Family Vacation Brings up Age Old Question: "Am I adopted?"

After three days on the road with your parents you start to wonder if the marketing wordsmiths behind the term “family vacation” enjoy sick little jokes or are just huge fans of oxymorons.

“Oh no! I’m not walking there.” My mother says defiantly. “We will take the trolley.”

“Norma, that defeats the purpose of coming to a nature park.” My dad retorts.

“If you think that I’m walking in this heat, you are absolutely crazy.”

We get on the trolley.

When I was younger my brother and I used to fight over which one of us was adopted.  “I’m not their kid!  You look like them waaayyy more than I do.” We’d say.  We’d ask our parents if we were indeed adopted.  Luckily, my mother loved lying to us and so she’d invent stories about how I was sold to her by Mexican gypsies in the Sonoran Desert in Mexico.  She’d wink at my dad and he’d go along for the ride.  “Yenni, I had to buy you because of your pretty black hair,” She’d say smiling.  I’d run back to my brother screaming: “I told you so!!  I AM adopted, HAH! It's you who's their real kid!”

Now it’s 20 years later and I’m in the backseat praying to the universe that I don’t carry their genes half as much as I think I do.

“You know, there used to be a coffee shop here.  Years ago, things have changed so much.  I could have sworn that it was here.” My dad says.

“Well, dad, things change a lot in forty years…” I say trying not to sound exasperated.  This is about the 20^th time he mentions that things have changed in San Diego since he’s toured around there.  I’m losing the tiny amount patience I have.

Why am I here?  Why did I say yes to meeting my parents in San Diego and driving into the desert with them for three days?! My parents, who under normal circumstances (visiting once a week on weekends), drive me insane?  First, it’s my mother who ALWAYS knows better than you about how you should be living your life and of course she has no reservations about letting you know exactly what you are doing wrong whether it be boyfriends, jobs, makeup, clothes or even hairdressers.  Then she starts talking about the girl from the telenovela she just watched last night and all the bad things that happened to her because she didn’t listen to her mother, as though this is some sort of REAL point of reference or something.

Then it’s my father who is normally a very well intending individual except for the fact that he is convinced the world is out to get him and his social security checks.  He tries to take the little victories where he can. 

“Jen, put this in your purse.”

“Dad, it’s a packet of honey, we have some at the house and I’m not taking a packet of honey from the restaurant for you.”

Or by calling the hotel room phone from the lobby phone instead of your cell phone from his pocket JUST BECAUSE HE CAN.

Why have I, a reasonably logical and intelligent adult woman, decided to take this trip with my parents?

I realize that I’m very lucky to have the parents I do.  Despite all the writing material they give me, they are good loving parents.  They are also getting older and in great shape to still travel and enjoy life. So if I don’t enjoy them as an adult myself now, then when?  We get older and so wrapped up in our little worlds that we forget about the important things sometimes. 

This gratefulness unfortunately rarely extends itself to you when you’re sitting in the backseat annoyed that you were created by the two people in the front seats who are currently having their third argument of the day about how my father should have changed his shirt and how my mother needs to stop micromanaging his life while on vacation.  

No, you just take a deep breath and thank God you brought your ipod.

Jesus Saves; I Spend

Why did I pack so much stuff?  I always pack way too much, I think to myself trying to squeeze into my window seat with my overstuffed purse.

“Hi.” A tall guy says to me as he squeezes into the seat next to me, his knees extending into the aisle.  “They don’t build these planes for 6’5 men I guess.” He chuckles.

There are four hours between O’Hare International Airport and Los Angeles International Airport.  He seems friendly, and now examining his features, the light brown hair and freckles dotting his face with intense blue eyes, I think, maybe not such bad company…

“I’m Drew.” He extends his hand. 

Drew grew up not far from Chicago in a nearby suburb.  He completed his undergrad at Northern Illinois University and continues graduate studies in meteorology at Brigham Young University in Utah. 

“So you want to be a weather man?” I ask, smiling.  “No, I want to predict commodities for natural gas companies and stakeholders, that’s where the money is.” He replied.  I like him more already.

We get to talking.  He explains how the pilot is wrong in saying that it won’t be raining in Los Angeles when we land and he bets that it will.  We talk about the differences in cloud formations and he draws pictures in my journal depicting the mountain shade effect.  “Mountains are always greener with more vegetation on the western side because the moisture rises from the west.  That’s the direction weather travels, generally leaving the east side of the mountain a lot drier…” 

At this point, I don’t think I’ve ever been so fascinated by weather.

He tells me he used to play volleyball in school before deciding on a career in meteorology.  I glance at his strong long arms.  “When I was younger I was always so fascinated by the weather.  I would stare out the window during thunderstorms constantly, hoping to catch a few glimpses of lightening.”

Everything is going so well with this conversation.  It flows very naturally with no awkward pauses nor is there overexcited chatter about nothing to fill space.  Drew is very easy to talk to and also very easy to listen to.  I relax into my seat.

Then it happens.  He mentions something about a mission trip to Virginia.  “Oh, what were you on a mission trip for?” 

“My church was engaging various people about their relationship with Jesus.” Oh no.  He’s one of them! I grimace, what a waste. 

He asks me if I know Jesus or have a relationship with the guy.  I tell him I’ve seen him around, mainly tattooed on people’s arms or on gold chains around people’s necks.  It’s my last attempt to keep the conversation light. 

Before he starts to tell me about the late great savior of mankind I tell him I have my own personal spirituality.  We begin to define Christianity and Buddhism; examine Islam and finally he asks what I believe.  I explain very patiently that my beliefs don’t have a name; they simply are.  All influenced by my experiences.  I tell him about my boyfriends in college during my exploratory years.  I dated a Buddhist once, then a Shaman.  I learned to meditate and then I learned to see. 

I remained alone exploring for many years.  In the caves of Mexico and pyramids; in sweat lodges; living amongst wolves.  Yes, I too, dedicated my time and energy to a greater energy.  Its name was not Jesus but there was something, partially within myself and partially in everything else around me contributing to anything that was created: the beauty and horrors.  I don’t pretend to live in a perfect world and we are a complex race full of dualities.  Still, when I looked around I liked to think that God was in the sunset, we both agreed on that.  God was in the mountains.  To me, God is a smile too.  We all see glimpses of this God everyday if we pay attention.

I found him to be charmingly curious and interested in all the stones I had to throw at the holes in Christianity.  He was anxious to fill them with quotes from the Bible, historical facts and other tricks in his Jesus-mongering hat.  I was still slightly charmed watching his blue eyes and the golden ring he had that bordered his pupil.

“So would you agree that the world’s religions like Buddhism, Judaism, Islam and Christianity all have their finger on the elephant (elephant in this case being a metaphor for God) but maybe Islam has it’s finger on the trunk of the elephant and maybe Christianity has its finger on the husks of the elephant and perhaps Buddhism rides on the powerful legs of the elephant. “

“I would agree with that…” I said after pausing to think for a few minutes.  “Would you?” I said looking surprised.

“No in Christianity, we believe that Jesus is the only way to the elephant.” 

“I see….” I say.  He begins some chatter about how socially he doesn’t just hang out with Christians but he’s a rather very inclusive person. 

“So regardless of whether or not I’m a good person who cares about this earth and its inhabitants, I’m going to Hell?” I ask, getting to the point.

“As a Christian, without Jesus, you won’t be saved.” He replies.

He tries to change the subject and I glare out the window.  I’m not upset; it just seems as though the common ground we walked along during the conversation has converted to two very distinct paths that are clearly marked with each of our names on it. 

We land and he throws his head onto my shoulder flirtatiously.  I look into his gorgeous eyes.

“Guess it sucks I’m going to Hell, huh?”  

The Violin Keeper

When you left here
I had stashed the violin under the bed
and told you I hadn't seen it in weeks.
You'd pluck its strings
over our Sunday dinners
and you'd ask me to sing
and dear God,
I think that's the only time we knew
true partnership, collaboration
a little me plus a little you
both uncompromising harmonious beauties.
That violin was the only
damn thing I loved about us.

You stormed out of my house
slamming cupboards, stomping shoes
the frantic mad genius who just lost
the only link left to a sanity
he had remembered to have had once.
I didn't care what happened to you next
because you were a little recipe for disaster
and I was quite full, thank you.
I cradled the violin under my chin
and I pulled the bow so ungracefully
my fingers are clumsy
my notes so sour
a mad genius left half of him under my bed.
I was always the heart hoarder.
Half haunted by constant wrong turns, wrong tones
out of this stupid wooden box
that was nothing short of beautiful
in your hands.

The Next Lauryn Hill

I haven't been this obsessed with an artist in a long time, probably since I discovered Neko Case.  This woman can write!  She's an ex slam poet turned rapper and singer and in addition to amazing lyrical prowess she has an amazing voice and some nice beats.  Her new album is innovative and needless to say she makes me want to make music more than I have been. 

I needed this inspiration.  I love seeing strong intelligent women step up and play in a genre that historically hasn't been very female-friendly.  Enjoy!

Happiness in a Bottle?

I was in Missouri this past weekend for the True/False film festival. The True/False film festival is a documentary film festival that I love going to every year. While I was there I was fortunate enough to meet this Jordanian psychiatrist. We stayed up until 2 a.m. one night smoking hookah, drinking wine and talking about life. He had moved from Jordan to the U.S. as an adult and I could tell he was still trying to understand Americans.

We talked about America and his profession. He told me the majority of his patients didn’t like talk therapy. They were obsessed with instant gratification. “They want pills. They want to numb out whatever they are feeling so not to deal with it. You should see the looks of anger when I write them a referral for some talk therapy rather than pills.”

“I could see that,” I replied. We are not accustomed to having to go through the work of our mind or emotions to find happiness.”

“What is this happiness?” He asks. “Americans are so obsessed with the idea of happiness. They want to be happy all the time. It’s impossible, what one should aim for is to be peaceful and content. You can’t be happy all the time.”

I had never thought about a culture obsessed with happiness, but since that conversation I realize how much it’s sold to us. A new car will make you happy. A granite countertop will make you happy. Things will make you happy. Pills will make you happy. We are obsessed with instant gratification.

I start to wonder if it’s a unique phenomenon. Other cultures must want to find happiness too but perhaps they are more comfortable in the placid and tranquil contentment. Perhaps they don’t seek the highs we do.

I wouldn’t know; I’m American.

Harvest

I tried so hard to harvest the love we made;
internalize it, make it my own,
but I'd scream in the bathroom.
Blood would trickle down my legs,
I'd lay soaked in it.
Did I tell you my cervix is a volatile place to live?
Suicide versus staying alive
and the pain comes fast and swift.
Our love is a jumper, careless and manic
diving to meet death in some public bathroom;
one where people write lovers' names on walls
like a name was a poetic declaration
that there is something deeper than letters banding together.
I wrote our Love's name too.
I gathered the bloody sack and wrapped it to show you.
'He's got your smile," I say pale
and numb and covered in blood.
I walk into the street as though floating.
Part of my soul is a high rise diver;
I am a ghost of what was, a failed farmer
dying from the famine of a poor harvest.