I started a blog because....
Because although most of me would like to hide in the corner and cover my face so no one notices me the other part of me craves an audience. Part of me is a little girl screaming "LOOK AT ME! DAMN IT, LOOK AT ME." In general my two parts are at war. I usually strangle the little girl and let the wallflower tuck herself into the corner hiding away from everything.
The thing is I want to be a writer. That is I want to make my money from writing. I have my name in print in three separate books and I don't promote them, I don't tell anyone I've written anything. People don't know that I write at all because the wallflower would prefer that I fail as a writer than that I am noticed.
I would like my entire life to be private, but at the same time I realize there is no privacy in the modern world. I am not looking for sympathy, or comments, or help. I would prefer I didn't know who my audience was and that they did not know me. I would love to walk out onto the spotlight with the darkness hiding the audience from sight. However in the real world you need to promote any endeavor first to your friends because strangers will never seek you out.
I write because I can't help myself. It's how I think, it's how I process what is going on in my life. A friend once said that "If people read what you wrote they would know exactly what is going on with you." Most of what I write is personal. Too personal perhaps to share but at the same time I'm proud of the words, I enjoy writing for an audience and I enjoy fashioning my experiences into stories. I think that true stories contain the most real emotions but they are stories.
As stories I shape them and suck as much emotion out of them as I can. If you only read my stories you would probably believe I'm a terribly depressed person, but I'm not. The stories are my way of channeling the emotions, of exercising my demons. If you want to read chipper little stories about how lovely life is and how shopping at the mall was so uplifting this probably is not the blog for you. If you want to read stories about getting your teeth kicked in by life and getting up again, well have I got a story for you.
Just realize these are stories, and I am a storyteller.
Once upon a time I was telling a story about seeing a rat and my arms were stretched out, my husband at the time had to reach out and push my arms together because "the rat was never that big, there are no rats that big." Well these are stories, they are true stories, but only within the context of a story, because sometimes the rat isn't that big except in your mind.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
What nature teaches you....
Things nature teaches you::
1. Mosquitos do not die in the refridgerator.
I really thought they would. Don’t they say that colder climates aren’t bothered by mosquitos because it’s cold? Yet when I open my fridge they fly out at me quite unharmed and moving as quickly as ever. It’s not like I deliberately placed the mosquito in the fridge, I do catch them regularily but then I squash them, the only reason there are so many mosquitos in the fridge is that there are so many mosquitos in my house.
Mosquitoes are more than annoying. A mosquito bite could mean weeks ill with dengue fever and possibly even death. It’s a fact of life, one of the things you live with in the tropics, one of the things you learn. It’s a wet wet season, there’s 70 cases of dengue checking in daily at the local hospital, it will be a bad year. I’ve had it once, I don’t want it again.
2. Vampire bats are cute
The first bat entered dead, and after it stopped moving my cat left it in the middle of the floor for me. It was so cute, with a little turned up nose and two canines like my kitties, it’s body about the size of a small mouse. My oldest googled it, vampire bat, carrier of rabies. Time to throw out the corpse after photos.
The second bat was alive, alive enough to escape the cat that brought it in. It was bigger, flapping around my living room. We couldn’t see what kind of bat it was, its flight path was completely eratic. The kids and I went into animal eviction proceedure, usually used for large toads, basically we all grab brooms and chase the animal out the door. It was harder with a bat, I have 16 foot ceilings with wood beams, so the bat decided to perch upside down on the highest beam. It was Julie’s idea to lob a pillow at it, and just minutes later we had it out of the house.
Since then we’ve had three more bats in the house, in case you’re wondering fruit bats are ugly, only the vampire ones are pretty.
3 Coral Snakes are less aggressive than house cats.
My little cat, 1 year old but not bigger than a large kitten (she was the runt of the litter) was playing with something right behind me. I saw it from the corner of my eye, some movement, I kept doing the dinner dishes, last thing before I could go to bed. Then a hiss, cats must be fighting over this latest prize. I turned around. Three feet in front of me three of my cats were taking turns at poking a 3 foot long coral snake. At least I thought it was a coral snake, I ran to the computer to see if it was a look alike I could let them kill. NO, no such luck, it was a real coral snake. Coral snake in the kitchen, three cats who would probably be dead by morning. Deadly poisonous snake in the kitchen, two children in bed.
I walked up to the hallway to try to get the cats away from the snake. I screamed at them, threw my shoe, the coral snake turned slowly to look at me. My daughter climbed out of bed to see what was wrong. I screamed at her to back off, she listened, the cats didn’t, they were having far too much fun with their new toy, multicolored and wiggly, so much fun.
Two kids were out to see the fun now, I ordered them to stay back and I ran outside to find a bucket. I had a 5 gallon paint bucket somewhere. There, grabbing it I ran inside and dropped it on the snake, missed the tail, lifted it and dropped it again, wiggled it a little to get the last of the snake under the plastic. The cats surrounded the bucket whacking at it with their paws, mommy had hidden their toy but they knew where it was. I grabbed a propane tank and put it on the bucket. I called the vet’s emergency number but she told me that she had no anti-venom, and it didn’t really work anyway, the cats would die. I hoped that the bucket would hold till morning, then I took my children, and went to bed, shutting my door knowing that in the morning I would not only have to deal with the snake but also three dead cats.
I woke, children in my bed, because where else would I fell they were safe and opened my door. No corpse on the other side, I walked into the kitchen, bucket still in place. I looked around, no cats. I opened a can of tuna and before I’d even done the dinner call I had three cats eating out of the can with no sign of any damage.
I called my business and asked for my handyman to come with a machete to kill a snake. He walked in took off the propane tank, lifted the bucket and dropped it back down quickly. “That’s dangerous” he spat at me.
“Yes” I said, “or I would have just let it escape.” I stepped back while he lifted the bucket again. The snake was angry this morning, a suppose a night in a bucket could do that. He used his machete to lift it and throw it out of the house, then as the snake slid back into the garden he hacked it to pieces. I was a little disappointed, it was so beautiful, but I couldn’t really take it to work for show and tell now that it had been chopped into bloody steak sized pieces.
Of course in the process nature teaches you something about yourself as well. I’m more afraid of mosquitoes than I am of venomous snakes, I judge things by appearance, and like vampire bats more than fruit bats simply because they look cuter. And that the thing that scares me most is that Costa Rica is where I will live the rest of my life because in many ways I have a dream existence, the problem is that this wasn’t my dream.
1. Mosquitos do not die in the refridgerator.
I really thought they would. Don’t they say that colder climates aren’t bothered by mosquitos because it’s cold? Yet when I open my fridge they fly out at me quite unharmed and moving as quickly as ever. It’s not like I deliberately placed the mosquito in the fridge, I do catch them regularily but then I squash them, the only reason there are so many mosquitos in the fridge is that there are so many mosquitos in my house.
Mosquitoes are more than annoying. A mosquito bite could mean weeks ill with dengue fever and possibly even death. It’s a fact of life, one of the things you live with in the tropics, one of the things you learn. It’s a wet wet season, there’s 70 cases of dengue checking in daily at the local hospital, it will be a bad year. I’ve had it once, I don’t want it again.
2. Vampire bats are cute
The first bat entered dead, and after it stopped moving my cat left it in the middle of the floor for me. It was so cute, with a little turned up nose and two canines like my kitties, it’s body about the size of a small mouse. My oldest googled it, vampire bat, carrier of rabies. Time to throw out the corpse after photos.
The second bat was alive, alive enough to escape the cat that brought it in. It was bigger, flapping around my living room. We couldn’t see what kind of bat it was, its flight path was completely eratic. The kids and I went into animal eviction proceedure, usually used for large toads, basically we all grab brooms and chase the animal out the door. It was harder with a bat, I have 16 foot ceilings with wood beams, so the bat decided to perch upside down on the highest beam. It was Julie’s idea to lob a pillow at it, and just minutes later we had it out of the house.
Since then we’ve had three more bats in the house, in case you’re wondering fruit bats are ugly, only the vampire ones are pretty.
3 Coral Snakes are less aggressive than house cats.
My little cat, 1 year old but not bigger than a large kitten (she was the runt of the litter) was playing with something right behind me. I saw it from the corner of my eye, some movement, I kept doing the dinner dishes, last thing before I could go to bed. Then a hiss, cats must be fighting over this latest prize. I turned around. Three feet in front of me three of my cats were taking turns at poking a 3 foot long coral snake. At least I thought it was a coral snake, I ran to the computer to see if it was a look alike I could let them kill. NO, no such luck, it was a real coral snake. Coral snake in the kitchen, three cats who would probably be dead by morning. Deadly poisonous snake in the kitchen, two children in bed.
I walked up to the hallway to try to get the cats away from the snake. I screamed at them, threw my shoe, the coral snake turned slowly to look at me. My daughter climbed out of bed to see what was wrong. I screamed at her to back off, she listened, the cats didn’t, they were having far too much fun with their new toy, multicolored and wiggly, so much fun.
Two kids were out to see the fun now, I ordered them to stay back and I ran outside to find a bucket. I had a 5 gallon paint bucket somewhere. There, grabbing it I ran inside and dropped it on the snake, missed the tail, lifted it and dropped it again, wiggled it a little to get the last of the snake under the plastic. The cats surrounded the bucket whacking at it with their paws, mommy had hidden their toy but they knew where it was. I grabbed a propane tank and put it on the bucket. I called the vet’s emergency number but she told me that she had no anti-venom, and it didn’t really work anyway, the cats would die. I hoped that the bucket would hold till morning, then I took my children, and went to bed, shutting my door knowing that in the morning I would not only have to deal with the snake but also three dead cats.
I woke, children in my bed, because where else would I fell they were safe and opened my door. No corpse on the other side, I walked into the kitchen, bucket still in place. I looked around, no cats. I opened a can of tuna and before I’d even done the dinner call I had three cats eating out of the can with no sign of any damage.
I called my business and asked for my handyman to come with a machete to kill a snake. He walked in took off the propane tank, lifted the bucket and dropped it back down quickly. “That’s dangerous” he spat at me.
“Yes” I said, “or I would have just let it escape.” I stepped back while he lifted the bucket again. The snake was angry this morning, a suppose a night in a bucket could do that. He used his machete to lift it and throw it out of the house, then as the snake slid back into the garden he hacked it to pieces. I was a little disappointed, it was so beautiful, but I couldn’t really take it to work for show and tell now that it had been chopped into bloody steak sized pieces.
Of course in the process nature teaches you something about yourself as well. I’m more afraid of mosquitoes than I am of venomous snakes, I judge things by appearance, and like vampire bats more than fruit bats simply because they look cuter. And that the thing that scares me most is that Costa Rica is where I will live the rest of my life because in many ways I have a dream existence, the problem is that this wasn’t my dream.
Three Stories
I went into it thinking it would be good for three stories. Three stories. If I am honest I knew I would get hurt, if I am honest I thought that at least I’d get a story, or three, out of it. If I am honest I have to ask how crazy am I to think of life in terms of whether an experience will be story worthy or not. Someone said to me the other day that people couldn’t possibly tell stories all the time about their lives because they would have nothing to say and it would be boring. I didn’t tell her that life is never boring, that there is always something to say among friends and that in the hands of a good writer a walk across the room could be a great story. I didn’t say how privileged I’ve been to hear wonderful stories. I didn’t say that maybe her life is boring but not everyone’s is. I didn’t say anything. What could I say?
Three stories, that was my thought. A story for the beginning, a story for the middle and a story for the end. I knew it would end. I went into it knowing that it would end. I went in to it expecting it to end. I did not know I would fall in love. I did not know I was capable of love. That was a surprise. And so this is possibly the last story, not the third, the fifth. Maybe the last because I need to let it end, I need it to be over. And yet I want nothing more in the world for this to be one of the first stories, one of the early stories about a relationship that lasted a lifetime about a relationship that mattered. Not just a fling worth three stories. Not just a short interlude about a little sex.
It’s been four months. Four months where we don’t talk. Four months where I slam the phone in his ear. Months of listening to the voice of reason, months of listening to my friends, knowing that it will stop hurting one day. One day, when is that? Four months should be long enough shouldn’t it? Four months should be enough to forget, enough to dull the edges of the pain, to reduce the bleeding, to stop the aching, to stop missing him all day every day. I thought it would be enough. Four months since I cut him off to save myself, four months since I cut out my heart in order to cauterize the pain. But I can feel the hole aching within me. I can feel how good it should have been, how good it could have been, I can still feel his presence in everything. I know he misses me as much as I miss him.
But I know it needs to be over, that it was never going to last, logic tells me it was nothing more than a stupidity. He’s a young kid wanting to party, wanting to stay free of commitments, wanting to avoid commitment, terrified that someone else will try to control his life, while he himself spirals out of control. Logic tells me that I need to stop this before it kills me. Logic tells me that I need to let him go before he hurts me again, logic tells me that every time it hurts more, logic tells me he’s too young, too scared, he’s not ready for this. My heart tells me otherwise, my heart tells me how good it felt to be with him, my heart tells me that it’s learned how to beat listening to the sound of his breathing, my heart tells me it will love him forever no matter what he does or has done. So I take my heart and I cut into it, letting it’s secrets and knowledge bleed away.
He calls me and asks me not to hang up. He says he wants to meet me. He says he’ll come to my house at 10am. I say ok. I don’t sleep all night worried that he won’t come, I don’t sleep all night worried that he will come. At 10 he’s not there, at 10:30 he’s not there. I’m too tired to cry, too numb to scream, I try to sleep and I don’t, but I do think. And at 11:15 as I am drifting in that land between sleep and awake he comes.
On his motorbike with no muffler. On his little boy’s toy. On the same motorbike that has almost killed him many times, the one that has given him his scars, the knee, the shoulder, the lip, below the eye. God how I long to touch his scars.
He comes in and we talk. I ask him why he wants to do this. He says he wants to be with me. That he doesn’t understand it but with me he feels peace; I don’t understand it either but with him I feel peace too, until he leaves and then I just feel desolate. I tell him I can’t do it again, that I can’t stand the emptiness. He tells me it will be ok, he tells me he’ll call me.
For the next day I am happy, stupid ridiculous happy. Happy like I haven’t been in 4 months. My heart restored beating in my chest, no ghosts following me I enjoy my day. And that night I wait for his call.
He doesn’t call me.
And the next day I wait for his call.
My brain starts to scream. This is why you shut him out. This is what I was trying to protect you from. You can’t trust him, you can’t do this again, you haven’t finished bleeding yet, but you would have and now you are just picking the scab off the wounds. You don’t need a heart, you can live without it. Stop now. Stop trying to feel, stop trying to capture the happiness, it only comes with pain.
So I call him. He has nothing to say. He doesn’t talk. He claims he lost his phone.
I know better.
I know that I need to not only remove my heart but destroy it, destroy any piece of it that is left, so that it can’t cry out. I need silence, the silence that comes from a lifetime of being alone, the silence that doesn’t interrupt the loneliness with feelings of peace and love.
And now this is story five, I don’t know if it’s over, I don’t know how much more I can take if it isn’t. I still want more, I want to risk it all to get what I want. But I know in the end it will probably only be material for a story.
Three stories, that was my thought. A story for the beginning, a story for the middle and a story for the end. I knew it would end. I went into it knowing that it would end. I went in to it expecting it to end. I did not know I would fall in love. I did not know I was capable of love. That was a surprise. And so this is possibly the last story, not the third, the fifth. Maybe the last because I need to let it end, I need it to be over. And yet I want nothing more in the world for this to be one of the first stories, one of the early stories about a relationship that lasted a lifetime about a relationship that mattered. Not just a fling worth three stories. Not just a short interlude about a little sex.
It’s been four months. Four months where we don’t talk. Four months where I slam the phone in his ear. Months of listening to the voice of reason, months of listening to my friends, knowing that it will stop hurting one day. One day, when is that? Four months should be long enough shouldn’t it? Four months should be enough to forget, enough to dull the edges of the pain, to reduce the bleeding, to stop the aching, to stop missing him all day every day. I thought it would be enough. Four months since I cut him off to save myself, four months since I cut out my heart in order to cauterize the pain. But I can feel the hole aching within me. I can feel how good it should have been, how good it could have been, I can still feel his presence in everything. I know he misses me as much as I miss him.
But I know it needs to be over, that it was never going to last, logic tells me it was nothing more than a stupidity. He’s a young kid wanting to party, wanting to stay free of commitments, wanting to avoid commitment, terrified that someone else will try to control his life, while he himself spirals out of control. Logic tells me that I need to stop this before it kills me. Logic tells me that I need to let him go before he hurts me again, logic tells me that every time it hurts more, logic tells me he’s too young, too scared, he’s not ready for this. My heart tells me otherwise, my heart tells me how good it felt to be with him, my heart tells me that it’s learned how to beat listening to the sound of his breathing, my heart tells me it will love him forever no matter what he does or has done. So I take my heart and I cut into it, letting it’s secrets and knowledge bleed away.
He calls me and asks me not to hang up. He says he wants to meet me. He says he’ll come to my house at 10am. I say ok. I don’t sleep all night worried that he won’t come, I don’t sleep all night worried that he will come. At 10 he’s not there, at 10:30 he’s not there. I’m too tired to cry, too numb to scream, I try to sleep and I don’t, but I do think. And at 11:15 as I am drifting in that land between sleep and awake he comes.
On his motorbike with no muffler. On his little boy’s toy. On the same motorbike that has almost killed him many times, the one that has given him his scars, the knee, the shoulder, the lip, below the eye. God how I long to touch his scars.
He comes in and we talk. I ask him why he wants to do this. He says he wants to be with me. That he doesn’t understand it but with me he feels peace; I don’t understand it either but with him I feel peace too, until he leaves and then I just feel desolate. I tell him I can’t do it again, that I can’t stand the emptiness. He tells me it will be ok, he tells me he’ll call me.
For the next day I am happy, stupid ridiculous happy. Happy like I haven’t been in 4 months. My heart restored beating in my chest, no ghosts following me I enjoy my day. And that night I wait for his call.
He doesn’t call me.
And the next day I wait for his call.
My brain starts to scream. This is why you shut him out. This is what I was trying to protect you from. You can’t trust him, you can’t do this again, you haven’t finished bleeding yet, but you would have and now you are just picking the scab off the wounds. You don’t need a heart, you can live without it. Stop now. Stop trying to feel, stop trying to capture the happiness, it only comes with pain.
So I call him. He has nothing to say. He doesn’t talk. He claims he lost his phone.
I know better.
I know that I need to not only remove my heart but destroy it, destroy any piece of it that is left, so that it can’t cry out. I need silence, the silence that comes from a lifetime of being alone, the silence that doesn’t interrupt the loneliness with feelings of peace and love.
And now this is story five, I don’t know if it’s over, I don’t know how much more I can take if it isn’t. I still want more, I want to risk it all to get what I want. But I know in the end it will probably only be material for a story.
RIP
“Are you alive” read the text message. He’s been sending me a message every day. Two yesterday. Two yesterday, none today. I keep looking for it. I know why he texted me this question, because I’m not responding, because I’m ignoring his texts, because it’s a question I texted him once when he stopped responding to me.
Am I alive? I feel like responding, I want to respond. I want to answer. “NO. It’s not possible to live without a heart. You took mine and broke it then gave it back to me in pieces. And then when I finally thought I had all the pieces together you decided to start talking to me, to start texting me. And the pieces in my hands fell to the ground and shattered and now I don’t know where to start. Of course I am dead. I have been dead since the day you stopped talking to me. You remember that day? It was the day after you said you loved me and wanted to be with me. You’d broken my heart before, taken little pieces and crushed them beneath your feet but this was the grand slam knock out tour de force, this was the piece de resistance. I gave you my whole heart to hold and you threw it to the ground.
No I am not alive. Part of me wants to Rest In Peace and the other part, the scattered fragments of heart still hope, still want, still yearn for you to return. Those scattered fragments know you could make them whole again with just a word, just a touch. The shards of my heart want you back but my head knows that if you throw my heart away again I may not survive at all, that perhaps being dead is better than dying. That pain fades, nerves die and numbness, being the living dead, a heartless zombie is possible. My head wants to crush the last of the shards, to shut them down, to Rest in Pieces.
Am I alive? I feel like responding, I want to respond. I want to answer. “NO. It’s not possible to live without a heart. You took mine and broke it then gave it back to me in pieces. And then when I finally thought I had all the pieces together you decided to start talking to me, to start texting me. And the pieces in my hands fell to the ground and shattered and now I don’t know where to start. Of course I am dead. I have been dead since the day you stopped talking to me. You remember that day? It was the day after you said you loved me and wanted to be with me. You’d broken my heart before, taken little pieces and crushed them beneath your feet but this was the grand slam knock out tour de force, this was the piece de resistance. I gave you my whole heart to hold and you threw it to the ground.
No I am not alive. Part of me wants to Rest In Peace and the other part, the scattered fragments of heart still hope, still want, still yearn for you to return. Those scattered fragments know you could make them whole again with just a word, just a touch. The shards of my heart want you back but my head knows that if you throw my heart away again I may not survive at all, that perhaps being dead is better than dying. That pain fades, nerves die and numbness, being the living dead, a heartless zombie is possible. My head wants to crush the last of the shards, to shut them down, to Rest in Pieces.
So you're French?
My daughter's class in school has nine students, and nine nationalities: Canadian, Isreali, French, Costa Rica, Italian, Dutch, Argentinan, Chilean, and my daughter, the American. Most of these kids have lived in Costa Rica almost all their lives, some of them were even born here. My daughter at 13 has been here for 7 years, more than half of her total existence on this planet. They are all bilingual, Spanish and English these are the two languages they need for school and many of them are tri-lingual speaking a different language at home than they do at school. And yet they still identify themselves by the nationality and language of their parents.
The private school my children go to stresses that their students are citizens of the world, while at the same time bragging about how many different nationalities the school encompasses. Last week the music teacher decided to teach all the children that they were Costa Rican. He argued that they had lived all or most their lives in Costa Rica, that they spoke Costa Rican Spanish, that they were part of the culture of Costa Rica thus they are Costa Ricans.
The French boy in class said, "Sir, didn't you say you lived in Paris for five years as a musician, and you speak French?" The teacher replied to the affirmative. "Then Sir, you are French." The music teacher shocked responded, "Of course I'm not French, I'm a Costa Rican" at which point our little French smartass said (to the joy of the entire class). "Yes Sir, you're a Costa Rican and I'm French."
Nationality is a hard thing. I hate nationalism as a concept. Nationalism has lead to more blood shed than anything else except religion. At our wedding my future ex-husband made a nationalistic speech for Quebec to break away from Canada. I hated him for it. I was born in the US, to New Zealand parents. When I went "home" to New Zealand at 4 I already had an American accent.... I was already different. I was an American, and proud of it. When I left "home" at fifteen to go back to the US I had a Kiwi accent, I was always a foreigner. I've lived most of my life out of New Zealand but when people hear me speak they know I sound different and ask me where I'm from. Whereas California would be a more accurate answer I answer "New Zealand' because that is where my accent comes from and as I grow older I find myself with more of the New Zealand culture in me than American.
American's are proud and arrogant. They are proud of their country, proud to be Americans. It's written everywhere. America is the greatest country on earth. Dear God who came up with that? Is it because they recited the Pledge of Allegiance too often at school or is it in the water, or the coca cola (because American's don't really drink water except from a polluting plastic bottle)? Why they hell do they believe this? Costa Rican's hate that Americans refer to themselves as Americans and their country as America. America is a continent, say the Costa Ricans -- we are Americans too. How dare they be so arrogant as to believe that they are the only nation on a continent of 36 countries? Costa Rican's are taught that the entire Americas is one continent (and why isn't it? And for that matter why aren't Asia and Europe one continent?) Why do we insist to drawing arbitrary lines to say who belongs where? Why do we need a nationality?
Someone once said that the only thing New Zealanders were proud of was that they weren't Australians. My daughters born in the US to a New Zealander and a French Canadian and having grown up in Costa Rica are Americans. Their accents are Californian American, an accent neutral in this world of pigeon holing, an accent broadcast worldwide on almost every television show that is not reality TV from Jersey, or from a red-neck neighborhood They have chosen an accent that makes them stand out to no one. When they speak Spanish their accent is of Costa Rica and Nicaragua from the Nicaraguan employees we have. They have learned their Spanish accent from their companions but their English accent is not from their friends or their family, it is from cable tv.
The other day I gave a ride to a boy from school. He's 16, lived here 9 years. He spoke to me in English with a Californian surfer boy accent and to my daughter's boyfriend in Costa Rican Teenage slang accent. He's German, sometimes a word would sneak out with a German twist, but not often. But I know if you asked him what he was he would say German. He will probably never live in Germany his whole life but he is German.
I hate nationalism. Yet at the same time I understand the need for a nationality. The need to know where you belong, where your people are from. It's always been important. Robin Hood's real name was "Robin of Locksley". People were identified by a name and then a place. The Duke of Salisbury, last names were carved out of place names even today many names in French and Italian still contain the "of" (de Laurentis, di Caprio). You needed to know your place in the world. So you could either be of (enter town home here) or someone's son (Jack's son) or from a profession (Carpenter). Knowing where you come from is vital, everyone needs a point of origin.
Costa Rican's are supposed to be the happiest people on earth, I think this may have a lot to do with the fact that they don't leave home. They grow up in a little village and they stay there, they don't go to a different state to go to College, they don't meet up with a woman from another part of the country and go to live in yet another part of the country. They marry the girl next door and build a shack next door to mom. There is something to be said for knowing exactly where you belong and knowing everyone around you.
I envy those who know their nationality. Who state it with pride. "I'm not Costa Rican, I'm French." I wish I shared such certainty. I feel the lack of a nationality, the lack of a true belonging to any place. The country of my accent has been my home for so little of my life; the America of my adulthood repels me in its arrogance and the Costa Rica of my middle age will always be a place in which I am a gringa with a horrible accent.
World Citizen is a nice idea, but a lonely existence where one is cut off from any real stability, from any real sense of place. I long to have a last name that tells all where I am from, to have a last name that reflects where I am from instead of an absence of belonging in my very soul. I long to proudly proclaim my nationality to know with certainty where my place in the world is, to know that somewhere there is a home to go back to.
The private school my children go to stresses that their students are citizens of the world, while at the same time bragging about how many different nationalities the school encompasses. Last week the music teacher decided to teach all the children that they were Costa Rican. He argued that they had lived all or most their lives in Costa Rica, that they spoke Costa Rican Spanish, that they were part of the culture of Costa Rica thus they are Costa Ricans.
The French boy in class said, "Sir, didn't you say you lived in Paris for five years as a musician, and you speak French?" The teacher replied to the affirmative. "Then Sir, you are French." The music teacher shocked responded, "Of course I'm not French, I'm a Costa Rican" at which point our little French smartass said (to the joy of the entire class). "Yes Sir, you're a Costa Rican and I'm French."
Nationality is a hard thing. I hate nationalism as a concept. Nationalism has lead to more blood shed than anything else except religion. At our wedding my future ex-husband made a nationalistic speech for Quebec to break away from Canada. I hated him for it. I was born in the US, to New Zealand parents. When I went "home" to New Zealand at 4 I already had an American accent.... I was already different. I was an American, and proud of it. When I left "home" at fifteen to go back to the US I had a Kiwi accent, I was always a foreigner. I've lived most of my life out of New Zealand but when people hear me speak they know I sound different and ask me where I'm from. Whereas California would be a more accurate answer I answer "New Zealand' because that is where my accent comes from and as I grow older I find myself with more of the New Zealand culture in me than American.
American's are proud and arrogant. They are proud of their country, proud to be Americans. It's written everywhere. America is the greatest country on earth. Dear God who came up with that? Is it because they recited the Pledge of Allegiance too often at school or is it in the water, or the coca cola (because American's don't really drink water except from a polluting plastic bottle)? Why they hell do they believe this? Costa Rican's hate that Americans refer to themselves as Americans and their country as America. America is a continent, say the Costa Ricans -- we are Americans too. How dare they be so arrogant as to believe that they are the only nation on a continent of 36 countries? Costa Rican's are taught that the entire Americas is one continent (and why isn't it? And for that matter why aren't Asia and Europe one continent?) Why do we insist to drawing arbitrary lines to say who belongs where? Why do we need a nationality?
Someone once said that the only thing New Zealanders were proud of was that they weren't Australians. My daughters born in the US to a New Zealander and a French Canadian and having grown up in Costa Rica are Americans. Their accents are Californian American, an accent neutral in this world of pigeon holing, an accent broadcast worldwide on almost every television show that is not reality TV from Jersey, or from a red-neck neighborhood They have chosen an accent that makes them stand out to no one. When they speak Spanish their accent is of Costa Rica and Nicaragua from the Nicaraguan employees we have. They have learned their Spanish accent from their companions but their English accent is not from their friends or their family, it is from cable tv.
The other day I gave a ride to a boy from school. He's 16, lived here 9 years. He spoke to me in English with a Californian surfer boy accent and to my daughter's boyfriend in Costa Rican Teenage slang accent. He's German, sometimes a word would sneak out with a German twist, but not often. But I know if you asked him what he was he would say German. He will probably never live in Germany his whole life but he is German.
I hate nationalism. Yet at the same time I understand the need for a nationality. The need to know where you belong, where your people are from. It's always been important. Robin Hood's real name was "Robin of Locksley". People were identified by a name and then a place. The Duke of Salisbury, last names were carved out of place names even today many names in French and Italian still contain the "of" (de Laurentis, di Caprio). You needed to know your place in the world. So you could either be of (enter town home here) or someone's son (Jack's son) or from a profession (Carpenter). Knowing where you come from is vital, everyone needs a point of origin.
Costa Rican's are supposed to be the happiest people on earth, I think this may have a lot to do with the fact that they don't leave home. They grow up in a little village and they stay there, they don't go to a different state to go to College, they don't meet up with a woman from another part of the country and go to live in yet another part of the country. They marry the girl next door and build a shack next door to mom. There is something to be said for knowing exactly where you belong and knowing everyone around you.
I envy those who know their nationality. Who state it with pride. "I'm not Costa Rican, I'm French." I wish I shared such certainty. I feel the lack of a nationality, the lack of a true belonging to any place. The country of my accent has been my home for so little of my life; the America of my adulthood repels me in its arrogance and the Costa Rica of my middle age will always be a place in which I am a gringa with a horrible accent.
World Citizen is a nice idea, but a lonely existence where one is cut off from any real stability, from any real sense of place. I long to have a last name that tells all where I am from, to have a last name that reflects where I am from instead of an absence of belonging in my very soul. I long to proudly proclaim my nationality to know with certainty where my place in the world is, to know that somewhere there is a home to go back to.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Do you hate me?
There are those people, you know the kind. You admire them, you think they are basically good people, you are polite to them, you may even socialize with them on occasion, but the reality is that you don't like them.
Shit if you were really being honest they bug the hell out of you, you pretty much hate them. You just wish they would shut up when they start talking. Maybe it's the voice, or the way they say "darling" or "hello" or just their face. You can't pin point one thing necessarily. You just know you don't like them.
I am sure these people have no idea that they are so universally annoying, that they are so detestable. How could they know that when they come into the room people leave? How could they live with themselves knowing that their presence in the world made people unhappy?
I worry that I am one of those people. I worry that the world would be a better place without me. I don't think it would, I don't think I am hateable. But if I were, how would I know?
Shit if you were really being honest they bug the hell out of you, you pretty much hate them. You just wish they would shut up when they start talking. Maybe it's the voice, or the way they say "darling" or "hello" or just their face. You can't pin point one thing necessarily. You just know you don't like them.
I am sure these people have no idea that they are so universally annoying, that they are so detestable. How could they know that when they come into the room people leave? How could they live with themselves knowing that their presence in the world made people unhappy?
I worry that I am one of those people. I worry that the world would be a better place without me. I don't think it would, I don't think I am hateable. But if I were, how would I know?
The Roach in the Fridge
I found a roach today, in the fridge. It was dead. I'm pretty sure it died of hunger. Seems fitting, the only thing in the fridge, except for the cockroach, was a bottle of white wine (bought for a date that didn't happen to plan) and some dried pieces of bread too old and too desiccated for even a roach to devour.
My life is pretty much like that fridge right now. Everything has been removed from it, placed somewhere else or put on hold for later. The only things left are memories and crumbs too small to sustain life. My life is in upheaval right now, in need of a good clean out. Time to take out the memories, dispose of the debris, throw out the dead roaches and move on.
Tomorrow I will clean the fridge and the moving men will move it and I to our new home. Tomorrow we will start again.
My life is pretty much like that fridge right now. Everything has been removed from it, placed somewhere else or put on hold for later. The only things left are memories and crumbs too small to sustain life. My life is in upheaval right now, in need of a good clean out. Time to take out the memories, dispose of the debris, throw out the dead roaches and move on.
Tomorrow I will clean the fridge and the moving men will move it and I to our new home. Tomorrow we will start again.
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