Admit me!

I procrastinate. A lot. Maybe it's because I have ADHD or maybe it's because I'm just a lazy American-- whatever it may be, I give the word "dawdle" new meaning. But this Christmas a miracle happened-- I finished something I started. For five years I've said I am going to apply to graduate school, and yesterday, I did. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but with any luck I'll have three delightful years of grad school to procrastinate figuring it out! Fingers crossed. Here's my personal statement.

Creative Nonfiction MFA-

My mother insists on reading me my horoscope. Against my protests she’ll call to explain what the planetary alignments mean for my future. Supposedly I’ll have luck in finance during an eclipse in Sagittarius, I shouldn’t sign any contracts when Mars is in my fourth house, and I must not worry about my love life when Mercury is retrograde.

When my third grade teacher, Mrs. Trapp, wrote on my report card, “Rachel cannot remain seated,” my mother blamed the zodiac. “This isn’t a good year for you restless Geminis!” But two decades of various planetary alignments later and I continue feel the truth of Mrs. Trapp’s accusation—I cannot sit still! I’ve lived in five cities in five years. Through my journey I’ve roofed houses, registered voters, planted gardens, planned galas, and drove golf carts at a zoo. My parents implore me to pick just one direction, but each time I put my resume under a microscope I cannot seem to find the common thread of my interests.

On that same third grade report card, Mrs. Trapp also wrote, “Rachel is the classroom storyteller.” To this charge my mother happily credited my astrological sign. “Of course! Geminis are the zodiac’s best communicators!” With ink stained fingers I spent each night of my school years writing anecdotes of classroom events, essays on the hierarchy on the seventh grade Bar Mitzvah circuit, and comedic vignettes about my experiences as the black sheep of my family. Since those early school years I have found a sense of self-worth in my ability to perceive social details that others overlook, and I am fascinated by interpersonal relationships.

After college I put my passion for writing on hold and restlessly sought out the next great adventure. I collected characters, scenes, moments, and themes like they were little precious gems—because somewhere I intuitively knew that I would return to writing.  In 2009 ink stains on my fingers were replaced with coffee stains on my keyboard and I began to write again. I enrolled in journalism and creative nonfiction classes, and in the middle of 2010 I moved to Seattle with the intention to spend long rainy days in the back of coffee shops beading my collection of gems into a cohesive necklace. Most recently I have been writing a blog about the human interactions and experiences I’ve had working and traveling throughout America.

I suppose we Geminis do in fact like too many things. But as I typed away in the back of one of those Seattle coffee shops I realized that there is a common thread that weaves through all of my adventures and interests—the story. And I know now that I can pick one thing—writing. So with that intention I am earnestly seeking admission to Portland State University’s Creative Nonfiction Writing Program. I am only at the beginning of my journey as a writer, but I will arrive with a unique voice and a sincere willingness to learn. The Pacific Northwest has brought out the best in me, and it is my hope that I will be able to continue to hone my natural Geminian abilities at Portland State University.

As for my 2012 horoscope? According to my mother the planets have written an exciting year for Geminis. And while I admit in finding a bit of cheap solace in hearing her predictions that my love life will blossom when Mercury goes direct, I am not prepared to just sit still and wait for the rest of this tale to unfold. I don’t know exactly where it ends or who will write my paycheck in three years, but if there is going to be a name written on the byline of my story—it’s definitely going to be mine. 

D-BID

He asked me the question while we were having dinner in the back of a crowded, dimly lit pub. Up to that point we had been under the enchantment of Friday night freedom—and each other. It was all giggles and blushing and below the table knee grazing, and I was adorable, and he was dashing, and Monday was a millennium away. Around us, the loud weekend cheer coming from the boisterous grad students melted into a sweet soundtrack that I hoped to hear later while we walked home holding hands, stopping to kiss under the street lamps.

But then he asked a question that made my whole body shift—I abruptly remembered that I was wearing two pairs of Spanx and control top stockings over my overpriced lacy underwear. I squirmed. And it suddenly felt like a Monday morning where I had overslept, and was disheveled, and desperately racked my brain for some kind of excuse.

“Ummmm. I didn’t quite hear you, can you say that again?” I yelled over the obnoxious law students and post-docs.

“How are you still single?” he asked again with a condescending smile. At first I thought he was being ironic. But he was from South Carolina and I didn’t think sarcasm was in a Southern Gentleman’s bag o’ tricks. Simon was actually being sincere.

I had already had three drinks—well, four if you count the shot of tequila I downed before I left my house. But before I could answer his question I waved down the waitress so I could order another.

“Well, you know, so, ummm….” I began.

Gee, Simon. In my estimation, my state of single womanhood stems from debilitating insecurity and socially awkwardness, not to mention I’m also critical, cautious of men, and unable to commit to anything that lasts longer than an episode of Dawson’s Creek. So. Thanks for asking.

But my answer ended up coming out a lot more like, “Well, you know, I’m pretty busy at work and really value my independence.”

Right. That’s totally why I was still single.

“We’ll see what we can do about that,” he said with a wink that dissipated any discomfort. And then he told me we were going to go to his apartment so I could try some of his home brew beer and we could listen to Stevie Wonder records. It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be.

So in true Bridget Jones style I excused myself for a moment, and weaved between overcrowded tables to the bathroom where I klutzily peeled off both pairs of Spanx in the handicap stall. I shoved the inhibiting layers into the bottom of my purse and fished out an Altiod before I weaved back through the tables to the front of the pub. Simon helped me with my coat—such a Southern Gentleman—and hand in hand we stepped into the Cambridge night. At each illuminating street lamp the sweet soundtrack of Friday night was sealed with a kiss.

Sighmon.

My relationship with Simon had begun a couple weeks before while we were both waiting in line to buy a frozen yogurt. He was wearing a bright blue Piggly Wiggly t-shirt, which I felt compelled to compliment. I had spent time as an AmeriCorps member living in South Carolina, and had full appreciation for the Deep South’s favorite super market chain. Simon was impressed with my southern knowledge, and also agreed that Piggly Wiggly was a gem of an establishment. After I ordered my Saturday afternoon usual - original flavor frozen yogurt with mango topping - Simon said that he had full appreciation for my devil-may-care smile (“they allllways do” Meredith would say later) and the bit of paint that was left in my hair from my Saturday morning volunteer project.

Classy, Rachel, I thought to myself as I frantically attempted to get the paint out.

Simon just laughed, “Volunteer project, huh? So you’re a real do-gooder?”

“Eh…something like that,” I said picking out bits of yellow; it looked like someone had done spin art on the right side of my head and I hadn’t even noticed. I was so embarrassed.

I had officially known Simon for nineteen minutes, but I heeded his advice when he told me not to worry about the paint. It was cute. He liked it. It was fair to say that I immediately like him too.

I learned that Simon was a romantic literature scholar at Harvard. Our relationship continued to develop when he began sending me emails at 5:30am after he got up to bake bread and go bird watching (I couldn’t decide if this was geriatric or totally charming). And many days later, I was, was tickled with enchantment in Simon’s apartment drinking a home brew beer and dancing to Stevie Wonder. He read me Victorian poems he was teaching to undergraduates, and confessed that he was secretly obsessed with Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And then I confessed that I was secretly obsessed with Michael Bolton. In hindsight it didn’t seem to be quite comparable. But regardless, Simon fiddled with his iPod, pulled me to my feet and twirled me around his living room while we listened to “How Can We Be Lovers If We Can’t Be Friends” three times in a row.

Maybe it’s because I shed those layers of oppressive Spanx, but I felt at ease with Simon. Not only did I feel excited to be with him, but I also felt like I had heeded the advice everyone gives you before you go on a first date—just be yourself. I was! The whole night felt right. Being with Simon felt right.

The next day I recounted the date to my roommate, Alicia. “Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed after I told her each detail. When I finished she bit her lip before saying, “The whole night kind of sounds like it’s perfectly scripted. I mean almost too good to be true. Ya know?”

I wanted to tell Alicia it wasn’t too good to be true—it was true! But I knew what she meant. All things considered, my experience with Simon had been almost… surreal. If I were to make (okay, who am I kidding, when I do make) lists of all the traits I admire in men, Simon would get an A+ next to every line item. I mean, the man twirled me around to Michael Bolton! If my beloved Nora Ephron were writing a compatible male lead for me, I was pretty sure she would write Simon.

But I also had an aching inclination that something about this scenario did seem familiar. Simon was not the first man who sparked my sense of enchantment. I had been convinced that I had discovered my perfectly scripted male counterpoint before. I declared my love for a Teach for America fellow who studied philosophy and handwrote letters by candlelight. And then there was my endless infatuation with the farmer who campaigned for National Parks, grew sunflowers, and told me “flowers are food for our soul.” Then came the captivatingly charismatic Harvard professor, who taught me a thing or two about our national health care system… and gave the best forehead kisses. They all sat on pedestals that were sky-high, and inevitably they all came crashing down. 

So was Simon, with his A+ in every column, too good to be true?

I decided to just let time tell. And it certainly did.

The next week Simon cancelled a date with me…twice. He was extremely caught up in his dissertation work…the ongoing demands of mentoring undergraduate Harvard students….and his baseball league. I said it wasn’t a problem. Then he invited me over at 10pm on a Saturday night. I was suspicious of this late night timing so I suggested another day.

And then Simon didn’t call me for three weeks. I was disappointed, but had decided not to obsess I would just write him off as the perfect first and last date. Not an easy feat. But as these things tend to go, the moment I cast Simon out of mind was the moment he decided to resurface. He caught me completely off-guard when he called on a Saturday morning. I was watching reruns of Project Runway and weighing the pros and cons of eating a second bowl of Frosted Mini Wheat. When I saw his name on my phone I scrambled to pull back my hair and put on my bathrobe, as if he were at my front door.

“Really sorry for my absence. Truly!” he said approximately seven times followed by a long list of Harvard and baseball related excuses. “Are you around tonight? We can do whatever you want!”

I was hesitant, but I remembered just how right it felt to be with Simon only a few weeks before. I crossed my fingers with strained hope and I invited him to go to a party with me. But he wasn’t up for a party, and suggested a movie. I really wasn’t up for a movie, but caved and suggested the new Alice in Wonderland, but he didn’t like Alice in Wonderland.

“How about Repo Men? You know, it’s supposed to be a great futuristic sci-fi action thriller,” he countered.

Oh, because if there’s anything that would be better than Johnny Depp or Lewis Carroll it would have to be a futuristic action thriller about men who repossess artificial body organs. Right. And then something didn’t feel right. I wanted to take it back. I did not want to go to the movies with Simon. I wanted to eat that second bowl of Frosted Mini Wheat and return to Project Runway.

“If you don’t want to go to the movies, we can do this another night.” He must have heard the hesitation in my voice.

Oh no, you don’t! We were having this date. So I caved again, and told him Repo Men sounded like a great choice—I’d meet him at the theater.

During the opening credits Simon put his arm around me, and whispered, “I’ve missed you” into my ear. Against my better judgment I felt myself slink into the nook of his arm, and was glad that he was unable to see me blush through the darkness. I decided that I would be optimistic. I forced myself to think about all of Simon’s impressive A+ qualities. 

“Psssst, Rach,” he said half way through the movie, “Can you rub my shoulders?”

Excuse me?  Was Simon asking me to give him a him a back massage in the middle of the multiplex?

“I’m having a lot of shoulder pain. You know, baseball. Can you massage it for me?” he asked again.

While Jude Law and Forrest Whittaker blew up buildings and cars on the big screen I awkwardly massaged Simon’s shoulders in the dark. And when I stopped after 15 minutes, and he asked me if I could go a little bit longer, I blew up any notion that Simon was an A+ guy.

The next morning when I (again) recounted the details of my date to Alicia, she (again) said “Jesus Christ” over and over. Except this time it had a much different tone.

“What a douchebag!” she concluded.

And that’s when my real confusion began. I knew Simon was bizarre and inconsiderate, but was he really a douchebag?

I had always operated under the notion that I had excellent douchebag radar. They were easy enough to spot—fake tan, popped collar, white sunglasses, hair gel, hair gel, and more hair gel, and they usually strutted within a bubble of pretension and inflated self worth. I grew up in a community that bred douchebags the same way towns in Arkansas breed NASCAR fans. It is just part of the Long Island culture. When I was 13, I started referring to the boys who wore head to toe Tommy Hilfiger and had no regard for anyone who wasn’t in their 1997 Bar Mitzvah party circuit as D-BITs—that is, douchebags in training.

“Oiiiii Rayyyyyy. Do you have to use such a crass term?” my mother would say mortified anytime she heard me say the “D” word in public. “You sound like a truck driver. Can you please try to act lady-like?!”

But my mother and I did not have the same regard for this “D” word culture. She was in an adult version of the 1997 Bar Mitzvah party circuit and wasn’t offended by the large doses of arrogance that came after the Manischewitz wine. And since I did (yes, Simon was right) consider myself to be something of a do-gooder I found the average douchebag’s blatant disregard for anything outside of his bubble (in addition to his excess use of cologne) offensive and off-putting. And because I grew up in this enemy’s training camp I thought I knew exactly what I was dealing with—I had thought I had a successful rate of avoidance.

So when Alicia told me she thought Simon was a douchebag I really had something to consider. I had seen Simon’s clothes, there was no VonDutch or embroidered jeans; he didn’t use a cheesy one-liner to pick me up, he didn’t strut, and he definitely had an awareness of issues that were bigger than himself. From what I had seen there was no evidence that Simon was a douchebag. I wouldn’t go for a guy like that…right?

Yet experience spoke for itself. My relationships with men like Simon—men who I had the utmost regard for—men who were supposed to be decent— had continued to leave my emotions feeling like they had spent the night on the Jersey Shore.

In the years since the 1997 Bar Mitzvah circuit, or even high school or college, I have watched those little precious D-BITs blossom into full-grown assholes. Not shocking. Seeing their Facebook pictures from the Goldman Sachs holiday party is kind of like driving by a car accident. You try to look away, but you just can’t—the spray tans just entice you in! But on other (less frequent) occasions I have been surprised to see boys who were arrogant and conceited D-BITs turn into sincere thoughtful men that I totally respect, even if they still have some VonDutch lingering in their wardrobe.

I began to think that if being a douchebag could in some (rare) cases, just be t-shirt deep, then could it also work the other way around? Could the men that I am attracted to—these allegedly upstanding individuals—just be douchebags in disguise? D-BIDs?

These scholars, and farmers, and international volunteers don’t pop their collars- instead they are charismatic intellectuals who care about worldly issues, but it seems that under their sheep’s clothing these men strut. From national parks to reforming the health care system to Romantic Era literature, D-BID’s each have their own version of the Bar Mitzvah circuit, and their inflated sense of self worth makes it easy for them to disregard everyone and everything else. And I had been so blinded by sunflowers, wit, and published New York Times Op-Ed pieces that I mistook worldliness for good character.

Perhaps I am (in my own pretentious way) too hung up on what qualifies as goodness. Just like a perfect Friday night, it is easy to become enchanted by the possibility of men who I deem to have worthy careers, political ideology, interesting passport stamps, or whatever quality represents my new cause of the moment. But I continue to hear (and fear) the “too good to be true” warnings. Too good somehow always equates to not good enough—for every Stevie Wonder record there would be a cancelled date, for every perfect forehead kiss there would be a month’s worth of ignored calls, and for each twirl around the living room there was the expectation that I’d be ready to see Repo Men and willing to give out back massages at the multiplex.

It is embarrassing that I wanted (and at times, still do want) the men I admire to acknowledge that I am amongst their ranks—that I am intelligent, and interesting and worthy and putting forth good in the world. It’s an even a greater source of shame that nibbling from their egos has allowed me to inflate my own. Amongst friends and obnoxious relatives who ask me about my love life at family gatherings I will happily poke fun at those D-BIDs and the D-BID trend in my life, occasionally giving my mother cause to nag about my truck driver mouth from the next room. But in private, when all humor has gone to bed, I must continually remind myself to look down from the sky because in spite of their “good” accomplishments men who are D-BIDs do not deserve pedestals.

And the next time a seemingly A+ guy sincerely wonders why I am still single, and then asks me out after ignoring me for three weeks, I might just pick up that second bowl of Frosted Mini Wheat, and say “Douchebag!” before hanging up the phone.

What? Is that not very lady like?

Not a Hufflepuff

, 

One night, my junior year of college, during a commercial break of The Real World-Road Rules Challenge, my two closest friends called me a Hufflepuff.

“A Hufflepuff?!” I wailed as the blood rushed to my face. They giggled and stood by their claim.

I stormed out of the room- slamming the door loud enough for them to know a Hufflepuff accusation was no laughing matter. I immediately picked up the phone and called my mother in sobbing hysteria.

“Wha, what is?” she asked with parental horror. I could hardly get the words out.

“Natalie and Christine called me a, a, a…Hufflepuff” I blubbered into my tiny Nokia phone.

“A wha?” she was clueless. “Is that something in the sorority?”

“Ugh. Forget it.” I threw down my phone and ran up to my room for book three. I spent the rest of night on my futon furiously underlining the passages that would prove I was no Hufflepuff.

Except in the back of my mind I worried that I was.

For my mother, and anyone else who has never basked in the joy of Harry Potter, and spent a bit of childhood (or full grown adulthood for that matter) speculating about what the Sorting Hat would say, well, I strongly recommend a Google search (followed by an immediate trip to Barnes & Noble). But for those of you in the know- for those of you who have maybe even stumbled upon a Facebook quiz promising to tell you your true Hogwarts colors- then you know the implications of Hufflepuff. It’s the ultimate geek sized dis.  

Compared to brave Gryffindor, clever Ravenclaw, and even cunning Slytherin, the “hard-working” Hufflepuff’s were the duds! Mediocre leftovers. The personality-less characters. Might as well be Hufflefluff. So during that MTV commercial break, when my two best friends accused me of being amongst the ranks of Ernie Macmillan, I was offended, I was distressed, and in Hogwarts style I wanted to hex them with horrible curses. Furnunculus, I thought to myself.

Natalie and Christine were the people who knew me the best…couldn’t they see I was brave, I was adventurous, obviously, I was a Gryffindor! I gave them the silent treatment for two weeks.

“Oh come on, Rachie Face,” they’d say poking fun at my tantrum. “Just think of Cedric!”

But it was too late for joking, their accusation had triggered me to slip into full soul searching mode. I sat in the library each day procrastinating my homework in lieu of reading psychology textbooks about the nature of personality. I thought I knew the exact dimensions of my personality- I thought I knew who I was- I thought my friends knew who I was. Where was the disconnect? Admittedly, showing your true colors amongst 95 other “I’m a star!” sorority girls was no easy task. There would always be someone at Friday brunch telling a way better “black-out” story from the night before, or a girl with that perfect orange/leather tan, or someone who got caught in a compromised position in a neighboring frat house.

The competition for recognition was fierce, but I had always assumed I fared well. I thought that because my voice carried the rest of my self did too.  But a fictional label had totally unraveled me. I didn't want to be a mediocre leftover. I wondered, if the people closest to you can’t see who you are, then who do you become? If I act Gryffindor-esque in a forest, and no one is around to see my actions, does it count? Or am I still a Hufflepuff?

I eventually eased up on the silent treatment, but was sure to pepper each conversation with “remember that time…” examples that demonstrated my sheer Gryffindor valor. Natalie and Christine would forevermore know each time I went into the unfinished part of the basement when it was really late at night or approached a very intimidating professor. I hoped they would eventually see my true red and gold spirit. But before long their attention had moved onto the girl with the latest spray-tan-gone-awry saga.

Recently I went to Poquito’s Mexican Café for happy hour with two of my closet friends in Seattle. Over large Margaritas and a nice sized bowl of guacamole we deliberated one of those really thought provoking questions: Which Disney Princess would you be, and why? Yes, we are 27 years old. Yes, we were in public. No, there were no children involved. We were just three adults debating Disney… and drinking tequila. But I knew this was not a question I needed to ponder for very long. Since the moment our eyes met at the Westbury Cineplex in December of 1989 I’ve always known I was Ariel at heart.

“You think you’re the Little Mermaid?!” Liza said with serious trepidation.

“Well, I mean, sans red hair and the ability to fit into a seashell bra or sing in tune- yeah! I am totally Ariel!”

“No you’re not!” she retorted as if my claim were a total joke. “You’re Mulan.”

I was taken aback. Maybe the tequila had confused her, or maybe she hadn’t encountered the animated classics in a while. I immediately blamed that oppressive Disney vault.

“MULAN?! What?! No! Pious, boring Mulan…no, no no! I’m Ariel. We both have the same sense of adventure, and curiosity, and propensity for mischief. And oh! Let’s not forget the very obvious Daddy issues we both share.! I’m so Ariel! Don’t you know me at all?”

But the thing is, Liza did know me.

This friendship began when Liza and I were forced to spend eight hours a day in a shared office space. Our daytime proximity made us realize we also shared the same sense of humor, astrological sign, and love of Fox Tuesday night television. And before we knew it we were also sharing food, accessories, a short hand language, and on some days, what felt like a brain. So, if Liza couldn’t tell I was Ariel, well, then, maybe I wasn’t.

As I walked home from Poquito’s that night all I could hear ringing in my ears was Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff. I considered putting my agitated sense of self to rest by adopting an “I think-therefore I am” mentality.

Sure. I thought. I can be Ariel. I can be a Gryffindor. I can be whatever the hell I want! But I couldn’t help to find the flaw in this mantra. Anyone who has dappled in online dating knows that we –the general public- aren’t always who we think we are…and we definitely aren’t always who we proclaim to be. For instance, take ‘Mr. I’ll-keep-you-laughing-all-night’ who took me on a date and spent 75 minutes demonstrating his new state-of-the-art pedometer. He promised me he was the funniest person he knew. But if that were true I wouldn’t know how many steps there were between Kendall Square and the Back Bay T stop. And I was left wondering if he whole-heartedly thought he was funny or if his proclamation of humor is just an “I think- therefore I am” hope.

Earlier this year Liza and I slurped up a few more margaritas and contemplated another thought provoking question- how could I possibly still be singe?

“Well,” I confessed to her after my third drink “I think it just comes down to this- dateable men (and others) think I am unapproachable.” I would be lucky if that were the only reason. 

“You’re not unapproachable!” she challenged.

At first I thought Liza was trying to soothe my fear that I repelled boys. But after we argued for what seemed like hours, I realized that Liza really believed that I was an approachable, friendly, affable person. She was delusional. And wrong. I was bossy, and loud, and had more barriers than Fort Knox. I knew that I knew myself; and I knew that I was unapproachable.

Months later the issue resurfaced. I stumbled into our office, rolled my chair over to her desk and declared victory.

“Welp,” I said as blunt as ever. “I win.” She had no idea what I was talking about.

For a change, I had been seeing someone. A real life man. And I had come into work each morning with a Dates of Our Lives update. The night before me and said real life man, had a long, emotionally draining conversation about my inability to be vulnerable. “You’re just so unapproachable!” he yelled at me shortly before we called it quits.

“Oh pal, I’m so sorry!” Liza said sincerely after I recounted each he-said, she-said comment. She assumed that I was devastated.

“Don’t be sorry. I told you I was unapproachable.” There was now a trickle of accomplishment in my tone.

I certainly wasn’t devastated. I felt justified. I knew that I knew myself, and this proved it. But as I sat on my ‘I told you so’ throne I wondered what exactly I was proving. I believed that I was unapproachable, and then I was unapproachable, and then I was alone. So exactly what function was my knowledge of self serving?

All the way home from Poquito’s and over the next few days I continued to stew over mermaids and wizards. And I really couldn’t figure out why I cared so much. What was it about these arbitrary (and fictional!) labels that totally agitated my sense of self?

Last year, after I moved from Boston to Seattle everyone from my closest friends to third cousins twice removed inundated me with “you’re so brave” commentary. Ha! I would think to myself after each courage-related comment, I wish Natalie and Christine could hear this! It was seven years later and I still felt the inherent need to be right about the Sorting Hat. As I continue to swim forward, I am left to wonder what would have happened if I had conceded to be a Hufflepuff during that MTV commercial break. Or what if I conceded not to care? Have I only been able to summon heaps bravery over these years because I simply didn’t want to be thought of as a dud? And now, do I continue to cling to other labels, like ‘unapproachable’ because I really have no interest in letting my guard down?

Knowing myself well has always been a source of pride, but I also carry a secret worry that knowing myself well is a burden. That for better and for worse, holding onto the things I know about myself will never allow me to let in some of the things other people know about me- never leaving room for surprises- for mystery- for change. Maybe it wasn't really so bad that my college friends thought I was a loyal, friendly, hardworking Hufflepuff. 

It is on years of built up principle that I say- I will never concede to be a Hufflepuff! I think there some self-identifiers that run too deep to challenge. Nor will I ever again play “Which Disney Princess are you, and why?” with Liza. Perhaps 27 years is the final cut off age for that game.  But I wonder if I can now do what I couldn't seven years ago. Can I accept that real life (unlike the fictional worlds we love) does not have such hard, definitive categories? In this world labels are limiting, and there is room to be brave, and friendly and loyal without being written off as a dud. And as I sit here and type, type, type about me, me, me it becomes abundantly clear that sometimes our first person self-perspective is skewed- my knowledge of  9,057 steps between Kendall Square and Back Bay serves as proof. So for a more interesting story with more dynamic characters collaboration seems key. Just look at Harry and the gang. Because even when we're certain we’re right, it’s helpful to let the people who really know us, actually share what they know.

Rule of the Road #5: Slow Down (Part 2)

Part 1

Merely an hour later and I had regained my sense of speed... so much for engaging in a deliberate appreciation of nature. We were on foot, and I weaved in and out of large tourist busses, pushing my way through the crowds of unloading passengers. I was making haste to find Old Faithful- Yellowstone’s most famous erupting geyser. “Whaaaat? I’m a New Yorker!” I’d say in defense after pushing small children out of the way. But despite my sense of urgency I was not above stopping to ask for directions after becoming lost within a sea of photo snapping Japanese tourists.

We stumbled upon one of the parks’ old hunting-lodge-esque hotels, The Old Faithful Inn. As we walked through the faux-rustic foyer to the guest services desk I paused to attend to a momentary déjà vu. I might have been in Wyoming, but my memory was stuck on Sagamore Hill- the Long Island home of President Teddy Roosevelt. As a student it felt like we were shuttled over to this beloved President’s home at least once a year. I think our teachers hoped for us to learn that Long Islanders could (like Teddy) love nature, become great presidents, or were capable of “speaking softly.” Or perhaps they just wanted us to learn that there was more to the name Roosevelt than Roosevelt Field Mall.

At Sagamore Hill we were led by docents (who were likely as old as Teddy himself) and taught about this 26^th Presidents progressive politics and unique (albeit once living) home décor. Who knew there could be such historical significance in an elephant foot umbrella stand? My more sensitive classmates were quick to throw their hands in front of what they assumed were my very sensitive vegetarian eyes. But I had always been able to stomach (and even admire) this president’s respect for nature- even if it meant animal head chic.

I would not be surprised if the interior designers of The Old Faithful Inn were amongst the Long Island school children that were forced to visit and revisit Sagamore Hill. The likeness between the two was uncanny. I could have certainly pictured Teddy here. He’d be in front one of the hotels many crackling fires- stroking a hunting rifle on a brown studded leather couch, and pausing to pat his rotund belly and let loose a hearty laugh.

When I took notice of the guests who were actually congregated in front of the hotels cracking fires, I had to let out a hearty laugh. All the strollers, and fanny packs, and foreign language tourism materials certainly did not suggest Friend of the Rough Riders. I was totally tickled at the thought of those tourists (or me and Meredith for that matter) interacting with the pioneering adventurers of yesteryears. And I couldn’t help to wonder if most tourism experiences today were in fact the contrived re-creations of once organic adventures. Could there – would there- be any new and unique frontiers for us to explore? Did people like Teddy (who didn’t need to locate the guest service desk to find their way through a park) still exist? I wanted to find those people, because as I approached a sign that said ‘Park Information’ I knew was certainly not one of them.

“Hi.” We said in unison to a middle aged man standing behind that very information desk. Like all other seasonal park employees this man wore a badge indicating his name and city of origin. This was Stan from Dixon, Missouri.

“We’re looking for the geezer.” I said.

“Geyser” Meredith corrected as she had done many times before. “It’s a geyser, not a crotchety old man” she would insist. I never did master those old 5^th grade social studies terms.

“We’re looking for Old Faithful.” I restated

Of course we were looking for Old Faithful! Stan exclaimed pulling out a map of this part of the park.

“You’re here,” he said marking a big X in front of the hotel. “And you just can’t miss Old Faithful! You’ll see her!” he enthusiastically added. He marked another X in front of the geyser in question, and drew lines connecting the two. Stan handed us the map Meredith and I awkwardly swayed in front of the information desk while he eagerly questioned us about our trip “Boston to Seattle! We’ll isn’t that something girls! Isn’t America just something?!” he said slapping the top of his pleated khaki slacks. We exchanged grins before agreeing in the affirmative. “Oh it’s something alright.”

Too bad Stan couldn’t have been around for Mitchell City.

“Okay, now you’re going to want to head out” Stan said looking at his watch “Old Faithful is going to erupt in just about 25 minutes. And girls,” Stan said in a hushed tone as he leaned over the desk. “Don’t worry. If you get lost, just follow the Asians. They’re just everywhere snapping their cameras. But they’re all headed to the geysers. So when in doubt just follow the Asians and you won’t miss Old Faithful.”

Stan stood up straight, smiled, and waved us goodbye.

Uhhh?

We hastily made our way back outside where freezing rain drops had began pelting the earth.

“Did he…? Did you just hear…? Is he allowed to…? What the…?” Meredith and I both quickly questioned and talked over each other between bursts of awkward laughter.

So Stan the information attendant from Missouri was a racist.  His map, on the other-hand, was incredibly accurate. We soon found ourselves amongst a bevy of other Old Faithful tourists. Sure, there were Asians, but I picked up Scottish and Australian accents, bits of European languages, and I definitely heard a few Canadian “pardons.” And based on the college football paraphernalia worn by Yellowstone’s visitors we also had full American representation. Everything from sweatshirts to visors (“I know, I know,” I preemptively said to Meredith after multiple visor sightings. Nothing agitates or perplexes Meredith more than the thought of someone opting out of wearing the top half of a hat) were branded with the NCAA’s most beloved teams: Michigan, Ol’ Miss, Notre Dame, ‘Bama Crimson, Nebraska, Purdue, Iowa, Texas A&M, Wyoming, Auburn, Kentucky… so even if there wasn’t representation from the whole of America, there were at least residents from 91% of football loving red states.

“Lot’s of Mormons, huh?” I whispered to Meredith over Old Faithful’s pre-eruption grumbles. How could I know such a thing she asked accusingly… like I just received a text message from one of the sister wives.

“Look.” I motioned to three separate groups that were decked out in Brigham Young University gear. “And over there too.” Meredith’s eyes followed mine and landed on another cluster of children and adults decked in BYU sweatshirts waiting for the Old Faithful explosion.

“Oh...” she said in understanding “the male-female-child ratio.”

“Precisely.”

“How many of them are there?” We pushed two hacky-sack playing Vermont hippies out of way to get better view of the group. After we counted three times we agreed that there was one man, four women, and 13 obedient children. Both of our wheels began spinning to make sense of this family. Was it one family? Were they really his wives? Was this filming day...was Bill Paxton around?

I mean, I am no nineteenth century bigoted Evangelical. I didn’t want to chase the Mormons out of Yellowstone- but my natural curiosity was piqued! How did they get here, did they drive a bus or was a there some sort of caravan system in place? What games did they play on those renowned Mormon family game nights- I couldn’t quite picture all 18 players around a Monopoly board. When the kids went to school and the husband went to work was it like sorority life- did the women all get their periods at the same time and fight over time who needed to delete their television shows off the DVR? Did they talk each other out of going to the gym and into eating multiple baked goods a day (the ultimate sabotage)? What was the sleeping situation? Did he take turns… was there a schedule…were there ever…ahem… more than two people in play?

Faster, and faster, and faster my wheels turned thinking about these Mormons. Just as I was gasping at the thought of their weekly grocery bill I heard the collective gasps of each Mormon and, each Asian, European, stoned hippie, NCAA fan, protesting 14 year old on family vacation, and Meredith. I was so preoccupied with writing an explosive Mormon plot line that I missed the explosion right in from of me.

I felt like I owed it to myself and to Mother Nature to relish in some more outdoor activity before returning to the comfort of climate control. “How ‘bout a quick hike?” I asked Meredith. Her head was smothered in her arms guarding herself from the piercing rain. I really knew that I had a better chance of getting her to chain herself to the top of the car for the rest of the ride to Seattle than I had getting her to climb up a mere mountain, but was worth a shot.

“Okay,” I reneged before she could vocalize the threatening expressions she sent in my direction.

In anticipation of living in hilly Seattle and the mountainous Pacific Northwest I had started incline sprinting at my neighborhood Boston Sports Club. I settled on the fact that we would drive across the country, unpack our belongings, and climb Mount Rainier. In that order. And since I had never gone hiking or camping (yet another symptom of a misspent suburban youth) I was determined not to arrive to Seattle unprepared. So I ran and ran uphill (my glutes continue to experience post traumatic stress) but after spending a week squashed in my car consuming the fine delicacies of Middle America, I wasn’t sure my legs could handle solid - let alone inclined ground. I still pressed on though and insisted we walk up a short scenic trail to an overlook.

Meredith unenthusiastically agreed. Before long we were amongst a group of Yellowstone visitors that were migrating from Old Faithful to the trails. From my periphery I saw my Mormons heading in our direction. I stopped in my tracks to nudge Meredith – making a small spectacle “Look, do you see the Mormons? I’d seriously be willing to be they’re polygamists. Look! What do you think? Polygamists, right?!” I have never been accused of being subtle. Meredith had seen them head this way and implored me to stop gawking, and just walk. Meredith had in fact been praised for her ability to make a discreet observation- a skill she would later struggle with after encountering one too many mystifying transgenders in Seattle.

I would have liked to believe I spent the day in Yellowstone climbing a mountain, but Meredith was quick to remind me, it was just an inclined path. Semantics. It was with considerable effort that we attempted to conquer the incline. But the incline seemed to conquer us. “If this isn’t a mountain,” I said veering over to the nearest tree “then why” inhale “am” exhale “I” inhale “dying?!” After we put ourselves on a timeout to recover a normal heart rate, each member of the Mormon family gracefully marched right up the trail and encountered us with warm salutations. “hi, hi there, hia, howdy, greetings, hello, afternoon.”

“Hi, yes, hi, hello, afternoon.” we responded politely. And after each of the Mormons passed us I felt recharged. I might not have been outdoorsy, but I was a New Yorker, I was genetically mandated to be pushy and have a propensity to win. Just look at the Yankees.

“The Mormons are kicking our asses! Even the littlest ones!” I said throwing myself off of the tree and back onto the trail.

“It’s not a competition. They’re Mormons, this is the outdoors; it’s what they do. ” Meredith insisted.

Ha. Would Teddy Roosevelt have leisurely strolled up a mountain, or would he have moved with gusto to explore those new frontiers? Clearly Meredith new nothing about my inherent New York spirit.

When we finally arrived at the overlook the Mormons were already there admiring the view of a very wet Yellowstone. “Isn’t it wonderful?!” the presumed father of this Mormon posse said to us.

“Great.” I responded. I took a quick look around and gave a wave to the Mormon, “Well, we’re off.” My eyes motioned from Meredith to the trail down and I started moving again with full speed ahead.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted to soak up a little nature? Didn’t I hear something about relishing in the awe of it all?” she said matching my new hasty paste.

“I don’t want any of those tourists to beat us back down!” I said. My feet were moving faster than any brain activity. And my muscles seemed to have memorized the steps to a complicated wildlife cha cha-Step, step, shuffle to the left, tree branch, duck, step, step, step to the side, squirrel, step forward, watch the rock, step, step, step… and then I erred.

I saw the thick protruding tree trunk in what seemed like hours after my body encountered it. For the second time that day everything slowed down and I flew from the tree trunk through the air in slow motion. I landed on my hands and knees and everything came to a complete stop just in time for the procession of Mormons. One-by-one they passed me and offered me a hand up, but I remained frozen on all fours.

And on the cold wet earth of Yellowstone I most certainly changed my holiday wishes. Queue up Mariah again. All I wanted for Christmas (or my birthday or Kwanzaa or the Chinese New Year) was climate control and car snacks. Meredith emerged from behind the offending tree after the parade of Mormons and other tourists stepped over me. She had not attempted to conceal her fits of schadenfreudic laughter.

“Time to slow down?” Meredith suggested.

And there, ass in the air, face to the ground, I thought about Teddy. Clearly the field trips didn’t pay off. I was so not meant to be a Rough Rider, or cowboy, or even semi-occasional weekend hiker. I finally pushed myself off the ground and slowly limped the whole way down the trail. 


As it turned out, the scenic path was, in fact, scenic.

Down the scenic trail, past the geyser and The Old Faithful Inn, and back in the car I nursed my scrapes and wounds. Blasting the heat I decided that the American Old West wasn’t quite the frontier for me to explore. After all, I still needed to pioneer through Seattle and the challenges of a new city. And there would be challenges. In just two days I would be in Seattle without outdoor expertise, tech savvy, incline acclimation, friends, a job, barista skills, anything seemingly useful. Yellowstone started to seem a lot more manageable than my own unique frontiers. My heart beat a little faster and inclined paths grew into mountains. And I was suddenly in no rush to get anywhere. 

Rule of the Road: Walk slowly and carry a big map. 

Rule of the Road #5: Slow Down (Part 1)

Any on-looking stranger would be able to tell that Meredith had never been sent to the principal’s office. Worry froze each muscle in her face, and sallow yellow replaced a week’s worth of lobster sunburn on her perfectly innocent cheeks. All that moved were her eyes. They paced along the dashboard of the car as she waited to hear the punishment for this first time offense.

“New Hampshire, huh?”

Amusement tickled his tone. He looked from Meredith’s driver’s license back into my dirt-smothered Toyota Corolla. This highway patrolman’s perfect-to-stereotype large tinted sunglasses captured our very character revealing expressions. While fear bounced off each of Meredith’s pores, from the passenger side, my own facial muscles twitched  and contorted themselves many many times. I imagined this patrolman assumed I had forgotten to take a month’s worth of necessary Terrets medication. Little did he (or Meredith)  know that I was attempting to conceal my very schadenfreudic smirks and giggles. Unlike Meredith, I had spent many a long middle school days passing time on that chastising bench outside the principal’s office door. Trouble and I were too well acquainted. I quite liked not being in the hot seat for once.

“A’right girls.” he said like it was a complete sentence. Clutching Meredith’s driver’s license he adjusted his (again) perfect-to-stereotype large cowboy hat. But we were in Wyoming after-all and it seemed that here stereotypes were comprised less of biased judgment and more of accurate cultural customs. The highway patrolman walked back to his car and ruffled a stream of dirt in the air behind him.

“I’ve never been pulled over before!” she blurted out the moment he was out of earshot. “The road was so empty- I didn’t even realize how fast I was going.” Meredith continued… as if pleading her case to me would make a difference. I walked fast, talked fast, thought fast, finished a beer quicker than any boy I knew, and with a right foot comprised solely of led- well- I was certainly not in a position to be judgmental of speed. I was more than certain that Meredith would not be served her first traffic violation, but I felt like she was going through and important initiation. We were about to be roommates- living with me had its hazards. This just might be the ‘avert danger!’ sign she needed to survive what was about to come.

“I was in New Hampshire once…” The patrolman said with worldly accomplishment after he shuffled back to the open driver’s window. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“We’re moving to Seattle.” Meredith widened her eyes with a smile and briefly engaged this patrolman in a conversation on New Hampshire tourism.  ‘Atta girl’ I proudly thought. I waited for her skillful small talk to end and the verdict to be delivered. But once they landed on the topic of New Hampshire’s beloved gem, ‘Polly’s Pancake Parlor’ I knew without a doubt she’d be off the hook.

And of course, she was.

“Just slow down girls,” this forgiving officer reiterated. So we were off! And we were slow! We crept along the single lane road that hugged the curves and turns of Big Horn National Forest and held up the long procession of out-of-state tourism that followed. And when rain turned to snow and then back to freezing rain we made senior citizen’s driving to Sunday morning church services look like they belonged in the Indie. But Meredith accepted each ‘hurry up’ honk as a badge of her civilian safety.

“I don’t care who’s eager to start their camping trip,” she said (mostly to herself) peering in the rearview mirror at the large SUV from Illinois that had been tailing us for miles. “I’m not dying on the slippery roads of Big Horn… or getting pulled over again” (pausing briefly to consider which consequence would be worse) “because they’re ready to set up camp, pitch a tent, and crack open a Bud.” So we inched our way through Wyoming. Never again would the sirens of trouble tarnish Meredith’s gold star status.

The next day I was back behind the wheel, and we flew out of Cody on a mission to discover the Wild West. Thus far we experienced the panorama of these United States like any good American tourist- from the comfort and confine of our vehicle. We had snacks, we had tunes, and most importantly- we had seating.  So as we approached Yellowstone National Park it was more of the same- enjoying nature from a nice climate controlled environment. But on the outside, nature was anything but controlled.  Through big sunny skies snow had been heavily dusting trees that were grander and older than I ever had seen. (“of course you’ve never seen trees this big...there’s no room for trees between the Long Island strip malls.” Meredith would snarkily reply to each of my ‘ohmyyygod, look at nature!’ gasps.)

The phrase ‘postcard perfect’ had never been more applicable.  I wondered whether Mother Nature had specific stake in the tourism sales industry- She certainly enticed many us into more than one of Yellow Stones many gift shops. We loaded up on mittens, travel mugs, and hot cocoa. I was gearing up for summer, but all I wanted to do was belt out “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”

“How about some ‘NOW! That’s What I Call Christmas. Volume 1?’” I suggested when we were back in the car.

“Oh. Mind meld.” Meredith said and took appreciative action. The picture was complete- with the heat cranked we sipped on chocolatey perfection (okay, so it was probably Swiss Miss) and hummed along with Mariah Carey’s Christmas classic. Nature always seems to catch me off guard-certainly another symptom of my suburban upbringing. I would have never thought tall trees and a little snow could provoke such earnest awe. I slowed down- gracefully turning each corner and even coming to a complete stop to take thoughtful snap shots of Yellowstone’s splendor. I somehow found it within myself to restore my damaged sense of gratitude for this country, and in that moment of appreciation I whole-heartedly meant the words I sang…All I want for Christmas is you... Yellowstone. 

Shame Train. Part Two: Mitchell City

“Rachel?”

I could feel the intensity of Meredith’s stare piercing the side of my already sunburned face.

“Mmhmm?” I acknowledged. I tightened my grip on the nine and five position of the steering wheel and kept my gaze steadily fixed on the miles of nothingness ahead of us. We had been driving through South Dakota for five hours. It seemed like five weeks, and I was beginning to grow exhausted by my new and intimate relationship with the sky. Blue turned dusky turned starry - it was endless. I occasionally felt the need to glance at the Starbucks cups and American Apparel cotton wear that littered the floor of my Toyota Corolla to remind me that there once was, and would likely be, urban civilization again.

“Rachel?” Meredith pressed again. “You’re not talking.” The constant stream of chatter that had thus far characterized our cross-country trek had suddenly been replaced by the constant swoosh and spray of my windshield wipers. Thousands of South Dakotan kamikaze insects had spent the afternoon hitting us head on. Perhaps those endless skies had overwhelmed and exhausted them as well. The wipers were sedulous, but no amount of swooshing and spraying would clear the remains of those death-seeking insects.

“I’m sorry.” I felt frozen, and the mere task of uttering a simple apology took my lips considerable effort.

“It’s just that,“ I turned my head to watch Meredith as she carefully chose her words. “I’ve never heard you be… you know…quiet.” Then she hesitated before asking, “Should I be worried?”

Huh. Should she be worried? My foot sank deeper onto the accelerator, and I didn’t make a sound. I thought that an increased speed would allow for a quicker return to lighthearted banter, but there seemed to be no evading the sound of those wipers or the engulfment of that never-ending-sky.

***

Four hours earlier Meredith and I were deeply and passionately engrossed in debating one of the most polarizing questions of modern times: Who was the superior boy band: N’SYNC or Backstreet Boys? My inner 16 year old grew riled as I listed off all of the merits of the No Strings Attached album.

“Ahhh. RIP, TRL…” Meredith lamented.

“Should we have a top ten memorial countdown?” I asked as I began to queue up a 2001 playlist.

“I think it would be irresponsible not to.”

“I also think it would be irresponsible not to soak up some of this local South Dakotan flavor,” I added as I pulled a Google map out from under my seat. Earlier that week my encounter with Mauston, Wisconsin helped me realign my expectations of the American Heartland. But despite my earlier disappointment, I still felt determined to uncover what made this part of America so… real. Rupert Murdoch should have sent camera crews.

I searched my Midwest travel materials for local dining options. I hoped we would stumble upon one of those real gems - something on a barren dirt road that served the best pecan pie a la mode in the county. The type of place where locals sat at a counter and swung their heads in unison every time a stranger walked in. The type of place that had a continuous loop of John Mellencamp songs playing on the jukebox. The kind of place my American road trip fantasies were made of.

“I’m getting pie,” I prematurely announced, and directed Meredith to drive towards Mitchell City, a town not too far off of South Dakota’s I-90.

“Oh, samezies.” Meredith agreed (more out of hunger than a pressing desire to experience Mitchell City’s unique local charm).

We merged off the interstate and headed through the main strip of Mitchell City. I was hoping for a new American experience, but it did not take long for me to realize that there was something very unappealingly familiar about this town: McDonald’s, Ruby Tuesday, Pizza Hut, Dairy Queen, Walmart. Wait a second. Where were the dirt roads and wafting aroma of roasting pecans?

“No, no, no!” I declared in disbelief. According to my travel materials there’s definitely a Main Street bustling with local business. I grasped my Google map and instructed Meredith to make a left after a Perkin’s. She rounded the corner, and sure enough, things seemed to get a lot more...local.

Meredith pointed at a strip of what seemed to be once thriving Mom and Pop shops. They were all vacated. Could this be a repeat of Canada’s Victoria Day? Was there a South Dakotan holiday that we didn’t account for? But as we drove by each lifeless corner and boarded up shop, it became clear that these stores weren’t closed for the day… they were just…closed.

Street after street of would-be businesses were barren. “Well. This is what my hometown looks like,” Meredith said matter-of-factly after I let out sigh after disappointed sigh. Meredith is from a small town in Northern New Hampshire. She never shared my obsession of discovering the local American flavor. “And this is what a lot of small towns look like,” she added. Meredith was well versed in the consequences of Walmart.

“I just don’t believe it,” I continually repeated over the sound of “ouuuing” and “ahhhing” boy bands in the background. I felt sorry for Mitchell City.

“Two?” the hostess of Perkins asked us ten minutes later. I had accepted that my desire to find Mitchell City locals at a diner counter was a wayside dream, so we surrendered ourselves to corporate sustenance. The hostess’s short thick fingers clenched two menus that were as large as her squat frame. She must have been working a double. Maybe a triple. Dark circles swallowed her tiny eyes, and I couldn’t help to think that the color of her teeth, hair, and skin all matched the same muted gray color of a frozen beef patty. My eyes quickly jetted around the room appraising the Perkins clientele. In a moment of incredible vanity I felt super model thin when I compared myself to each of the Biggest Loser-eligible Perkins’ customers. Meredith and I politely smiled, and then asked if there were vegetarian options available on the menu.

“Vegetarian?” the hostess repeated flatly. Her face grew even grayer while her expression seemed to say, “Goddamn hippies,” as she heaved the large laminated menus in our direction. We silently scanned the colorful pages of photographed hamburgers. We looked back to the hostess, nervously muttered, “thanks,” and scuttled out the door.

Okay. So we weren’t a smashing sensation at Perkins. Back in the car we agreed to circle the town once more. We drove past the half mile long Walmart, back through the desolate Main Street, and then, in my periphery I spotted the strangest sight.

“What. Is. That?” Meredith exclaimed and slammed on the brakes. She slowly reversed and rounded the corner. Grandiose earth toned onion domes, minarets, pillars, and flagpoles stood erected in front of us. A sign reading, “Mitchell Corn Palace,” hung above the entrance.

“A palace?!!” We both asked.

“Do you think Aladdin and Jasmine are home?” I snickered in amused confusion. Could Mitchell City, with its roads of closed businesses and foreclosed homes really have a palace dedicated to personifying and celebrating corn? I quickly consulted my South Dakotan tourism material.

Yes. It most certainly could.

We couldn’t help laughing when we rounded the corner and passed a person wearing a smiling corn on the cob costume. But in that same moment something began weighing on me. I quickly recognized the heavy feeling Mitchell City was beginning to trigger. It’s a feeling that makes my shoulders raise and my stomach sink. A feeling I have been evading for the better half of a lifetime- a feeling I never wanted to feel. I quickly resorted to humor and mockery to squash all emotions.

“Look! Shakes ‘n Stuff!” Meredith said motioning to a lone standing business. “Annnd it’s local!” she added.

“Well, you know I am always available for a shake. And stuff,” I said quickly rebounding from my temporary emotional analysis. But when we stepped into Shakes ‘n Stuff I immediately heard those, “Be carful what you wish for,” warnings reverberating throughout the corners of my mind. Shakes ‘n Stuff was certainly local. Unlike Perkins, the entirety of this menu was written on a small chalkboard above the counter. Three generations of women standing behind the register were friendly and eager to help us identify the vegetarian selections (although in the end we all agreed grilled cheese was the only viable option). Each member of this daughter-mother-grandmother Shakes ‘n Stuff managing trio was larger than the next, and their welcoming smiles were rather lost within their rotund cheeks.

This little eatery was as small as the living room in my first hole in the wall Manhattan apartment. Rickety wooden tables were surrounded by wobbling plastic lawn chairs, and I worried that given their customer base they were in immediate jeopardy of breakage. “Asshole,” I thought to myself as we sat down. At the table next to us a mother and father were having dinner with their young son.

“Eat your vegetables,” the mother said earnestly. She scooped some ketchup onto a waffle French fry and handed it to her son.

Wait. Back up a second…or two decades. Hadn’t America outgrown that Reaganite ‘ketchup is a vegetable’ mentality? I mean, wasn’t that why we had Jillian Michaels and Whole Foods? But I guess in a town centered on corn culture, corn syrup was king… or vegetable…or whatever you wanted it to be. Meredith and I sat in highly communicative silence. She knew why my shoulders were slowly creeping up, and every look she gave to me said, “judgey-wudgey,” as if she were yelling it directly into my ear.

I couldn’t stop staring at each Shakes ‘n Stuff customer and employee. But it was the youngest (and largest) of the women behind the counter who really captivated my attention. Her head was tucked squarely into her chest and speckles of grease clung to her apron and skin. She swept the floor with slow hesitated movement, and each time she lifted her gaze off the floor, she pushed her tiny glasses back up the arch of her nose, exhaustingly refocusing the world. I have never worked in food service, and as my many ex-roommates can vouch, I rarely sweep a floor, but I became very aware that there was something all too familiar about this young woman’s defeated motions. Watching her was like looking directly into a window of my past.

I knew I had been passing unfair (and maybe even cruel) judgment on this town, this family of women, and especially this girl. And I was harshly judging myself for being so damn judgmental. But I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t they help themselves? Didn’t they know the dangers of Walmart and high fructose corn syrup and red meat and Fox News? Both empathy and anger surged through me, and I continued to stuff down any uprising emotion. So when our grilled cheese deluxes and shakes arrived, that’s exactly what I did. Stuff and stuff and stuff.

“It was the morbid obesity, right?!” Meredith asked as we left Shakes ‘n Stuff. I knew she wanted to confirm the source of my shoulder raising anxiety so we could talk it out, make a joke, and move on. But as she tossed me the car keys I knew I would not be the self-deprecating, jokester travel companion she hoped for.

As my best friend, Meredith was well versed in the causes of my shoulder raising anxieties. She knew too well that my messy relationships with food, the number on the scale, and the reflection I saw in the mirror (or tagged Facebook pictures for that matter) were the number one triggers of a disproportionate ear to shoulder ratio. When I buckled my seatbelt and looked over at Meredith I only hoped she understood that it wasn’t my intention to be judgey-wudgey or unkind in Mitchell City. God knows I could just hear my mother say, “Come’on Rayyyyyy, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” But my very short visit to Mitchell City had set off a very deeply seeded feeling. No matter how I grow (or shrink) into adulthood, part of me will always see myself as those women in Mitchell City - defeated, depressed, and debilitating big.

Shame.

Back under the big sky of I-90 I pushed the accelerator pedal nearly as far as it could go. I watched the speedometer climb, and when I felt that old familiar sense of velocity building, I started thinking about those incredibly rapid moving trains in New York City. It was aboard one such train four years earlier when I slammed into my awareness of shame. During that time, and even in the years since, I have repeatedly tried to ride away from that heavy emotion, but no matter where I go or how fast I push the accelerator of my life, shame follows.

It was safe to say my windshield had now become a mosquito graveyard. I tried soothing my mind by listening to the constant swoosh and spray of the wipers, but just like that South Dakotan sky, the agitation in my core grew to be all encompassing. Shame was rising up and I couldn’t run, hide, or stuff it back down. And that’s when I thought of Lain.

Lain, my very Zen former New York therapist spent years imploring me to identify my feelings instead of pushing them away. During the Lain period of my life I did not have the emotional bandwidth for detecting and reflecting upon my various moods. But in the years since the time I lived in New York, I have spent a pretty therapy penny on improving (but definitely not perfecting) my relationship with emotions. Despite my psychological strides, whenever I slightly experience the feeling of shame I become emotionally stunted, and an expert in the art of escapism.

As we continued to drive though South Dakota, and as Meredith became increasingly worried about my state of quiet, I wondered, what exactly happened to me in Mitchell City? The evening had started so well! Boy bands were temporarily making a comeback, and the promise of discovering local America was on the horizon. So did I just become ashamed and embarrassed that I once resembled the average Mitchell City citizen? Or was I disappointed that I have yet to gain a mastery over my ongoing issues with food and reflective surfaces? Or was my shame triggered by something bigger than just bigness?

Anyone who has ever seen my blood boiling reaction to Fox News commentators would be astonished to learn that I had been on a Palin-esque mission to discover, “the real America.” While I would never want to tarnish my bluer than blue reputation, I knew that in our drive across the country I was eager to find something more wholesome, more earnest, and less intricate than those concrete urban jungles and over indulged suburbs I had come to know so well. I wanted a Normal Rockwell painting. But instead Mitchell City presented a first hand look at failed businesses, foreclosures, Walmarts, corn culture, human exhaustion, deep fryers, and simple minds. And with each moment I spent there, I realized what I saw in Mitchell City wasn’t just Sarah Palin’s “Real America.” What I saw in Mitchell City was (to my great regret) really America.

Like most young liberal Americans I have often been ashamed of my country. Usually the mention of patriotism or the American Dream or the troops is enough to send me into a fit of eye rolls. But the longer I spend getting better acquainted with this part of the country, the more I discover that I am a lot like America herself. This country is booming big, and (to my great dismay) so am I. My thoughts, ideals, aspirations, mistakes, accomplishments, personality, voice, gestures, expressions are all big. Huge. I wasn’t exactly on the Oregon Trail, but I was moving to Seattle with the grand hope of discovering exciting possibilities and etching out a new life. It was all veryyyyyy American.

I could tell my quiet contemplative state still had Meredith utterly panicked. Although it was against my incredibly chatty nature to sit in silence, for once I didn’t want to just talk for the sake of talking. I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed we were the only vehicle on I-90, and the static scenery made me feel like I wasn’t gaining any ground. And just like my car, my own personal windshield wiper defense system was slowing down. In South Dakota, dodging shame is an exhausting sport.

With each red, white, and blue I-90 mile, I recognized that the line between big dreams and big failures was very thin. Were my big aspirations and bigger personality going to be a big failure on the West Coast? Was I doomed to become like Mitchell City? Like America – a large colorful vessel of nothingness? Lots of words and little content?

I continued to drive through the vast sky until I finally exited for gas, and pulled up behind an extra large pickup truck. The truck was completely covered in insect intestines too.

“How about a Swedish Fish?!” Meredith coaxed and pulled a full yellow bag of our favorite road trip candy out of her purse. Surely the offer of refined sugar would snap me out of my quiet lull. It didn’t. We traded spots. I sunk into the passenger seat, leaned my head against the window, and although I wanted to avoid eye contact my eyes met the dark sky. Unlike my escape from shame years before in New York, it was not so easy to hide from feelings in South Dakota. I couldn’t joke. I couldn’t laugh, get lost on the subways, hide under skyscrapers, mindlessly chat, sing along with teen pop, eat my feelings, hide or run from them. It was us and the road and the sky. And shame.

It was new, but it was certain - I was feeling my feelings. Back in bustling Manhattan, Lain would be so proud. I looked at Meredith and was finally able to vocalize a simple explanation that I only hoped she would understand.

“It’s like the Mitchell City shame train express.” I said, “feeling your feelings at 75 MPH.”

She nodded in understanding. I closed my eyes and continued to sit with the feeling of shame. Shame for the person I once was and shame for the person I was fearful of becoming. But in the midst of my discomfort I felt a speckle of relief. What if I wasn’t entirely on the same road as America? Maybe finally feeling my feelings is a sign that (unlike arrogant politicians and Fox New commentators) I am capable of acknowledging my mistakes and making small but real changes. Maybe I’m capable of filling that colorful vessel with meaningful content, and riding through the scariest places, because maybe, feeling the effects of a debilitating past can provide a road map for an invigorating future… or at least a path out of Mitchell City.

Shame Train. Part One: New York

“Rachel?” Lain nudged.

Always fidgeting, I had been pulling on the split ends of my endlessly long hair while swinging my feet up and down off the edge of the sofa in her office. I could tell that she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

“Rachel?” she pushed again.

I avoided looking at her and began snapping my hair elastic against my wrist.

Snap.

I had heard Lain, and I knew it was my turn to make a move. I never needed an invitation to chat, but this was more than a request for simple conversation.

Snap.

“Rachel.” This time she almost whispered my name. Lain’s voice was serene and smooth, and like the wafting aroma of incense, it lingered in the air even after she spoke. I stopped snapping my now stinging wrist and scanned the perfectly feung shuy room. I knew this office too well. Each piece of furniture and decorative trinket had become so etched in my brain that I would regularly interrupt climatic conversations to say, “Hey wait a second—you moved that chair!” or “Oh! That picture is new. Who’s the artist?”

I counted on my remembrance of this room for the exact purpose of derailing our conversations before they reached point awkward. Of course, my well-timed disruptions were not particularly well-timed for Lain, who spent a large part of 2007 encouraging me to talk about something –anything –not related to her office décor, Grey’s Anatomy, or my developing crush on Barack Obama.

“I really feel like he is the most attractive politician in a century. I mean, given the opportunity, I’d be the next Monica,” I’d very regularly emphasize to Lain. “What?!” I’d add with preemptive defense, “Didn’t you want me to talk about my feeeeeelings?”

I walked (or perhaps more accurately, I was pushed) through Lain’s office door for the first time in January 2007. After years of claiming to be ‘anti-feelings,’ that winter my suppressed emotions seemed to have gotten the better of me. My behavior became more erratic than ever, and although I argued that I was fine, (“Fine. Fine. Fine. Leave me alone. I’m fine.”), with an unstable mood, contorted relationship with food, and body image that was skewed, it seemed that I was, well – screwed. There is not enough room on the Internet to give a detailed account of the particular variety of complicated crazy I was experiencing.  Suffice it to say, Lain had her work cut out for her.

Lain and I had spent the past several weeks in her Manhattan office skirting in and out of conversations about my family dynamic. This was a loaded topic I could only ever approach with copious sarcasm and mockery. Although talking about my relationship with Fran was a nice break from analyzing my relationship with my pant size. Gap trousers are not nearly as imitable as my mother.

As I sat on Lain’s couch, I would channel the spirit of both my Italian and Jewish ancestors by giving mile-a-minute accounts of the "he said/ she said" door-slamming facts of the past. Despite my animated retellings, I knew that Lain wanted to uncover more than just a dramatic plot line. Lain was on the hunt for those deeply seeded, perhaps even unfelt emotions that, to this day, continue to affect me. “Rachel, try to dig a little bit deeper,” Lain would say whenever I stopped talking to come up for air.

“Deeper?!” I would cry in outrage. “I just spent over an hour telling you how mad I was about a fight I had 1997. How much deeper can I get? What, did you want me to reenact the moment I kicked a kitchen chair?”

Secretly though, I also knew I was holding back. Ever since our discussions moved onto my family, I would leave Lain’s office in a fit of agitation. I would aggressively dodge pedestrians, taxicabs, and this new heavy feeling all the way to Penn Station before hopping on the first express train to Syosset. The faster the train moved, the less I felt the need to emotionally articulate this new mystery feeling. And for my own protection, I was determined to keep up the speed.

It was on an icy March Thursday when I began to lose velocity. I had been sitting on the Long Island Railroad dreading my pending visit with Lain. I was sleepy and gently leaned my forehead against the frosted window to watch the changing scenery as we moved from station to station. Suburban sprawl slowly turned into the grittier Queens streetscape. When the train stopped at Jamaica, the switching point for all Long Island commuters, I felt myself transitioning into a different mode too. Waking up.

“Attention all passengers. We’ve got a stalled train in front of us. We’ll be here for another ten to fifteen minutes,” the conductor announced throughout the train. I was already running ten minutes late, and I began to feel a little bit on edge. My gaze anxiously jetted around the train until I focused straight ahead on the NBC News 4 New York advertisement. And then, as though I were the one who slammed on the breaks of the train, I screeched into awareness—I was in New York!

I mean, of course I knew that I was physically in New York. I had been in New York for months, but somehow the huge significance of this place had escaped me. I had thought that after I graduated college the previous May I would never have to confront New York again. I thought I would swing into town twice a year for a Broadway show and mother-daughter pedicure then flee town before things got—tricky—complicated—loud. But here I was.

A colleague once told me that I had a large personality because I was a New Yorker, as if I had to actively compete with the skyscrapers and Broadway shows for attention. To this charge Meredith laughed and said "As long as you are comprised of Fran's genetic makeup and have access to your collection of showtunes  you would have a large personality in the sub-Saharan desert." But my colleague was right. There is a distinctive part of my personality that is large, loud—New York.

While it was no secret that I considered myself an anti-feelings adult, this was not always the case. I come from a family that is booming loud. Potential holiday dinner guests are warned that they might incur hearing loss by the time dessert is served. But it is not only our decibel level that is booming; our feelings, actions, and reactions are also large. And mine tended to be the loudest and largest of the bunch. And it made me feel big. And I was. When I graduated high school I was as large as an NFL defensive tackle, and I just couldn't take the weight of it all anymore. I fled New York to the woods of New Hampshire, and resolved to end my relationship with emotion. And carbs. I resolved to shrink. I thought I did. But there on the Long Island Railroad, the picture of Sue Simmons and the rest of 4 New York team reminded me that I was in New York and hadn't successfully escaped from those large feelings and that utter sense of….

Shame.

And that was it. That was the feeling I had been dodging. It was not a word I liked, and I immediately fell into a state of restless discomfort. The train was still sitting still, and I needed it to move full speed ahead. I desperately needed to get off, and escape into the concrete playground of Manhattan. I needed to swing from the cover of one protective building to another, squeeze though the passengers of the overcrowded 2/3 Express Train, glide between the cases of books at 66th Street Barnes and Noble, and hop from one midtown pretzel vendor to the next until that word eradicated itself from my vernacular. It remained in my unspoken vocabulary for weeks though, and my mind and my body had become grossly bloated. I was surely going to bust, and Lain could tell.

One day, as I was snapping that hair elastic against my wrist, and describing a saga that had left me sobbing in the seventh grade girls bathroom, Lain asked me the question I was dreading. And after three failed attempts to get my answer, Lain asked me again.

“Rachel—how does that make you feel?”

“Feel? I don’t know.”

I knew, but I still could not say it. So instead I said the biggest and scariest words I could say.

“I feel large. Obese. Morbidly obese.”

Snap.

I expected Lain to tell me, ‘Rachel, large or full or hungry or skinny or obese, or even morbidly obese, are not feelings.’ Well, duh. And I was not morbidly obese. Especially not then.

She didn’t say anything. Instead she waited for me. Lain’s patience was perhaps her strongest, if not most annoying attribute. But generally after enough time, noise, frustration, and failed attempts, Lain’s patience would prevail, and she would be able to get through to me. I was kind of like AOL 2.0.

“I’m ashamed,” I confessed. My shoulders inched up so high that my neck had all but disappeared.

Snap.

Lain: 1. Rachel: 0.

Acknowledging this word did not offer me a sense of relief nor comfort. And it certainly did not relieve the feeling of shame. If anything my admittance of shame made me feel more ashamed. I was once a plus sized person who had plus sized feelings. And even though I claimed to have squashed feeling now, I still responded to any lurking emotions by making plus sized mistakes.

Snap.

Lain still did not speak. I was becoming very aware of the silence in her office. “Ummmm. Soooo,” I said as I fidgeted, “no big deal.” Then against the honking cars and drilling jack hammers coming from the midtown Manhattan street below, Lain delicately said, “Rachel, you need to feel your feelings.”

Wait a second.

Feel my feelings?!

Isn’t recognizing an emotion indicating that you are in fact, feeling? Couldn’t she be satisfied that I just said I was experiencing shame? Didn’t she know how many uncomfortable train trips I had because of this emotional discovery? Not to mention the fact that I could not longer watch the NBC 11 o’clock news. God! Sometimes I really hated Lain. My feet began swinging, and my eyes began scanning back and forth from the door to the window. I was more than ready to escape to the solace of the streets below.

“Anyway,” I detracted, “I like your sweater. Is that new?”

It was certain. This conversation had come to an end because Lain knew, just like in those old, precarious Internet days, after much patience she might be able to get through, but she wouldn’t be able to stay connected for very long.