England is Gone

Staring at my shoes

as the plane rumbles underneath me

Staring at the dials on the ceiling

To hold the sadness inside my eyes

Staring across the aisle at the oval of the sky

As the world tilts away

I don’t look outside again

Until I know it’s safe, until

I know that I’m high enough

In the air that maybe I can stop wishing

I was still on the ground

By the time I turn to the window again,

England is gone, and all I can see now

Is clouds.

Something Else Lost

It doesn’t feel like I’m important to him anymore. It didn’t feel personal. I was just another half-finished part of the assembly line, nameless and undistinguished. It was routine. It was something I felt I had to do and what he thought he had to do instead of what it used to be. It was no longer the thing I looked forward to but the thing which was expected. I could have left the line and just gone home, maybe that would have been better. I’ve never done that and maybe I would have if he hadn’t stopped and scooped me up in his arms from behind on his way to the souvenir table. I’ve never left without saying hello but then again he’s never forgotten how to spell my name, he’s never treated me like any one of the other fans, just another autograph and quick hello. There was none of the spark there always used to be when he kissed my cheek, no butterflies when we hugged. When the show was over I was glad instead of wanting it to go on, and I didn’t care that he didn’t try to hit that last note. I gave up on that a long time before I gave up on him. Why should it be different than the other 28 times? He never has and he never will and it’s just not worth wishing for anymore. It’s the same canned speech and the same stupid whirling patriotic lights and little American flags, the same songs in the same order and the same jokes and the same woman waddling up to wipe his sweat and the same little girls running to wrap a lei around his wrist. He wiggles his hips and drapes a scarf over my neck and leaves just a trace of chapstick behind on my cheek but it’s all the same cheap karaoke and it’s just not exciting anymore and it’s not any fun. The platitudes are forced and the hugs don’t mean anything and I still have to smile to their faces and grimace behind their backs and pretend I’m not dying inside because one of the last reachable things that kept me going after everything is gone.

the apology

Dear Me.
I'm so sorry.
I apologize to you profusely.
I'm begging for forgiveness from you
For putting you through all I did
In my idiocy, my naive sense of
"Hey, maybe this'll work".

Dear Me.
Look what I've done to you.
Torn you.
Ripped you apart from what you were
And turned you into something
Unrecognizable.
I was selfish, I was stupid,
And I'm sorry.

Your dignity.
Your innocence.
Your trust.
Your hope in the goodness of people
Whom you've loved in a cloud of dirty tricks.

I've stolen these from you
Tossed them over the bridge
For the sake of an adventure that's left
Us both a former fraction of ourselves.

Dear Me.
I'm so sorry.
I think I knew while it was going on
That nothing this twisted
Nothing that only felt right 15%
Of the time
Could end well for anyone.

Dear broken, shattered, shadow-of-self me.
I'm so very, very sorry.

"We Are Not a Bargaining Chip"

Hello readers!

First off, I want to thank everybody for sharing and reading and all that, I really do appreciate it! My pageviews have EXPLODED!! You guys rock.

This post is semi-- sorta-- somewhat related to the series of posts I called Project Islam, in that it deals with discrimination. But the discrimination I'll deal with here is slightly different and, if I may say so, even sadder.

We had a guest speaker in my Ethnic Studies class (the same class which assigned me last week's project), and I will simply call him "Mike". This is mostly because I've forgotten his last name. Ha. Anyway, Mike came to our class a couple days ago to talk about the remaining Indian reservations in our area, White Cloud here in Nebraska, as well as Pine Ridge and Rose Bud in neighboring South Dakota. He was about in his late thirties, early forties, and had lived on White Cloud reservation since he was a teenager.

What I liked most about this guy is he didn't try to pretty things up. He told it straight. He even cussed a few times, and each time I saw my professor wince.

What he told us about mostly was the indifference of those just outside the reservations. He talked about how there'd be murders, and the authorities wouldn't come unless the victime was white. The mentality was "oh, it's just a drunk Indian". Nothing would be done. It was assumed that any dead Indian had died as a result of alcohol and their own stupidity. And literally, there was and usually still isn't any criminal punishment for offenses against a Native American. Basically, a white man can get away with anything as long as he doesn't do it to a fellow white man.

One of the most striking things I remember Mike saying is, you aren't sent to the reservations to "prosper, but you're meant to die." The policy for the Indians is "managing, not solving" the problems that are all too present. Violence is a big problem, but the fact that the violence is essentially ignored is worse. It's like we've forgotten that they were here first, and that the white man is encroaching on native territory. And yet we've pushed our culture, our rules, our stereotypes on them like we own them. We encourage them (somewhat) to build enterprises, they build and own casinos, which do financially help the reservation. But we don't allow them to thrive. We barely allow them to live.

Mike also told a personal story. He's not full native, or even half, but he mentioned his early life working on oil fields for sixteen years. This continues to be a common trade for natives on the reservation, unless you're lucky enough to get what minimal education they offer and find something slightly better. His grandfather, however, was full Native, and worked in the grain elevators here in Nebraska. He was thought for the longest time to be Mexican by the other employees. When it was discovered, however, that he was actually native, he was killed. He was beaten to death with a hammer by these men, and nothing was done.

The final thing Mike said was political. And though I proudly voted for Obama, I can see Mike's point in what he said. He said the president treated the laws concerning land protection and Indian rights a "negotiation point" with the opposing party, something to use and manipulate to his advantage. His exact words were "We are not a bargaining chip. We are a people." Native Americans have unalienable rights just like the rest of us, have endured more tyranny and destruction on their people than most Anglo-Saxxon peoples, and deserve respect for being the ones who welcomed the white man to the great land that is America today.

Project Islam: Day 5: Comparisons

So this is the comparison shot. On the left is me on the first day, Monday. I wore the same blue hiijab every day, and of course no makeup. No jewelry, and I had to keep my hair completely covered at all times. The skirt went down to my ankles. I however wore long socks or stockings as an extra precaution, as Nebraska is a particularly windy state ;)

The picture on the right is basically me on a normal day. The fuzzy black photobomber is my kitten, Abby :)

It's been a long week, but also a week of growth and experience. My heart goes out to all Muslims, and all those living under religious and cultural suppression. I respect you. I can't say I necessarily understand what you have to live with on a daily basis, your whole lives, but I respect you immensely and will make a point to stand up for you whenever I can. May Allah bless you a thousand times.

Project Islam: Day 4: Westernized

It's really not the same. Here I am on Friday, the last day really of my project. After what happened on Wednesday, I discontinued wearing the hiijab and the traditional clothes, and went back to wearing what I normally wear. I still said my prayers, I still followed the diet rules. I went about the traditions as I had while wearing all of it.

But it wasn't quite the same. It didn't feel right. Dressed as I usually am in jeans, a tshirt, and sneakers, I didn't feel like I was connecting to the religion as solidly as I had while wearing the hiijab. Which, I supposed, might be some of the point. Because it isn't just going through the motions. You have to fully envelope yourself in the belief, the custom, and the tradition of Islam for it to truly mean something.

It's just a shame to me that my experience of such a complex, devout religion had to be hurt by the fear that if I put the hiijab on again, something worse than a bowlful of cottage cheese would come my way. Maybe by the same hands, maybe by others. Because unfortunately, those three boys, who will hopefully be identified by camera come Monday, are not the only ones with this misguided hate inside them. Misguided, yes. Meaningless. Hate in and of itself is bad enough, but a hatred based on lies and one's own insufferable resistance to the very idea of, gee, I don't know, learning a little bit about someone who's different than you are-- that's worse. That kind of hate is an acid. It's an acid that spreads and oozes and creeps and eats away at any logic and cooperation there might be left.

There are plenty of bad people in the world. There are plenty of bad people in America, people who grew up Christian, ate their vegetables, prayed to Jesus and still found it within themselves to commit terrible acts against humanity. Yet how many people wearing crosses or crucifixes around their necks are frisked at the airport? How many of us get nervous when we realize we're on the same flight with a priest? No. The truth of the matter is, yes, the Taliban exists. Yes, there's a pocket of radical Muslims out there screaming Death to America. This fear we Americans have when we're on any type of public transportation and spot a man in a turban, or a woman in a bhurka or hiijab, this is not an innate fear. We have learned to hate and fear these people because the sad fact is, gossip spreads faster than truth, and bad news travels faster than good news. We want someone to fear. 9/11 just gave us another excuse to do that.

Truth be told, I missed the hiijab. I won't say I missed the long skirts, because I have always felt way more comfortable in jeans. But when I left my dorm room Thursday morning without the hiijab, I felt exposed. Three days I'd worn my hiijab from the time I left my room to the time I went to bed at night, and never went outdoors or in the company of other people without it. Then because of one act of bigotry and misguided hatred, I was forced to resume my "Westernized" identity, for fear that something worse would happen to me if I didn't. Ah, did you catch that? Fear. I was afraid. Afraid to express and represent 'my' religion, an identity I'd taken on for a week. And it struck me: as only a 'pretend' Muslim, I could go back and change into jeans and a tshirt and expose my blonde hair, and I could see those same three guys again and they probably would never know I was the same girl. I could hide. I could hide behind my makeup and hairspray and rainbow-Technicolor shoelaces, but a real Muslim, a practicing Muslim woman doesn't have that option. If someone dumps food on her hiijab, she must wash it and dry it and wrap it back around her head and take on another day, keeping her head down and avoiding dark alleys. And that's not fair. The fact that I could dress up as anything, a nun, a hooker, heck, I could probably wear an "I Love Nixon" tshirt and nobody would touch me (haha, bad political humor)-- I would go virtually unharmed dressed as anything else.

But dressed as a Muslim, I was laughed at. I was pointed at. I was stared at. I was hated, and I was blatantly assaulted.

Moments

It's sitting in a black leather chair
In a room full of pictures of tattooed women
While a guy with gages you could shoot hoops through
Pokes ink into your arm while you try not to cry
And wish desperately that your mother was there.

It's sitting back in a blue polyester chair
With a paper dress on over your clothes
And trying not to swallow too many times
While a doctor who looks like your parents' boss
Asks you about your hobbies, all the while
Digging in your neck with a needle,
Looking for cancer.

It's riding along in the comfort of a baby-blue upholstered bench seat
Of a 1993 silver Crown Victoria, wearing the sunglasses which belonged
To the old man who drove this car before you, the man whose obituary
You keep in the glove compartment, and he keeps you company while you drive
Along, in that quiet way ghosts have, and the whole thing reminds you of your favorite
Country song.

It's fidgeting in the hard wooden pew at the front of the church, uncomfortable
In a dress and already messing up your makeup with endless tears that you can't seem
To stop, because your favorite big brother, your only brother, is getting married today,
And he gave you a bracelet that matches the bride's necklace, and you could barely get through
That bit you were supposed to read because the two of them are absolutely perfect together, and
You realize the groom is crying just as hard as you are.

It's kneeling in the dirt in the front of your house, pushing that little blue cardboard box into the dirt and covering it back up, that box which holds the last ashes of the first pet you really ever had, the one who was secretly always your favorite, and who is resting now beside the ashes of his best friend, the one you never really knew the age of or where he'd come from, or how he'd come to be a part of the family.

It's leaning back in the scratchy, buttery-smelling seats of the movie theatre, watching a movie you've already seen twice but it makes you cry again, and you lean in closer and closer until he finally puts his arm around you and you both feel awful from the worst fries you've ever eaten, but it's okay because the movie's a musical and he actually wanted to go, and he smells like leather and wood smoke and just a little bit too much cologne.

It's moments
In loss
In life
In hope
In fear
In joy
Forever in our memory.

Project Islam: Day 3: "Get the Hell Out of Our Country"

Okay, folks, so here it is. I want to say first off that I will be continuing this project, but I will be praying and following the rules of Islam while wearing the clothes I normally wear. I have also taken the rest of this day (Wednesday) off. Let me explain why.

Everything was going fine until lunch time. I was over at the salad bar, since that's pretty much all I'm allowed to eat here, with the food restrictions. I was reaching for a plate when three guys come up behind me, and push me against the sneeze guard or whatever it's called.

They start yelling at me, saying things like "Get the hell out of our country", and I couldn't move. I could have kicked them or fought back if I could think, but it happened so fast. They were just saying random things about "stupid Muslims" and getting out of America, and the next thing I knew, one of them overturned a big bowl of cottage cheese on my head. I mean a big bowl. The chunky white dairy product, which I usually love, went all over my hiijab and sweater and skirt and shoes.

That was it. No one around me did anything, and these guys just stood there. I don't know if I was in shock, but it was almost like I didn't realize what had happened. So I reached up and pushed some of the cottage cheese off my head, shook it off my shoes, and walked out. As soon as I got back to my dorm, I washed all my clothes and showered, trying to get rid of the milky smell.

I of course told my parents, and they called all over campus to a bunch of deans and I had to call campus security and report it. I meet with a dean of student conduct tomorrow to go over what happened. It's all been so surreal, and I've been the most calm out of anybody.

The worse part isn't even that it happened to me. It's the idea that such bigotry and hatred and ignorance can be present on a campus that supposedly prides itself on its acceptance and diversity. It's disgraceful and it makes me ashamed to be a student here. Just imagine: if that was the reaction to me, someone who has only spent three days as a Muslim, what would it be like for someone who actually was a devout Muslim? I hate to think what horrible things might happen to them. What they did was bad enough in theory, but the fact that they cornered me for being Muslim, for having the misfortune of being judged for the religion I practice (however temporarily) just because it's associated with the radical Muslims who committed the acts of terrorism on 9/11. Listen closely.

NOT ALL MUSLIMS ARE TERRORISTS. MOST MUSLIMS ARE NOT TERRORISTS.

The rituals I've practiced and the prayers I've prayed so far this week are all prayers of thanks and gratitude to Allah for providing for His people. The body is cleansed, the food is blessed before it can be eaten, and a body gives his or her all to Allah's power and will through the ritual prayer, facing Mecca. I put my forehead to the ground and acknowledge that there is a higher power, and that I am grateful for the graces I've been granted. I ask forgiveness for my past and future sins. I cover(ed) my body from head to toe to symbolize that my body is for Allah's use, and I eat only unpasteurized, unprocessed, kosher pareve foods in order to keep my body whole and unaltered. Now you tell me how any of this is a threat to the "traditional" American way of life. No one, no matter what age, race, ethnicity, social or economic status, or religion has any right to tell someone of another age/race/ethnicity/social-economic status how to live, or that the way they are living is wrong and shameful. If you don't understand it, learn about it if you're curious or leave it alone. Don't tear it down. Don't hate. Worship your god and let the other person worship their God/gods/deities in peace.

 في سبيل الله،
والرحمن الرحيم.
الحمد رب
الكون الذي خلقنا و
جعلنا في القبائل والأمم،
قد نعلم بعضها البعض، لا أن
ونحن قد يمقت كل منهما الآخر.
إذا كان المنحدر العدو نحو السلام، قم
انت الأعلون إن نحو السلام، و
الثقة الله، لأن الرب هو الذي
ويسمع يعلم كل شيء.
وعبيد الله،
الرحمن الذين يمشون على
الأرض في التواضع، وعندما كنا
التصدي لها، ونحن نقول "السلام".

 

In the name of Allah,

the beneficent, the merciful.

Praise be to the Lord of the

Universe who has created us and

made us into tribes and nations,

That we may know each other, not that

we may despise each other.

If the enemy incline towards peace, do

thou also incline towards peace, and

trust God, for the Lord is the one that

heareth and knoweth all things.

And the servants of God,

Most Gracious are those who walk on

the Earth in humility, and when we

address them, we say "PEACE."


Ghusl, Wudu', and Salah: The Practices of Islam

So it's after nine o'clock on the first night I was allowed to do prayers. And boy, was it way more complicated than I expected.
Like I said in the last post, a woman who is menstruating is not allowed to pray until she has ritually cleansed herself twelve hours after her last period. The process of this cleansing is called "ghusl", and it's basically a bath. Before you can perform ghusl however, you must hold "wudu", which means to cleanse oneself from any physical impurities. It's a pretty long process, and slightly different for men than women (women have to perform wudu in privacy, especially if it's right after menstruation). Here's a link to the steps for you to read.

http://islam1.org/how_to_pray/wudu.htm

After performing wudu, you can move on to the ghusl. This also varies according to different branches of Islam, but this is the one I followed:

http://www.islamicinformation.net/2008/07/how-to-perform-ghusl-bath-in-islam.html

In case you were wondering, najaasat is any unclean substance, such as blood, semen, urine, or feces, which might be present on the body. This has to be washed away before you perform ghusl.
I finished ghusl twelve hours after my period, but will have to do it again on Friday, after my evening prayers.
After ghusl is complete, I am free to perform Salah, or the 3 Rakahs (or steps) of the prayers I do five times a day. Luckily, I do not have to take all these steps every time I pray, though truly devout Muslims are encouraged to do so if able.
I really had no idea how involved this all was. It's been a challenge to get it all right, and to find time to do it properly, but I'm doing the best I can. Tomorrow I start praying five times a day.
May Allah bless and keep you,
Sarah

Project Islam: Day 2: "Terrorist"

I realized that in the rush to post day 1, I forgot to mention a few things. Also, don't be too alarmed about the title, I knew it was going to happen eventually, and it might happen again.
Anyway, I forgot to mention the abomination of idleness. According to Islam, it is a great sin to let oneself be idle; that is, to waste time. And see, I am a champion at being idle. I thrive on being idle. This includes watching movies, by the way, or television. It does not include reading, as long as the subject matter of what you're reading is good in Allah's eyes and does not promote sin. In order to watch movies or television, I have devised a plan: I must keep active while doing these things. So while at home, I exercise while my family watches Columbo. In my dorm, I sweep and clean while watching a movie on my laptop, or exercise. I work around this.
So anyway, day two. I will take my cleansing bath tonight and begin evening prayer at nine. I had dry white toast and fruit for breakfast again, and a salad with tomatoes, cucumber, carrot, and oil and vinegar for lunch. It's like a radical diet, but I'm doing better today with the no-caffeine, no-sugar thing. I suppose the four-hour nap helped tremendously with that. :) I'm assuming my father will bless the chicken we're having tonight, as he did last night. I will also have the mealtime prayers to add tomorrow, for both before and after each meal. That is a LOT of prayer. With three meals, I will pray 11 times in total each day, counting the five routine prayers throughout the day.
The first thing that happened today happened while I was walking to breakfast. There was a group of guys behind me, maybe 12 yards away or so, walking the same direction I was. I was almost to the dining hall when one of them yelled, "Hey look, a Muslim!" I can't describe the fear I felt. He was the first to acknowledge what I actually was, and he was within a group of six or seven other guys. I was automatically sure they were going to catch up to me and harass me, or worse. Maybe that's too paranoid, but you can't be sure. There's so much bias against Muslims here in America. My mother literally told me when I started this project never to walk alone. Nothing happened, but it got my radars up.
Then today at lunch, a woman who works at the dining hall and usually greets me with a smile and a "hello" sat a few chairs away from me, with a few other workers. I kid you not, when she sat down two chairs away, she positioned herself with her back to me. My mom says she barely recognizes me, so I understand this woman not knowing who I was, but still. It hurt. I'm growing surprisingly accustomed to keeping my voice down, and not meeting men's eyes, too. A guy from my English class just about ran into me when I was walking into one of the buildings, and I was the one who apologized. I also couldn't hold the door open for him, as I'm not permitted to do so for anyone. Strange. But whenever I do speak now, at least while dressed in the hiijab, I speak quietly and carefully.
The most eye-opening part of today, however, happened during my Ethnic Studies class. Ironically, this is the class through which I was assigned to conduct this project, and it was here I faced the biggest reaction to my appearance. First off, it was very hard to read the board to get the notes, without accidentally looking at my professor's face. It didn't help that he is very big on eye contact with each student. I managed to avoid his eyes, but did glance his face several times. But that wasn't the thing. We were discussing Native Americans, and the professor mentioned something about the way the indigenous people were pushed out of their lands by the colonists, and how they would retaliate by attacking and killing the white man. He called them "early terrorists, in a way". This was when a girl in the front row turned around and just stared at me. Maybe five seconds passed, and she turned around again. I couldn't believe it. I knew it was the word "terrorist" which caused her to do that. And that made me angry. Yes, those behind 9/11 were Muslim, but they were radical Muslims, with extreme hatred towards the U.S. and the westernization it and Europe had brought on their countries. This was an example of the bigotry and ignorance I'd been expecting. I was completely shocked by what this girl had done.
But there was also a fun part of the class. There were only a few people who were outwardly, obviously, not dressed like themselves. One of them was a man dressed as an Orthodox Jew. He was very convincing, with the long black coat, black pants, wide-brimmed black hat, and the curls he'd pinned to the sides of his head. He was even wearing a Star of David. I was impressed, and we chatted for a few minutes after class, and both of us thought it was kind of cool how the two of us were dressed as two groups who traditionally avoided each other (Not all Muslims are from Arab countries, but the Jews and the Arabs have historically hated one another). It was a cool thing.
So here we are at the end of day 2, and it's already been an adventure.
May blessings go with you and yours,
Sarah

Project Islam: Day 1: "Don't Judge"

First of all I should explain what Project Islam is. I was assigned a week ago by my Ethnic Studies professor to choose an ethnicity, a cultural set, a disability, or religion to 'become' for one entire school week, and to make it as authentic as I wanted or was possible. Initially I planned to go around campus in a wheelchair. This would prove to be especially difficult since the building I live in does not have an elevator, and I live on the third floor. However, I was unable to acquire a wheelchair in time, so at the last minute I chose to spend the week as a Muslim, practicing Islam.
I assumed of course that this might be a particularly risky route to take, simply because of the bias and fear surrounding Islam and the Muslim people because of 9/11 and the Taliban. I won't say I wasn't, and still am, extremely nervous about the reactions and actions of fellow students on campus. The first morning, I barely wanted to leave the dorm building. I was afraid of being cornered, challenged, or worse.
I decided, as I often do, to go all-out. I learned how to wear a hiijab, the headscarf worn by Muslim women, which much to my surprise I've already mastered! I wear long sleeve shirts, and long skirts to properly cover myself, and I avoid eye/body contact with men, eat only foods which aren't pasteurized, processed, or contain unnatural sugars or preservatives. I won't be able to pray until Wednesday however, and this is because women who are menstruating aren't permitted to pray, and must wait twelve hours after their last period to take a ritual cleansing bath. Only after these 12 hours and the ritual are they allowed to pray again. So tonight I will take that bath, just in time for the evening prayer at nine o'clock. I'll wake up again at midnight, and will continue the cycle at seven, noon, five, and nine the following days, through Friday night.
The first day brought a lot of stares. This was one of the toughest things for me, because I absolutely hate to be stared at. It's not to say I wasn't expecting it, but I hated it still. I had the thought that maybe, besides the hiijab, maybe one of the reasons people are so uncomfortable is because I am white. Maybe they recognize me and wonder if I went through a radical Muslim conversion. Nobody's asked me about it yet, and I highly doubt anyone will.
Another difficult part is the hunger. I'm so used to eating a lot of food, food not necessarily good for me, and I drink pop quite often. I consider myself in good health, and exercise daily, but this is somethng completely new. I'm existing on fruit and vegetables, and plain chicken I can only eat if it's been blessed, which so far my father has done for me. I ate a whole plain potato yesterday with supper. I can't have coffee, which I've become pretty dependant on. I could drink it, but only if it's black, because both the creamer I use and either sugar or Splenda are forbidden, because of pasteurization. I'm also allowed white bread, and I'm not sure why because I always assumed it was more processed than wheat bread. But I can't have wheat germ, so wheat products are forbidden. There was a guy behind me in my second class who apparently whispered something about me as I sat down. This is a class where I'm made fun of almost on a regular basis, even when I'm dressed as I usually am. Anyway, he said something which I didn't hear. What I did hear, however, was a girl behind me who said back, "Hey, don't judge." This was the first verbal confrontation I'd had about it, and I was grateful for the girl, but didn't have the courage to turn around.
It sounds funny, but it's really hard not looking at men. The only man I'm permitted to touch or look in the eye is my father (or my husband, but I don't have one of those!). I only have two male professors, but when they speak to me I have to look just over their shoulder; the same with other men who talk to me, which hasn't been too many.
I'm also not permitted to raise my voice, which I do on a regular basis, but usually out of enthusiasm. I've broken that rule so many times already.
Anyways, kids, that's all for now. I'll be checking in every day this week with more. Wish me luck!
Blessings from Allah,
Sarah

Four Months

 

I met you in October
We talked for hours
Ate too much
And you told me about Nepal.
I told you about Elvis.

 You were there when

I talked to Bo Rinehart
And got my umbrella stuck
In Seth’s hair.

You laughed at me because

I slept through the night holding
The drumstick Bo had actually touched.
You took a picture of me sleeping
And kept calling me Mr. Lugnut
After the character from the board game we played
The night we first met.

 Do you know how much I hated myself for not going on that walk, after? How much I came to regret letting you and her go alone and talk into the night and apparently bare your souls?

 I tried to make it work

Tried to stay friends with her
And stay friends with you
Even though you guys would cuddle
And kiss and post pictures together
And I wanted to kill her for it.

 We were going to see King Charles

In concert, you were gonna kidnap me
One day, I didn’t know when, and we
Were gonna see him together.

We were going to see the world. We were going to cook and laugh and watch movies and dance. You were going to help me with the banjo and I was going to help you decorate your apartment.

 Now it’s February, and I said goodbye to you forever yesterday. Four months. Four months ago today was the day after we spent five hours talking and eating and listening to music. Four months ago she was still my best friend and you were a new friend and I had no idea of all the shit that was coming. Four months ago I had no idea you could love somebody so much and want them out of your life all at once because it’s just too exhausting, too painful to have them in your life anymore. Four months ago, you weren’t going to marry her just to stay in the country and end up having your whole life laid out for you in the hands of two people I used to know. Four months ago, you had plans to travel the world. Yesterday, you sold your life away in a lavender tux in a wedding I decided was the last time I’d give you a second thought.

Four months ago, I was just getting to know you.

Four months later, I wish we’d never met.

My Crazy Bedazzled Elvis-Loving Family

Let me start off by saying that I've seen Joseph Hall in concert officially 24 times. Twenty-four shows, spread out across almost 3 and a half years. Which might sound impressive, unless you talk to the same woman I did who'd been to nearly 200 shows in less than that time. But still, it's a number I'm proud of, and a number I never thought I'd be keeping track of.

Three years ago, I was a sophomore in high school. My mother took me to Northwest High School in Grand Island, Nebraska, to see this guy who sang Elvis. The first song he sang was How Great Thou Art. I was crying seconds after he opened his mouth. Boom. Just like that.

And just tonight, I saw Joseph for the 24th time at the Minden Opera House in Minden, Nebraska. Seeing him tonight, even after all the shows, the dinners, the hugs, the tears, getting to know him and his family and a lot of the people who follow him all over creation, it was just as fresh, just as real, just as breathtaking as it was three years ago. I danced. I sang along to every single song. I cried when he did the American Trilogy. And I hugged him several times after the show.

It was all so good, every song was flawless and beautiful and mindblowingly real. All the women, most of them in the front row, who have seen him countless times and wear his face on pins, t-shirts, purses, mugs, and now bobbleheads (I must confess, I got one of those), were there as usual. They scrambled and shoved and reached for the scarves and teddy bears as they always do, they screamed and howled and whistled every time he moved, they showered him with plastic leis and wiped away his sweat for him and begged for kisses. And though I must admit, sometimes I get really tired of their whole routine every show, I hardly noticed them tonight. The gentleman sitting next to me, who got a better seat since the other person I was supposed to have with me got sick, commented several times on how he could never have the patience to deal with those kind of people. But they barely registered with me. I didn't really see them because I was too busy taking in the music.

I love Elvis. I've loved Elvis since I was eight years old watching the movie Lilo and Stitch at a friend's house. The film uses several Elvis songs throughout, like Devil in Disguise and Jailhouse Rock, and because of that movie my mother bought me my first Elvis CD. I was instantly hooked, and my love only grew as I took in more music and more pictures, and visiting Graceland when I was 13 years old simply sealed the deal. Elvis was and is such a huge part of my life, and it's through him that I've met so many amazing, beautiful people and grown into the kind of person I am. I have more than half of his recorded music, books, posters, concerts and movies on DVD, I've been to both his Memphis home and his childhood home in Tupelo, Mississippi twice, and I'm still hungry for more.

Through all of this, Elvis has become a source of love, and comfort for me. Whenever I'm having a bad day or something happens in my life that causes me to doubt myself or my purpose, I listen to Elvis. I watch one of his concerts. And whenever possible, I go see Joseph's show.

Joseph brings Elvis to life for those of us who weren't lucky enough be there while he was alive. He dresses up in those glittery jackets, those polyester suits, and he makes us believe again. He pours his own soul into every song and almost embodies Elvis for a little while. Even tonight there was a moment, I can't remember which song it was, where something happened, something clicked, and for the briefest of seconds, I believe I was seeing Elvis Presley, through Joseph. I can't even fully explain it, but he was singing and it was like his face changed. He BECAME Elvis, in a way. I saw it, and I felt what I imagine audiences back then felt: rapture. Disbelief. Unshakeable joy.

I've had a lot of ups and downs in my life, in the short time that I've been on this Earth. Nothing that makes me any more entitled to pity or special favors than the next guy, but things that have brought me down and made me feel sometimes like the world didn't want me here. And through a lot of these things, the Hall family has been there. The less crazy fans have been there. The family friends who run the souvenir table and ticket table and run the spotlights have been there. Every time I go to a show lately I end up hugging at least six or seven different people, most of whom I didn't know a year ago. I've got twenty people asking me how I've been. Joseph's father treats me like one of his own children. I've hung out with his sister at her apartment. Joseph himself takes the time every single show to sit down with me and catch up on my life, and talk Elvis.

My point is, yeah there's crazy fans, but they're not all crazy, and even if they were, I wouldn't let that stop me from going to shows. Not only is this a place I can go to see Elvis reincarnated, Elvis reborn and very much alive in the form of an astoundingly talented 28-year-old. This is a place where I know I am always welcome, always appreciated, and always loved. I consider a lot of these people family, and they talk to me and I to them like we've known each other for years and years. His father Kyle, his sister Caroline, and especially Joseph have become treasures for me to know, irreplaceable safe havens that I know will always be there to tell me how awesome and beautiful I am when the whole rest of the world says otherwise. I can escape here. I can be just as energetic and free and off-key as I want with 200 other people who love Elvis (almost) as much as I do and who don't care that I'm not a normal 18-year-old. I am loved for being an Elvis fan. I am loved for being a Joseph fan. I am loved because I'm there and I'm singing and crying and laughing and hugging all along with everybody else. I am immeasurably grateful for the music and legacy of Elvis Presley, and for the ridiculous talent and heart that God has given Joseph Hall. They have both radically changed my life for the better, and I can't thank either one enough.

Paradise

A cacophony of silences
A homemade shroud of stars
Elvis on scratchy vinyl,
Or Springsteen
Or Armstrong
And forgotten cup of tea
On the nightstand.

Sundance the banjo
Minnie the violin
Bo the big stuffed kaleidoscopic lion
And my small band of teddy bears,
Joe Jr., Kentucky, Sullivan, and Jesse.

My sighs and your sighs on a cold afternoon
We say we're taking a nap, but neither of us
Will shut up. We've too much to say
To each other, and so little time
To get it all out.

My room smells like coffee
And pizza
And onions from the greasy floor at work
And blackberries from my perfume
And dustbunnies on fire.

It's mine, and partly yours,
And little pieces of you scatter the place
And my food seems to disappear
Like magic
And you help yourself to my clothes.

It's new and cold and the neighbors are loud
But it's a place I can go when there's too much to know
And too much to do and I just want to sleep
And talk
And dream
And breathe
And be me.

You Made Me Love Banana Peppers

You're the reason I listen to
Jack Johnson, Kurt Cobain, Serj Tankian, and Aerosmith.
Your soul is music,
And in another life I might have been your melody.

You made me want to MAKE music,
Though you played my banjo better than I ever will.
I cried watching those web-cam videos of you and your guitar,
Because your voice was so soft and you never took your eyes off of me,
Watching.

It doesn't matter where I am, and I suppose it
Never will, but something's always there to bring you in when I'm alone.

Peach smoothies, the only thing I ever ordered from that coffee shop
Where we played chess (or at least we tried) and watched an entire
Mumford and Sons concert on your iPad.

Axe body spray, the kind that smells like chocolate,
because it's why I kept your green polo shirt and sometimes
Still wear it to bed.

A butterfly, because that was one of the first nicknames
You gave me.
You said it was because I always wore so many colors.

The color yellow, but not plain yellow.
Yellow like melted butter, the yellow that Crayola calls "Goldenrod".
You wore a shirt that color to that concert that changed too many things.

A phoenix, because you sometimes talked about wanting to die,
And I always believed you couldn't.

You held me tight in that cold little gazebo while I cried
Because I thought you were leaving me forever.
The wind howled and we both shivered but I was too busy
Getting snot and mascara on your jacket to care.

We ate frozen yogurt and big Italian sandwiches on the second day we met,
And went for that walk where both of us were nearly blown away, and I took pictures
Of all the plants and you told me what they were.
You dared me to try banana peppers and laughed
When I drank three cups of water, but I finished them all, and now?
I love them more than pickles.

You taught me what love is and what it means to fight
And apologize
And vow never to speak again
And talk for hours
All in one day.
You made me laugh and cry
And scream and whisper
And ache and relish
And smile and hate and love and cherish.
You made me never forget.

You made me love banana peppers.

(Rockstars) Under My Umbrella

People call me an old soul. A granny. If they're nice, they might say "wise beyond my years".

And let's face it, I drive a 1993 Crown Victoria, own a pretty impressive collection of records, own and operate a record player, and get excited about antique stores. I eat, sleep, breathe, and practically worship Elvis Presley, whom I consider the most ridiculous, incredible rockstar in the universe, and can proudly say takes up 376 of the 1935 songs on my iPod (which, by the way, wears a pretty sweet Elvis Presley skin).

And it's not just Elvis; most of the other artists on my iPod are either dead or well on their way to the grave: Johnny Cash
           Michael Jackson
           Ray Charles
           The Beatles
           Bob Dylan
           Creedence Clearwater Revival

and James Brown, to name a few. I love the soul and heart music had back in the 40s/50s/60s/70s, and will preach myself hoarse on the unmistakable difference between 'true' music and the auto-tuned, electronic chaos churned out today. I hardly ever listen to anyone too young to qualify for a AARP membership. I mean, for Pete's sake I've got Bo Diddley on my Spotify account. Look him up.

Except.

There's this band, you might've heard of 'em: Needtobreathe. Four of the most intensely passionate musicians on this earth, and also four of the most hardcore rockstars not yet putting their teeth in a jar at night. I saw them for the fourth time just a week ago, October 24th, in Omaha, Nebraska.

I'll save the (as far as I'm concerned) BEST for last. :)

First off, there's the drummer, Nate Hufford. New drummer, yes, but the drummer. I admit, I was particularly attached to Joe Stillwell, who helped build this band and was always the easiest one to talk to at meet-and-greets. But this guy Nate is something else. He gives that drumset a whole new energy until it almost seems to literally dance. He beats the music out of 'em like he's letting something out from inside himself. We never get to hear him sing, but those drums are his voice. To look at, he reminds me a lot of Waldo (as in, where's Waldo?) but he packs a serious punch and brings it hard like I was not expecting. So, welcome, sir, and congratulations on winning my appreciation.

Bass guitar time! Seth Bolt is THAT guy. You know what I mean. There's one in every band. That one band member who seems to be the reason there's an uneven ratio of girls to guys at a rock and roll show. He's, ahem, the female fan favorite. :) Which is cool, I understand, and it can't be an easy job. But seriously, this dude is not only charming, and (admittedly) good-lookin', but he's also a beast on the bass. This is the dude who made me appreciate such a underestimated instrument; I actually HEAR the bass in songs now. It doesn't hurt that the night I saw them, he played a beautiful gold instrument, which became an entirely unmatchable force in his hands. He's spellbinding to watch and both his voice and guitar skills are honey to the ears of any member of the congregation at the Church of Music.

I promise I won't take too long with this one. If I wanted, I could go on for pages about Bo Rinehart, the songwriter/banjo player/guitar player/mandolin player/drummer/backing vocalist. He's a living, breathing one-man band. He dresses like somebody combined a lumberjack, elderly Englishman, and the inventor of skinny jeans all in one. He makes a combination of elbow patches, suspenders, striped socks, and bowler hats look awesome. He sometimes sports a dapper blonde mustache. And the MUSIC. Bo Rinehart is the reason I took up the banjo, an instrument usually associated with toothless hillbillies in the Ozark Mountains who shoot and eat opossums. But he plays the banjo, and in a ROCK band, and manages to make himself and his battered/beautiful Fender five-string heard over the screaming guitars. But Bo does everything. He sings his own lyrics in that sweet high voice which never ceases to send happy chills from my spine to my toes, very nearly knocking down the microphone, the speakers, and anything/anyone else who gets in his way. You see, Bo dances. For the entirety of a three-hour show, he's jumping and leaping and kicking everywhere there's room, and some places where there's not. I love each of the band members (sorta) equally, but Bo's my favorite for that very reason. The music moves him, gets his blood pumping, makes him want to fly. What Nate lets out on his drums, Bo lets out through his crazy feet. Plus, he's an Elvis fan. :)

Bear Rinehart.
There aren't words, believe me. I might as well stop here. That's all I can say. Bear Rinehart.
No, but seriously, saying this guy can rock is like saying a tornado is windy. Lead singer, older brother to Bo Rinehart, and biggest/baddest/best guitarist/vocalist I've ever.....y'know? Like I said, there are no words. He's Bear Rinehart. He's the guy who opens his mouth and screams and it's a freight train hauling grizzly bears hitting your chest at a hundred miles an hour. Bear Rinehart passion is squeezing your eyes shut, stretching your mouth as wide as it'll go, punching yourself in the chest in time to the drumbeat, letting God voice his love through your vocal chords in a growling, snarling, Southern drawl, and rocking back and forth so fast and hard that everyone standing in the front row gets rained on with sweat. That's Bear Rinehart. He doesn't just sing, he doesn't just play guitar. He preaches. Bo's, Seth's, and Bear's boots beat the stage in time and it's thunder in a furious, fascinating, ridiculous storm. He is music, and passion, personified.

This is Needtobreathe. I managed to talk to Seth, and he sang a bit of Joe Cocker's "Feelin' Alright" while standing under my bright blue umbrella, which is covered with little green owls (It was maybe 20 degrees out, and trying really hard to decide whether it wanted to snow or rain; not normal weather for guys from South Carolina). I got to hug Bo, and I gave him a big bag of candy corn and circus peanuts (his favorites--- does anyone else eat circus peanuts??) The poor guy was soaking wet and shivering, but still stayed long enough for a quick chat and a picture, and literally made my year. I could talk Elvis and music with that guy for hours, if I was ever lucky enough to have that chance. Bear stood under my umbrella too, and talked for a bit. Let me tell you, that guy under a cute little owl umbrella was a picture. :)

My point is, Needtobreathe has become my soul music, and one of the few bands I listen to who are young, and current, and popular with people who are actually my age. I've only seen them four times, but this last time was the best by far. I love their passion, their normal-ness; it's so great to me that people with such overwhelming, crazy-awesome talent can be so sweet, so nice, so human. They are a blessing to the music world, and as long as they keep playing, I will never stop listening. Kudos to you, Bear, Bo, Seth, and Nate. YOU GUYS ROCK.

Elvis and the Night

Fireflies

And velvet skies

And a soul crying out

For redemption.

I drove home fast

And I flew down gravel roads

Til I found the perfect place;

An empty field.

My silver lady on wheels

Carried me right into the center

And I stopped, turned off all my lights,

And turned on the music.

Elvis Presley, reinvented

Backed by electric guitars

And extra drums, singing a song

I knew by heart but loved like this

Even more.

The speakers shook

The car rattled til I thought

The 19-year-old Crown Vic would just

Lay down and die.

I sang every word as loud as I could

Screaming to hear myself over the King

Laughing too, because my heart seemed so light

So carefree, so liberated, so happy

In the pulsating blanket of night.

I almost cried it felt so good

And I drove home for real this time

With a smile on my face

Because no matter what the days bring

I’ve got Elvis

And I’ve got the Night.

The Time of My Life, take 19

You told me to save you a seat and I did and oh I got dirty looks from some of the other women and I couldn’t look anybody else in the room in the eye and it was such a relief when you finally walked in and every eye was on you you owned the room you made us all breathe and when you laughed it was like no music I’d ever heard and I was so proud when I was the one to make it happen even at my expense but I laughed at you too like when you couldn’t figure out how to clip the moustache to your straw and you ended up breaking the straw and dropping the moustache in your Coca-Cola (“Diet WHAT? Diet WHO?”) and Michelle gave you a bacon-flavored mint to try and you made such a face when you put it on your tongue then you spit it out on the table right in front of me and the woman seated across from me used her mother’s silverware to push it onto the floor then the sweet potato fries came and I don’t know which one of us ate more of them faster but we finished them together and you ate the rest of the apple butter with your fingers and I couldn’t help but think that I knew where you got your lovehandles and then you stuck all the straws together and 

 then we started spitting spitballs at Sheryl and Bobby and your dad and each other and then it was ice cubes and you had a spitball stuck in your hair and when I pulled it out your hair had something greasy in it like Brill Cream and I wondered if that’s what you used then you started singing Lonesome Cowboy and without even trying you sounded just like Elvis and didn’t even seem to know it and I got goosebumps which I tried to hide from you which was hard ‘cause I swear our arms were touching the entire night and yours was so warm and we’d both taken our shoes off under the table and a couple times your toes touched mine and mine touched yours and it was like the deadliest electric shock that was just like drinking pop too fast and having bubbles build up in your stomach and also like eating your favorite kind of ice cream but it doesn’t make you cold and we got to talking about how Elvis died and you said you’d read all this stuff about the people who didn’t believe he was dead and I remember thinking oh crap this kid could easily beat me at Elvis trivia after all and I thought too that I’d never talked about Elvis with anyone who understood how I felt before I talked about him with you and

you saw the picture of Carmel on my phone and I told you we’d put him down and your eyes like chocolate heaven got so sad and your chin actually trembled and my heart swelled til I thought it’d burst because you were sad simply because I was sad and I loved you for it then you told a story about getting caught with your girlfriend in your car by your dad and gave way too many details ("all you could see were his two feet in the window") and you were laughing so much and talking about the steamed up windows and I knew I was blushing ridiculously red and prayed you wouldn’t notice and wouldn’t know why and you took ibuprofen thinking it was a mint or something and you chewed it and the face you made made everyone laugh and you drank my diet Coke to wash it down and then the food came and the waitress looked at the mess we’d made and looked like she was gonna cry but you made her smile because you could make a lost soul the Devil or anyone smile like you’ve made me smile just sitting backwards in your chair talking about Elvis like he was an old friend you knew everything about and

then everyone was starting to leave and I was scared I guess scared because I didn’t wanna leave and face the world again out there I didn’t want to drive home at 2 in the morning I didn’t want the insurmountable joy I felt all over to end I didn’t want to stop feeling your arm pushed up against mine and I didn’t want to stop staring into your eyes while you talked about Love Me Tender and I had no idea what you were saying and you caught me at it because yours are eyes I could study forever and never see everything in them and I didn’t want to realize that I wasn’t the girl in your life that I only could pretend I was for a couple hours then you were driving back home to her and I was driving back home to my parents and my cat and I couldn’t go with you and go on pretending that your family was mine and your father said he loved me “so much”  and he hugged me then I hugged you then both of you hugged me at the same time then I hugged you again and held on just a little too long and you kissed my ear and

I could feel the tears burning so I walked too fast through the dining room deciding that the other people there could probably tell I was about to cry and not really caring I almost ran out to the parking lot and actually made it into my car after waving goodnight to Adam before the tears came hard and fast and wet and salty and uncontrollable and I sat sideways in the driver’s seat and watched the door until you came out and I watched you walk and my windows were down so I heard you faintly laugh and I watched and watched you until you walked around the corner and then your dad was gone too and it was really over and I had to go home and

Then I remembered that moment when I went up to the stage for a scarf (“I guess I will, I might as well”) tripping over the crazy selfish cougars and the ones who brought their handicapped children just to get your attention because you’re too nice to say no because you love the children and not the parents and I waited by the stage hoping you’d see me and you did and you knelt and said right into the mike with happy surprise in your voice

“THERE you are!”

Touching Elbows

Touching elbows
Meeting eyes
Brushing toes
Stealing fries.

Talking Elvis
Sipping Coke
Swapping stories
Telling jokes.

Spitting spitballs
Stacking straws
Making fun
Yawning jaws.

Telling secrets
Laughing loud
Blushing red
Ignoring crowds.

Crying
Touching
Eating
Laughing
Yawning
Telling
Loving.

Touching elbows
Meeting eyes
Brushing toes
Stealing fries.

The Gospel According To......

Deny me not the God I’ve built to save myself

But let me see that in which I scarce believe

When the righteous rise on chariots of fire

And the sinners crumble under the weight of the Unknown,

Who will free them from this mental slavery

These years of persecution

This time of rights and wrongs

Of blood-stained rosary beads

And dying for the cause

When Death is so vehemently held over their weary heads

As a punishment, not a promise

Of Hell, not Heaven like for those who are

Righteous, righteous according

To the book of Who?

Persecuted for my feelings

Made to seem smaller than those

Who cross themselves and pray and fast and long

But do not satisfy.

Was it really His intent to make us suffer?

Did He mean to have us deny ourselves PLEASURE for His sake?

Did He not allow the First People these feelings that the world might grow?

Am I really going to burn for all eternity simply because I embrace a man too closely?

And what does it mean, to be SAVED?

Saved from what? From Hinduism, from Judaism, from Krishna?

Who are we as a human race to send Ghandi, or John Lennon, or Khalil Gibran

To Hell for simply believing in a different Higher Being?

Why do we condemn what we do not understand?

Why do the rules we write and live by and persecute according to

Come not from God

But from Man?