds me close and we talk. God is the provider, God is the healer, God understands my every quirk and oddity, He hears the cry of my heart when I too often let it weep in the silence. I am just the little girl that needs her Daddy.

It is that little girl I see reflected in Lily as she lovingly looked up at her Father. "Daddy, can you get me a green apron?"