Under the Spotlight

Graduation didn't affect me the way it affects a lot of people. For most seniors in high school, I suppose graduation would have been the highlight of the year. The end of the road. The beginning of the rest of their lives. As far as graduations are concerned, I guess mine was a typical one. We had to hold it in the gym because it had rained the day before and the ground was soaked. The choir, of which I was a member, sang the alma mater and one other song that made my mother cry. I went the wrong way as I exited the stage, and had to cover by hugging the assistant band director—who I never actually liked. But for me, high school had come to an end about five months prior to that day.

It was at the end of my last season in marching band, at our annual Band Banquet. The actual banquet is about as exciting as it sounds. There’s a pot luck supper in the school cafeteria and a cake with all the senior members’ names written in black icing (which bleeds terribly, so the names aren’t legible.) The special part of the evening is the “senior spotlights," which take place after about two hours worth of mind-dulling achievement awards.

Senior spotlights are almost self-explanatory. Every senior that wants to participate in senior spotlights pre-records a speech. Then, on the night of the banquet, each person takes turns sitting on a stool in the middle of the pitch black gym while a spotlight shines down on them. Usually seniors record a few jokes about things they did while they were in band and then thank their friends for all the good times. People cry a lot—I'm sure you understand why it was so enjoyable.

I started working on my speech in the ninth grade. What can I say? I like to document things. When it was finally time to record my spotlight I had either lost what I’d been working on or it no longer applied. So I procrastinated writing the speech for a week and then finally wrote something that didn’t offer the slightest hint of what I was actually feeling. I recorded it, and I went home that night and was so upset I couldn't sleep.
Marching band had been a huge part of my life for four years, next in line only to family. The way I felt about it coming to an end wasn’t something I could express in a couple of punch lines. I stayed up all night writing a new speech, and first thing in the morning I recorded over my old one.

The night of the banquet arrived and I was a complete mess—which people expected of me because they’d known me for four years. I had an industrial-size box of Kleenex and hadn’t even bothered with mascara. Mine was the last senior spotlight of the class of 2003. And even though I was close to sobbing by the end of it, I knew what I'd said had made a difference to the people that heard it.

It was the easiest and the hardest thing I'd ever done. Funny enough, while I thanked the head band director (who I did like) and a few of the band chaperones I was closest to, it wasn't them that I concentrated on in my speech, it was my family. My brother and sister had stuck by me through four years of horrific practice sessions and a hundred sink-fulls of cosmetic glitter. I had given my parents credit for making me who I was, and in the same breath I had let them go.

I played alto saxophone in the marching band. I wasn't a Valedictorian or a Class President. The day I graduated I didn't have the opportunity to thank the people dearest to me for pushing me and supporting me through my high school experience. What I did have was a cold night in December, four minutes in the spotlight, and a lot of Kleenex.

The Burgundy Buick

I was driving home through Wooster Street in an October afternoon -- warm and sunny. While stopping at the second intersection of Wooster, I noticed a brand new Saturn Sky Roadster, with its shinny Bluestone color and the dark tinted windows, stopped beside my green Durango. When the light turned green and my Sky Roadster flew by, I told myself that my first “big fat” paycheck would belong to General Motor when I graduate in 2007.

As the “Sky” disappearing from my sight, I turned my head to the left and saw an older burgundy Buick with peeling-off paint on its roof and hood. Inside the Buick, three young men looked to their right and seemed to be talking, or yelling at someone or something (I was not sure since I had my windows up). One guy had his hand in the air making some gestures I did not understand and another one was pointing in my direction. “Are they talking to me?” I wondered; however, I followed the advice from my friends and relatives–“ignore them and keep your distance.” As we drove through the green light at the third intersection, the Buick over-took and pulled in front of me. Why didn’t they just turn on their turning signal? I thought. That way I would know they wanted to get in front of me.

As I drove half way between the third and the fourth intersection on Wooster, the stop light in front of us, the one at Wooster and Third Street, turned red. A red pickup truck and a white Honda Accord stopped at the light. The Buick was approaching the Accord -- the last vehicle inline. Suddenly, the Buick stopped in the middle of the road and left a long distance between the front of the Buick and the back of the Accord – almost enough space for two vehicles. The Buick’s driver raised his arm and pointed his fingers straight out of the window, and then aimed back, which was the direction where I was approaching. I was watching these puzzling actions with interest as I was driving closer.

All of a sudden, the Buick’s back door opened and a young man got out and walked toward the back of the car. I tried to slow down and leave plenty of space between us. Maybe he needed something from the trunk, I thought, amused by the way people do things sometimes. He was wearing a denim jacket and baggy jeans with his hands in his pockets. He kept walking and passed the back of the Buick. Is he coming towards me? I was alarmed.

I checked my doors and made sure they were locked. Remembering many stories I have heard on the news and from friends or relatives, I started to feel scared. I remembered the insurance fraud cases that ABC broadcasted on 20/20. Diane Sawyer explained how criminals positioned one car in front of the intended victim and another behind it. The second car would hit the back of the victim’s vehicle at some “ideal” moment and push it into the car in front; the second car would then speed away and leave the victim to deal with the accident and pay for the damage, which included, in many cases, huge “alleged” medical bills. I realized that I was in the perfect position for that kind of scam. There I was, in the middle of three lanes of stopping vehicles, waiting for a traffic light to change; I would have nowhere to go if someone hit my vehicle from the rear.

My mind was racing--I thought of another incident that happened in Myrtle Beach a few years ago. A local woman drove her SUV in heavy traffic on highway 17 and stop for a traffic light. A man got out of a car that was stopped in front of her and approached her vehicle. He grabbed the driver side door handle and told her to move over, that he was going to carjack her. She pulled out a 9mm pistol and shot him. While investigating the shooting, the police learned that the woman was returning home from her weekly gunfire practice at the nearby shooting range. At the same time, the police also discovered the man’s identity and his criminal records, which included multiple kidnapping and rape charges.

Kidnapping and rape, I was terrified by these stories rushed out from my memory. I fumbled through my purse and the glove box -- the only weapon I found was a nail-clipper. I regretted that I had disregarded the comment from one of my relatives whom told me to sign up for shooting practice lessons and purchase a handgun for self-protection. I was amused at the time--I came from a country where the police force did not provide guns for every police officer. I probably would hurt myself first if I carried a gun, I had thought to myself.

Now I wished I had taken her advice in this dangerous traffic-waiting moment. I checked all four doors again and hoped the man would not be able to enter; however, he could shoot me if he had a gun and if I refused to open the door. I needed bulletproof windows or, indeed, a handgun, I thought. He was getting closer and closer and I could see his eyes and his devilish smirk. As he approached my vehicle, I grabbed my purse and held onto it. I would slam my purse on his gun if he tried to use it on me – the best defense plan I came up at the moment. I promised myself that I would spend that first “big fat” paycheck on a handgun if I survived this time.

He stopped in front of my Durango about ten feet away, turned left, walked between two cars in the left lane, crossed the street, and walked into the parking lot of the Burger King on the left side of Wooster Street. He waved to his friends before entering the restaurant with that “smirk” on the corner of his eyes.

The light turned green and the burgundy Buick sped away. I should never get a gun, I thought, because I could kill an innocent man for some self-created fear. A Sky Roaster would serve me much better than a handgun, I reminded myself as I drove on.

Death is Inevitable

Death is inevitable. This is the lingering thought I've been dealing with for a couple of weeks now. It was about five weeks ago that one of my favorite mentors passed. He was a seventy-eight year old deacon at our church, and he was a good friend. His name was James, but I called him Deacon.

I think about his death alot, more than I really should for someone I'm not related to. See his death has brought forth a difficult realization for me. That realization being that I don't handle death very well; simply because I avoid it. His death, rather his funeral was another in a long line of passing that culminated with my absence from the funeral. Granted his funeral was held on the first day of the new semester, but nobody would probably let me use that truth for an acceptable excuse.

I guess the main reason I think of his death, and not just because it was so recent, but his funeral is another one I've not atteneded. See, as I already said, I'm realizing that I don't deal with death well. For the most part I can handle helping families while the sick are still alive, but once they pass on, I'm no better than a wooden nickle or a penny in a soda machine.

But to get back to my original point, I don't go to funerals. See to this date I've missed my Great-Great Grandmother's funeral. She was my father's grandmother, and she absolutely adored me; and I loved being around her too. So you'd think that Iwould be there for her final goodbye, but you'd be wrong. I also did not attend the funeral of my Grandfather. Now to be fair, he scared me to no end, but I wasn't happy to know he died. Plus no six year old wants to see his mother cry for days and days. Oh and I also didn't attend my great Aunt's funeral three years ago.

I guess this says that I'm not that much of a soft-hearted person. It might even suggest that I've got ice-water running through my veins. In any case, if anyone from class dies before the semester is over, please don't take it personal if you look down from heaven, or up from hell, and don't see my face among the mourners at your funeral.

Bobbing for Lottery Tickets [final]

The dog days of summer were in full effect as the blazing 90-degree heat wave that had swept the eastern seaboard over the weekend radiated off of the white pavement surrounding the YMCA pool. It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon on Memorial Day in the summer before my senior year of high school. As a second-season lifeguard, most of my shifts were spent watching swimmers in a 10-lane lap pool, twirling my whistle, and staying alert for those predictable late day thunderstorms. We had weekly staff meetings to keep our CPR and first aid training up to date, but it didn't matter because nothing could have prepared me for the events that unfolded that afternoon.

Abby, a rookie lifeguard and college freshman, took her seat across the pool from me on the smaller of the two stands. She became a lifeguard when a classmate and friend who already worked at the YMCA assured her that it was a "cush" job and she would have a perfect tan all summer long. She rubbed the coconut-scented tanning lotion all over her skinny arms and adjusted her designer sunglasses just before blowing the whistle to signify that the break that occurs at the top of every hour was finally over.

Children of all ages, who have been sitting impatiently for the past ten minutes, leaped into the refreshing water screaming with joy. There was a line wrapped behind the first row of seating for swimmers waiting to strut their stuff on the 6-foot diving board. Because it was Memorial Day and the first weekend the pool was open to its members, people poured in like they were expecting to dive into a pool of winning lottery tickets. It was undoubtedly the most crowded and warmest day of the summer resulting in the most miserable and dangerous work conditions.

I scanned the water by counting each individual in my section repetitively, insuring that I saw each swimmer with his or her head above water at least once every thirty seconds. The diving board was situated in the 9-foot area of the pool, just to my left.

Jim Payne, an overweight father of two and second-season member of the YMCA pool, was next in line to take the plunge off of the flimsy diving board. His young children were in my swimming lesson at the end of last summer so I had gotten to know the family well.

As Mr. Payne leapt into the air and sprung above the board eyeing another bounce before flipping backwards into a gainer, he somehow miscalculated and in an instant, the board made contact with the back of his head as he fell limp into the deep end.

I immediately blew the whistle three times signifying an emergency as my supervisor and two off-duty lifeguards ran to my assistance after calling 9-1-1. I had already carefully entered the water, and made my way towards the victim who seemed responsive but in a great amount of pain. Abby had made her way over to the far side of the deep end with a backboard and neck stability strap in hand which was protocol for any type of spinal injury.

I placed the rescue buoy under Mr. Payne’s lower back and tried to stabilize his neck with my forearms. At this moment, I didn't know the extent of his injuries but I knew that I needed to get him out of the water. His legs were moving and he was telling us that he was going to be okay, but there was certainly a lot of pain hiding behind his every word. The pool was cleared but a majority of the swimmers had formed a big circle around the rescue operation, including his wife and two children.

Once again, Mr. Payne ensured everyone that he was going to be okay as he laid on the emergency backboard on the pool deck. EMT personnel had just arrived on the scene as we gathered some information for the accident report. He was then taken to Western Wake Hospital for precautionary measures and released later that night according to the report.

The pool reopened just a short time after the incident but Abby and I were relieved for the rest of the afternoon because our nerves were still in shock. We were educated and trained to expect the worst-case scenario and know how to deal with it, but no textbook in the world can explain the feeling of adrenaline that rushes through your veins when faced with an emergency like the one that occurred on that Memorial Day in 2003.

Symphony For The Senses

My full intentions to study abroad rested in my growing desire to travel, see the world, experience and learn as much as I could about other cultures and customs. With my acceptance into my first choice of schools in England, I knew things were going to fall into place. The month scheduled for the students at Keele University was the month of April for Easter Break. I was aware of how much time I would have for travels, so my interest to see the wondrous cities and countries throughout Europe would, fingers crossed, become a mighty reality as places I would see with my own eyes, apart from the photos, dreams, and questions I had prior to departure from the United States.

I can vividly remember the overwhelming excitement and amazement I felt the day I arrived in Manchester, England! The coach ride from the airport to Staffordshire, Keele's location, revealed to me that I wasn't intended for a casual wonder to England, Scotland, Ireland, and other European countries. My mind knew where my heart was leading me, to many childlike revelations filled with butterfly moments from the sights I would see. The only question yet to be resolved, as I looked out of the coach window to the hilly English (surprisingly lushly green, livestock-filled) countryside was whether I'd have the courage to grasp all the opportunities present to me. Partially, that was one reason my heart was racing so fast!

You could say my European sabbatical was to fulfill my travel desires. Deep down, its reason was to part from my dependency on others, obligations of school and work, and mostly to try one last time, to hold on to and prove my independent lifestyle. I was capable to live on my own and make my own decisions. I no longer had a car or cellphone. Soon, I adjusted to the reliance of public transportation for a pound and thirty pence one-way, to and from town. I learned the differences in food options at the grocery. Milk is offered in cartons and is shelf safe until opened. (Then it's refridgerated). Gross.

The trip was, in a way, my attempt to postpone the quickly approaching "real world" that I soon would have to face after graduation, becoming an adult.

When did the change inside me begin? The first trip that required overnight stay was to Edinburgh, Scotland. The speechless moments were tallying up from the second I stepped out of the train station. In clear, direct view was Princess Street and the Edinburgh Castle, two of the most distinguishing characteristics of the city. That was merely the beginning.

Traveling the month of April throughout Europe, I was forced to adapt an understanding that my heart would continue beating at a fast rate or either skip beats regularly because of the continually changing surroundings and wondrous, dream-like sights. I left dreary London and arrived in Venice, Italy first. The moment I stepped foot on Italian soil, something in me cracked open and in poured the unexplainable sense of passion. I was in Italy, the most romantic place on Earth. San Marcos square was filled with undeniable romance, kisses, passionate saludos, Italian tunes, and the flutter of hundreds of pigeons (who were fed by tourists). What a symphony for the senses. Literally, everything was different from the language, climate, culture, and food. The sun warmed my face. The food was fresh. I enjoyed made-from-scratch pasta and sauces, pastries, and bread. Having a glass of wine was as common as drinking water here in the US.

Maybe the excitement of traveling long distance and carrying my life in a backpack added to my open-mouth expressions. No matter what appeared to be taking place physically, inside I was quickly changing. The initial avoidance of quickly becoming an adult was not being postponed but more or less, was well within me and rapidly approaching and transforming my life and my opinions of the world.

Everything seemed to mount at greater levels inside me in the days that followed. All the collected romance, wonder, and hopefulness of a new country consecrated to an ideal. I visited Rome, Florence, Tuscany, Geneva, Switzerland, Viena, Prague, Berlin, Munich, Bavaria, and Amsterdam. With a place, same as with a person, you sometimes find the one you have been looking for all your life. It's possible to find reasons for it--that the object of your affection has become continuous travel which results to the findings of sights and moments which are uncontrollably exuberating--the fascination is well beyond the reach of reason. Those moments, that internal awareness, made me realize how wondrous life is!

When a trip goes right, things take on an inevitability, a momentum they never have in real life. Every time I run through in mind the route I explored, my senses flood with an overwhelming sense of gratitude combined with accomplishment. More things happened to me in my time abroad that were transparent as they happened, being graced by people of countries I visited. But the more I reflect on my time, the changes become more solid within me. I've realized the times when I stood still and allowed my surroundings to engulf me, viewing the city of Florence from the top of Giardino di Boboli, where the very points when nothing happened physically. Yet something was placed in me-a thought, a dream, a question, a speechless moment that I would never manage to uproot.

For five months my mind was in a state of bliss, particularly April. I woke up every day with new anticipations for what the day might have brought into my life and every night, my reflections made me think I'd fallen through heaven's hedge and straight into a postcard of paradise. That postcard is now stamped with my life's most changed experience, most memorable time thus far in 22 years.

Is my mom what?!

When you live in a town where everyone knows each other, it’s likely that you’re going to find yourself the hot topic of discussion at least once. I quickly learned that often my business made it home to my parents before I did—especially when someone sees a seventeen-year-old riding through town with a cigarette.

It didn’t occur to me until I was older exactly how things “work” in a small town. Actually, I didn’t realize it until I was 10 years old and in the fifth grade. After going to another school for the early part of my elementary career, this was my first year in a new school. Like I said earlier, people knew my parents and this didn’t exclude my new teacher.

On this day, nothing was different. At lunch, I managed to sit next to the teacher. This honor meant you were a good student and worthy of her conversation while so thoughtfully consuming a pre-proportioned meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I’m sure it was hard to hold a decent conversation with a fifth grader, so after a moment of silence between us she looked to me with a puzzled expression. “Is your mom pregnant?” she asked. If I could have seen my reaction to that question, I’m sure I’d say that it resembled the deer in the headlight look.

“What? No. Why would you think that?” There really wasn’t any reason for me to assume any truth in this. For ten years I was the only child. I didn’t mind it until I finally realized that mom and dad didn’t get as excited over a seven hour marathon of Super Mario Brothers quite like I did. Occasionally, I’d bring up wanting a sibling but the only answer my mom ever gave me was, “Of course you can have a sister-- if you can order it from the Sears catalog.” I actually remember browsing the pages of the catalog for a possible sibling, but realized that was her nice way of saying it was highly unlikely.

My teacher was obviously shocked that I didn’t know what she was talking about. With a mouthful of food (and a little worried that she’d possibly said too much) she said, “I heard Randy mention it at the store this morning.” Randy is my dad’s brother and the store she was referring to was the one locally-owned gas station in town where everyone met in the mornings. At the store, they would usually catch up on what happened in church Sunday or swap other bits of juicy gossip. Just so happened, it was my parents’ turn to be the topic of conversation that morning.

I could barely sit still the rest of the day. Finally there would be a chance for me to have nieces and nephews, someone to share secrets with and someone that could cover up for me if I was ever late for curfew. This was great! Trying not to get my hopes up, all I could really focus on was getting home and finding out for myself.

Mentally, I was prepared for this conversation. Being 10 and asking your forty-year-old mother if she was pregnant isn’t exactly something you think about often. With my homework out on my lap, I waited patiently at home to hear her car in the driveway. Suddenly my stomach knotted and everything I’d planned out to say was gone. Then I just did it. I blurted out the same question I’d heard only hours prior, the one question that will forever be implanted in my mind. I didn’t know if my mom was pregnant, but I was about to find out.

She was shocked that word got out and took a few minutes to gather herself before she responded with a slow, “Yes, I am. How did you know?” I recounted the lunchroom scene and followed up with one more very important question, “Why didn’t you tell me?” Not that I felt betrayed, but this was something every soon to be sister should know. From there she explained, as best she could, about some tests she’d have because of her age and about how they wanted to wait until she knew everything was going to be okay.

A lot of people have siblings, but not many people have one that is eleven years younger. Luckily for me I remember every cry, every scrape, every joke and every life lesson she’s learned and thinking back, it’s all of those moments that made being an only child for so long worth it.

The rumor mill surrounding a small town isn’t always a bad thing. My life changed that day at lunch, and it hasn’t been the same since.

why?

After a busy day of fun in Myrtle Beach I crawled under the thin sheets and crispy comforter of the hotel bed. I never knew when I feel asleep peacefully that I would wake up to chaos.

My sleepy eyes opened and saw a stretcher in front of my bed going into my parent’s bedroom. I woke up as quickly as I could my heart beating so fast I automatically shot up and ran to my Mom. She was kneeling on the bed holding her chest. It’s a picture that as a seven year old you never want to remember, but unfortunately you never forget. While they put her on the stretcher and wheeled her out of the room the tears burned my eyes and a million questions ran through my head.

What’s wrong? Will she live? Am I going to get to see my Mom again?

I remember riding to the hospital with my step dad behind the ambulance. He did everything to try to make it okay, but it didn’t work. As we raced by the pavilion and the restaurant we had eaten dinner at; I couldn’t help but think of all the memories with my Mom. The closer we got to the hospital the more nervous I got. Why God? Why? I asked myself.

I walked into the hospital ignoring my fear of needles or the stale smell thinking only about where my Mom was so I could run and give her a hug. When I finally got to see there I was too scared to touch or even get near her. She laid there with IV’s in her arms and a tube in her nose. I wanted to pinch myself and wake up from this horrible nightmare. I was so afraid; I had no idea what to say to her. I think she saw the fear in my eyes because she reached for my hand. Hesitantly, I grabbed it. I didn’t want to break anything or pull anything out; I didn’t want to make her hurt anymore.

“Hey honey…”

“Hey Mom.”

“I’m going to be okay.” I let her think I believed her, but looking around it was hard to.

My Mom found out she had a small heart condition that caused her heart to beat really fast and they had to control it with medicine. She had to quit eating or drinking anything that would make her heart race any faster than it should. It was a lifestyle change for her that we still have to help her with sometimes.

The beach is something I always looked forward to because it meant ice cream, sand and lots of fun things with my family. This year was different though. It made me realize that trips were not about the fun rides, the shopping or playing in the ocean. They are about being with my family and not taking one second for granted.

A Note On Why Running Can Be Bad for Your Knees.

I am a klutz. There is little other way to describe my falls, bumps, scrapes and the multiple random nicks, bruises and an assortment of minor injuries that follow, usually with me going “Where’d that bruise come from?” or “When did I get that?” Normally I’m the one who gets bruised, but there are times like when I put a hole in Kyle Richard-Garrison’s finger with an electric drill. I did not realize the true extent of my clumsiness until I got to high school. But it was also high school that taught me that my ridiculous disasters are not always to my disadvantage.

First day of class my sophomore year and Sarah and I, who I’d known for three years, had discussed hanging out at her house that afternoon. As classes ended, I thought it would be better if I went home that evening, and when the bell rang for class I dashed to the office to let her know that I would be taking the bus home. I got to the office, told her and I turned to run out of the office, down the hall, out the doors and across the parking lot to my bus.

It is at this point that I would like to explain that until I’d been in college a year I would find a special outfit to wear for the first day back; often I would shop for new clothes to wear. On this particular first day of school, I was wearing one of my favorite pairs of dark blue denim bell bottoms and a pair of four-and-a-half-inch platform mules (open heeled shoe).

In my mad dash to the bus, I missed a step and went crashing down. Thankfully, I managed to save my head from going into a corner of a row of baby blue lockers. I got up, brushed myself off, and ran down the hall, out the doors, down the stairs and suddenly found myself almost kissing asphalt. There I was again with the running thing. I made it to the bus and sat next to Jessie Fowler who I’d been flirting with since the sixth grade.

I had a large hole in the left knee of my jeans and my hands were stinging. I would not have called this a good day, but then Jessie was nice, told me to call him if I needed cheering up, which I decided I did – my jeans were ruined (I tried the “hole-y look” but it was no good). He walked to my house later and even though it was August we decided to go for a walk. It was my mother who inspired that choice – he was jumpy under her eyes and nose. Of course because it was August hot and the honeysuckle smelled good, we stopped in the shade, and then – even though it was hot – he was close and he gave me my first kiss.

It wasn’t a happily ever after, but I felt proud to be among the first of my friends to get their first kiss. Later I nearly slit my future boyfriend’s (though he is now my ex) wrist with a box cutter. My relationship with him was my first significant relationship. But Jon Roberts is an essay all on his own.

Chase Lizards, Bark at Donkeys

One day someone saved my life. It occurred like one of those weird, out-of-body experiences that once they start happening you feel like you've stepped into a dream. The day started like any day should start for someone thirteen years old and out of school for the summer; it ended dramatically different and with a gunshot in the night.

Coyotes are rampant where I call home. I live in the country and far away from any town or any neighbor. As a precaution, we lock our dogs up every night for fear of them getting injured by any hungry animals. We put them up around dusk and feed them. Our dogs have always been Jack Russell Terriers. These little dogs are German Shepards in a little dog's body. They are what I aspire to be. They have the most courage and tenacity of any breed of dog that exsists. Just don't tell them they're small. Our Jack, named Rascal, was the most energetic bundle of compacted muscle I had ever seen. Rascal stayed my friend through the worst of weather. He solidified himself as a best friend of mine from the very beginning without leaving my side. But above all he was a hunter.

On a regular summer night my mom began the nightly routine with a scream. She screams at lizards so I didn't take notice. Rascal, however, did not scream so often, and when he did he had two distinct barks. One of them meant it was nothing but a lizard, and meant danger. I didn't have to hear it twice to know that something had gone terribly wrong. I ran to the back of the house and saw a coiled rattlesnake hissing at Rascal, who was not backing down. I hate snakes, I'm scared to death of them, Rascal wasn't. I saw it strike at him and land a bite twice before my dad got to a gun to kill it. Rascal had been bitten twice in the neck by a poisonous rattlesnake the size of the large end of a baseball bat, six feet long, twice and in the neck. He still managed to drag it off and shake it before the poison started to wear on him like a drug.

I don't remember much about the ride to vet. It had happened on a Sunday night and they were closed. I do, however, remember watching my dog Rascal, my best friend, draw his last painful breaths in the back of our truck in my crying mom's arms. Two small red holes dotted his heaving throat. It seemed like a lifetime before the vet showed up. The next day we got the call and went to pick his body up and bring him home.

One of the most heroic images that I have had in my insignificant life has been that of my crying mother through our kitchen window, burying the dog that had saved all our lives from a poisonous snake. Sometimes, I walk to the back of our yard where his rock epitaph has faded over eight years of weather. Rascal didn't back down so I shouldn't either. I just don't know if I can be that brave.

Jumping out of childhood

When I was seven years old I saw a guy get stabbed, and as far as formative events go in my life, I feel that it’s up there. There’s little in this world that can rock a seven-year-old out of his secure childhood. Your parents could get divorced or you could lose a pet for the first time, most of which doesn’t teach you just how fleeting and fragile this and your life actually is. Perhaps the most insane part of the incident wasn’t the learning about one's life, but seeing that people were capable of taking life and afterwards just strolling away.

October 15, 1992. It was in the afternoon and my brother and I were playing in the backyard of our babysitter’s house. It wasn’t cold; it never really was in Brooksville, Florida. The trampoline in the back of her house was a treat for being good and finishing what little homework a second grader had. Some cursive practice and a reading exercise from a picture book with large print face that was my class’s book of the week.

The picket fence that held the yard in was only good at blocking the world at eye level, but when we perched ourselves on that trampoline and bounced to the stars we could see everything behind the house. There was a mixture of abandoned buildings splashed in between thriving stores with loud neon signs, advertising a way of forgetting. We didn’t know what they were selling, we just liked the colors. The neon and pastels put off by the signs would entice any child.

My brother and I were sitting, recovering from one of our more enthusiastic and tiring jumps, he facing me, and me facing the lights of inevitability. Two men started pushing each other. One wore a hat on his head and the other bald. They were both in jeans and t-shirts, with shoes dirtied from walking through the gravel parking lot of their favorite establishment. I watched as they bumped chest and looked as though they were whispering something to each other. It was something that I didn’t understand until I was involved with my first fight.

Then there was a loud shriek, like tires squealing and begging to stop as they saw a pensive squirrel. A man, the bald one, hunched over and grasped at his belly like he was trying to understand what the hell was causing this pain. He fell to the ground and hit with a thud that I thought would hurt worse then any type of pain he was feeling before then. His left cheek lay in the gravel, soaking up the dust and making him paler then he already was.

Next the man with the cap straddled the bald man on the ground. In his right hand some jagged piece of steal dripping the burgundy fluid that can only be made by the human body. The man with the cap was screaming and taunting the hunched up man like he was proud of his cowardly act. And then, like he had been stabbed in his Achilles tendon, he limped off, proud of himself. Laying on the ground, and starting to gather a crowd, was the bald man, becoming paler and moving less with each second.

I grabbed my brother and I walked him back into the house as though nothing had happened. He was oblivious to it; his head had been turned and was staring at the dogs playing in the yard. I didn’t react to it. I didn’t know how to. As I sat at the table, drinking a glass of water, I could hear the sirens of an ambulance and what I could only guess was a police officer. I slowly sipped at my water, not trying to finish it too fast. I kept my back turned to the action, as everyone in the house gathered at the sliding doors to see what was happening. I didn’t move. I was too focused on finishing my glass of water.

I didn’t tell my mom. I had no idea at the time why not, but I think that it would have been too much for her to handle. How can one woman apologize for the world? I look back on it now and wonder which would have been more difficult for her to do. Explain what had happen, or why it had?

The man didn’t die. It said so on the local news that night. I don’t know what became of either man. They were two strangers whose encounter took place five hundred feet away from a seven-year-old who had no context to put it in. I never cried about it though. It never seemed real to me. Perhaps it was that glass of water, and never looking back. I guess if you can’t see the aftermath of anything, it becomes really hard to materialize it as real. It was that day though that I learned how truly cruel man could be; how you could cause pain without feeling bad about it. That day I learned about the cruel, and at seven that's far to early to learn such a heavy lesson.

Primer

What do you mean Granddaddy's moving to the hunting camp? Confused I could only look at my grandmother and shake my head. It wasn't as if my granddaddy was moving out of the house. My grandparents had been separated for years so granddaddy living in strange places was nothing out of the ordinary; but the hunting camp? I was astonished. That was an icky, dilapidated building with gapped wooden floors, a rusty old stove, a bathroom barely a step above an outhouse, and things in the cabinets that might once have been labeled eatable but were currently biohazards. We had to move my grandfather into that? Despite my vigorous protest, the moving began.

First we had to fix the place up before we could move in his belongings. Every day for weeks I arrived after school armed with Clorox and rubber gloves to scrub, scrape, paint, and repair years of neglect of that old building. The day we decided to prime the room for painting was cold, gray and rainy. The building was drafty and the only heat was from a wood burning stove.

I arrived at the house that afternoon, dreading another day of boring repair jobs only to find my uncles had several rooms primed and were finishing up the main room. As I walked through the door I heard an odd noise that sounded, suspiciously, like giggling. I shook my head in confusion. That couldn't be coming from my uncles; they are 6'5"_ giants whose seriousness weighs more than I do.

As I looked in the room my uncles were sitting on the floor helpless from a serious case of the giggles. My grandmother was standing to one side of the room shaking her head in dismay.

Apparently my uncles had purchased a primer for the room that had a very strong odor. This odor combined with an unventilated house and the inferno created by the wood burning stove equaled the perfect recipe for goofiness. We would start laughing for no reason and continue for 15 to 20 minutes at the time. Even the suspicious brown stuff in the jelly jars couldn't drive away our new found humor. And when we figured out that the "wine-smelling" substance used to be jelly we laughed that much harder. Of course my grandmother was embarrassed and insisted that we stop, take a break and eat something, I guess because food makes everything better. She took the jelly away before any of us could dare the others to try it and was not amused by the situation. How she escaped the giggles I don't know.

I learned that day that mishaps are not always a bad thing and sometimes you need to laugh about situations. Our laughter was unintentional and we all had terrible headaches from the primer, but it was worth it. My uncles steadfastly deny this incident ever occurred, but, I know better.

St. Marten Delivery Adventure

It’s just my luck that my flight got changed in San Juan and I had to meet the boats at a beach in St. Marten instead of a marina. Thank god I met Rob at the airport and told some one what happened. There I was on my first day with Sail Caribbean, seperated, and alone for who knew how long. But I had over an hour before the boats arrived so I decided to grab a drink at one of those picturesque, tropical bars and wait.

Sitting at the bar I thought how fortunate I was. I had the job I've always wanted, the chance of a lifetime, a dream come true. I was getting paid to teach sailing in the Caribbean and now on an overnight delivery. As my mind wondered over a tequila sunrise I realized that they should be pulling in soon. Rob said to look for two monohulls and a catamaran, find a VHF, and radio Sail Caribbean. I told myself it was the islands and there was bound to be a bar with a VHF I could use.

As the summer sun was setting, and the yellow glow reflected off the tranquil blue water in the midst of a warm breeze, I saw what I am assumed to be the delivery fleet entering the bay. OK, time to find a VHF. With my over-packed duffle bag, I started on my quest unaware of the adventure that awaited me. I asked at one place only to be directed to another. Unfortunately, this went on much longer than expected. After an hour of walking I began feeling that something wasn't right. I was at the right beach and those must be the boats, but there was not a VHF in sight. I began to worry about getting stuck on the island or mugged by a local. So in my naivety I made a desperate attempt to find a police station believing they would have a way to contact boats. Wrong again, the police station was closed.

My next plea was to try the shipwrecked sailor approach-- go to the beach, yell, and wave my arms. This sounded like a good solution; I can see the boats so they must be able to see me. But this accomplished nothing more than receiving awkward looks. Gradually my heart started racing and that desperate, nervous feeling pulled at my nerves. So with my pulse pounding I decided to check once more for a VHF. I went to the closest bar, asked some one new, and to my surprise they had one. I was initially exhilarated, by my excitement was to be short lived. The battery was dead! At this point I wanted to scream. Now standing silent and frantic near the waters edge, I decided I had to conquer this situation on my own. I had to swim.

I searched the beach for a secluded spot, stashed my bags, changed into a swim suit, and headed out. As I entered the still, dark water I was slightly apprehensive and insecure about my plan. “What if I go to the wrong boat? What if it they are not even here? What will they think?” Shunning these thoughts I swam hastily toward the only catamaran in the mooring field. As I approached I yelled, “Sail Caribbean?”, immediately followed by a confused and surprised, “Yeah.” My mind was finally at peace. Thank God I said silently in my head as I pondered what the rest of the summer would be like if this was the first day.

From atoms to blogs

I have tried my hand at almost every major under the sun. I've endured the biology and chemistry labs, sat through the mildly interesting lectures in psychology, learned a little more about nature while I was giving geology a shot, and marveled about infinity through my physics and astronomy classes. I finally seem to have settled with english, which works because I like books and obviously, I seem to enjoy writing. How did I make my way here, you ask? It started last summer, (when I was still a physics major), and one of my professors asked me (for some wild reason) to apply for an internship at one of our nation's famous physics research facilities, Jefferson Lab. I had nothing else to do that summer, so I thought, "Why not?" I applied, and before I knew it I was packing up the department's computers and some of my own daily necessities, and I was on my way.

The Jefferson Lab is located in Newport News, Virginia, a city very similar to Wilmington but larger, which basically just means more Wal-Marts and McDonalds. The ocean was also close by, and only a few minutes from my place was the James River, where some of the first colonies were settled. My place, a sweet apartment complex right across the street from the lab, was not too shabby since it had a swimming pool and a huge shopping center nearby. And before we began work, we had a few days to settle in, so we drank beer in the sun, sang songs and played guitar on the patio, and got to know each other a bit by discussing theoretical physics and how we each thought the universe works. All in all, things got off to a good start.

Before we could start working we had to take safety classes for the highly radioactive areas of the site, which of course we would never actually be in, but protocol was protocol. A nice little Frenchman took us through the huge chambers where the actual experiments were conducted, showing us where all the gas masks and emergency exits were, just in case the accelerator decided to explode and leak fatal amounts of radiation all over us. It was fun and scary at the same time, seeing all of the ugly wires and huge metal devices that were used to figure out how the smallest particles that make up our world work.

After we completed the safety classes and received our badges, my roommate and I were shown to the small cubicle where we would be working everyday. We were also each assigned to an advisor who was part of the research team; my roommate got the shy and nerdy Russian guy who always wore white socks with sandals and had the thickest glasses I've ever seen, while I got the crazy Polish guy who liked to talk back to the group leader and always came in late. This was a stroke of luck for me, since I'm Polish as well, and he and I seemed to share some of the same characteristics. Unfortunately, I soon learned from him that my job would require major computer skills...I have never once in my life thought about being a computer science major, if that tells you anything. Consequently, I quickly lost interest in my actual job, and decided to focus on other things instead, like the Jefferson Lab employees themselves.

Sometimes researchers and students would gather together to drink beer and wine, eat good food, and argue about silly things like the World Cup and the spins of quarks. These parties were rather like anthropology classes for me. I met Russians and Armenians, and was surprised to find out that they both spoke the same language. One of my favorite guys from these parties was Mahbub from Bangladesh, from whom I learned a little Bengali and some other very valuable things; he often went on tangents, such as these: "Who cares about physics? If you walk up to anyone on the street and ask them about pions, they will smack you! We should not be wasting our precious time in stupid meetings." (He, of course, was always caught nodding off in those stupid meetings.) I also got to meet his saree-wearing wife and their two little daughters, who were also wearing traditional Bengali threads. As I played with their non-English speaking children, she and I traded stories about living between two cultures.

And of course, my favorite international man was Andziej, my advisor, who often brought me traditional Polish treats that his mother-in-law sent him from Poland, like krowki and paczki. (Krowki are soft-caramel candies, and paczki are like donuts, but without the hole and ten times better.) Through him, I got a chance to step back into my own culture for a little while.

As I grew progressively more bored with my actual duties regarding the experiment, I began to delve into my creative energies. I would go around the town and take pictures of the river, of my neighborhood, and anything else I deemed slightly interesting. I would go to Barnes and Noble and read non-science related books and magazines. I began to write about my experience at the lab and what I had learned from all the wacky scientists I got to know. By the end of my internship as a physics researcher, I had learned that I actually wanted to be an english major. I was thankful to leave the lab and go back home, where I immediately made "major" changes to my school schedule.

Although I may have taken the wayward road to get to the point where I am now, I don't regret my time at the Jefferson Lab at all. While I was supposed to be learning about quantum mechanics and how they work, I took Mahbub's advice instead, and I learned a little bit more about how I work.

What If It Happens . . .Again?

What do you do when you wake up to find your best friend and roommate having attempted suicide the night before? I know exactly what you do. Panic. Open your mouth to let out a deafening scream and hope the ear-piercing noise wakes you up from what should be a nightmare. You want to run away - then a thought stops you. If I leave . . . will she die? Run back to your room, grab your cell phone and dial those three horrifying numbers, 9-1-1.

Just over a month ago, I awoke to that situation.

A clear Wednesday morning, I went into my roommate’s room to wake her up, knowing that she’d be ecstatic like me since it was the last day of class. Instead of finding her tangled in her down comforter as usual, she was slumped on the floor at the end of her bed. Knowing she had been sick with a sore throat I immediately thought she had gotten worse and was sick. However, in a second’s time I happened to look at her bedside table. Four empty pill bottles, bottles that had just been refilled two days prior. Calling my other roommate into the room we quickly panicked but in an instant I was dialing 9-1-1.

I remember the only word I could shout was, “HURRY!” Trying his best to calm me down the EMT on the other line tried to get basic facts from me: Where was I? What was my emergency? What did I need?

What did I need? A freaking miracle, I thought to myself. What seemed like an eternity later, the sirens wailed outside my apartment. My roommate was loaded into an ambulance and carried away. I wasn't allowed to ride with her.

Rushing to the hospital I had only one thought, ”Please, Lord, don’t let her die. I’ll do anything, just don’t let her die.” I know it’s a common plea, promising to do “anything” to have something go your way, but I knew this time I meant it.

I quickly thought of her mother. I was going to have to be the one to tell her. Shaking, I picked up the phone and dialed the out-of-state number. Explaining what had happened to her mother was horrifying. Would she have thought it was my fault? Did she think I should have stopped her? Hurriedly her mother said, “I’m leaving work and driving down right now.” Although to say I was happy seems horrible, I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to go through this alone.

After waiting an hour in the hospital’s cold, sterile waiting room I was ushered back to my roommate. A nurse gave me a curt warning: “Now don’t be alarmed when she looks, well . . . a little odd.” As we rounded the corner and a curtain was flown back, I saw what “odd” meant. My roommate’s mouth was bubbling with a thick, black paste (later explained to me as charcoal to absorb the medication she had taken: roughly 70 pills).

Sitting by her side she began to come to. Looking in my direction with a glassy stare, but not really seeing me, she kept repeating, “Who are you?” Trying to be the strong friend and not cry, I’d whisper, “It’s me, silly, Hayley.”

Seven long hours later, an officer in his uniform burst in the door and said to my half-conscious roommate, “Excuse me ma’am, you’ll have to come with us.” Not knowing what was going on I exclaimed, “Wait, wait! Where are you taking her?” The officer explained that since she had tried to harm herself she had no right to decide when she could leave, and would be taken to the psychiatric ward of the hospital. I wasn’t allowed to go.

Three hours after my roommate was led out of the hospital, and ten hours since the ordeal began, her mother called saying, “I’m outside your house Hayley, would you let me in?” Opening the door we embraced each other, crying together, sharing the pain. She hadn’t been allowed to see her own daughter at the psych ward and was still very worried.

Six days later my roommate was released and allowed to come back home. Her mother was still here, to take care of her. It was a long Christmas break, but I called every day to check on her, seeing if she was okay. Now that we’re back at school I feel as if she’s doing fine. She herself doesn’t know why she attempted the suicide. However, every day I can’t help thinking, what if tomorrow I wake up . . . to find it has happened again?