Tragedy is personal. Nine years ago, the nation faced September 11 and a week later that paled in comparison to a car accident at my high school. A year ago, my godfather was killed in a traffic accident; he left behind a wonderful, loving wife and two sons who have since become fathers without their father in their life. It is horrifying what these families have gone through. To anyone who has lost someone completely, who has had someone suddenly ripped from their life, my sadness may seem selfish. I make no apologies for my egocentricity. I acknowledge that each individual disaster is its own experience. All I can do is live in this moment. I am heartbroken. I am helpless.

So I continue to stalk Facebook for news and ask friends for prayers. I carry on spreading the word about this horrible accident, his condition, his prognosis to those who care to listen. I keep talking about him with a stiff lip and no tears because I am resolute in my strength. I wait for news; all sources report slightly different descriptions, but it’s all I have to go on at this time. I fear actually seeing the damage, because I know my strength will leave me and I will have to face the magnitude of what happened. In text it is just a story, a bad dream. The change has not yet been realized in this house, though the emptiness is starting to show itself.

Now that I know how quickly things can change, I try to stay optimistic, but I fear bad news. The helplessness mixes with hope, but nothing is finite. I must subsist on the love and prayers of friends and family and maintain my own good thoughts. I must remember that many people feel this tragic heartbreak, because many people love this man. My biggest hope is that he knows how much we all care.

Megan and Meredith are the closest I’ve ever had to sisters. We were in Girl Scouts together from Brownies through high school graduation, and in the seven years since high school graduation we’ve managed to stay friends. There were times when we didn’t get along and maybe even disliked each other, but now that we’re older, we appreciate the history we share. We can sit down for a meal and it seems like we never spent any time apart. Today, Meredith entertained us with stories of near-death experiences on her travels to Africa, and Megan provided much-needed updates on how she returned to this area to pursue her career.

Megan and Mer weren’t the only friends present. Dan, of course, was here; Kim, who I met through Dan and Keanan, stopped by after a wedding shower in Lebanon; and Megan’s wife, Kara, accompanied her. These represent a newer circle of relationships, an extension of friendships forged in the past. Friends introduce friends to their friends and friendships or relationships blossom. People connect. It’s fascinating to take a step back at the end of the day and reflect on the conversations of the day. So few people can make me laugh the way I laughed today. And I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.

The food was great, too. Parties have become much more classy since the days of jungle juice. Mer and I did manage to kill two bottles of white, drinking about 3/4 of a bottle each. She also brought stuffed mushrooms that went over quite well and Dan and I had picked up crackers, veggies, hummus and horseradish cheddar bacon spread at market that morning. The main course was grilled chicken, pasta salad and corn on the cob. We finished with some delicious pie. Food only managed to quiet us for a few moments, though. The central focus of the day was conversation and stories of the past and discussions of the present and future.

I know that I’m extraordinarily lucky to have such amazing friends in my life. I know that my family and Dan love me, but the love in my house today was different than the love that’s here at other times. Today, my home was filled with sisterhood (sorry, Dan, you’re an honorary sister). We share a history and common interests and a general concern for each other’s well being. We are a family, fashioned from scouting, built on social networks and brought together by benevolent forces. We are fortunate, and I will try to remember this when times are rough.

Other times, it feels like my life is rushed and filled to the point of bursting. I feel like I’m barely clinging on to my sanity. I see people living happy, carefree lives and I envy them.

Perhaps the real situation is that everyone is somewhere between these two places. No one is completely carefree. We all have bills and deadlines to meet. Marriage, children, jobs, houses–they just compound the stress of life itself. In some ways I’m lucky that I do not have those things to worry about. My employment situation is glorified hobo and the white picket fence is a long way off. I won’t have to worry about a mortgage or diapers or contracts for a couple of years. Still, I have to keep telling myself that I’m working toward something or the day to day breathing becomes too much.

My dear friend and “little brother” wrote on my Facebook today that I have to be passionate about teaching. I think I am, but am I passionate enough? I really look forward to working with a classroom of my own, but I’m nervous. I’m more nervous about completing the process and jumping through the hoops of student teaching and Praxis testing, but it’s still just another stressful element in this path I have chosen for myself. And I’m always questioning if it’s the right path. I’ve had a good break from subbing due to PSSA testing and conflicting schedules, and I can honestly say that I don’t miss it all that much. I’ve already entered the mindset for my summer job, which might just be a necessary coping mechanism.

I wonder if I’ve missed my calling. I wonder if this is what I’m supposed to do. Friends–well, more likely friends of friends–would turn to religion here and pray for answers or something. I could consult my tarot cards. I could put my faith in what my friends tell me. I could believe in myself for once.

I’ve kind of hit a wall. I guess that’s what April is, and possibly always has been, for me. I think I was usually fairly frustrated by this time of year in undergrad, and most certainly in 2008 and 2009, I was slowly going crazy by this time of year. I want to be passionate about my classes, about subbing, about life–but right now I just keep asking myself two questions:

Is this real life? and

Can we go to the beach yet?

I need this.

]]> http://silverfire.net/life-in-cepa/is-this-real-life/feed 0 http://silverfire.net/life-in-cepa/im-not-dead-yet http://silverfire.net/life-in-cepa/im-not-dead-yet#comments Sat, 10 Apr 2010 16:19:15 +0000 Lindsay http://silverfire.net/?p=398 I’ve been MIA for awhile now, and I really wish that wasn’t the case. I have several half-posts, which are half-written ramblings about the various goings on in my life. Some day, maybe, I will finish them and post them back dated to where they belong. Trips to WAC, trips to the beach, concerts, etc.–all waiting to be moved from my head to my WordPress.

Life has just been so busy lately that I feel guilty working on this stuff. I have a bunch of projects due for school and I’ve been working here and there. I’ve also been on the go doing regular life stuff, too. So I promise, I will be back in full swing, hopefully by May.

My first day was terrifying and exhilarating. I’d managed to find a better-paying seasonal job to round out my summer; my last day was Labor Day. I was looking forward to taking a few weeks to prepare for subbing by cleaning and organizing. Instead, Tuesday, September 8, I woke up at 5:30 in the morning to a phone call. I agreed before I really understood what I was doing. That was just the beginning, I suppose. In retrospect, the first day was fairly plain. It was 7th grade language arts, and one period I had a co-teacher who took the reigns. The regular teacher’s plans were superb–she’d thought of a lot in advance. The 7th graders were only in their 2nd week of junior high, so they had no idea that I was not at all aware of what I was doing. At the end of the day, I felt confident I’d made the right choice in pursuing teaching as a career.

When I look back, I’m very happy that I accepted that early phone call. It let me train myself and get my feet wet without falling on my face. I learned how to follow a lesson plan, how to relate to students, and even how to deal with trying to find a school I’ve never seen. Since then, I’ve had numerous other learning experiences with subbing. It’s trial and error, and what one can accomplish in a day depends on the type of students the school in question has. The demographics vary, even in my small county, and the students are sometimes less receptive to a substitute depending on their grade level and their level in the education system. I hope to detail some of what I’ve learned here, and to write about the experiences—good, bad and in between—so that I might learn more from them as I reexamine what I’ve done.

Dear XX,

Please allow me to take this opportunity to explain my hasty departure from The Organization lest I be misrepresented in my reasons for leaving. As many of you know, I hold a BA in English with a minor in business management from Washington College. Despite my level of education and intelligence, I have been made to feel denigrated in my position as part-time administrative assistant despite my best efforts to accomplish a myriad of tasks that full-time administrative assistants might have difficulty accomplishing. I worked diligently for the past year not only to aid in day-to-day office tasks but also to modernize and streamline regular correspondence and the organization’s Web presence. I worked to find the most cost-effective solutions to problems from corporate gifts to printing to web-hosting and -design services. In addition to these duties, I also assisted Mr. B— by scheduling his appointments and luncheons, typing all of his written correspondence and doing his faxing and copying. While I realize that is what is encompassed in the job description of the administrative assistant, it becomes questionable when the perceived division of work is unmatched. I accomplished all of these tasks in five hours a day at a rate of $11.44 per hour while observing a complete inequity of my superiors’ workloads. While Ms. E— worked unflaggingly at preparing numerous loans for manufacturers and farmers, corresponding with townships and engineers regarding various projects and completing any other tasks that came across her desk, I witnessed Mr. B— leave the office for extended periods of time (including a daily 90-minute to 2-hour lunch) and coming back only to read newspapers and return phone calls. While I realize that being at the top of a chain of command has its own responsibilities and gives a person some leeway, I feel that the division of labor was far too imbalanced and the recognition received by Ms. E— far too inadequate.

Seeing the imbalance on a daily basis became disheartening. However, as I am not easily discouraged, I continued going above and beyond in my daily assignments. The first time I ever really questioned leaving the job was when my political values were openly called into question the day after the election. I was openly mocked for my political values, which I had never blatantly broadcast in the office. While I realize that the comment Mr. B— made to Mr. A—, “What does she know, she doesn’t even pay taxes,” was in jest, it was still shocking and debasing. Further comments in the months following increased my growing discomfort in The Organization’s environment.

Perhaps most disappointing for me is the organization’s shift from aiding the local economy and providing gainful employment and business investment opportunities to a seemingly self-serving showcase of ongoing publicity stunts. The Hawk Acres Grand Opening could be cited as an example in which a $900 sign was purchased for a one-time use and not even featured in the accompanying newspaper article. Additionally, herein I must state that while I disagree with the need to spend a large quantity of money on a new office in the face of the current recession, I meant no harm in pointing out the findings of the Economic Summit at the January Board Meeting. I was simply supplementing Mr. P—’s point with information I had garnered from compiling all the Economic Summit data and typing the final report. Upon returning from the Board Meeting, Mr. B— attempted to intimidate me for merely stating facts. It was at that point that I was, essentially, forced to choose between quitting immediately or subjecting myself to a new level of shame and hostility in the workplace; I feel that if I would have let this intimidation go, that I would have only faced similar situations in the future.

I apologize for my somewhat impetuous departure from The Organization and the somewhat uncomfortable nature of this letter. It is not meant to be a personal attack against Mr. B— or The Organization. However, I felt it was necessary, as the third administrative assistant to leave, to offer the Board some sort of explanation as to why the working conditions are unsatisfactory in hopes that those who hold the position in the future are not subjected to the same humiliation and inequity.

Thank you again for the opportunity to work with all of you, and thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
Lindsay Bergman

The real inspiration for this post is not to talk about impending hang-outs, but one that has already taken place.  A little background for you?  From sixth grade through high school I adored this boy (we shall call him R).  I never dated R, and with the exception of one drunken make out session, nothing productive came out of my nearly-a-decade-long crush.  He graduated high school with me in 2003 and bounced around to several colleges before he found one that “stuck.”  He’s slated to graduate in 2010.  We haven’t been tight since we went to Bonnaroo–a group trip where I was Susie Sober and spoiled everyone’s fun by being slightly annoyed at the rampant drug use among the 80,000 people who were not nearly as dedicated to Radiohead as me.  So anyway, R is home from Utah State right now, and I wanted to “catch up.”

After some unproductive barhopping, I agreed to follow R’s text message to a garage in N-town. A few years ago, I sat in the very same barn. Back then, it wasn’t as well insulated or decorated. The smoking den it is today was only in its infancy. Now there is a Super Nintendo and some band posters. The boys were drinking fancy microbrews. Back then there were some cold, cold chairs and a leftover New Years’ keg, complete with R doing kegstands. The scenery has changed slightly, it’s true.

The people have not evolved.

In high school and even during the first bit of college, I wanted nothing more than to fit in with this crowd. R, who hated me for getting mad at him about smoking weed in high school, passed me my first joint. He let me experience parties. He provided an element of danger. But once I got to experience all these things, I realized they weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Pot didn’t make R cool or uncool–it just drained his wallet. His spontaneity lost its novelty when he showed up to Tom Petty rolling.

Now, here I was, a year and a half out of college and sitting again in this barn watching R with his new girlfriend (another pseudo hippie who seems mostly to embrace the marijuana smoking aspect of the lifestyle above the friendliness or social freeness often espouse). Could this be the social high of my December? Would this musical gathering be the “coolest” I get for 2008? How is this even fun?

While there is nothing wrong with a group of college kids or Matthew McConaughey sitting above a garage smoking weed, drinking beer and passing around musical instruments, I just don’t think it’s my scene. The majority of these boys are done with school; the major exception is R. But it’s not like R is their fearless leader in small-town Boho lifestyle. They’re all equally aimless, and they all seem perfectly content with how they are living. While the various percussion instruments, guitars and even the mandolin were interesting to me for about five seconds, I found myself nearly having a panic attack. The situation itself wasn’t bad; there are certainly worse places I could be on a Friday night. But being there made me realize how badly I didn’t want to be there.

My mind raced back to the beers I had and how I should just give it all up. Sometimes, in these panicky moments, I think in the extreme. Then I remembered that I kind of enjoy a nice beer with a steak, and that at 24 years old, drinking doesn’t really make me “bad ass.” This, I thought to myself, is what being around people from high school does to me. I freak out. I thought about my impending drinks with my big city friend and how the only interesting anecdote from my month will be small town gossip and my impromptu pot-and-beer-fueled garage concert.

Thankfully around this point, my friend realized I was uncomfortable and offered to leave with me and come back later on her own. There are benefits to having a friend who has known you since second grade, but the very fact that we ended up there in the first place shows one of the downsides.

By the way, this is a cry for help.