On to my next big something…

Matt and I are heading to Spain in just over a month to walk over 300 miles in two weeks. Oh, you know, no biggie.

Matt has been diligently studying Espanol for the past eight months – I am planning on getting by on charm and what I remember from college and that month that Gabi lived with us. But what we haven’t really bothered to do is train for the physical challenge that awaits us.

We often (read: occasionally) hike in Shenandoah and planned to this past Saturday, but Matt slept in too late and the hour long drive out there is a pain in the ass. So, we decided to step out our front door and face the 8 mile-ish walk from our house to downtown. And oh the sites we saw…9 empty beer bottles (8 of which were within a 1/10 of a mile of our house), a page from an x-rated magazine, a mummified cat (that thing was SCARY), and several lots of empty office buildings. Between the fire department – with it’s sad little fireman statue – and a daycare center we walked over the site of a Civil War battle, which probably would have led to a Confederate victory if Jackson hadn’t been taken down by his own men a couple miles east. History.

It’s such a strange place that we live. To get downtown we had to be very creative in order to avoid being killed. Sidewalks and shoulders are hard to come by and we’re a very pro-drive culture around these parts and walks mean you risk getting hit by a neighbor (like Stonewall…hi-oh!). In 8 miles we’d passed farmland, a landfill, a forest, and mile after mile of commercial space. It is sad to think how breathtaking this place used to be before there were four Walmarts within an 8 mile radius.

We did manage the walk in a little over two and a half hours and met friends for dinner (who drove our tired asses home) – now if we can just handle three times the distance, everyday for 14 days, we’ll be fine.

It’s been forever since I’ve posted but I have been writing every day, it’s just mostly been on paper with a pen. And I haven’t been sitting around twiddling my thumbs in the month between my post about hospitalization (my FINE, by the way) and this Friday morning.

If you are one of the very few people who has not yet been inundated with emails, tweets, or facebook group requests from me, you may not know about the beautiful baby I had in April. Her name is Tell, she’s terribly awesome.

I decided to stop talking about how great it would be to see/be a part of some live storytelling, and actually do something about it. So I made a website, got a performance space, and corralled a bunch of loyal, lovely friends to spill their guts.  It was fun and wonderful and has taken off from there. I’m co-producing a weekly podcast made up of stories from the live events, the super talented Itty Bitty press has signed on to create original prints for our shows. We’re selling them at our shows for $8 – indie art for under $10?!? Dudes, this is a steal.

Join the Facebook group – at the very least it will make me feel loved. Subscribe to the podcast at the Tell website, that way iTunes will automatically update when new podcasts are out. I hope to expand the podcasts to include non-live recordings, which means friends from all over (Cali, NYC, Paris, Buenos Aires, Chicago, Sydney…) can contribute.

Today is the first official day of my SPRING BREAK – two weeks prior to this little vacation was probably the hardest, most stressful teaching week I’d ever had. Crazy things happened, which would make entertaining blog posts, but you know, I’ve got “ethics” and know that I shouldn’t write about kids. Even if their antics would make a decent screenplay or, at the very least, a watchable situation comedy.

Just trust me, it was a tiring week and I joined several teacher-friends that Friday to uncorked several bottles of wine and unwind. We psyched ourselves up for the impending week (read: we drank a whole lot) and I went about on to have a stellar, busy weekend with hang outs and make outs. I went to bed late on Sunday and woke up super early and steeled myself to face Monday.

It was clear to me that I was really tired about halfway through the first block and midway through the second block my eyes started to bother me, my contacts get pretty dry at school so I shrugged it off as more of that. I wasn’t feeling super present, but I still kicked ass teaching, breaking up fights, redirecting attention, etc. My vision returned to normal, class ended and the next one began. And then things got weird.

I was trying to read aloud to my students and I was really struggling to remain fluent, I felt so tired – almost drunkenly drowsy – and then I couldn’t say the word that I wanted to say. It kept coming out wrong and I kept saying it over and over again, trying to get it right. The kids just stared at me and then, bless them, they laughed because I sounded silly and strange.

My mental faculties returned and I took the kids down to the cafeteria, where I had lunch duty. Down there I got nauseous and then my right arm went numb. It was hard to explain that last one away – once I was back in my classroom I googled “stroke” and found all my symptoms in a neat little bulleted list on the National Stroke Association website.

I waited about 25 more minutes before I called Matt and had him pick me up and take me to the hospital. By that time I was no longer experiencing any symptoms and aside from being pretty freaked out, I felt fine. A number of people have been critical of the fact that I finished teaching before I dealt with my health scare and to those people I say the following things: (spoiler alert!) I did not have a stroke, I am 29, I work out at least 10 times more than I eat out, I have enviable cholesterol levels, and blood pressure that I often want to brag about. And by the time my trusted friend, the internet, told me that I might have had a stroke or a TIA, I wasn’t having symptoms anymore.

But! I still got checked out – how about that for responsibility? I went to the ER for the first time in 22 years – told the receptionist that “I – uh – experienced some stroke symptoms, so, what should I do?”

“Well,” she sort of laughed, “you’ve come to the right place!”

Turns out the thing to do is sit in an exam room for 4 hours and get lots of tests and then be admitted to the stroke ward where you have to pee in a hat (it’s not what you think!) and people come into your room at 5 in the morning to steal your blood.  I had every single test they could think of and I was released 48 hours after I arrived with a clean bill of health: healthy heart, healthy lungs, healthy brain.

So what caused the scary symptoms? The short answer is we don’t really know.  It seems the most likely culprit was an “atypical migraine.”

I didn’t tell many people because I knew it sounded way worse than it was but many thank yous to all of my local and not so local friends who sent texts, emails and phone calls, made lesson plans and copies, and sent gorgeous spirit lifting flowers. Especially the ones from my favorite pseudo-Aussie who wrote this in the accompanying card:

Since I don’t know jack shit about flowers,  chose the one with the most erotic name: “Lily Explosion.”

Thanks.

My husband’s a writer, too…He’s guest blogging this piece he wrote about our trip to Hawaii.

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One thing about Americans is that we love guardrails. They are everywhere, especially on the edges of cliffs. Nominally, this is so people won’t trip and fall off by accident, but the truth is that we are so used to guardrails by now that the absence of one is taken to indicate that it would be safe to jump. Maybe, we think, this cliff is equipped with invisible parachutes. If it wasn’t, why isn’t there a guardrail here? The logic is inescapable. People would just starting walking off the edge, which would probably lead to lawsuits and would definitely lead to a big mess.

So we put them up everywhere, just in case. In other countries, while whiffs of this trend are starting to appear, it’s not nearly to the same level. For instance, here’s a picture of me in Ireland, standing on the edge of a 200ft sea cliff, waiting for a gust of air to send me plunging down to be crushed by the waves below. Nobody cares, except me, because I’m an American and to me this is quite a novelty. Besides, if I’m stupid enough to stand there on the edge of a windy ledge hanging over the ocean, it’s probably not altogether a bad thing that I might fall to my death. After all, the sharks would probably clean up most of the mess.

So when we went to Hawaii recently, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect in terms of guardrails and safety signs. One the one hand, Hawaii is about as exotic as you can get without leaving the country, what with the jungles and not being on the same continent and all, but on the other hand, it is still America… will the strange customs of the overcautious American tourist-destination-operator have survived the long trip across the Pacific?

The answer of course was: “yes.” If American Guardrail Imperialism has stretched all the way across the Atlantic to inspire the Irish to build a giant wall 30ft back from the Cliffs of Moehr so you can’t even see anything any moehr, then certainly it will have reached to the one place in America where there are rivers of flowing lava pouring into the ocean. Otherwise, people like me would be falling like lemmings into either the red rivers of molten rock or into the boiling sea below, depending on which shiny thing caught the eye fisrt.

So when we arrived on the Big Island to find a carefully organized herding operation (with ample parking!) set up a mile or two away from the active lava flows, and we allowed ourselves to be corralled into the viewing area, my involuntary appreciation of the smooth efficiency was well tempered by disappointment – my dream of seeing lava up close would be a dream deferred, at least until we went down to Mexico or somewhere where men are still free – free to kill themselves by accident while on vacation, posing for pictures.

In this area of Hawaii, the ground looks like a solid black sheet of rock, stretching away into the distance. What was once a highway through a forest dead-ends abruptly at a short hill of the stuff – this is the edge of the sheet. There is a golf cart path-sized trail up onto and through it, which has been thoughtfully carved by the civil defense corps for the minivans full of tourists. The signage has the feel of a war zone: warnings of poisonous gas, collapsing cliffs, and, of course, molten lava. Stylized skulls abound. Enter at your own risk.

The morbidity of the signs and the feeling of danger is mitigated somewhat once you arrive at the end of this golf cart road, where, spared by the fire, there is a copse of trees and a large parking lot, all accompanied by a carnival atmosphere as local vendors set up stalls along the way, selling photos, fruit, water, and crafts. Generators are trucked out to power the spotlights hanging over this makeshift shopping center and, of course, port-o-potties are available, if needed.

At the end of a short walk across the rocks, there is a large roped off area where, in the distance, you can see a plume of steam rising from the ocean. As the sun sets, the steam changes from white to red, reflecting the lava below as it pours into the sea. Every once in a while, black or red bits of rock fly up high enough to see, which is taken by the crowd – immersed in a desperate consensual hallucination in an effort to be amazed by the barely visible spectacle – to be worthy of oo-ing, ah-ing, and, sometimes, clapping. It was kind of neat.

Having viewed our fill, we walked back in the dark, avoiding the flashlightless teenagers and stopping to gawk, full of wist, at the photographs of *real* lava for sale in the parking lot, procured by photographers more daring (of lava, and – even more menacing – of Do Not Enter signs) than ourselves.

From here we followed a tip to a milkshake stand perched on the end of another highway that was also dead-ended 10 years ago or so by the same lava flow. This was the coastal road, and it required a few turns through the jungle, following cardboard signs at each intersection. It was raining at this point, and it was very dark and lonely on the road.

The story of this place is that there used to be a town here which is what the road was for. But one day, the lava came and wiped it off the map, except for the milkshake stand which stood on the edge of town. So now there’s this highway through the jungle that ends right there at a lonely cinderblock milkshake stand, lit by flourescent lights which shine on the plastic patio furniture sitting out front, glistening in the rain, and acting like nothing ever happened.

All this we were expecting, but next door, closer to the lava, there was what appeared to be an outdoor tiki bar, lit by Christmas lights, and with what sounded like (and was, it turned out) ukeleles playing, maybe some singing. The bar was clearly closed, but there were about 10 cars parked out on the highway, which had become a kind of makeshift cauld-e-sack.

So we ordered a big milkshake and went over, after asking the milkshake people what was going on and receiving a mumbled reply about a potluck. Out front was a large sign which proclaimed the everlasting permanence of the bar (“We Never Left”) – a defiance earned, I think, by its proximity to utter destruction. In the distance, across the gaping blackness that peeked through the thin line of trees, I could see a school crossing sign poking out of what was now solid rock but which used to be a thing which is as close as one can come on God’s green Earth to living fire. Fire which had decided, miraculously, to spare this tiny bar nestled in the woods on a lonely road next to a lonely milkshake stand. The sense of standing at the edge of the world, gazing into the abyss, was palpable, and the emptiness beyond the trees seemed to gaze back with the indifference and allure that only a force of nature can.

But around the bar was a feeling of timeless, quiet celebration: two men on stools playing music to a few people sitting at a picnic table laden with the remains of dinner. In the shadows, two men sat on a bench, smoking, only their feet and their clouds of smoke clearly visible. As we sat down behind the ten or so people relaxing there under the soft glow of Christmas lights, listened to the quiet singing of the two ukelele players, and watched the barefoot children running back and forth, chasing the leashless dogs, it was easy to imagine all of us sitting there doing the same things on the day the lava came, sipping milkshakes as it flowed around us like a river parts around an island.

Here at the edge of the world, there were no guardrails, but we didn’t fall or jump; we looked out, felt the wind on our faces, and breathed the fresh air. Maybe we dangled our feet off the edge just for the pictures. The edges of things are spectacular and grand places, and here we had, for a few moments, celebrated them with this surreal group in this surreal place, itself a monument both to the allure of the edge that beckons you to venture too close, and to the good things in the world that bring you back.

After we finished our milkshakes, we got up, went back to the car, and drove off, back into the real world, the sounds of ukeleles drifting away into the night.

My dad was born after much prayer. My childless grandparents had been married for a while before they turned, as any good Catholic would, to Saint Jude (the patron saint of lost causes) for help. Nine or so months later, Robert Jude was born.

That's my dad on the right - he still puts his hand on his leg like that when he poses for pictures.

I like to say that my grandparents were a particularly pious couple – that when they prayed, they prayed hard. And there is evidence to support this…15 months after my father’s birth, Thomas Jude was born.

Bobby and Tommy

I have heard that Bobby and Tommy were inseparable – mistaken at time for twins until the younger surpassed his older brother in height.

After high school, Bobby (now Bob) went to the seminary – once his dreams of playing professional baseball no longer seemed viable. Tommy (now Tom) stayed in DC, finished his last year of high school and then enlisted in the army. He was sent to Germany where he took beautiful photographs. When he returned to the States after his tour, he joined a community of Trappist monks in California. Their quiet, studious life suited him.

Like his older brother, Tom left the religious service. He married a gorgeous woman, Margaret, and had two children – who just happen to be two of the most fabulous people to ever exist.
I know the later-in-life Tom. The Tom no longer trekking through the Alps or keeping a vow of silence in the monastery – still quiet, and sometimes sad, he was in so many ways: my favorite.

Uncle Tom kept late, late hours. So that when I would visit and my cousin, Meaghan, and I would sleep on the fold out couch in the family room, watching Wayne’s World at one in the morning, Tom would stroll in eating rum raisin ice cream out of the carton and join us, perching himself on the edge of the fire place.

I spent the first two years of college living in the same town as Uncle Tom and Aunt Margaret. Every Sunday, Uncle Tom would pick me up (usually with my bags of laundry in tow) and take me back to their house for dinner. My dorm room window looked over a round about where he would pull up the car and wait for me to come down. I’d watch the window for the ‘79 Volvo that smelled like crayons and bound down the three flights of stairs to meet him.

He often did my laundry for me. One time I left tissues in my jeans pocket and he came as close to scolding me as I imagine he was capable of when he pulled handfuls of shredded tissue out of the dryer. Every time Matt forgets to empty his pockets of tissues before they’re laundered, I think of Uncle Tom.

Living near my uncle allowed me to get to know him in a different way. I became quite close with this hilarious, super smart man. He could tackle the Sunday Times crossword puzzle with ease, but one time at the beach he picked up a discarded People magazine and tried to solve theirs.

“Who cares who Kevin Bacon’s wife is – four letters.”

And you know before he said that I know he’d sat there for a really long time trying to figure that one out because he took his time in life. He answered questions after careful liberation. “It’s like, if someone asks me ‘Do you want fries with that?’ I’ve got think about it.” He once explained.
When you shook his hand, he held on to it – sometimes pulling you closer and taping the top of your hand with his free one. My grandfather did this too.

My uncle died seven years ago. God, seven years. It’s the moments like the laundry lesson that stick with me, that find their way into everyday thoughts.

He loved me and looked forward to my weekly visits. And, geez, I loved him. And, geez, I miss him. I originally sat down and wrote this – in my journal – on what would have been his 76th birthday. And I was left thinking about what  a few unique soul he had – he resisted the pressure to pick up the pace because, God, it’s so much better to hold each other’s hands way too long.

My first job just out of school was a three month internship with DC ACORN – yep, that ACORN. I am always hesitant to admit this because of the reputation that ACORN has developed in recent years and because my experience was an incredible mixed bag that feels too overwhelming to sort through.

One of my first duties on the job was to make signs admonishing Wells Fargo for their predatory lending practices in the District. Just hold up for a second. This is the summer of 2003. I remember telling people about these terrible loans people were getting – ones with complicated paper work that started just like any other loan with an interest rate around 6 or 7% that in a few years ballooned into a totally unsustainable 20-something %. People shook their heads at me as if to say, “Stupid hippie, you must have heard that wrong.” Or did I?

We tried to warn people! Actually, we came at the problem with little understanding about the lasting effects predatory lending could have on our economy. We, as we always claimed, were there for the little guy. The individuals getting screwed by this practice. So, my first week on the job, we took a bus from our offices on 8th street to one of the bank’s NE locations. We hopped off the bus, 20 or 30 strong and marched into the building bellowing, “Predatory Lender! Criminal Offender!”

Once inside, people started taping some of our signs to the glass walls – facing outside as if they were the bank’s own advertisements. A guy in a suit followed behind the sign-hangers removing them as fast as they could be hung.

A victim of predatory lending, whose loan had recently been refinanced by ACORN Housing, gave a speech that no one really listened to or understood.

When the manager said he was going to call the police we coincidentally realized we’d sufficiently made our point so we filed back out of the lobby and back down the street all the while chanting, “Predatory Lender! Criminal Offender!”

We were buzzing with that crazy protest energy. We felt empowered…what was next?! Bring it! We got back on the bus and drove to some official building, probably the World Bank or something, because every protest in DC has an obligatory stop at the World Bank or the IMF building.

The victim who had spoken at the bank and the head organizer for ACORN got off the bus and were gone for a while, leaving us behind just sitting and waiting. All our momentum, our ignorant youthful exuberance just kind of melted away. If I tried to go back and pinpoint a moment that skepticism worked it’s way into my heart, it might have been that day on that bus. It was certainly that summer.

The guys returned from their meeting, which amounted to some guy coming down from his office and agreeing to meet with victims of predatory lending at a later, unspecified, date. Also, the police were not called.

By the time we walked back into our offices – strewn with the markers and paint brushes we’d failed to put away that morning – I slumped in a chair and sighed. I didn’t realize it then, but you only get but so much youthful exuberance, and it was wasted at ACORN.

I left the organization at the end of the my internship – mid-August. They asked me to stay as a full-time employee, but the pay was inconsistent (pay days came and went with no money, checks bounced) and the management was difficult to work with.

Protesting was only part of the job description. I spent most of the summer knocking on strangers doors and trying to convince them to “come together” and demand better services from the local government. And that part of the story is much more complicated – the most mixed and the hardest to pick apart. (Check back here next week.)

I was with ACORN for two and a half months, but its been nearly 7 years since I left the organization and I am still thinking about it. It was a bold, crazy step – I think – for a slightly shy 22 year old fresh from commencement. It took a lot more out of me than I expected – my optimism for instance – but I think, surprisingly, that I had it to do over again I still show up on 8th St the day after Memorial Day. I just wouldn’t take myself so seriously.

It’s been a while. I’ve been back at school – suddenly resubmerged into a world where preteens outnumber us grups by about 30:1. It’s quite a change from my quiet life as a snowed in hermit.

I’ve been neglecting you, dear internet, but I haven’t been slacking! I have been busy with various other writing projects and I have been organizing this little baby – Tell – which I am very excited about.

Please take a minute to check out the website. Our brave storytelling event will debut in Fredericksburg in April (exact date is TBD) – we still have a couple teller slots available (you don’t have to be a Fredericksburgian to contribute) – our first theme is LIES (so salacious!).