When you leave a somewhat essential, daily medication 3,804 miles from where you are, you are ripped out of your comfort zone pretty quickly. Your focus shifts entirely to this lack of something you need. You plow through web pages, propose ridiculous solutions, apologize repeatedly, and then start back again at the top.

I’m not saying I recommend doing this. I do not. Not for my father’s sake who went to the post office to see about “overnighting” (in five days) my pills to Marrakech for $190, not for our friend Greg’s sake who poured over google learning the intricacies of Moroccan healthcare while we flew over the Atlantic, and certainly not for Chas’s sake who had to join me on my quest. But.

On Saturday afternoon when Chas and I traversed Djemaa El Fna in Marrakech, one of the world’s busiest commercial squares, we hustled past the snake charmers, didn’t acknowledge the bubble blowers, and completely eschewed calls of “Hola,” “Hello, sorry,” and “Mademoiselle! Masseur!” We had a mission to fulfill and that mission inculcated us into Moroccan life faster than most normal tourist activities possibly could have.

Well outside of the comfort zone of 8 hours of sleep in a fluffy and familiar bed, beyond English and even spotty Spanish, on the fringes of some semblance of a recognizable way of life, we set out for the singular Marrakeshi pharmacy with Saturday evening hours.

Arriving via taxi, we fumbled through our request with the pharmacist, showed him a picture of the bottle of my medication from home and a printed copy of my pharmaceutical history which I’d embarrassingly printed at the riad where we were staying, all in an attempt to place our order. “You need to go to a generalist,” he said, as if I already had a PCP in this country I’d been in for exactly four hours. “How?” we asked. We received his Frenglish directions with nods of understanding and misunderstanding and set out to meet my new Maroc doc. After a few loops and several encounters with feral cats, we found the clinic, its outside dotted with ambulances. We rushed inside, asked to see the doctor, and for some reason, within minutes and for the equivalent of 30 US dollars, we found ourselves seated with one. Chas typed into google translate and showed the doctor our predicament: “I have general anxiety. I left my Cymbalta in the US. I need a prescription for Cymbalta.”

He read the translation then his face fell into a look of concern. He picked up his phone and started tapping. And as he googled my medicine on his phone, his face suddenly settled into a smile. “We have in Maroc!” he said. Chas and I practically high fived him. We went back and forth about dosage and needs and he wrote me a prescription in Arabic. Four hours in Morocco and I already had a prescription. Try doing that in the US!

We paid our medical bill and headed for the cats, though cats are quite literally everywhere. Chas took a photo of me outside of my generalist’s office and back to the pharmacy we went. I handed over the scrip and the pharmacy assistant, who spoke no English on our first visit, said “It’s here!” as she tore open their latest package, arrived via pharmacy delivery bike. We all laughed at the celebration—maybe the most boisterous Marrakech’s #1 pharmacy had ever seen. A little lighter on our loafers but certainly more drained than ever, Chas and I headed back for the snake charmers, the bubble blowers, and the “Hello, sorry” people.

Now that’s a hell of a way to be ripped out of one’s comfort zone and again, I do not recommend it. But it worked. And in general, living on the edge of one’s comfort zone is exactly what I recommend.

When Aub and I were young teenagers, my family took a cruise. On that cruise we did a cave-tubing excursion in Belize and all bought matching T-shirts that read, “When was the last time you did something for the first time?” While I am hardly a dare devil or a stunt double, I love that motto. And it’s lived in the back of my head for a while. I’ve also heard—likely through the yoga circuit—that life begins at the end of your comfort zone. So, I started thinking about how uncomfortable it made me to be without my medication and so far away from home and then how exhilarating it was to actually figure that shit out. In all my idiotic mistake cost me about $80, three hours, a big dose of feeling badly for taking Chas through the journey, and then on the other side, we’d gotten through it, we’d gone through the process of the Moroccan medical system, and we could both rest easy. That feeling of coloring just outside the lines, of skirting just beyond what’s comfortable, that’s something I revel in.

We’ve all got our non-negotiables. Maybe the need to be in bed by 9:30, no more than one beer on a weeknight, only so much ice cream (emphasis on much), eat in a restaurant just three times a month, don’t work past a certain hour, and so on. Everyone’s non-negotiables are different and I don’t know if most of us consider them often or even ever because they become innate parts of our decision making without us realizing that they are. But, are there ever non-negotiables or zones of comfort that hold us back from doing something great? Sometimes all it takes is a suggestion from another person to put something into our heads.

When I was in high school, I remember Ms. Yanson complimenting me on my writing, catapulting me to take Creative Writing with Sarah. Then a highly respected publication (hehe) called Teen Ink published two of my stories about running cross country—must’ve been short on sports pieces that month—and I was hooked. I wrote throughout college, got a degree in writing, and here I am. Before Ms. Yanson’s and Teen Ink’s encouragement, it was well outside of my comfort zone to write for an audience.

Last spring, I had gotten really into yoga, joining CorePower and taking class about four times per week. Two teachers suggested I try teacher training and here I am, heading into training #2 and teaching three classes a week.

Maybe I’m just gullible? Or maybe the cusp of my comfort zone has been just close enough that a quick suggestion is enough to send me over the edge to the land of the unknown.

Observing Moroccan life over the past week, I’ve seen the visible parts of the comfort zones that exist here. It’s mostly a dry country because of its status as a Muslim nation. You greet others by saying, “Peace be upon you.” For women, chests, necks, and certainly all views of limbs are a no-no. In the more remote spots, almost all women wear hijab. Touts have no problem trying out several languages on you and then following you until you’re stuck with them and feel an obligation to pay them. Personal space is not a consideration. Smells and sights that would be completely off the table in the US are omnipresent—fish guts and pig legs and cow heads and chickens with tied feet and meat hooks, totally exposed and in-use and poop. Just so much poop and such a variety of poop.

On Wednesday night, we ordered dinner in a streetside cafe by just saying yes and having absolutely no idea what we had ordered. A Mario look-alike in an adorable little outfit complete with matching hat, hacked off a piece of meet from an unidentified leg (?) hanging from the awning and 20 minutes later we were eating. And it was delicious. And cheap.

A shared taxi this morning cost us $1 each to take a thirty minute ride–seven people in an old Mercedes cruising through absolutely gorgeous countryside. The interior of the car was lined with what looked like an old shower curtain, fish-themed and shiny. And we all got there safely and efficiently.

This is their comfort zone. I can’t imagine what an American street would seem like to a Moroccan who’d never left here. Uncomfortable for sure. Confusing. And to them, maybe it would smell even worse.

In the hammam, you’re naked or almost naked and a stranger pours water on you repeatedly, rubs you with amber colored spa, scrubs you, like really, really scrubs you then puts you in a steam room, and finally oils you up for a “massage”. Now that is out of a typical American comfort zone. It was totally new to me. That said, my back broke out in a rash the next day so maybe I could’ve skipped at least the scrub. All that for 270dH or roughly $27.

The space outside your comfort zone may not always be guaranteed or rash-free or easy or get you in bed by 9:30, but it promises to be more exhilarating, different, challenging, boundary-stretching, and enlightening.

At the risk of sounding didactic, I ask you, when was the last time you did something for the first time?

I originally wrote this piece in Tim Wendel’s (one of the best teachers I have ever had) class at JHU. My thesis advisor, Joanne Cavanaugh Simpson then asked to publish it here. I have pulled this directly from my JHU thesis and I have not read it in a while. It feels like a time capsule in several layers. February 15 marks five years since the death of “Matt,” whose name has been changed. I then submitted it to a few publications by which it was all promptly rejected. I am glad to bring it back to the light, see what you all think, and see if maybe there are changes I could make to take another stab at publishing it. Aside from the name change, this story is entirely true. 

A viewing for a twenty-something isn’t normal and everyone knows it. People struggle with the proper facial expression, whom to greet, where to look, when to move, how long to stare at each picture, whether to hang up a coat or drape it over an arm. It can be a forty-five-minute utterly self-centered struggle over meaningless decisions, because something far more important waits just steps away.

I found myself making these pointless choices in February 2013. My boyfriend Chas had joined me. He took my coat and turned me toward the deceased’s father, standing back, while I endured an awkward hug.

I hadn’t touched this man before. I could tell he didn’t remember my name. He shared a list of his late son’s recent accomplishments. “Going back to school in the fall,” he glanced toward the casket. “Working at the church,” he glanced toward the casket. “And then this,” one more blue-eyed look toward his dead son, as he trailed off.

I didn’t know an appropriate word. I settled on sighs and sympathetic noises. My mind flipped through memories of his son, like Polaroids in an old album: I’m vacuuming while he mops at the café where we worked. My glittery pink prom dress and his matching cummerbund. A bouquet of red roses in his arms, a vision I can see from my sixth-floor-room. His lip bulging with dipping tobacco as I sit in his lap.

His dad and I pretended to be equally engaged in a conversation we couldn’t really have, not honestly. I was there when this started, and neither of us could fix it. Eventually we let space separate where we stood, without really ending the conversation or wishing goodbye or saying, “What the fuck? How did this happen,” which is what everyone, worried about hanging or carrying a coat, was really thinking.

***

Eight years earlier, I am seventeen years old and standing in the bakery of Panera Bread, my first job. The guy I’ve had a crush on for more than a year now—despite the tenures of two other boyfriends—is mopping near the soup station. He serves more broccoli cheddar than any other soup. I know this pisses him off because everyone who orders broccoli cheddar is “the same,” and we are teenagers and sameness is supposed to piss us off.

He’s rolled up the sleeves of his polo so that his biceps flex visibly with each stroke over the red tile floor. His sneakers are filthy below a pair of cargo khaki shorts he wears year-round. It’s snowing, so customers are sparse. Through the windows the parking lot is white, glittery, gorgeous, and Matt and I are two of the few who haven’t been sent home tonight because of the slow business. I am concentrating—underneath the brim of my black “trainer” visor—on removing icing from the countertop with a plastic knife. I’ve called my dad, who has agreed to pick up the excess pastries for a homeless shelter where he helps out. Bags of Danish, bagels, and muffins surround me. And I’m scraping, scraping a stubborn spot of icing, trying to not reveal that I’m aware of Matt’s proximity.

Matt abandons his mop and meets me in the bakery. I can tell he’s only bored, so I try to curb my excitement and strike the most relaxed stance an apron allows.

“Hi Debbb,” he draws out his nonsense nickname for me. (In a few months, he will write “To: Deb From: Matt. Now I fit in your wallet!” on the back of a senior photo of himself. I will keep it in a memory box for years.)

“How are your prom plans coming along? You and Sarah getting a stretchhhh limo?” he laughs at himself.

“Meh, fine. I don’t know about the limo. We’re just gonna go together,” I say.

He looks me in the eyes and smiles. Expectantly.

“Can I go with you?”

I wait to respond.

“I mean it’s just an idea. You can be all Ms. Feminist Deb and go with your friends if you want, but I do look pretty good in a suit.”

I wait again. His face is serious, lips pressed tightly, eyebrows raised, waiting for me.

“Yea, okay. You can come,” I hear myself say. My blood pumps faster than at track practice. I’m giddy but try to hide it for the rest of the shift. I try not to look at him and be tempted to feel a bit of ownership. Sweep, mop, wipe. Look normal. Sweep, mop, wipe. Act normal.

Eventually my dad comes. We load up the baked goods, and I say goodnight to Matt. I can’t wait to get home and write in my journal.

***

Taking Chas’s lead at the viewing, I walked around the room and surveyed the pictures Matt’s family arranged on poster boards. They wrote his name in marker at the top of one littered with photos of him and the high school football team. Maroon uniforms and game faces, a million miles away yet right down the street.

Realizing I’m not in any of the photos, I selfishly started classifying them in my head: “before Amanda” and “after Amanda.” There were far more “before Amanda.” “During Amanda” there were no photos. No record of the time when he fell into this hole, out of which he could not crawl. Did I remind them of too much? Did they just forget me? Did I matter?

The timeline was easy because of the way his face looked. An attractive young man with eyes the color of Caribbean waters, a toothy smile, and a strong squared jaw had morphed into a blotchy and bloated shell-person with empty eyes and yellowed teeth. I tried to focus only on sympathy and compassion, but I couldn’t get the feeling of relief out of my head. Relief that I had gotten away.

***

With my prom date intact, I write down my work schedule from the master on the bulletin board near the meat slicers. Each shift I share with Matt gets an asterisk. I need to make sure he’s really coming to the dance. I keep our conversation going to lay the groundwork for a romantic evening in the fifteen-dollar pink dress I bought at Goodwill.

My boss, Kirsten, approaches me three days later during a non-asterisk shift, “Be careful with Mr. Bauer,” she says, emphasizing his last name.

“I know,” I say. Kirsten’s prom date fifteen years ago couldn’t possibly have had eyes this blue. (Years later, I will wish I had taken her advice.)

At every asterisked shift, I make a point to speak to Matt about the dance. It is my own insurance that I won’t be Sarah and her now secured date’s third wheel, that sad person who dances in a small, charity-case circle of three. Maroon 5’s “She Will Be Loved,” blaring through the speakers.

On the night of prom, my cheeks are bronzed, each eyelash is in place and thickly coated in black, and both breast lifters are doing their respective jobs.

My dad and I pick Matt up from his parents’ house. After a long internal struggle, I have opted to arrive already in the backseat. The dads shake hands and Matt climbs in. I try not to think about the pathetic nature of riding in the Honda Odyssey with my date, my father at the wheel.

As I attempt to keep my strapless dress afloat throughout prom, he sneaks small kisses, and I feel like the princess this thrift store dress awkwardly mimics. Girls of high social status are watching. I dance with the guy they’re watching. I have done it. He is actually here, he’s with me, and just maybe he might feel the same way.

***

At the casket, I sought and found the courage to kneel. Chas asked if I wanted him to come with me. I needed to do this alone—transmit thoughts to a lifeless body I last saw alive six years ago. My knees cracked on the hard kneeler as I knelt to look in.

His deflated hands were plastic, folded the way they always fold dead people’s hands, the way the living never hold their hands. Those hands used to hold me. I used to hold those hands.

He was an alien. His pale, powdered face was drawn into a look of satisfaction. His lips were shiny pink, and each fake eyelash was equally spaced from the next. The lines in his forehead that had always been there were dusty.

I looked down the length of his body, which wore an outfit Matt never would have worn when I knew him. In the casket with him were nods to his life: an Orioles keychain, a Ravens schedule. I closed my eyes and thought the thoughts I hadn’t managed to say to say out loud years before. His powdery façade remained peacefully posed. He listened.

***

Matt picks me up from my parents’ house. I have been ready for an hour—since the time he said he’d be here. I skip out to the car and settle into the leather passenger seat of his Chrysler.

“Glory Days, okay?” he asks.

I feign excitement. I hate sports bar chains.

We eat and talk amid kitschy memorabilia. A sled nailed to the wall above our heads threatens to drop. He’s looking at his cell phone throughout the meal.

Then, getting up from the table he says, “Excuse me. I need to talk to Barrett.” He rises before receiving his pardon.

“Yea, sure,” I say to his back.

He returns ten minutes later.  “Sorry. He needed. Something.”

“That’s okay,” I get back to normal date conversation.

Months after prom we have fallen into a relationship. I have moved to college, though my school is just a few miles from my house and his house is even closer. One night, I am sitting in his parents’ living room with his mangy and unkempt dog. Matt is upstairs.

Matt was in a car accident recently. He says someone ran him off the road and kept going. His car is gone, with little explanation, and I don’t really ask. Tonight, I am waiting to give him a ride to a friend’s, and then we’ll grab dinner.

Matt’s still upstairs, and I have no idea what he’s doing. It’s been a long time. If I go up there, I don’t know what I’ll see, so I wait. I would like something to do, a book, a game. I stare at my whittled down fingernails, hoping for a hangnail to chew. I can’t bring myself to touch this dog. The poor thing’s fur is separated into small dirty sections. What is he doing?

Matt returns after forty-five minutes. He already has his coat on and asks, indifferently, if I am ready to go.

From my prisoner’s chair I can’t even answer him. I half expect the dog to explain.

“What were you doing?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What were you doing?” I say, stopping and turning him around to face me.

He’s stuttering, searching for his explanation. “It’s really embarrassing. I don’t want to tell you.”

I stand there and stare at him. He’s jerky, fidgety. I don’t want to cry, but I can feel tears welling up. I don’t understand. I’m not certain I want to.

“Fine. I have Athlete’s Foot,” he drags on. “I have to put on this medicine and not put on shoes for a long time while it works its magic,” he smiles waving a magical hand, an invitation for me to join, to soften up, to not cry. He can smell my skepticism.

I look at my own feet and then at his. I walk to the door and down the front steps and take my place in the driver’s seat.

***

I told Matt I still had his letter, that sometimes I read it just to remember him, his handwriting, his nicknames for me. I thought I saw him once in a Royal Farms parking lot but couldn’t bring myself to approach. Did he see me too? I sped away with a racing heart, and I was sorry for that, for a long time.

I looked at his hair and remembered running my fingers through it and thought the sweetest memory I could think.

I tell him: “I try to preserve you the way you were that time you came to see me sing. The lights were yellow and dimmed. The hall was decorated for Christmas, and the air smelled like rosemary and rye and every time I looked down you were in the audience smiling up at me. The entire show, you were smiling.”

***

Months pass and Matt gets stranger. He has a seizure. He is hospitalized. He acts like nothing has happened, and so do I. We carry on, always needing to stop at his friends’ houses: to get CDs, retrieve a left key, something. And I wait in the car.

One weekday I’m in class when Matt’s father calls me, “Have you seen him? He hasn’t called me. I haven’t talked to him in twenty-four hours.”

Matt hasn’t only disappeared on me, I think. I tell his dad I have no idea. I haven’t heard from Matt either. His dad rattles off a list of people he’s asked about Matt’s whereabouts. I have asked them too, I say.

I tell his dad about the money he borrowed from me for his “cell phone bill.” I can hear his dad’s voice getting higher as I pace around my dorm room, the sweaty phone stuck to my face. I am so naïve.

Some weeks later, I still haven’t heard from Matt, but his dad’s concerned calls have stopped. I’ve tried to begin the breakup process, if only in my own head, since we have never really talked about it. Eat ice cream. Watch When Harry Met Sally. Go out with friends. Repeat.

I run into Matt’s friend Mike in front of my dorm building. He’s holding a case of Natural Light under his arm; a cigarette hangs from his lips. We commiserate in concern over Matt.

He is “back,” according to Mike. I have no idea what back means. Mike says “he’s in deep” as he lights another unsupported Camel, just after tossing the last one.

I listen. If I chime in, I think, Mike will stop giving me information. I need information.

“He’s on things, maybe meth, always scratching his arms. And those nose bleeds.”

Meth, meth, meth, I repeat in my mind reminding myself to look on Wikipedia.

“He’s nervous, always paranoid.”

Mike continues. He might have tears in his eyes. I listen as he pours out stories about the person I know. Knew? I lean on a concrete pillar and look down at the ground, still processing.

Mike suddenly punches the pillar and staggers away from me and into the trees near the building. I go back upstairs where my friends are watching TV.

Mike texts me the next day: “Broke my hand.”

***

I gave Matt one more goodbye thought and then looked away from his closed eyes. I left the kneeler and saw that a few of Matt’s friends were at the viewing. As I worked my way back to Chas, I gave slight waves to the people who seemed to remember me (proof that “During Amanda” did happen). Mike was among them, older than he’d been that night at school, more somber but less emotional. I gave one more sympathetic glance toward Matt’s dad. Chas helped me put on my pea coat one arm at a time. We headed outside to go home.

***

After my talk with Mike, Matt floats in and out of my life a few more times. Our official break up sort of happens when I tell Matt, firmly, to stop calling me. At this point, we haven’t spoken in months. I tell him that I can’t date someone who slips in and out of my life, whose dad calls me at midnight looking for him, who cares so much and then doesn’t at all. Someone who lies so easily, has problems he can’t admit, much less face and correct. I’m healing, somewhat: dating a frat guy I don’t care about and training for a half marathon.

Four months later, I’m just home from seeing a movie with my roommate when my sister calls. I can tell she is trying not to cry as she starts to talk. She tells me that Matt Bauer broke into Panera and robbed a cashier with a gun. He was wearing a bandana over his face, and his hair was bleached blond. He had locked his keys in his car so he kicked open his own driver’s side window and sped away. No one was hurt, but the police can’t find him. (I’ll later learn that he successfully robbed three or four restaurants before getting arrested. Rumor will have it that he gets a “jail tat.”)

***

We walked out of a viewing for a twenty-seven-year-old who “died in his sleep.” I exhaled and held Chas’s arm closer to my side. I knew I could talk if I wanted or be quiet if I needed to.

Arriving at the cold car I thought about how you can’t save everyone, but you can save yourself. I thought of what I learned when I was far too young. And I really tried to cry. I tried to feel more about the loss of this person I did love. I wanted to feel bad for not answering his letter long ago. I wanted to feel bad for not letting him twelve-step me. Yet, I realized my decisions had not been meaningless, after all. I knew that I didn’t blame myself because when I drove away from that funeral home, I got distance, all over again.

 

There are 27 bones, 29 joints and at least 123 named ligaments in the human hand.

If you didn’t just look at your hands after reading that sentence, then you’re multitasking too much. Slow down. Give those amazing things a break. They deserve it.

Hands have been on my mind a lot recently. Mostly, because I destroy mine and I am so constantly trying to stop. My hands have always been a victim of my anxiety. I’m a nail biter, a hand chewer. My mom calls me a self-mutilator. Yes, I am trying to stop. Please, no preaching. I know how bad it is.

And the hand doesn’t deserve what I do to it. The hand is all-knowing. The color of your nails and the small “moons” on your nails can indicate the quality of your oxygen level of your bloodstream and blood circulation.

Hands are incredible. Structurally, fingernails are actually modified hairs!

I started making a list of all of the things we can do with our hands (get your minds out of the gutter) but it’s pretty long.  So I’ll break it up some for you.

It takes as many as six months for fingernails to grow from root to tip.

And hands are more than just practical and diverse. They’re symbolic. They represent giving and taking and love and hatred and so much more. We can hold our hands in prayer, we can hold our hands in protest, we can hold our hands in surrender or in anger.

Nazis held their hands in salute. While innocent victims held their hands as white flags, as please don’t, as I didn’t do anything wrong.

In yoga, which bleeds into life, we can hold our hands in mudras.

I’ve heard that what sets humans apart is that we have opposable thumbs–but, did you know that koalas do too?

 

I first learned the following fact at Renee and Don’s wedding. The vein on your ring finger is called Venna Amoris. It leads directly to the human heart and is known as the vein of love. This is why we wearing wedding rings on our ring fingers.

With hands, we can rub shoulders or slap a cheek, we can spread our fingers wide in downward facing dog, we can hold our head in our hands or hold our hands above our heads and celebrate. We feed ourselves, we feed others, we wave, we say goodbye. We draw our hands to our mouths in laughter and in tears. We can hold someone else’s hand. We can grip it and squeeze it in a pattern of three that means “I” “love” “you.”

Our fingers are even more sensitive than our eyes. Our fingertips have a large number of receptors responsible for sending messages to the brain.

Hands can namaste–which means “The light in me sees the light in you,” or they can pay for a beer. We can cook a meal or bake brownies. We can “take this man to have and to hold” or cradle a newborn niecephew. We can incessantly rub Aubrey’s pregnant belly too high up on her torso. We can crochet a scarf or eat Honey Bunches of Oats.

 

You cannot get a tan on the undersides of your fingers or on your palms.

But you can open a window, drive a stick shift, apply essential oils, hold the door for someone, apply deodorant–for someone else if you want to, put in eye contacts, turn on a lamp, turn off a lamp, shoot a gun, pick up an injured baby bird, select a blade of grass to make a horn noise between your thumb pads, cheers with a beer glass, pet a Joe or a Piper, scare away a Kramer, turn on the heat without realizing how lucky you are to have heat. You can tap out a rhythm, snap for a poet, place your hands on your hips that say, “Look at me. I’m here.”

No two human beings in the world have similar fingerprints. Fingerprints are a completely unique DNA imprint that is different in every single human being.

With our hands we fix our hair, we write, we type, we clap, we (some of us) play instruments, we (some of us) give the middle finger, we clean, we plant seeds, we finger paint, we google pictures of koalas, we text, we drink wine. We can rub a hand along dried lava or get a manicure and feel special and then watch those special hands on your own steering wheel.

Julius Caesar ordered the thumbs of his prisoners cut off as punishment.

We can light a candle with the flick of a thumb, slide glasses up our noses with a pointer, offend someone with the middle finger, signal someone with the ring finger, or look fancy with an extended pinky. We can communicate with sign language, twist open a domestic beer, shuffle a deck of cards.

Unfortunately, in the time it took me to write this, I bit off all of my fingernails.

You can put your hands in as a group and feel connected and part of a group. You can high five. Or say “FLY GIRLS!” on three. You can take a picture and capture a memory. You take notes or hold open a great book. You can have your hands featured on the front of the Towson University Towerlight. You can hold up something you’re proud of like a certificate or a banner or a piece of art.

The average hand length for adult women is 6.7 inches. The average length for men is 7.4 inches

We can hold our wedding invitations to our mouths and hope we don’t get poisoned like Susan on Seinfeld. We can play chess if we know how, or even if we don’t. We can point at that crazy looking bird over there. We can salute–if that is your thing. We can cheer for the Orioles. We can say hold out just two fingers and say “Peace be with you.”

I love hands. I love chubby hands, baby hands, elderly hands that tell decades-long stories. I love wrinkly hands, hands with age spots, hands that show wear and tear, mechanic’s hands, gardener’s hands, tough hands, thick hands, hairy hands, bald hands, sticky fat hands, piano hands, Caitlin’s giant hands and Sierra and Shar’s tiny little hands. I love my husband’s hands and the other ones I know so well. Mom’s delicate yet strong hands. And how she uses them with her kids and she will tell you that being an Occupational Therapist is all about hands–she teaches people who don’t know how, to use their hands for food, for life. I love my dad’s hands. Dad’s hands that can comfort but also farm. And how he holds two fingers at his upper lip when he’s driving because he’s craving a cigarette but resisting because we’re there then how he uses his hands to house three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a row with barbecue chips on the side. I’ve said before that I miss Gram’s hands and Grandpop’s hands. And I do. Because their hands were symbols of who they were, who they are still, in my memories.

Love your hands. Appreciate your hands. See all that they do for you and then let them do for others too. Whatever you do with your hands, may that action, more than anything, spread love. Next week…feet!

I’ve always loved playing sports. I grew up within a record-winning homerun ball’s distance of the old Memorial Stadium. I’m told sometimes we’d walk down to the Orioles’ games after the inning when they stopped checking tickets so we could get in for free. During most home games we could hear the announcers’ voices bouncing off the water nearby.

We grew up going to dad’s softball games and playing anything we were taught. We maybe didn’t become the professional athletes my dad saw us becoming but we both did pretty well for ourselves in high school track and cross country. While we’d both pictured ourselves playing soccer, basketball, and softball professionally well into adulthood, I think, we really found our home on the team with the Mercy High School’s strongest masochists. I still think there was no one tougher in that school than my senior year cross country team. On October 27, 2004 Aubrey and I were both on the championship IAAM Mercy High School Cross Country Team. That day continues to be one of the. best. days. of. my. life.

I remember being in elementary school and playing catch with Dad across the street on the filtration plant field. I was wearing some stupid, trendy Old Navy bandanna that made me look like a cross between a ’50s housewife and the way Blanche from The Golden Girls would look on her way to an “active” date. I couldn’t keep the bandanna tied at the back of my head and I just remember my dad saying, “That’s not what we wear in baseball!” I said something real clever like, “This is softball, not baseball!” That fashion statement was getting in the way of my already handicapped skills. Nevertheless, he persisted. And I am so grateful we did too.

We played basketball for years with Dad as the coach. Then, every spring we’d get covered in dirt twice weekly for softball. And the fall meant soccer and leaves and the unavoidable blisters I’d get from my cleats. I’ve continued playing team sports into adulthood–albeit not professionally–most recently, football with my team The Secret of the Booze and basketball with the Light Blue Fly Girls. We Fly Girls were actually the first team in IHM Women’s Basketball history to win 0 games. We won an award for not giving up so I guess: ya lose some (all), ya win an award. (It was actually super nice to be recognized.)

I can’t imagine my life without sports or athletics of some kind. From sports I learned humility–mostly because I had no choice. When I first started playing basketball, I remember shooting foul shots underhand between my legs–very intimidating to the opponents. I once crawled between the legs of someone on the other team to get the ball. And people think you need to be big and tall to play basketball–ha! Sports help you, the general you, to know that you don’t know everything. You realize that you can’t do everything. And that there is always more to learn. Maybe if Trump believed in athletics, he would be more humble. Come to think of it, probably not.

In many facets of my life, I have a hard time giving up control and depending on others. I know I will do things the way I want them done and then if things don’t go right, I will only have myself to blame. But, sports have always forced me to give control to others. Control freaks like me need that and we benefit from it and in my case, so does the team. As a team, each player is forced to relinquish control. You learn to depend on others, to look to them, and then to be there when you’re needed. It’s a big ole’ metaphor for all of life.

From sports I have experienced so much personal growth. Sports are really the first realm in which I saw true results of effort. This is going to sound melodramatic but let it be. The first time I really believed in myself (other than from my family) was because of Coach Randy Fowler. That man had showed me the best version of me and literally changed my life. He showed me how to set goals, how to work toward them, and then how to celebrate humbly after reaching them. I can’t even live life anymore without working toward goals. I’m in constant pursuit of something.

Indirectly or directly because of Coach Fowler, I have run a lot of races including about two dozen half marathons and two full marathons. Without him and my mom’s own example, I never would have guessed I could do those things.

In December in New York, I took a FlyWheel class with Chas’s and my friend Becca. It was one of the most intense things I’ve ever witnessed. Becca and I hungoverly hustled through Manhattan to get there on time as I haphazardly signed up for the class online during our walk over. We arrived and what felt like 324 people crammed into a room for the 45 minute session. We clipped our weird shoes into our weird pedals as a fleet of fans blew our stray hairs into our sweat. The teacher? lead biker? motivational speaker? continually told us about our lives and our goals. A screen displayed the rankings of the 20 people who signed up to be publicly ranked. I mean damn. We all held onto her every word belted out between her rock hard arms and shoulders and into a telemarketer’s microphone.

She said things like, “You only live once. You might as well be a bad ass!” And, “The past is gone and the future is not guaranteed.” Also maybe something like, “The difference between who you are and who you want to be is determined by what you do.” It was terrifying. Becca and I admitted to one another we each felt like we were going to vomit. Then we wiped ourselves with the complimentary towels, sipped the complimentary water, and scarfed the complimentary bananas.

At $35 per class, some shit better be “complimentary.” I don’t know if FlyWheel is always that intense or if it was enhanced by being in Midtown Manhattan. Probably a combination. I walked out feeling great but also dumbfounded. Like I couldn’t decide whether I had just attended an exercise class, a therapy session for depressed people with really low self esteem, a convention for urban white women, or an introduction to an alternate universe. I think it was all four. Y’all millennials are weird.

These days, as a yoga teacher and a runner (at this point, occasional runner), athletics look different for me than they did when I was a kid. I strive to continue making myself better every single time I practice but I also get to work on this with others. In a way I guess a yoga teacher is like a coach and it’s my job to show people the best versions of themselves–does that sound FlyWheel-ish?

I have also been hearing about this program called Orange Theory. Here’s their motto so you can get even more confused: “MORE LIFE We all want more. More energy. More strength. More results. Orangetheory is designed to give you that, and more. Our workout changes you at the cellular level, and is scientifically proven to give you a longer, more vibrant life.” I can’t knock it–haven’t tried it. But come on. Their website looks more like an ad for a sci-fi film than a gym.

In the month of January I took 30 yoga classes. Some doubles, some early mornings, some unwanted sweating, I did it. And I know not everyone would agree but with 30 yoga classes in my dangling rearview mirror (story for another day), I feel really athletic. I love that yoga’s season has no end. I am constantly evolving, and so are the people around me. We silently strive. It’s kind of beautiful. And now I get to spread that myself. I found my Kool Aid pitcher and I drink it in. CorePower is my cult.

I think in the group exercise world of 2018, if you’re into exercise and/or sports, you just need to pick your cult. That’s what these are. Who will get to swipe your credit card monthly? Or will you just grab your sneakers and hit the streets? Will you be with the yogis, the bikers, the gym rats, the Orange Theory people, the Cross Fitters? Because literally no one can afford to do it all. And really, what are we looking for? Humility, personal growth, letting go of control, free bananas? Well, as someone I met once may have said, “You only live once, you might as well be a bad ass.”

For a word we use and even just think so often “miss” has more to do with “failing” in the dictionary than I think most people realize. But I don’t fail when I miss people. I don’t fail in my nostalgia. I don’t fail when I reminisce.

Rather, in all of these situations I am feeling. Not failing. I submit that “missing” is “feeling the absence of someone or something or some time or some situation or some summer or some lake house or some pink bike or some Simba stuffed animal.” More like the one below in 2 (and not at all like the example two bullets above that–yamahama!)

This week has felt very adult, to me. I’m a grown ass woman. To me, this means I am strong enough to handle my problems. I am humble enough to cry with big “gahook” sounds when I need to. I am able to speak up when I am having a hard time saying goodbye to Grandma Freida because it makes me think of five months ago when I said goodbye Gram Mary Lou. I am bold enough to speak what I think. I am real enough to call my mom and dad and my sister when they’re the only ones who get it. I am able to be a support for my husband. I can have two desserts if I want to. And I am crazy enough to pour myself out on this website every week.

But wow, there are some things I miss and will continue to miss–in the truest sense of the word. And growing up means physically letting go, even if not emotionally or mentally. This shit is real. I will “feel the absence of someone or something or some time or some situation or some summer or some lake house or some pink bike or some Simba stuffed animal,” to quote a grown ass woman writer I know.

 

So here’s a poem-ish thing. I can write those if I want to…because I am a grown ass woman.

 

To Feel The Absence Of

I already miss Grandma Freida and how she so nonchalantly beat everyone in board games with an offhanded, “I think I won.”

I’ll miss the way she said “yais” in her old fashioned Vermont accent and how she giggled with Cindy over their cute inside jokes.

I will miss her fleecy clothes and her tiny frame and how she always started sentences with “Ohhhh!”

“Ohhhh, is it good to see you!?”

 

It goes without saying that I miss Gram Mary Lou. I miss her fingernails and her stacks of mail.

I miss her dollar store-purchased snacks and her completed crosswords.

I miss her squishy hugs and her Cold War style food storage in the basement.

I miss the sun through her skylights and her itchy carpet where I’d sit and stretch while we’d talk.

I miss calling her and saying, “Hi, it’s me,” so that she could respond without fail, “Hi, me!”

I miss her thin ceramic plates and her ham sandwiches and her year-round Christmas-themed water glasses. I miss knowing where to find a rubberband in her drawer and how she folded her plastic bags so endearingly, like they mattered. Because she treated everything like it mattered, especially us.

I even miss her bumpy driveway and the rusty pole I always nearly scraped against and waiting for her to make it to the back door to let me in.

 

I miss the tile floor in our bathroom growing up. I miss those classic black and white squares and rectangles and how they gathered dirt and hair and felt so cold on your feet in the winter.

I miss the maps in the hallway with Mom and Dad’s pins and stopping to look at them for the thousandth time, like they were completely new to me.

I miss thinking the railing in the upstairs hallway was so long.

I miss silent cleaning on Good Friday while Jesus hung on the cross from 12-3.

I miss knowing the sidewalk on Kennewick Road well enough to rollerblade to the right or left at the exact right time to avoid a stray crack.

I miss making mud pies in the alley and hiding in neighbor’s bushes and feeling like summer would be always.

I even miss scraping my knee and getting glass stuck in my wound like a badass.

 

I miss fishing at 5 a.m. on Lake Oxbow and Dad and Uncle John teaching us how to be so silent and so still, through our yawns.

I miss the smell of gasoline mixed with sunshine and waiting your turn to go tubing because that was the crux of the day.

I miss collecting sand crabs and playing god with their tiny, crunchy lives.

I miss flush and gush in the waves and being at the beach for seven days straight.

I miss Ben and Zack’s baby giggles from the openings of their tiny matching pajamas. I’d shake ice in a tupperware container, sprawled on their kitchen floor and they thought I was a circus clown–but not the scary kind.

 

I miss being able to read in the car and ride the alien spaceship ride at the State Fair–the one where you got stuck to the wall and could flip upside down at will.

I miss feeding bread to the ducks in the Harbor with Aub and Mom on days off and making sure all the ducks got some, even the meek ones.

I miss picking up photos at Safeway, not even waiting until we got to the car to start looking. And how Mom always made doubles.

I even miss the ’91 Honda Civic hatchback and how it couldn’t do hills. I miss how the passenger seatbelt would move on its own when the door closed.

I miss playing board games at the Doran dinner table. Aubrey would never charge Mom rent in Monopoly because she loved her too much.

I miss walks across the street and the field on the other Kennewick that seemed like it was a mile long.

I miss running around like weirdos while Dad took candids.

I even miss that mockingbird that attacked our Dog Nike, because, isn’t nature amazing?

 

I miss Girl Scout cookie order forms and working for the stupid gifts they offered for Catholic school top fundraisers.

I miss the spaghetti dinner and the feeling of love at 12 years old.

I miss the freedom of being out of uniform for gym day and wearing my coolest Adidas tear-away pants.

I miss writing notes to my middle school friends with pre-texting abbreviations all over them. LYLAS, luv, TTYL, TTFN, wulda, cuda, shuda.

I even miss the Y after school program for kids with moms who worked and making fun of the snack and setting leaves on fire with a magnifying glass out of sight of the adults.

 

I miss knee high socks and chewing gum in secret.

I miss finding change under the vending machines with Sarah and then when we had enough buying a pre-packaged chocolate muffin to delicately heat in the microwave and then share.

I miss the accomplishment of finishing all of my homework before it was due.

I miss free periods and wasting them usefully by playing games and wandering the school aimlessly.

I even miss the feeling of heartbreak at 16 because I’d never felt something so strong and Ms. Cummings sent me a candy gram and I cried for my broken heart and I cried that I had an adult looking out for me in the way that I needed to be looked out for.

 

I feel the absence of so many people and situations and life phases and memories and days I’d go back to and even ones I wouldn’t. We all feel this, I’m sure.

And sometimes, I think we just need to be able to do more than fail to reach something or someone or some time or some experience.

We need to be able to welcome and hug and embrace feeling the absence of those things. Memories, nostalgia, and reminiscing are all kind of beautiful.

And even if life is grand or even if it isn’t, it’s nice to be able to say, “I was there.”

 

With another impending sad goodbye (pray for Chas’s/Our Grandma Freida–she’s a true beacon of light), random out of town trips, snow days and delays, and all kinds of other out-of-the-routine stuff, I just have a scrambly feeling. I’m totally fine and actually doing really well. But I’m scrambled. And so is my brain. So here’s a stream of my consciousness.

1. Please, Loyola Blakefield (and other people trying to be fancy), stop sending envelopes addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Charles Eby.” I am a human person with my own name. Now Chas thinks it’s funny to call me “Mrs. Charles.” Can we leave that kind of misogynist bologna in the 20th century or at least back in 2017? We here. We woke. We women.
2. I really love hands (not necessarily my own). I miss Gram’s hands.They were delicate and long and wrinkly and loving. And my grandpop’s fingernails had the most distinct lines on them. I know everyone has lines on their fingernails but his were more pronounced. I feel like they fit him. Straight ridges, like rows of corn, leading to perfectly cut nails. You can actually tell a lot about people from their hands–really unfortunate for me. I have a fat middle finger that seems here to stay, hangnails, remnants of gel polish, signs of anxiety, and a burn per pointer–one from a curling wand, the other from a hot pan.
3. Did anyone notice that Siri’s voice is different with one of the new iUpdates? I don’t prefer the new one.
4. My parents used to rent a storage facility for my dad’s books and other things they couldn’t fit in their house. At some juncture (won’t get into it), they moved that stuff back into the house and gave up their…lease? But who, besides Nancy and Dick, are these people with these storage facilities? How do they continue to be built? They must be profitable. If you rent a storage facility, I would like to know more about it. What is in it? Why do you keep it? What is your longterm plan? Who are your “neighbors”? Have you met them? Do you ever visit your things? Are there rats?
5. My dad thinks LOL stands for “lots of love.” Chas’s mom says it’s “Little Old Lady.”
6. I have never told anyone this, so why not announce it publicly? When I was a child, I made a deal with myself about dumpsters, libraries, and longevity. If I was within two feet of a dumpster for longer than five seconds, I lost two weeks off the end of my life. The only way to add to the end of my life to counteract dumpsters was to perform a swinging motion with my arms. I had to clap in front and then clap behind my back BUT ONLY in a library. I did not keep track of the math though. I guess I figured god would do that. We’ll see…
7. When I dream and read, I place characters in houses and settings I have visited. But I do not choose them consciously. Many books and dreams have taken place in Gram’s house, a few in Aunt Mo’s old house in Michigan, and some in the houses of childhood friends.
8. Are computer updates serious? Does anyone hate anything (aside from like things we should actually hate) more than computer updates? I mean, do what you need to do computer, and leave me the hell alone. How many changes are necessary for Microsoft Word? Sometimes my work computer becomes possessed by the devil and won’t let me do anything until I COMPLETE THE UPDATES. It also highjacks into my email and replaces peoples’ names with weird phrases like “Welcome Attention.” That I really don’t get. For the record, I am totally fine with the current version.
9. Do you ever stop and think about road names? When were they named? How long will a given road hold the name it has? If I wanted a house on a road with an ugly name, that would be an actual dealbreaker for me. I like mail too much (unless it’s addressed in a sexist way).
10. Can you believe that people are still out there operating cars without using their blinkers? This might rival my anger with #1.
11. No #1 is worse.
12. You–the general you–receive a ton of “blast emails.” Who are the poor suckers who read these things? They must work on some people. Every once in a while, Tom’s gets me and I buy a pair of shoes on a whim. Please don’t tell Tom.
13. There are a few things in life I try to be in control of at all times with varying levels of success: my email inbox, thank you notes, my water consumption, being kind and generous, an empty kitchen sink, and folded laundry.
14. Do you ever feel like you’re in a version of The Truman Show? It’s a Jim Carey movie from 1998 in which Truman (Carey) is the center of the whole world he knows. He’s really on a reality TV show without his consent. Sometimes when life gets really strange, I start looking around for cameras–not speed or red light, but cameras just following me.
15. Flo Rida’s “Low (Apple Bottom Jeans)” turns me into a literal freak. I cannot control my muscles when that song comes on. I love that Katy Buettner’s five-year-old feels the same way. #elsalvie08
16. A couple weeks ago, I was out in public somewhere and I overheard someone say, “This is gonna sound so crazy but I just felt like such a Pieces.” Yes, she was right. She sounded like a total lunatic.
17. I think everyone prefers the smaller double-decker shopping carts at the grocery store, right? Why are they the minority?
18. “Whatever you are, be a good one.” The Internet credits that to Abraham Lincoln but as you guessed, the internet lied again, maybe. According to this, it wasn’t Abe. Oh well, I believe it so so whole heartedly. Why waste your time being mediocre? So whatever you are, be a good one.

Thanks for listening. This was cathartic. Stream of consciousness–OUT!

 

Dear Niecephew,

I love you already. You’re a tiny alien-mushy-human-squish. I saw your little face in a photo last night. You have a nose and at least one foot. You look all cozy and curled and colorless. I mean when are sonograms gonna come in more than black and white? AmIright?

We won’t be able to have even a semblance of a conversation for at least another 18 months. I don’t know what ice cream flavor is your craving or whether or not you like sprinkles. I’m not sure what you’re favorite color will be or whether you will like your mattress firm or soft. Will you prefer spring or fall? What will be your favorite book that Mommy will have to read to you over and over again? What will you think of Piper and Joe? Will you fall asleep more easily with your bassinet on the dryer? What will your resounding giggle sound like?

I can’t wait to know the answers to these wonderings but most of all I can’t wait to know you. And the arms that receive you into this world will be the most loving ones. You’ll have Aubrey as a momma and Lochdawg as a poppa and you won’t even believe your grandparents.

We are an “I love you” family, a share everything family, a family that eats together on Sundays, and laughs at ourselves and especially at one another. We love animals and we don’t mind pet dander. We love mushiness and we don’t mind tears. We embrace weird and eschew normalcy. We love colors and books and people and Baltimore and riding bikes to free festivals and duckpin bowling and Michigan in August and reading and crammed hotel rooms and inclusion and making snow angels and cuddling reluctant cats. We like tap water and coffee pots with timers and plants in the rowhouse yard and giving snacks to the kids in the neighborhood.

You are going to have love exploding out of your fingertips–honestly you already do. We’re going to marvel at you and love on you and just say, “Oh my god s/he is so perfect.”

As your Auntie Amandy, I promise to listen to you always. I can teach you about “second dessert” and “breakfast treat.” I’ll tell you all about your Great Grandmom and what your momma was like when she was tiny. I promise to pick you up from school and force you to tell me that school was more than just “goooooddddd.” I promise to keep your secrets and let you tell me about boys or girls. We will play Bananagrams and eat peanut M&Ms like I do with my aunts. I can make you a mish-mash of veggies like Grandpa Dick (are we calling him that?) makes and we can gush about how funny Grammom Nancy is. I promise to help you edit your English papers and to stay far away from your calculus work because even Mr. Sung couldn’t save me. I promise to teach you downward facing dog and half pigeon and tripod headstand. I promise to introduce you to books and books and books. You already love to read–I can just tell. Hopefully you’re a fast reader like your momma. I promise to listen to you when life gets hard–and it will–I can just tell. I promise to hear your kindergarten woes like they’re threats from North Korea and I will hear you and I will help you problem solve. I will give you hugs and write you notes and tell you it’s going to be okay, because 97% of the time, it will be. And I will be there for the 3% too.

I promise to listen to your concerns about your friends and about the world and about global politics. And I promise that even if we don’t agree, I will hear you out and model how to be a listener and how to be open-minded. I promise to send you snail-mail from three miles down the road. I promise to complain about your cell phone (or whatever they call them in 10 years) and to smack it out of your hand and tell you to “be present.” I promise to let you make mistakes and then walk you through how to learn from them. I promise to teach you to be responsible. You will empty the dishwasher without being asked, you’ll pick up dog poop. You will be independent, but, I will love when you depend on me. I promise to celebrate you and let you know how proud we are of you–balloons and streamers and awkward decorations.

In about 16 years, can run your first half marathon with your momma and me. We can show you the spot in Grammom and Grandpa’s foyer where we wrote all over the wall with pencils and they left it there for years. We will point out where we buried the 5-year-old goldfish Chuckie and we will tell you all about Nike and Duffy. We will go to O’s games and your dadda and your Great Uncle Michael will take you to see the Ravens.

You’re going to see the Midwest and you’re going to travel all kinds of places–for family and for fun. You will learn to appreciate syndicated Seinfeld episodes and George will probably be your favorite. And if your momma won’t explain all the references to you, your Aunt Amandy and your grammom will step right in.

I’ll make sure you know what gratitude feels like, what love feels like, what helping feels like, what “being woke” feels like. You’re going to have the best life. And the best family.

Love you so much already,

Your Aunt Amandy

PS: If Uncle Chas tries to teach you animals’ sounds, please check with someone else first. His sense of humor is weird.

My dear, dear friend Shar is starting at LMCJ this week and obviously my heart is aflutter, so much so that I am trying to be nonchalant. That said, I will take this blog to try to convince her that she has not just made the worst mistake of her life. Also, Shar, I just ordered you a two-pack of mace–one for your car, one for your purse. 

Welcome to Baltimore, Shar. We are so glad to have you here. And because I know how much love you have to give the world, please know you’ve come to the right place. Love is all we need. Well that, and a more effective mayor, less institutional racism, additional affordable housing, more legitimate opportunities for young people, better job training, a cleaner harbor, and better allocated and well-spent funds on education.

 

I know, Shar. People are rolling their eyes from here to Garrett County where you grew up. Maybe this post will help you explain what the heck you’re doing here in this oft-maligned place.

This week I read The Baltimore Chop (a widely read blog) for the first time and it literally ruined my day. I couldn’t stop thinking about these people being so angry at Baltimore, enough so to give up on it (we all get angry at it). I mean look! I understand the reservations. I do. Violence, expenses, weather, grumpy people, innate danger. Dead bodies in your front yard–not okay. It’s a lot. 

But, I am a Baltimorean, an apologist, a-let’s-get-this-done-now-pusher, a #bestplaceintheworldtochangetheworld girl. I’m also pretty consistent. And according to my friend Mary, I am right 98.9% of the time. Below in gray italics is an article I wrote in Towson University’s student-run newspaper, The Towerlight, in 2007. My weekly column was called “Sunny Side Up with Amanda Doran.” My 2018 comments are in whatever-you-call-non-italics and green. 

“Stop bashing my charming city”

“Stop bashing Baltimore!” a bumper sticker yelled at me last week. “I don’t! I wouldn’t! I’ve never!” I mentally yelled back at the adhesive piece of paper.

“Adhesive piece of paper?” Ick! Come to think of it, I haven’t really seen these bumper stickers around since then. I do like the version 11 years later that reads: “Baltimore, actually I like it!” which I mentioned in my Locals’ Guide to Baltimore. 11 years pass and I’m still hung up on emotional bumper stickers. 

That sticker was right. I have always called Baltimore City home, living in the same row house my entire life until moving into a downtown Baltimore apartment. I’ve seen this city through 4 mayors, a plethora of changes, and miles upon miles of gentrification. Growing up, all of my friends lived in Baltimore County and I always occupied the role of that annoying person forever defending the ‘hood.

How many mayors has it been now? 6? Now I have my own rowhouse with Chas. We’re not in the “hood” but it’s a great little life. The gentrification has continued and no lies, we live in its midst. It feels like some of the divides we had 11 years ago are even deeper cuts.

I drive Homeland Ave. to Woodbourne Ave. every morning to work. From Charles St. I turn right on Homeland. I pass Notre Dame University of Maryland on the right and homes straight out of Southern Living on the left–I’m talking potted ferns, all of the original shutters in place, and purposefully be-speckled paint. I drive about a half mile and Homeland becomes Woodbourne Ave. After a veer right and a sign that reads “Homeland” (which I always say in a British accent, to myself), I enter the York Rd. corridor. At this point there is litter like there is pavement and there is air. There are at least two people doing the “heroin lean” and there’s a legless man in a wheelchair who approaches my car at least twice a week. On the southeast corner of this intersection I have seen numerous drug deals. I’m talking I see the cash, the goods change hands, all of it. There’s constant roadwork, seemingly because it’s started and just never completed. My entire first year at LMCJ there were wooden planks just sticking out of the ground in a circle. It was as if an avant-garde artist with ADD had begun and abandoned yet another one of his ideas, but on a corner, at a bus stop, within walking distance of several schools.

Why the abrupt change from Homeland to Woodbourne? Redlining. The map below, which you can download and zoom in on all you want here, shows the four “grades” of land in Baltimore in 1937–see the legend. In ’37, the area I’m talking about was just third grade, but probably slipped into fourth grade by the time of the Baltimore Riots of 1968. 

The City has a huge stigma around it because, newsflash: crime occurs here! The points I always come back to is that crime occurs everywhere and can you really have a city without crime? A high concentration of people has always led to criminal activity. I say we stop dwelling on Baltimore’s shortcomings. When we’re there maybe we should live cautiously but we should celebrate the awesome things about Maryland’s (and the east coast’s, in my opinion) greatest city. After all, if you hate it, why do you go there? And if you don’t go there and you hate it, how can you hate it?

With our highest per capita murder rate ever in 2017, I feel a little silly reading the paragraph above. It’s more than “a high concentration of people,” obviously, you naive 20-year-old Amandy. Back then I had no idea what was coming: Freddie Gray, the Uprising, and the imbalance in crimes and arrests that have followed April 2015.

Here’s an interesting news story about going to Baltimore or choosing not to go to Baltimore. Carroll County Public Schools are no longer permitted to take field trips to Baltimore City. Ya know, because ignorance and avoidance have always been the answer to progress, right? Dan Rodricks’ response to this is pretty beautiful.

In my old neighborhood, there was indeed a resident gang called the “Tivoly TA.” Were we frightened when its members spray-painted their name everywhere? Maybe a little, but then we realized that their name meant the Tivoly Avenue, Tivoly Avenue. We figured, how well orchestrated could their crime be if they couldn’t even create an intimidating and less redundant name? We put clubs on the cars at night and carry pepper spray in our purses should the Tivoly Avenue, Tivoly Avenue strike, strike.

See? You do need to live cautiously. And honestly, gangs are no joke. Especially not in Baltimore. HBO’s documentary Baltimore Rising covers many of the decades-long or centuries-long causes that have led to situations such as the gangs in Baltimore. In addition, a few gang members make appearances. So while it might have seemed “funny” to chuckle about the Tivoly Avenue TA, the causes and manifestations of years of inequality are anything but. 

Every day when I skip down the sidewalk to my perfectly parallel-parked car (okay, not so perfectly parallel-parked), I am tempted to belt out, “Good Morning Baltimore” from Hairspray. Seeing the centuries-old architecture and the phenomenal, eclectic mix of people just out my front door is enough to try out for the role of Nikki Blonsky.

Last week, that great song was in my head for my entire 90-minute run (preparing for none other than the Baltimore Half Marathon) that connected Baltimore’s major neighborhoods. As I pranced through Mount Vernon, Federal Hill, Locust Point, Canton, and Fells, I thought the entire time about the wonderfulness of my hometown, and Sisqo’s hometown, and Christian Siriano’s, and John Waters’, and Babe Ruth’s, and Tupac’s, and even Nixon’s VP, Spiro Agnew’s hometown. I may not be able to lay down tracks like ‘Pac, go by only one name like Sisqo, or sew skirts like Christian but this city is a harbor (pun intended) for greatness. There is an amazing art scene, a ton of museums, delicious restaurants, thirst-quenching bars, a slew of things to do, and marvelous sidewalks for fascinating jogging sessions.

The previous two paragraphs are basically the foundation of my yoga playlist next week. That’s right. Who wouldn’t be motivated to do crunches to “Good Morning, Baltimore.” 

On a great run last year, I both ran through the set of the movie, Step Up 2 and ended up chasing down a stranger’s runaway dog for an entire mile. I wasn’t able to meet the actors and the dog whose name was actually “Tootsie” got away from my fleeting feet but I can’t think of a place where more random things could happen on a quick 3-miler.

Mary was with me for the above run. Still remember it like it was yesterday. Obviously the weirdness persists. For the first time in years, I was in Baltimore for New Years Eve. We attended the Hampden Ball Drop and successfully found Baby New Year, a grown man double-fisting, wearing an adult diaper, white sneakers, and a baby bonnet. Here’s his midnight salute on 34th St.

Our mayor, Sheila Dixon, can’t always formulate complete sentences (but hey, it works for the President). And our saying, “Get in on it,” leaves a lot to be desired and probably could be construed as a sexual joke. But it certainly improves when you say it in a Bawlmer accent. Try, “Git in oin it.”

The above actually refers to George W. Bush! Can you even imagine what 20 year old Amanda would have thought had she known about POTUS DJT so many years ago? “Get in on it” still sounds pretty bad though. 

So I’m sick of people bashing Baltimore. You’re bringing us down and if you’re that opposed to this bodacious place, stay out. And if anyone knows where to find one of those sweet stickers, let me know, my bumper’s looking pretty bland.

So moving on from the redlining, let’s find the silver lining.

Why do I even still care? (Thank you, Brendan Fruin, for pointing out this glaring omission.) As a commenter stated, we only live once. So why choose to live somewhere you might be taking risks by even living? Is that foolish? Maybe for some.

Essentially, Baltimore matters to me because in addition to its history, it’s landmarks, its institutions, and free festivals, there are people here. There are people who were born here, who live here, who will never leave here, and they deserve our efforts. Sure, I live here and I don’t plan on permanently leaving here but I do have the financial means to leave if I want and I know I could get a job somewhere else. But if it never occurred to me, if I didn’t have money for a plane ticket, if I couldn’t uproot my life and find another place to work somewhere far away, I would be “stuck.” Or maybe I wouldn’t even know I am stuck because no one ever said it was even possible to live somewhere else and live in some other way. That’s why I work in a Baltimore school. That’s why we stay. That’s why we lift up the things that make Baltimore so weird and fun. It’s the people that make Baltimore. And it’s just not its time to die.

Last week I posted Let There B More Love on NextDoor for Hampden and the surrounding areas. Not only have I had my biggest week ever in terms of readership, I have received five messages about volunteering at Lillie May, 17 replies, and 35 thanks (whatever that means). And that’s why you belong here, Shar. We may be imperfect and messy and a little loopy and still figuring things out 400 years into our existence, but we try. That’s also why The Baltimore Chop can take their negativity elsewhere. We do not have time for it. We have work to do. And Baltimore needs our success.

As my final blog entry of 2017, I’ve decided to create a Year in Review. Following my own review, I have included a fill in the blank for you, should you wish to copy and paste it into your own blog, Google doc, or into a journal. It was fun to sum up the year. Feel free to share your thoughts! 

Amandy’s 2017 in Review

Best film

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. Because the title doesn’t say anything clear, I went into this one trusting Chas and a review he read and then reported back to me. Frances McDormand. Wow. This was a rare film in which I had no idea what would happen next. It is a delightfully unpredictable that makes you feel feelings. Had I not been so engrossed, it would have been neat to see my heart rate rise on my FitBit as the story unfolded.

Best book

Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates (which was not published this year but I read it this year). I’d been meaning to read this for a while. Coates is a son of Baltimore. He writes this book as a letter to his son (a grandson of Baltimore I guess). It’s essentially his life story strewn with lessons. His writing is painterly, honest, and so visual. I had a hard time putting this down. I’d be curious to speak to someone who isn’t from or familiar with Baltimore City to hear a different perspective on this book.

Best show

Chas and I have been watching for a few years but I just love John Oliver’s Last Week Tonight. I know he’s not everyone’s fave. But we laugh OUT LOUD to the point that we worry what our neighbors think (something we consider quite often). Aub and Chris bought us tickets to see him on Monday in Baltimore! Eeks!

Favorite new friend I met 

Khadeja is a friend I met through AWE. She’s a 25 year old dynamo. She arrived to the US in January from Kabul. Without putting too much of her story out there without her permission, I will tell you that you’d love her too. She’s now in law school at the University of Dayton and visited us this Christmas and stayed with Cindy for a few nights. She’s brilliant, warm, lovely, and so inspiring. Plus we took her to the Helmand in Baltimore for dinner this summer and she weaseled us free appetizers! She fits right in!

Something I learned

French fries are actually Belgian. During WWII American soldiers found themselves in a French-speaking place eating fried potatoes. As Americans are wont to do, they assumed they were in France and called them French fries. The name stuck. But they were really in Belgium. (Now, you should know I got this information from Sophie who is featured in the next category.)

A time I selected not to enact revenge

When I rented an Air BnB in Brussels while sitting on my couch the week before our trip, I rented an entire apartment. But when our unique host Sophie greeted us, she was wearing a cell phone necklace, took several phone calls, and wasn’t quite done mopping the floor. Oh and she offhandedly mentioned that we would have a roommate from Japan named Chen. She showed us his profile on Air BnB and said that his guest reviews were high. “He likes baseball!” said Sophie, as if Americans are enamored with baseball fans worldwide. Chen was a nice guy but his room was through the apartment’s only bathroom. Need to bathe in the all-glass-walled shower? Make sure Chen’s in his room for at least 20 minutes. Gotta poop? Hope Chen doesn’t mind! On our last morning there, Sophie stormed into the apartment with a Colombian man holding two motorcycle helmets saying that they hadn’t yet gone to sleep. She asked if she could take a shower. “Ask Chen,” I thought. Initially I thought it’d be hard to go back home after such a great trip but Sophie solved that for me. I thought about writing a review to warn others of Sophie’s strangely imposed expectations but thought better of it. I basically wanted to write the description above in the AirBnB review page. But I decided to let her be. That said, if you’re in the market for a $40 per night apartment in Brussels, do email me first and I will tell you which one to avoid.

Something I thought I’d never do

Get on social media. But actually I really like Instagram. Now I need to learn how to limit it a little. It is pretty addicting which is the reason I didn’t want social media in the first place.

Athletic feats

I ran a few races this year, all enjoyable, all shockingly doable. In addition, our football team, The Secret of the Booze, won our championship in the spring. That said, my basketball team, The Light Blue Fly Girls, lost every single game–first time in 20 years of the league that a team has lost every game. Now that’s a feat. What up team?!

Best moment of humanity

In the spring Khadeja told me she had a friend who had just arrived from Afghanistan with two small children. They were escaping an abusive domestic situation, seeking asylum, and had to leave their previous home quickly. They had nothing. I posted this situation on NextDoor with a call for clothes. Within two weeks, I had over 20 bags of clothes from neighbors and friends (thanks, all!) for the woman and her daughters. I had to borrow my dad’s van in order to bring the items to her and to AWE. Thank you, society, for restoring my faith in our world.

Something I totally slipped in and I need to get better

Being on time! I can say to myself, “Wow I have an hour before I need to leave and nothing I need to do!” Next thing I know, I’ve got the vacuum out, a podcast pumping on my phone, and brownies in the oven. Help!

Something bad I have never stopped doing

I still bite my nails! What the heck?! Now I am 30 years old and chewing like a 7 year old. I know all of the science against it. The only thing that works for me are manicures. Oh well!

Where lots of my anger has gone

To the apartment people who park on our block. It just bothers me. Use your damn garage.

Something positive that has gotten out of control

My succulent garden. Call me Cindy Eby. I’ve got a whole kingdom. And I love them all.

Something I wish I had not done

Brought a glittered holiday product from Michael’s into our home. We may will never rid our house of gold glitter.

A goal for 2018

Chas and I are going to build A Little Free Library to put in our front yard. I hope to be finished and operational by the end of January. I wrote this one so that I can be accountable to all who read this.

Low points (in no particular order)

I lost my dear grandmother in 2017. I miss her constantly. Her priest said during her funeral that she taught us how to die. And although it was incredibly painful to sit vigil with her in the hospice for a month, Father Sal was right. She showed us how to reflect, pray, draw people together, share her thoughts, and then gracefully let go. She gripped her rosary for her entire month at Stella Maris. She gave advice. She said “I love you” thousands of times. Her death was the most difficult of my life and I know my mom and sister would say the same. If you ever need an angel to pray to, Mary Lou is most certainly available.

Both 2017 events of my allergy to fatty pork.

Everything done by the Trump administration.

Per usual, most things related to my car. In February a piece of machinery punctured an actual HOLE in the back passenger side. I also continue to have slow leaks in half of my tires. While these strange annoyances seem to seek me out, generally she’s a good little car!

High points (in no particular order)

Even though it happened after Gram’s funeral and wake, Aubrey and Chris told us about their/ her (I forget their preference) pregnancy. Auntie Amandy and Uncle Chas can’t wait to meet our niece-phew (they’re not finding out) in May. Gram’s birthday was May 1st so it feels very full circle.

At the start of 2017, I was in a pretty bad place. I was waking up at 11:30 p.m. three nights per week, only to lie in bed and ponder existence. I’d get out of bed at a normal hour and chug through my day on two hours of sleep. It was hideous. Over MLK weekend, I started going to Core Power Yoga. I was going to use the free two weeks and never go there again. Skip ahead to June, I began yoga teacher training with CPY. In September I earned my certificate, in October I passed my audition, and in November I started teaching yoga. I’m obsessed. Come to my class.

On January 21 with a group of incredible people, I attended the National Women’s March in Washington, D.C. If you were there, you understand. If you weren’t there, we either have different views, or you wish you were there.

I started a new job in August. As the Director of Scholar Development (a job I invented myself and a title Chas helped me create) I am able to help the “whole child.” I’m truly enjoying it. I feel less stressed, I don’t work on Sundays for the first time in 9 years, and the massive pay-cut is totally worth feeling like a human. Look at me, I’m a human!

This summer Chas and I went to Crete, Athens, Ghent, Bruges, Amsterdam, and Brussels. We sat on beaches, rode bikes, ate delicious things, drank wine from tin jugs, slept on two different house boats, hiked, swam, spent 48 hours on a sailing, napped everywhere, and lots more. It was among the best trips of my life.

Meeting, getting to know, and gawking at photos of my friends’ babies. It’s that time. My friends are giving birth. Shout outs to Teddy, Jaiden, Bodhi, Eli, Everett, Nella, Harry, and Cooper. They’re almost all boys for some reason.

In April I decided to return to writing. I began this blog. I have posted every Friday for 38 Fridays. I love writing it. I love when people read it. One of my best Christmas presents ever was a book Chas made at Staples of some of my blogs. He tried to include all of them but it would have been over 500 pages so it comprises some he really liked. Looking at the pages that I’d written makes me feel like I did something. Tingles.

Chas and Shar both spoke at The Stoop this month. Chas’s was planned, Shar’s was on the fly. I felt like the most proud wife and sister sitting in the audience soaking in their words. You can listen here.

Piper and Joe and videos of animals sent by Lauren and Aubrey. Also pet voice, Karen’s kittens, and taking care of Maggie.

There were a lot of high points this year but I sort of feel like I’m bragging so I will stop here.

It’s been a YEAR. Looking back I can’t actually believe everything that has happened, but really everything I have done. While the world and our country feel tumultuous, I feel like I have the reigns of my own life for the first time in a while. And being better myself can allow me to be better for others. What do you need from me? I’m here. Happy New Year.

❤ Amandy

2017 in Review

(Fill in the blanks)

Best movie

 

Best book

 

Best show

 

Favorite new friend I met

 

Something I learned

 

A time I selected not to enact revenge

 

Something I thought I’d never do

 

Athletic feats

 

Best moment of humanity

 

Something I totally slipped in and I need to get better

 

Something bad I have never stopped doing

 

Where lots of my anger has gone

 

Something positive that has gotten out of control

 

Something I wish I had not done

 

A goal for 2018

 

Low points

 

High points

 

Pending a successful fundraising push, four LMCJ scholars will go to Johannesburg, South Africa and Swaziland for a week over spring break. Having been to both places and being me, obviously I am pretty excited for them. This pieces derives from that excitement. 

Dear Young Ladies,

It’s me again. Ms. Eby. Always talking too much, doin’ too much. I’ve got more to say, got more things to do. Most importantly, we have places to go. How can I express to you the value of going somewhere new? How can I explain how much an opportunity like this will change your entire worldview, your whole perspective of your country, your limited yet honest understanding of Baltimore, your acceptance of the neighborhood you live in as “the way it is”? How on earth can I make you believe that this chance is worth every fiber of your being? That you should vibrate with anticipation for the next 4 months? That you will look at your mere existence with a critical eye when you come home? That your world will shatter and be glued back together even stronger in one fell swoop of a 747? That the most important thing you will learn is that your way, our way, the American way, is not the only way and the globe keeps spinning in places where they do not have a flusher, where they eat mush for breakfast, where they live in the shadows of trees called ceroxylon quindiuense, where they sleep on the floor with 8 family members in the same room, where they cook outside on a fire, where children chop off the heads of goats because that’s dinner tonight? That after 15 hour plane ride people still love Beyonce? And they know as much about American politics as Americans even if you never knew their country existed?

Girls, you must know that travel is expensive. But more importantly, it’s priceless. I’ve been to 18 countries in 30 years and even though I know how lucky I already am, I’d go to 18 more next year if I could. By learning about others, you learn to look inward and question and say things about yourself. You feel feelings for strangers you’ve never felt before: awe, empathy, admiration, a desire to just ask questions and really look them in the eyes when they answer. You will finally put down your stupid cell phone and you’ll be so glad. Because you’ll be present. You will smell things you’ve never smelled, some you never want to stop smelling and some you wish you never smelled. You will hear songs you’ve never heard, maybe in English, maybe not. And you will see ways of life you had not imagined could be.

I wish for you and for our whole society that we valued travel, real authentic walk the streets and talk with gestures and smiles travel, search for a spot with no other tourists travel, eat things you’re not sure of travel, find the highest point in the city travel, pretend you’re a native travel, afternoon-nap-required travel, wear down your shoe soles travel, find the tiniest, friendliest restaurant travel, realize how much you have in common travel, high fives for social justice travel. I wish we valued those things more than we valued new cell phones, more than we value TV, more than our little comfort zones. I wish I remembered this all of the time too. I’ll give it a go.

 

May you

Giggle at monkeys on the tip of Gibraltar with the promise of Northern Africa in the distance,

Learn how to say “thank you” in several languages,

Know the power that rain can have in the middle of a Colombian jungle,

Splash and play in the white-ish teal Pacific Ocean off the coast of El Salvador,

Feel the temperature drop by 40 degrees within an hour of hiking Yosemite,

Witness a marriage on a windy Mexican beach at sunset,

See the remnants of New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain from the ground and then from a peak,

Know the peace of a lake by an empty roadside in suburban Michigan in late summer,

Walk into the church where your great grandfather may have had his First Communion and feel something unexplainable,

Hear what absolutely nothing sounds like in the mountains of West Virginia,

Eat delicious, unidentifiable foods in the middle of the Indian Ocean after rushing to a restaurant that closes at 3:30 in the afternoon,

Sleep five nights in a row in hammocks using blankets with questionable origins,

Experience the vastness of a volcanic crater on Mount Etna,

See where a zebra’s stripes come to an end behind its tail,

Admit that you understand why people move to places like San Diego when you watch the sun descend over the Pacific with your cousin,

Watch the tide of the Indian Ocean rise from dry-land-nothing to really-something from the window of a $30 a night room,

See all angles of Paris from the roof of a department store,

Marvel at the same two seals for a half hour waiting for one to move more than just its fat face,

Be the only one in Orioles Orange at Fenway Park in Boston,

Breath deeply after 8 minutes of climbing outside Boulder, Colorado,

Sprint to chase down the last bus of the night out of Sperlonga to get back to Rome,

Wear touristy and American-give-away white sneakers as you walk Greek islands,

Pose for photos with boisterous men in kilts in Dublin,

Drink cider on a sunset safari in rural Swaziland while elephants graze yards away,

Ski the Alps of Switzerland–know their magnitude and at the same time the gentleness of their snow,

Count the tiles in Park Guell,

Pass up torture museums in Prague in favor of walking streets straight out of a Disney movie,

Look back and laugh at the cheap hostel you shouldn’t have chosen in London that was actually priced quite fairly because you were scared and it was terrifying,

Call a foreign city home, even if just for a few months,

Fall asleep to the constant coqui coqui coqui of frogs in El Yunque,

Marvel at the procession during Semana Sancta in Sevilla under the yellow glow of hoisted candles,

Polish off a fat book on a quiet beach where the elderly retire,

Barely catch any sleep in a rented tent on the island of Culebra at the crest of Playa Flamenco,

Sing along with an imperfectly translated church song in a tiny Swazi church,

Belt out “We hold you nothing, We hold you nothing, We hold you nothing,” beneath a tin roof with 40 new friends,

Vomit off the side of a boat after seeing four whales,

Pass the driving duties off to someone else who can figure out the road rules of another hemisphere so you can stare out the window,

Swim in Lake Huron in August and swear it’s January,

Ride bikes around Amsterdam and pretend like you understand the traffic patterns,

Get lost in the Arab neighborhood in Brussels only to stumble upon the most perfect tabouleh and fattoush,

Fail to capture the majesty of an old wind mill in a photograph,

May you wander,

May you stay safe,

May you say yes.

 

I know my words and images will fall short but that simply proves my points above: that you just have to be there.