a place of calm
when we were young(er), grossly in love, swoony high school kids on spring break or summer vacation, paul and i referred to mornings spent sans shower, in the sand, splashing amongst waves, slathered in sunscreen and sunkissed with doses of vitamin D as being ‘beachy fresh.’
one thing he and i have always shared is a true love for all things beach related. if we could, he and i would spend our days raising kids in a smallish beach bungalow, windows always open, drunk on salty air and sunshine. bob marley in the background and the squawk of seagulls. sand would litter the kitchen floor.
i took 397 photographs last weekend, while at gigi’s (my gramma) beach house. three hundred and ninety seven (i know, there should be a hyphen somewhere but i can’t remember where because i’m too focused on the enormity of that number). for those of you who are photographers and much more savvy when it comes to picture taking than i, this probably sounds menial to you. for me, it’s like HOW MANY SHOTS OF MY SON’S SANDY SHADOW CAN I TAKE? oh, i can take 397 thankyouverymuch.
yesterday, in an attempt to upload these photos and tinker with them, i nearly crashed my laptop (yes, i have an external hard drive, and no, i’m not totally certain on how to use it but i’m learning). it dawned on me as i was chatting with gigi on the phone last night, telling her the number of photos she can expect in the mail in the coming weeks, that our family of (almost 4) three really NEEDED that weekend.
we needed a sanctuary. we needed to be somewhere that held deep meaning to both paul and i. somewhere jackson had been to once before and will return to many more times in his future…
one of these next times, of course, with his little sister. he will have the opportunity to show her the beach and teach her about our love of all things slow, quiet, and relaxing. the sand. the waves. the sounds. the sun. he will be able to do this in the same ways that we have passed it along to him.
monday would have been my grandfather’s 80th birthday. he and jackson share a middle name, ray. being with gigi this weekend brought up a lot of fond memories, delicious cheesecake, a few tears but mostly laughter. as jackson approaches the age of 4, his understanding of his family members, both living and deceased, amazes me. children are so smart and open.
we were blessed with glorious weather and jackson treated the end of january as though it were the fourth of july. when it was time to say ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ to his gigi, this little one rested in the only way that a child worn out from a love affair with the beach can… with reckless abandon and an abundance of drool.
more photos to come, i promise. first, i need to shake the sand out of my clothes.
also, to those of you who have left sweet messages, comments, and emails to let us know that you’re thinking of us as we prepare to say goodbye to paul, THANK YOU. truly. your kindness does not go unnoticed.
remembering a muse
i had an english professor in college who, when i was 19 year old, was exactly who i wanted to be. she was crunchy and well-read. she hadn’t cut her hair in who knows how many years and had to move it over her shoulder so that she could sit… on her desk with her legs crossed and shoes off. she lived in a van with her husband who was a painter. we were allowed to call her by her first name.
i remember her crooked teeth. they were the cute kind of crooked. her teeth added to her eclectic nature and personality. she loved her job as a teacher. she made sure to tell us that nearly every day in class. i remember loving that she did that. it made me feel important, needed even, like she needed ME in her class in order to love her job.
her last name is one of my favorite words in the english language, inspiring in itself. i felt like it was meant to be that i was in her class, with her teaching me, with her badass last name, long hair, weird ensembles, van-living lifestyle.
i really looked up to her.
it wasn’t too long after that first semester of my sophomore year in college that i was raped. i had only been in her classroom for mere weeks before i took a week off in an attempt to figure out how the hell to go on with my life. i remember missing her class during that week. missing her. i remember worrying that she would think i was one of those slacker students who didn’t give a shit about english or any other class for that matter.
english was the only class i ever cared about in school.
in those few weeks of being in her classroom, i felt like myself. i felt like i was just beginning to tap into this writer that i longed to become. there had been teachers prior to this college professor who had impacted me and my writing in various ways, but this was different. i was an adult now, making my own decisions, figuring out who i wanted to be.
until it was all taken from me. i was taken from me. and i didn’t go to her class for a solid week.
i went to my other classes, for the most part. i didn’t care about those classes. i showed up for attendance and then stared at the dry erase boards until i was dismissed. but her class, i couldn’t make myself go. it hurt too much. i cared about that class.
eventually my fear of her thinking that i was a slacker student got the better of me and i showed up in her classroom. i didn’t participate that day, but i was there physically speaking.
i remember her asking me to stay after the rest of the class had been dismissed. it was clear she wanted to know where i had been. it was as though she knew i cared about this class and she was confused. as soon as the last student left the classroom, my eyes welled-up with tears.
i told her why i hadn’t been in class. i told her i was raped. she listened. she held my hand. she gave me tissues. she was the first person, aside from family and paul, that i had said those words to out loud.
it was real.
and when i was done talking, when i was more focused on blowing my nose than spilling my guts, she looked as though she had something to say. when she was certain she had my eyes and undivided attention, she said two words that have stuck with me for over a decade.
“me too.”
and then she wept. and i wept with her. i wasn’t alone. she wasn’t alone.
that week was her last week of teaching our class. she said that she had some demons to deal with and she quit without notice. for a while, i worried that it was my fault she left.
it wasn’t. who knows how long she had buried her story… a story she hadn’t even shared with her husband. her story needed to be told, but gently and in time. her story needed her full attention. it wasn’t my fault that she left. it was just time.
i wonder about her a lot. i hope she has made her peace. and i really hope she is happy.
wish list: back-to-school edition
as a kid, august was my FAVORITE! by the end of the summer, i had a righteous tan from playing all day every day in the sunshine with friends. i had stories to share about camp, neighborhood antics, and beach trips. and i had new gear to sport at school.
i would spend HOURS organizing my binders with tabs and notes and stickers. highlighters, markers, ballpoint pens, and number 2 pencils would fill my pouch or pencil box (sometimes both).
not that i was a stellar student. i wasn’t. until i was in college and actually had a say about which classes i invested myself in.
funny how that happens.
anyway, if i were heading back to school (which i never will again b/c ZOMG I AM SO DONE WITH SCHOOL) this is the gear i would want…
Skip Hop Zoo Pack Little Kid Backpack
MadPax full and half packs 
Bird vs. Bee Mittens (yes, they have adult ones too!)
Banderole Pencil Set 
Striped Binder Clips
Alphabet File Folders
Black Skulls On Blue Binder
Black/Flame Converse Kids Chuck Taylors
all product images are courtesy of the respective stores…except for jackson…i produced him and that photo, so steal it and i’ll shank you.
but but but… WAIT!!!!!!!!!!
haley joel osment taught himself not to blink when filming the sixth sense.
i tried to not blink, just now while sitting in front of my laptop.
my eyes started to water and i lost the contest against myself in under 30 seconds.
TEACH ME YOUR WAYS, HALEY JOEL OSMENT!
because this… THIS… keeps happening. and it’s crazy.
intake
i share my birthday with a very special person.
the day i met her, almost five years ago, she had come in to my place of work with her mom. the two of them sat out in the lobby, while i was in my office at my desk. my coworker and fellow rape recovery team victim advocate poked her head into my office.
“are you in the middle of something important?”
“nah, not really. what’s up?”
“there’s a victim out in the lobby with her mom. the rest of us are in the middle of SAAM planning with donors. she wants to talk to an advocate, learn about her options, but she wants to do it without her mom present. can you do her intake?”
“yeah, no problem. i’ll get the paperwork.”
“great, thanks. debrief with me about it this afternoon.”
i closed the documents that were open on my computer, locked the screen, and grabbed the intake paperwork from the drawer of my desk.
before my coworker got too far down the hallway and back into her meeting, i called after her and quickly jogged towards her.
“where’s the paperwork from the night of the call? i didn’t have the pager the night of her rape.”
“ah shit, sorry. it’s in d’s top drawer of her file cabinet. key is under her mousepad.”
i got the victim’s name and then went to d’s office to get her file.
all of us had locked file cabinets, paperwork that had been filled out in confidence, that was respected. always.
flipping through the pages of her file, i learned a bit about the victim… the girl… young… too young… i learned about her assault, who responded to the scene, and what protocol had been followed in order to provide the victim with support, information, and resources, should she choose to use the services that we, as victim advocates, provide.
i took her file, along with my intake paperwork, to the front of the building and introduced myself to both the girl and her mother. the mother began speaking very quickly and with total disregard of the fact that we were in the lobby where others were clearly within hearing distance. her daughter stared at the floor and flicked her fingers at the buttons that were on her yellow raincoat.
once i was able to escort the victim back to one of our counseling rooms, i clicked on the sound machine that was kept at the bottom of each door of those rooms. this was to assure whomever we were meeting with, would be respected and met with total confidentiality.
amongst the paperwork and questions about her rape, from both my end and hers, there were times of basic human interaction. i remember her telling me that she liked my shoes.
she then asked me how old i was… and then she corrected herself.
“i’m sorry. i probably shouldn’t be asking you that.”
“no. it’s fine. i will be 25 in a few weeks.”
“i’ll be 17 in a few weeks. you seem really young to be doing this kind of work.”
“i am.”
we both laughed.
after the intake process was complete, i explained the options she had in terms of services that she would be receiving. (this can fall along the spectrum of legal information, to obtaining safe shelter, to establishing free counseling sessions that were provided at my place of work.)
she took a deep breath and asked if she had to share all of the information i gave her with her mother. i told her that what she chose to share with whomever was entirely her decision to make, but i encouraged her to speak with someone, even if it is not her mother.
she then told me why she felt she couldn’t talk to her mother.
her assailant was her stepfather.
the amount of time i spent with her for this intake ended up being more time than i spent during any other intake i had done as a rape victim advocate. there was something about this victim, this girl, that i couldn’t quite put my finger on. but i knew that i wasn’t ready for our time together to end, and i got that feeling from her as well.
for a while, we just sat there and talked. about normal things. because survivors are capable of doing so… talking about normal things.
when i looked at the clock that hung above the door to the counseling room, i grimaced and told her that we should probably wrap things up. i asked her if she had any other questions, if there was anything i had discussed with her that she needed clarification on.
“yeah, i have one question and then i’ll go…”
“absolutely. shoot.”
“how do you know? like… you have sat here and nodded with me for over an hour… you like ‘get it.’ how do you know?”
“i was raped too. a long time ago.”
she hugged me, thanked me for my time. she took the folder of information that i had for her. i compiled her intake forms. we opened the door and i bent down to turn off the sound machine.
when we walked up towards the lobby, where her mother was waiting, i told her that i wished her well and to remember that she was not alone.
her mom saw us and got up from her seat to approach her daughter.
i wished the girl a happy early birthday, and when she did the same, she asked me what day mine was on.
“may 3rd.”
“mine too.”
she smiled and clutched the folder i had given her tightly to her chest.
not a single birthday has passed for me, since that time, when i haven’t thought about her as i blow out the candles on my cake.
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april is sexual assault awareness month. if you or someone you know is in need of support, resources or help, please visit RAINN. the national sexual assault hotline phone number is 1.800.656.HOPE
Have a Sip
