Birthdays- Part I

I'm turning 35 years old, and it's a remarkable thing.  

It made me start thinking back to all the birthdays in the past, the ones I can remember in detail, the ones that are a little hazy, the ones I'd rather forget.   I compiled slightly over half of them here- through my 18th birthday- and intend to work on the rest in time for my actual birthday next week. 

When I was little, my mom made me cakes in the shapes of lambs, dolls, and bunnies.  Bunnies recurred throughout the years, as my birthday often fell around (or on) Easter Sunday.  She would decorate with colored frosting, coconut dyed in food coloring, and pink candle holders in the shapes of little bonnetted girls (made in a factory my great-grandfather worked in).  She coordinated the colors with whatever construction paper bunny ear hats she made for me and my friends, and there was inevitably singing, dancing around, and laughter.  

I can remember I cheated at "pin the tail on the donkey" (that competitive spirit in me being a bit overwhelming) at my fifth birthday party.  I was standing in the living room, on the brown carpet in front of the giant white fireplace, and my mom tied a blindfold over my eyes.  Only, I could see above it and below it.  Not much on the bottom, just enough to make out the shoes on my feet (little black patent leather Mary Janes over white socks) when I looked straight down.  That wouldn't have helped a tremendous amount.  But, I had a slim line of sight over the top of the blindfold, which got a bit bigger if I scrunched my nose.  It was enough that, even after being twirled three times in a circle, and toddling like a small, clumsy circus bear, I could navigate my way towards the rear end of the donkey, nailing that tail almost perfectly in place.  There was guilt after, and a prize, and the prize wiped away most of the guilt.

Turning ten was filled with the sheer, unadulterated ecstasy at hitting both double digits and the official ear piercing age my parents had agreed on.  The pen marking the spot where my earring would soon go tickled, and left a blue speck of ink behind.  

"Those look even," my mom nodded approvingly, as the woman loaded, and picked up, the earring "gun".  She sprayed a numbing, cooling spray onto my ear lobe, and waved her hand to fan it off before bringing the loaded fashion weapon towards my head. 

I looked out at the mall, all bright lights and people rushing by, clearly unfazed by the monumental moment occurring in their presence.  It hurt a little as the plastic target slid over my ear, squeezing the lobe, and then there was a short "whoosh POP", a feeling like a bee stinging my ear, and a small, 14 karat gold circle left in its wake.  

At 12, all the boys in my class surprised us at my sixth grade all-girls birthday party (accompanied by a few of their moms, who were in on the plan).  The one I had a crush on managed to break the storm window when he tried to rap on it with his flashlight, and we all ran screaming into the other room, giggling and laughing as the beginnings of adolescent crushes rained down on us.   

When I turned 15, I was a freshman in high school, and was given my first and only surprise party.  Ali, Heather, and I danced through the kitchen, singing "Au bal masqué" at the top of our lungs, twirling across the linoleum, and generally making asses out of ourselves (as 14 year olds do).  I remember wearing a pink striped top on loan from my best friend Ali, a bra that I hoped would someday support something, and stopping in my tracks when I saw a porch full of people waiting for me on the other side of the sliding glass doors.

Turning 16 was magnificent- that border between childhood birthday extravagance and adult expectations.   My parents transformed my three car garage into a perfect party space with white twinkle lights, a rented tent attached to the openings, and black paper with silver stars that we ordered from some prom supply catalogue (which, consequently, caused us to get said prom supplies catalogue for the next half decade).
Three of my best friends showed up in trench coats, sunglasses, and their hair in pigtails.  My dad accidentally tilted the cake box, and one side of the frosting got smushed.  The sun went down, and the lights we hung around the yard made it seem like magic was at work.
I wore a sparkly black dress, had my hair flipped up at the bottom, and couldn't stop grinning all night.
The DJ played "That's What Friends Are For", "Bed of Roses", and "Always", and I danced with every boy I had a crush on.  All except one, the one I ended up marrying, who I had just started talking to, and was told I couldn't invite because "it was rude to invite him only two weeks before the party."

At 17, we said goodbye to my family's Martha's Vineyard house, which I wrote at length about on my blog earlier this year (http://supergirlinsuburbia.blogspot.com/2014/01/a-proper-vineyard-goodbye.html).  From a party perspective, I had my first real boyfriend, and my birthday party was mashed with Easter Sunday, culminating in Jeff meeting not just my parents, grandparents, and immediate aunts and uncles, but my ENTIRE Italian family in one fell swoop.  There were wooden tables, and folding tables, matching end to end in a giant tablecloth covered "L".  They were decorated with flowers, small baskets of that plastic easter grass and chocolate eggs, and extended from the formal dining room through the family room and curved back past the sliding doors next to the television set (the unofficial "children's section").  We sat on metal chairs, rocking chairs, kitchen and dining room chairs, even an ottoman and a piano bench, chowing down pizza rustica, spinach pie, and ham, a loud, hungry, festive mass.

I turned 18, and had the most close friends I think I would ever have, going forward or back.  Realizing I was an adult, trying to make decisions about college and boys and soccer, and for one night, allowing myself to simply be happy and take it all in.  There are memories of matching vests, serenades by boys in boxers (for whatever reason, my friends hated real pants), taking photos in a falling pyramid, and group dancing on the fireplace hearth.  Near the end of the night, sitting in the quiet on the floor outside my bedroom door, on the maroon carpet with one of my best friends, I remember thinking "it can't get better than this", while the party went on merrily without us downstairs, and (for a rare, fleeting moment in the turmoil of adolescence) I felt I was right where I was belonged, happy and loved.

Ideas for Longer Stories

An excercise I sometimes give to my students is to write for five minutes- and that's it- on memories.  The idea is to go back later, flesh out the stories, but put down a bunch of ideas on paper, and see what comes out.  So I took the suggestions of my friends on Facebook, and this is what cam pouring out.

They come in flashes, these memories I can't quite remember, can't quite find enough for full stories.  And yet I want to get them down on the page, record them before they flee my mind like wisps of smoke from the embers of a fire.  So here are the beginnings- the endings will come eventually, but for now, the start of something.

Woodstock:
The colors.  There were blues and purples, reds, fleshy pinks and burnt orange sunsets.  The noise was constant, as was the heat, and the landscape before us curved with the temperature, wavy and fuzzy in the summer air.  There were shouts of recognition, the buzz of music, and underneath it all, a current of unrest.
Staging a summer festival commemorating the grand hippie movement at an airforce base was mistake number one.  With virtually no grass to speak of, and so much tarmac, there was an industrial pall cast over what was meant to be a joyous celebration.  My skin was at least four shades darker than usual, even for the summer months, and I couldn't tell if it was from the sun or the dirt.  My skirt clung to my body, a limp rag holding on for dear life, while I gave up on modesty and marched forward wearing a bikini top.  My hair, red from bleach and dye, was battling the braids it had been relegated to, convinced it could claw its way out of the oppressive three piece creation and slip into something more frizzy and free.

The Drum Beats Twice (Audition):
Standing in a hallway, the blue carpet matted down, and the white walls reflecting the poorly thought out flourescent lights, I watched the redhead in front of me unfurl the scarf from around her neck.
"Sorry I'm so late," she stated, her hands going around and around with the scarf.  "I was at a funeral, and couldn't get here."
"Don't worry," I reassured her, looking at her blue eyes and thinking she looked oddly familiar.  I motioned with my script.  "They said to take our time, so whenever you're ready."
She nodded, and pulled her pages from her bag.  "Just give me a second to get set."
I looked down at my script, memorizing the lines one final time, hoping my skirt and my shirt looked the era, that my memory would hold, and that the people in the next room would choose me- and choose her.

TCNJ Makeover:
They turned me around, and a stranger looked back.  Gone was my long, dark brown hair that had been so central to my identity.  Gone were the jeans, the sweatshirt, the makeup free face.  Gone was the girl-next-door athlete, the innocent one, the honest one, the one who tried too hard. Gone was the girl who'd had her heart broken twice in the last year, and went about her day in purgatory invisibleness, with a longing she couldn't quite place, and a confusion she couldn't quite explain.

In her place was a fashion plate, with a very short, very blonde, angular bob.  Her face was glowing with heavy foundation, blush, bronzer, purple eyeshadow, and mascara.  Her lips were dewy and dark. And her body was svelte, tucked into a bright red top with a low cut front, and a skirt with a slit up to the hip.  She stood an extra four inches tall, courtesy of the shoes (from a designer whose name she couldn't properly pronounce).  She was a complete stranger, moving her hand to her face when I did, pushing a piece of the yellowish hair behind her ear, just like me, and finally smiling at the reflection staring back at her, revealing the little gap between my teeth that I used to hate but had grown to love.

I couldn't wait to try her out.

Maple Lake:
The dog leapt ahead, running faster than our little seven year old bodies could carry us.
"Greta, slow down!" I called, my skinny white legs protruding from my short little blue shorts.  Greta did not heed my plea.  She bounded and ran, sprinting up ahead, pausing, then running back, before exploding in a bundle of fluff towards the horizon.
We giggled, Ali's reddish-brown hair slapping her back as she raced with me to the lake.  It was enormous, black from years of leaves, mud, and god only knows what garbage seeping into it.  There was a giant delapidated building on our left, the lumber decaying and pulled apart.  "It used to be a boy scout camp," my mom told us when we asked.  There were spray painted words on the boards that remained, the kind we weren't allowed to say in school.
Greta discovered the small stream on our right, and took to jumping through it, soaking her paws, and causing my mom to surrender a sigh, "She's going to get so muddy!"

Summer 1999:
There was always the car.  Sometimes, it was Ali's black Wrangler, or Katie's maroon Oldsmobile.  But more often than not, due to my aversion to drinking, and affinity for driving, it was my white Cabriolet Convertible, Buffy.  For four girls from North Jersey, it represented freedom in the form of the call of the open road, the Jersey Shore, a random roadtrip to New York state, or a Starbucks run.
We sang, belting out lyrics to "American Pie" and the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself", laughing as we waved as the honking traffic and blew kisses to random strangers.   Pink feather boas, large sunglasses, and a desire to forget that we were in our last summer of college, the last summer before we had to get real jobs, and figure out real life, and real love, and how to survive outside our hometown cocoon.

Whitewater Rafting:
First of all, the outfits were ridiculous.  The rubbery black and blue material accentuated my skinny limbs, making me appear more like an insect than an adolescent girl.   We could hear the whooshing as we exited the group vehicles, climbing down towards the rushing water in a train of tired giddiness.  Our guide held out his hand, helping each of us into the bright yellow raft one at a time,  remarking that we should hold onto the rope provided, and that if we fell, "just stay afloat, go with the current, and try to grab onto the raft."

Memorial Day Party:
Looking around at the sea of people populating the backyard, I was amazed.  "Is this what a house party looks like?" I said, directing my question to Ali, who was pouring another bag of potato chips into a silver bowl.
"I'm gonna go with yes."  She turned towards Steph, who promptly plucked a chip and started munching.
How the hell did this happen?  How did one off the cuff invite at The Office bar the week before result in a cast of (rough estimate) 200 people swarming Ali's backyard, the woods, and my pool?

Memorial Day: The Rain
There were tarps hanging from the trees, giant green, blue, and brown plastic eyesores defying the elements and gravity to keep some dryness intact for the guests.  The band warmed up under the pop up tents, electrical wires carefully weaving their way into the house for power.  My hair was frizzing, I was wearing a sweatshirt, and everyone around me was laughing, drinking their beers while I made the rounds selling solo cups and checking IDs (giving bracelets to those over 21, and marking hands of the underage with a permanent black marker).
"Kris, come take a picture of Casey!  He's mayor of Tent City!" my sister called, pointing up to the giant pine tree leaning towards the house, and Casey, balancing on a ladder while tying a knot to affix yet another tarp to the branches.

Limon, CO

“I'd sure hate to breakdown here

Nothing up ahead or in the rearview mirror

Out in the middle of nowhere knowing

I'm in trouble if these wheels stop rolling”

I sang along to Julie Roberts on the CD player, belting out the lines about lost love and running from it, as the edge of Colorado whipped by.  It looked like one big dusty field, dotted with bales of hay piled like forgotten toys along the edges of the six lane highway.  Dilapidated barns, long abandoned, gazed at the semis with longing, while the giant metal machines did battle with the horseflies and gnats, fighting for a share of the asphalt.  And my white Volkswagen convertible, dubbed Buffy by my college soccer team, with her precious cargo of scrapbooks, fast food wrappers, and two girls running towards Hollywood, began to shimmy, thrusting her hips side to side until I called uncle and pulled off the road.

"What was that?" Heather asked, reaching over and cutting off Julie mid-lyric.  

"Shit.  Just…" I looked down at the speedomoter retreating to 0, trying to figure out why my car was doing a Shakira impersonation.  "Shit."  

I looked in the rearview mirror and watched as Dave, my soon-to-be roommate, attempted to open his door without being squashed by one of the aforementioned semis.  Glancing to my left, I saw that we were only a mile or so past an exit, one with golden arches, and a glowing TA sign, signaling at least some form of civilization.

Through an rudimentary sign language interpretation involving pointing my left hand out the window, palm facing Dave, and then making a "U" sign with my fingers, I motioned to him to stay in the car and follow us. He shook his head in confusion, and I rolled my eyes.   I watched as another truck roared by, and then timed my entrance into the line dance of highway driving.  "Hold on, Heath," I said as I careened the car onto the road, and picked up speed.  Turning on my blinker, Buffy wobbled into the left lane, and staggered onto the grass divider.

 "What are you doing?!" she asked, gripping the aptly named "oh shit" handle by the passenger window.  

"Taking us back to that rest stop," I stammered through gritted teeth, the vibrations making my words come out in halted syllables.  

Reaching the far side of the grass, I glanced behind me to see Dave, cursing up a storm, following us in his red two door sedan.  I turned back onto the highway, heading East for the first time in 1600 miles, and pulled off at Exit 357, Limon Colorado.

The TA (TravelCenters Of America) Truck stop, with its red, white, and blue sign, was a concrete expanse with a gas station, a Subway shop, and a mechanic's workshop, which was just what the car doctor ordered.  We coasted in, shaking with every tire rotation, and stopped in front of the main garage.   The mechanic emerged in faded overalls, looking remarkably similar to the bug in the Edgar suit from Men in Black.  

If he starts drinking sugar water, I’m out of here, I thought, looking around at the oil stained walls and buzzing fluorescent lights.

After a brief conversation about the car (broken) and the hours of operation (over in an hour), coupled with the date (July 4th), we were advised to inquire about a room at the Comfort Inn across the street, and journey to the center of town for the Chamber of Commerce Picnic that was starting in  half an hour at the town park.  We said an emotional goodbye to Buffy, grabbed sandwiches at Subway, and, realizing an Independence Day celebration in Denver was not to be, checked into the hotel before squeezing ourselves between Dave’s TV and his clothes to venture into town. 

To be continued...

          

My Master's Admissions Essay

Since my students have to do these, I thought it only fair to share mine.  I just applied for readmission into a Master's Program in English (Writing Concentration).  Below is my answer to the question "What are your personal reasons for pursuing an advanced degree in literature or writing?"

As I write this, sitting in my maroon swivel chair, at the metal desk in my office at Ridgewood High School, I am overwhelmed by the books on my desk, struck by the authors before me: Rand, Kerouac, Steinbeck, Hurston, Thoreau, Emerson, Frost, Sartre, Blake.  Each one tells and shares a unique perspective, a different voice.  The subjects vary- living in the woods, education, exploring America with a dog, traveling across the country solo and with friends, dystopian societies- and yet the voices are all clear, all weaving stories or poems I engaged in, that changed my views (or enhanced them), and influenced me in some way.  From the time I was a child, reading well past bed time, writing notes in the margins, I’ve been under the spell of literature and writing.

I began my quest for my Master’s Degree in 2009.  I am reapplying now, five years after my first admission into William Paterson’s Master’s program, and three years after my last class, because I want to become a stronger writer, and indulge myself in my passion for creating, and for being inspired by literature.

As a 35 year old woman, I’ve become happily engaged in my daily routine.  I am the mother of two young daughters (who are the reasons for my three year hiatus from higher education), a teacher at Ridgewood High School, and the CEO of two acting studios in Los Angeles (the beauty of telecommuting). My passion for writing is my break from the needs of others, and my “quiet time” to reflect on my life, on the stories that stir in my head, and the poetry that dances through as I’m falling asleep, startling me awake and causing me to roll over to write in the journal I keep by the bed. 

I teach high school seniors, and I’ve begun to feel that twinge of jealousy at their journey into college.  As I spend time in class, patiently guiding them in their analysis of the great poets, philosophers, and prose writers, I find myself yearning to go more in depth myself.  With each writing assignment I hand my creative nonfiction writing students, I find myself jotting down my own ideas.  I am looking forward to reading and analyze classics and contemporary literature with high level professors, and peers.    I know this will aid my own writing, as I gain ideas for new means of expressing myself, and new thought processes for taking what is in my head and recording it on paper.

I want to complete my degree because I do not enjoy leaving things unfinished.   I began my graduate degree because I was interested in improving my ability to teach, and my knowledge of content and subject matter, as well as elevating my own writing.  I still believe in these interests, but have added one very important element: I want to get back in touch with myself.  In the throes of daily life, with the kids, the job, the husband, the students, the administrators, the core curriculum standards, and all the joys and stresses they involve, sometimes I lose track of me.  I know that pouring over literature, and allowing myself the time to write, will bring me back to the girl who loved sitting in the corner of her bed, reading by the hallway light, and dreaming of writing her own stories.  I want to give myself that freedom, and I want to give myself that chance.