The Penguin Plunge

When my husband and I lived in the Washington D.C. metro area, we were in graduate school and needed to find an apartment with relatively low rent. We ended up grabbing a deal on a one bedroom, one bath with a den – plenty of closet space and the all-important extra room for my book collection, carefully shelved behind glass doors. Our rent was around $1000, which is cheap for the D.C. area, but the appliances all worked and everything was clean, so we didn’t ask too many questions.

It turns out we had moved into a somewhat notorious apartment complex – famous for the arsons that were taking place a few blocks over from us and the car thefts that were pretty run-of-the-mill. We personally experienced the car theft, in fact – twice before we moved out. (Those are actually pretty funny stories, despite the fact that the incurred repairs cost us a lot of unexpected cash… you’ll never meet a dumber set of car jackers than the teenagers who took our Plymouth for a joy ride. Except perhaps the thief who tried to steal our vehicle when it had a dead battery, then ended up leaving us his own car key on the seat. Too bad we didn’t know where he was parked.)

Let’s just say that being a little blond white girl, I didn’t really feel all that comfortable going for a walk by myself when we lived in the suburbs of D.C. Of course, I could drive over to the park in historic Greenbelt and sit reading at one of the picnic benches without fear of being harassed. But there were times when I tried to walk in my own neighborhood and a truck full of greasy, shifty-eyed men followed me, which understandably made me quite nervous.

So when we moved to Nyack eight months ago, I suddenly felt FREE. In this little river town with a cobblestone library and row after row of Victorian houses, I can wander through the neighborhoods without my husband acting as a chaperone. I can walk to the post office, the Starbucks and any number of mom-and-pop restaurants, coffee houses and gift shops. There are even a few art galleries and several antique stores. I feel a little bit guilty and un-politically correct for saying it, but I’m back in the tax bracket where I feel most comfortable and safe. It immediately felt like home, the very first time that we drove through Nyack – its quaint little shops remind us of Ann Arbor and Birmingham, which are two of my favorite places to hang out near my parents’ home in Michigan.

Beyond just the picturesque and charming setting, though, Nyack makes me happy because it is the kind of community that makes me comfortable – and even glow with pleasure. You can tell that they have the kind of neighborly attitude that we missed when we left the Midwest – in fact, they’re a little more neighborly than the residents of suburban Detroit. Nyack seems like Avonlea – like I could walk down the road and find Green Gables or the White Sands Hotel. All throughout the summer, the merchants put on street fairs featuring dozens of out-of-town art vendors. There’s a weekly Farmer’s Market that they set up in the parking lot of the bank. My husband and I haven’t become a part of the community yet – we’ve been too busy getting settled with our jobs to go out and meet people – but I love to watch as the residents put on events, invite people in to their beloved little river town, and take care of those who are a part of their community.

For example, we’ve stumbled across a couple of events in town designed to raise money for cancer survivors and local children with hefty medical bills. It was last fall when we first saw the community coming together like this – we were out for a walk in the evening and saw a procession of tiny flickering lights that began at the riverside playground and wound up the hill toward town. We asked what the rally and parade were for and learned that the event was in support of local residents battling cancer, survivors and their families. The candles were in memorial of those who had lost their fight against the disease, and you could purchase your own to help raise money for those who are still fighting.

Then today, we were out on a walk in the unseasonably warm March weather, when we came across dozens of people emerging from the park wearing beach towels. Yes, beach towels. I did a double-take, then insisted that my husband and I make a detour to explore what was going on. Down by the Hudson River, we found residents of our new home town decked out in everything from Speedos and bikinis to full scuba gear (no joke). There was a bandstand set up and several tents with refreshments – and everyone was standing around drip, drip, dripping. It turns out that this was the local Penguin Plunge, a dip in the river organized to raise money for two local children with serious medical conditions and not enough money to pay the bills.

I love that there were people of all ages jumping into the river today, just blocks from my apartment – there were even three little boys dressed in Batman raincoats and hats who looked as though they might have made the plunge in their superhero attire. And I LOVE that the residents of my new home are stepping up to raise money for other families. When we lived in the suburbs of D.C., we were surrounded by people who couldn’t make ends meet – but from what I could tell, their typical reaction was to smoke more weed (which we could smell drifting from one apartment to the next, and into our kitchen, where I had to constantly keep a Febreeze candle burning). I’m sure that there were plenty of hardworking people who lived in our apartment complex, but they kept to themselves – they were probably intimidated by all the car thieves and arsonists, too.

Here in Nyack, I almost feel like I’m back in the Midwest again – and it’s a welcome change from the East Coast mentality that we experienced (although not from everyone) in D.C. As we walked through the crowds of dripping teens and adults down at Memorial Park today, I found myself wishing that we knew someone there, someone to that would call out a hello and welcome us into a circle of bystanders. Someone who would offer me a cup of coffee and would try to convince me to participate in the Plunge next year. I found myself feeling a little bit more willing to go out and meet people soon. Maybe I need to take a plunge of my own.

Solitary

This post is dedicated to my closest and dearest friends, who are now not only located in Michigan and Washington D.C., but spread as far as Seattle and Amsterdam. I’d also like to extend a special welcome to those participating in the blog hop from SheWrites.

Sometimes the mornings seem bright, the sunshine reflecting off the Hudson River and rebounding off the nearby cliffs, massive rock outcroppings that are draped with giant white icicles right now. The sunlight dazzles my eyes as I drive to work, but I don’t mind – I feel a little bit more alive because of the warmth, the brightness.

On those mornings, I feel excited about ideas that I am generating for different projects at my new job. I feel empowered because despite the set-backs with my career in the academic world, I haven’t given up – I’ve successfully changed my course and even become excited about the things that I can do as a professional in the non-profit sector. I daydream about art projects, blog tours, and unique donation appeals that we could set up on behalf of our organization. After driving through the sunshine and running through ideas in my head, I even feel excited to begin working on grants once I get in to my office – and grants are not generally exciting things to write.

And then sometimes I feel exactly the opposite of excited and optimistic. On those mornings, the sunlight seems to burn in my eyes, causing them to water and making it nearly impossible to see well enough to negotiate traffic. I feel discouraged at the amount of effort everything takes – and I’m not even thinking about all the projects that I am beginning to accumulate at work, now that I’ve been employed for a month. When I feel discouraged, it’s because I’m thinking about all the effort that I really should be putting in to the rest of my life. The relationships. With other people.

I work for a non-profit organization – don’t I do that because I love people? Because I want to help others?

Well, yes. But.

When my husband and I lived in Michigan, I was a social butterfly. I loved being around people – all kinds of people, all the time. During high school and college, I had quite the full social calendar.

More than that, though, I valued truthful relationships. I built and maintained close, strong friendships with my best friends from elementary school and high school, my college roommates, bible study friends, and my husband (then boyfriend). I was lucky to accumulate, in a few short years, perhaps more honest-to-goodness friends than some people ever have in an entire lifetime. The kind of friends who will take care of you when you have a fever and you’re throwing up, or will get up at six o’clock in the morning to help you clean up the bathroom after the toilet has flooded. The kind of friends who will tell you when you’re being a jerk, have it out with you and then share a box of chocolates and a bottle of cheap wine with you afterward.

Then we moved to Washington D.C., the capital city of temporary internships and fast-track positions. There are a ton of young professionals who come to D.C. to get a degree or take a good starting position, and then move on to another geographic location – a place that feels more like home. At the very least, a lot of those young professionals eventually move out into the suburbs of Maryland and Virginia. I’m not even sure what type of person actually ends up living long-term in Washington D.C., other than politicians, diplomats and other government employees.

To the point: Jeremy and I went to D.C. to earn our graduate degrees as well, but we arrived with a Midwestern mentality and were disappointed by the region’s aloof attitude. We went there to make friends and settle down, but we discovered that in the over-crowded urban sprawl of the outskirts of D.C., there weren’t too many people that were our age, shared our interests and had time for new/more friends. And as we became more and more absorbed in our own academic and career goals, we likewise felt like we lost the time and interest to “be social.”

It is important to note the difference between having real friends and being “social.” Friendship involves being comfortable with other people, to the point that you can openly say what you think, have the confidence in your ability to resolve conflicts with that person, and dismiss the need for a polite, “grown-up” façade when you are around them. Friendship takes a lot of time and effort.

In contrast, being social is attending various events with other people, enjoying more shallow conversations and jokes, sharing interests without sharing emotions. Each fulfills a need, but in my mind, friendship is far more valuable.

After I started graduate school, I decided I didn’t really have the time, patience or desire to be “social” with random people. It often ended up being more effort than entertainment, and I didn’t have a whole lot of free time to burn. If I really wanted to have either an honest conversation or a deep, belly-shaking laugh, I talked to my husband or I called up someone in Michigan. These are the people who I know I can trust. These are the people with whom I can laugh.

With time, Jeremy and I met a few people through work and school that became good friends and our lives in D.C. were richer because of those relationships.

Then, when we moved to New York, we had to say goodbye. Again.

We have lived in Nyack for eight months now, and I can honestly say that I haven’t made a single new friend. I know one or two of the neighbors and the apartment manager well enough to say hello. Sometimes I talk to the librarians as they are checking out my books. On the positive side, my new co-workers look like promising candidates. But the closet thing that Jeremy and I have to an actual relationship in our new location is one good friend from graduate school that lives right in New York City. While we try to hang out with him as often as we can, though, he’s currently earning his Ph.D., so he doesn’t really have time to get together more than once a month or so. (No hard feelings – I know exactly how that goes. The workload is brutal.)

So in contrast to the extremely social disposition I had throughout my undergraduate career, I’ve become a hermit – and even after emerging out from under the unending responsibilities of graduate school, I haven’t wanted to make the effort to get to know people. I just keep thinking about all the good friends that, despite my best intentions and efforts, have faded from my life. I think about my grandma and grandpa, who have now passed away. I think about the way that before my grandparents died, they lost so many of their friends, one by one.

Then I think about my closest friends, with whom I have managed to actually stay close, despite time and distance. Sometimes I can call Seattle and pour out my heart to my friend just as easily as I could have done when we lived just a few blocks away from each other. But yet miscommunications and misunderstandings can develop between the closest of friends, even those that you’ve known for ten years or more. And what might have been a little miscommunication becomes a lot more awkward and harder to resolve over a distance of five hundred or so miles. I’ve had several long-distance misunderstandings recently that have really shaken me – they’ve made me realize how fragile even the strongest of my relationships truly could be. When you’re main modes of communication are written – emails, Facebook, texting – you have to be even more careful with what words you choose.

So people fade from your life. Do I really want to begin to make friends again, just to watch even more people fade away?

I guess it boils down to a choice, and it’s really a choice about what kind of person that I want to be. Do I want to be solitary, isolated, withdrawn? Solitary doesn’t sound so bad – I’ve got my husband, I’ve got my books. I’ve got a fulfilling job and my goal to write a novel or a memoir some day. But “withdrawn” is a much more ugly word. It makes me pause. I don’t think that my grandma would want me to withdraw from the world – so from somewhere deep inside of me, I’m going to have to dig up some energy, go out and “be social.” Thankfully, I don’t have to do it today – but I better do it soon because in the meantime, circumstances are shaping the person that I become, even in ways that I don’t realize.

The Curtains are Closed

I’ve always been an emotional kind of girl. Over-the-top emotional, you could say—a bit dramatic. Or, as my grandma used to put it, I’m just very sensitive.

I cry easily. And frequently.

Ask my dad – who didn’t know what to do with his teenage daughter when she would, in the midst of an only mildly upsetting conversation, suddenly burst out crying and manage to tell her bewildered father between sobs, “I know it’s silly to be crying about this, but I’m (hiccup) about to have (sniffle) my period and I can’t (gasp) seem to help it…” I was lucky if I could get all of that out before I trailed off into a low moan.

Or ask my husband how emotional I am, poor guy. My dad only had to deal with me for a few very turbulent teenage years, but for some reason, my wonderful spouse has signed up to live in the eye of the tornado – for another forty, fifty, even sixty years. Maybe he’s secretly masochistic.

I posted a few days ago, though, on the inescapable grief that I believe is now a part of my personality, my very identity—and this is a new level of emotion. The deep sorrow that I feel over the loss of my grandparents, the aching disbelief that Hank and Marge White have simply ceased to exist (at least as I knew them)—it is something that affects not just how I feel in the moment, but how I make decisions and how I think about myself.

I have had my heart broken once or twice, I suppose you could say—in the more traditional sense of the word. I have loved two different males (boys? men? something in between—guys?) that did not love me, and I thought the lonely ache of that would be enough to choke me, paralyze me.

But even then, my loving grandma (and my very giving mother) stepped in to reassure me, comfort me, and bolster me up. Grandma was steadfast and particularly vocal of her belief that if the gentleman in question was worthy of me, then he would come around—and if not, good riddance. She had some high expectations for those adolescents, if she thought that they were capable of seeing me the way that she saw me. It should go without saying that this kind of romanticized perspective would be nearly impossible for a teenage boy.

I’m not sure if all her loving comments were really all that comforting, but at least someone was around to hear me sob and wail and complain. I’m not only emotional—I love an audience. Or at least I used to.

This new, deeper grief has changed me, though—or maybe I changed before my grandparents passed away and I just haven’t realized it until now. Either way, I no longer want an audience. I don’t want to cry in front of anyone, even my friends. I don’t mind when I break down in front of my husband, but even so, I’d prefer to keep it to myself. I hold it tight in my chest, wait for the moments that I’m alone.

Before I got a job, I used to lie in bed for a while after my husband would leave for work, stare at the picture of my grandparents hanging on the wall, and despondently weep. But I knew that they would be upset to see me stay in bed all day, so I would get up and find things to enjoy—for them, if not for me. They would want me to be happy, to enjoy life.

Now I cry when I am in the bathroom, as I’m putting on makeup in the morning and thinking about how my grandma and I used to visit the Clinique counter together. I cry when I am in the car, driving the Saturn that used to belong to my grandfather. I named it “Henry” after him, and call it “Hank” and “Grandpa.” I talk to the car, imagining it is him, and let myself weep on the drive home from work. But I don’t cry very often when I am around people—even my family, who are all quite used to my emotional outbursts.

This sorrow is private, more private than anything that I’ve ever experienced before. (And yet, I’m blogging about it—a big step for me at this point in my life. It's taken me months to feel ready to address this subject on my blog.)

I know that this desire for privacy isn’t really a strange thing for many people—most people don’t share their deepest emotions with the general public. But I used to be a bit of an exhibitionist. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that I simply couldn’t contain my emotions – they’d come pouring out of me, no matter where I was or who I was with. I could be working the cash register at the campus coffee shop with tears pouring down my face.

(Yes, that actually happened a few times. I couldn’t seem to stop the saline, which made it hard to find the right button and punch in the amount for a latte or a raisin bran muffin. I probably gave several bewildered customers a discount or something.)

The fact that I’ve been so reserved, that I’ve kept my grief to myself, is a huge shift in my personality. And I wonder what it means. I’ve changed—but I don’t know how I feel about this new, more private personality. I think it’s partially connected to a larger change in how I relate to people; I’m much less friendly and open then I used to be. But that’s a subject for another post.

The fact remains that I was once a performer, up on the stage, often sharing my latest heartache with anyone who would listen (and that included friends, roommates, friends of friends, roommates of friends, classmates, fellow coffee shop workers, the delivery guy…). But now I’ve climbed down off the stage, or at least lowered the curtain. The exhibition is over, and all that’s left is a hollow ache inside.

I’m missing my favorite audience member—my grandma—and without my most ardent admirer, I think my career as a (live) performer has come to a close.

I’m still a writer, though—I guess some things never change.

Inescapable Grief

The last three weeks – the first three weeks at my new job – have gone pretty well overall. I’ve genuinely enjoyed myself as I have started to learn my new responsibilities; I’ve gone to several training seminars on grant writing in downtown NYC, posted my first few web articles on the organization’s website and sent out my first email newsletter. I’ve had fun getting to know my co-workers, and seeing as how I feel pretty satisfied with where I’ve landed, I’ve already begun nesting. My office is decorated with photos from my wedding, black and white snapshots of my grandparents and the obligatory Audrey Hepburn calendar. I’ve also stocked up on Jolly Ranchers, Home-style Popcorn and about ten different kinds of tea. I’m prepared for the afternoons when the munchies hit or my blood sugar starts to dip at three o’clock: I’ve even got chocolate covered pretzels stashed in my desk drawer.

Here I am, ready to become an expert on grant writing, public relations and marketing via social media. I’m excited to get started on the research that will help us write grants, reel in volunteers and set up a more targeted and effective (not to mention stylish) Facebook page. And I feel good about the fact that is all be for a worthy cause. But some mornings – just after I’ve put on my mascara, of course – and sometimes while I’m driving home on the New York State Thruway, I start to sob.

I’m not crying because of my job – I’m crying because my grandparents would be so proud and excited about my job and I can’t share it with them.

It was only a year ago that I was still able to call up my grandparents on my way home from work, and after asking me whether or not I was keeping my husband in line with a good smack every now and again, my grandfather would hand the phone to my grandmother. Grandma would then spend the next half an hour asking about my students – she remembered a lot of the details that I had told her about different students’ learning disabilities and how I was working with each one of them to improve their writing skills. She didn’t know their names, of course, but at that point, she was still able to keep them separate in her mind by what she knew about each one.

One of the great things about these conversations was that she was fully convinced that I had teacher super-powers. This is probably why I get grand, over-blown ideas about what I can accomplish, in fact – because of her unfailing belief in my ability to save the day. Even when I would get discouraged about the progress that one of my students was making (or not making), she would tell me, “You just keep working with her. She’ll come around in time, since you’re giving her extra attention.” Of course, my grandmother was no expert on learning disabilities or education – but she believed that I knew enough to do my job even better than the average teacher. And she loved that I was helping people.

But last March, my grandpa’s prostate cancer had finally spread to his bones and what had been a manageable condition now kept him confined to bed and in incredible pain. Radiation treatment didn’t really help – but it tired him out and made him even more miserable. And going back and forth every day to visit her husband in the hospital and then the nursing home, my grandma grew weaker and more confused. Her dementia, which had been progressing fairly slowly, grew worse because of all the stress.

Grandpa passed away last May, and Grandma followed five months later in October. I think she just decided it was time to go – her husband and all her oldest, closest friends were gone, she was losing the ability to take care of herself or even think clearly and despite all our best efforts, it was difficult for us to spend enough time with her. She needed constant care, and one of my family members could only be at the nursing home with her for a few hours each day. (I cannot express how much I hate that I live five hundred miles away from my family and could not be there with her.)

My grandparents have always been a huge part of my life; they babysat me at least three or four times a week when I was growing up. We went to the mall, out to dinner, to playgrounds and amusement parks and concerts...

Then they drove an hour out to Ypsilanti every week to visit me while I was in college. My grandma has always been one of my best friends – she was my favorite shopping partner, bought me my first mini-skirt, and even picked out my husband. I always let her take credit for that one – she was so proud of deciding that Jeremy was the one for me. “Don’t let him get away,” she told me, and I could only reply, “I’ll try not to… but there’s only so much that I can do.” Even so, she taught me a few tricks that apparently worked, because here I am married to the man of her selection.

So in 2010, I lost two of the people who have been the most influential in shaping who I am: the things that I believe and the ways that I understand the world, the ways that I act and the things that I treasure. They have always been a part of me because I have absorbed everything that they taught me, everything that they were and are, so completely into my own identity. I was in love with all the details that they could tell me about their courtship (see photograph); I wrote it all down in a book during college. I was always asking them questions about the Great Depression and World War II; my husband, my brother and I all liked to hear my grandpa’s army stories. From the time that I was young, they taught me to be a responsible, caring person – mostly through their own examples.

I could go on and on about how they were incredible role models for hours, but the main point is that they were amazing people who generously gave of themselves, serving their community and loving their family and friends with open, over-flowing hearts. So I know that my grandparents would be incredibly proud of what I am doing now; they would be first of all excited that I had earned a job based on my skills as a writer, and they would be thrilled to see me using my skills to help other people.

I can picture them – my grandfather would look like he was going to bust all the buttons on his shirt, with his giant grin breaking through his usually reserved nature. My grandma would be practically bouncing around, even at 90 years old. And she would be glowing. That’s really the only word that describes the way that she used to look when she would attend a performance, award ceremony or graduation for us while we were growing up. Glowing. Like one of those Day-glo Glow-Worms from the 80s. Beaming with pleasure that her offspring had accomplished what she, with her limited education, could not. People keep telling me that they would be proud of me, as though I need to be reassured – but I know better than anyone what they would be saying to me every day if they were alive right now.

My grandparents are a part of me, perhaps as no other people are a part of me. But now that they have died, what that means is that this grief is also a part of me. Sometimes it’s a dull ache, like the beginning of a cramp that you know will get worse even if you pop a couple of IBu Profen. Sometimes the grief is sharp and fast, as though I’ve sliced open my palm; it throbs and then grows numb. Sometimes it’s strangely combined with joy – tender grief and this delight bubbling up inside me that I believe I can sense what they would be saying and doing.

I think that grief is now an integral part of who I am as well, and so sometimes, when I am driving home from work, I think about what I would tell my grandma – I bought this green vase to put on the bookshelf in my office, and I brought in a blue glass candle holder that catches the light and refracts it all over the office. She would want to know how I was decorating the place. I wore a black and white striped collared shirt today, and a sparkly gray scarf. She would want to know what I was wearing. I think I need to get a darker shade of lipstick to match my dark winter clothing. She would offer to buy me a new tube of lip gloss at Clinique.

In these moments, I let the waves of grief wash over me as I'm driving home from work – and I realize that I don’t ever want to stop having these conversations with my grandma, even if they are really conversations with myself. This grief is a part of me now, a part of my identity just as much as everything that my grandparents taught me. And it may be painful, but I want the grief to remain part of my identity – because the alternative is forgetting everything about them that was so beautiful, and I’m just not willing to do that.