A year has passed since I first stepped foot into my office here at the Quality of Life Learning Center, and I must admit that I've recently become rather introspective and reflective about my VISTA year and the experiences that I've garnered. And what shocks me the most is not so much my nervousness when thinking of my future plans, or the sense that I've reached a kind of closure with my life and friends in Erie, but it's the yearning and heart-ache that I feel when reflecting on the reality that in a month I once again will pick up and leave for a new destination far away from that which I've known as home for most of my life--Western Pennsylvania.
In thinking back to three years ago when Jamie and I were preparing to leave for our life in the Czech Republic, I didn't seem to think much about my family, friends and colleagues who I wouldn't be seeing for quite some time. I guess in a way, I was content in justifying my 'going away' by acknowledging their 'always being there': If I wasn't around, they'd be; If I didn't miss anyone, they'd miss me; If I came home in a year unchanged, so they would be unchanged as well. It was OK for me to be the entity that was always moving, never setting down roots and being transitory in all my life's dealings. However, what Erie has shown me throughout this past year, is that leaving again--for another two years nonetheless--will not be as easy as the first time. Right now I'm at a place where I realize that friendships, relationships and even kin ties are hard to keep and strengthen when one player--more often than not, myself--is not around. I noticed upon my arrival back to the USA that I did have changed friendships: I lost some friends, felt distant from my immediate and extended family, and had a hard time articulating how I myself was a different person. So, in a way, this whole year for me has been a process of healing in regards to rekindling old friendships and re-appreciating my family; in a way, this year was also one of coming to terms with my own self guilt for not being a part of anyone's life for quite a while.
So now, as I patiently count down the days until my departure date to Milwaukee, I can truly say that I'll miss those that I love, and although it seems a little 'new' to feel this way, I can say with confidence that it isn't an unexpected emotion for me, it's just that I have a hard time showing it.
Last night a group of colleagues from work and friends from Erie had a surprise dinner for me at a great Syrian restaurant. And as I sat amongst the ten of them, I was shocked and overwhelmed with how much they--each one being of a different color and race than myself--had accepted me into their social groups and into their lives. They brought me wine, money, cards and purchased a fantastic Kebab dinner. It was a total surprise, and I left the restaurant a little tipsy from Merlot, but full of TRUE genuine joy at knowing that I once again had made a community and that I had once again found great people. Let's just hope that some day I'll be able to stay longer than a year.
Here's to Milwaukee!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Main Street?
An evening stroll down Erie's main strip at any part of the season is a practice in overcoming desolation, be it in the frigid winter where piles of snow impede the walkway; in the much-anticipated spring, where rain, wind and puddles chase would-be 'strollers' under awnings and in houses; in fall where the chilly wind hurts the nose and ears; and--as I experienced tonight--in the summer when nights turn into a depressing parade of society's outcast and mentally deranged.
Deciding to embark on such a journey at 8:00 pm down the heart of State Street leaves one with the feeling that the city itself, and a majority of the patrons seen, have passed their prime many years ago. In fact, I'm often left pondering if anything, ANYONE, in this city still lives, breathes and feels. The backdrop of another pastel sunset over the glinting waves of Erie Bay offers up a rather incongruent canvas upon which the night's actors and actresses waddle,wheel, and haphazardly stumble down the sidewalk.
Tonight there was the ancient woman with bowed-legs, rotten teeth and a sad countenance digging through the trash cans finding scraps of food, tin cans and attempting upon all hope to find a little change.
"Do you have a dollar for me to get home, son?"
"No," I replied. "Where do you live?"
"On the East Side," she answered. "What about 50 cents?"
"No. I'm sorry. I have nothing for you."
I left her behind as I attempted not to make eye-contact with her flinching face. Thank God she was hunched over, and her neck protruded in the opposite direction from gaze, so as to protect me from looking and seeing her painful condition more fully. Yet, I was sure she drug her feet continually down that sidewalk at a literal snail's pace stopping at each can to thoroughly inspect its contents. I heard a women yell from a moving car in the old woman's direction: "Stop digging in the trash you dirty hag!" I whipped my head around only quick enough to see the old woman acknowledge the barb, ignore it, and continue on down the street on her bowed knees.
Less than two blocks down the street, I became aware of a middle-aged man with sorrowful eyes and a worn countenance sitting listlessly in a wheelchair still adorned in his tattered military garb. I'm sure he was a left-over from the Vietnam era. He made eye contact with me, and for a split second I wanted to look away, but I kept him in my sight--his eyes locked on mine--until I had walked enough to nearly go around the bend. Neither of us spoke to each other.
A little further on, I came across a local hangout for the white, suburban "Erieites"--those that don't actually live in the city center--known as The Plymouth. Many of the patrons were sitting on their iron rod tables and chairs, watching others pass by in complete stupor.
As we turned to make our way back to our apartment, Jamie and I were witness to wide-open roads, robotic stop lights and blowing plastic bags that were caught up on the telephone poles that lined the cracked sidewalk. We picked two up and dumped them in the trash, thus ending our evening stroll.
Deciding to embark on such a journey at 8:00 pm down the heart of State Street leaves one with the feeling that the city itself, and a majority of the patrons seen, have passed their prime many years ago. In fact, I'm often left pondering if anything, ANYONE, in this city still lives, breathes and feels. The backdrop of another pastel sunset over the glinting waves of Erie Bay offers up a rather incongruent canvas upon which the night's actors and actresses waddle,wheel, and haphazardly stumble down the sidewalk.
Tonight there was the ancient woman with bowed-legs, rotten teeth and a sad countenance digging through the trash cans finding scraps of food, tin cans and attempting upon all hope to find a little change.
"Do you have a dollar for me to get home, son?"
"No," I replied. "Where do you live?"
"On the East Side," she answered. "What about 50 cents?"
"No. I'm sorry. I have nothing for you."
I left her behind as I attempted not to make eye-contact with her flinching face. Thank God she was hunched over, and her neck protruded in the opposite direction from gaze, so as to protect me from looking and seeing her painful condition more fully. Yet, I was sure she drug her feet continually down that sidewalk at a literal snail's pace stopping at each can to thoroughly inspect its contents. I heard a women yell from a moving car in the old woman's direction: "Stop digging in the trash you dirty hag!" I whipped my head around only quick enough to see the old woman acknowledge the barb, ignore it, and continue on down the street on her bowed knees.
Less than two blocks down the street, I became aware of a middle-aged man with sorrowful eyes and a worn countenance sitting listlessly in a wheelchair still adorned in his tattered military garb. I'm sure he was a left-over from the Vietnam era. He made eye contact with me, and for a split second I wanted to look away, but I kept him in my sight--his eyes locked on mine--until I had walked enough to nearly go around the bend. Neither of us spoke to each other.
A little further on, I came across a local hangout for the white, suburban "Erieites"--those that don't actually live in the city center--known as The Plymouth. Many of the patrons were sitting on their iron rod tables and chairs, watching others pass by in complete stupor.
As we turned to make our way back to our apartment, Jamie and I were witness to wide-open roads, robotic stop lights and blowing plastic bags that were caught up on the telephone poles that lined the cracked sidewalk. We picked two up and dumped them in the trash, thus ending our evening stroll.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monarch butterfly
"Attention Whole-Foods customers, the butterfly at the customer service desk is hatching if you would like to come watch". After hearing the announcement it was like I was back in 4th grade, so of course I abandoned what I was doing and hurried over just in time to see a brand new monarch butterfly pushing out of it's chrysalis. Even though I had seen this happen so many times as a child, I couldn't help but be in awe. Jeremy, our friend Seth and I, as well as about 10 other people, stood and watched the butterfly uncrinkle its wings and flex its probiscus. I felt like if I watched carefully I would be able to see its new wings dry infront of my eyes. How cool. This butterfly used to be an egg, which turned into a caterpiller, who after munching on milkweed, encased itself in a chrysalis and today it finished its transformation into a butterfly. But my question is, what is happening inside the chrysalis to make the caterpillar turn into a butterfly? It can't just be sleeping...
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