borrowed dreams.

It’s 4:00 AM and I can’t sleep, as clearly evidenced by this post.

I’ve removed all the pillows from my bed and built a fortress of sorts in my closet. I’ve never looked at my dress clothes from this angle, but they seem eerily protective right now as they hover above the glow of my laptop screen. A sentry of Ike Behars and Van Heusens, if you will.

I can’t put a finger on exactly what is bothering me, but this is the third or fourth restless night I’ve suffered since moving. I’m confident that it’s a little more than just growing pains at this point.

If you’ve never lived in what could be considered constant limbo between what you feel is right and what you’ve been told is wrong, then you might have trouble relating to me beyond this point. Warning issued.

Sometimes I feel like my life isn’t mine. I was told where to go to school. I was told what to study. I was told what to pledge. I was told which career path to follow. I’ve been praised for every mark that I’ve met and redirected to an alternative or satisfactory substitute for each that I’ve missed. Every dream I’ve had for myself has been lauded and nurtured for my own sake; most have been ultimately pushed aside because they didn’t fit “the vision” for my life that has, over time, become a self-imposed death sentence.

A few months ago while corresponding via text message, a friend (I think I feel comfortable calling him that now) asked me: “What makes you happy?” What scared me the most about that question was the fact that it took me almost two whole days to successfully answer it. I know that’s not a simple, quick-draw question along the lines of “What did you have for breakfast this morning?” but I’m pretty sure the average person could come up with something after a few moments of thought.

My first answer—the very first thing that popped into my head—was simple. “Dancing” was my eventual reply after a few hours (coupled with “ice cream”, of course). My response was delayed because saying it felt silly to me… almost as though I was ashamed of it. That’s how I’ve been conditioned to feel about dance. It has no place at the table in the grand scheme of my life’s plan, so sayeth the controlling authority tasked with implanting the notion of what my life is supposed to be.

After wiping my brow and feeling as though I made it through, my phone chimed once again with another text. “What else?” Thus began the mental toiling. Here I was battling a question about my own aspirations. I was struggling to identify the source of my own happiness. Never would I have imagined that I’d be unable to reach into this prescribed life of mine to find an answer for a simple question about it. Am I unreasonable for only having one thing on my list of happy? Is that not normal? Or is everybody else weird for bopping around with a scroll of shit that makes them feel fulfilled and complete? Can I reply with “The ice cream part of that reply was very serious” or will he not buy that?

A day and a half into wrestling with this torturous question, it finally hit me, and this answer was even more embarrassing to me than the first. “Being in love,” I replied.

Love is one the most unbridled and uncontrollable feelings that any person can possess. You can’t fit love into a project plan or put love on a timetable. You can’t shove love into a box or force it to conform to a certain shape, size, or degree of magnitude. No MLA citation rules or financial ratios can be applied to love to make it happen or to keep it from consuming everything within its path. Love was unaccounted for in “the vision” because it’s not possible to factor it into such a formulaic preparation… not physically, not mathematically, and definitely not scientifically. I subsequently realized that I’ve been at my happiest during the times when I was in love because those were the times where I’ve been at my most free and natural state. In those moments, I’ve been completely liberated from any expectations of compliance or conformity. Being in love has been the only time where I’ve seen the upper hand in the struggle for power and control over my life.

There isn’t much I can do about the love side of the equation right now. But before I moved to San Diego, a good friend of mine convinced me to be open to exploring the option of continuing my dance studies and training on a professional level here. It’s something I would absolutely love to do, but I’m pretty sure I lack the time, gall, and free spirit to truly entertain such an idea.

I feel like I’ve been struggling for quite some time to reconcile my desire to please others with my innate yearning to please myself. Every time I feel I’ve narrowed in on a moment of clarity which reveals not only what must be done to achieve my own desires, but also a glimpse at how that change can potentially shatter my present world, I retreat in fear. It’s not necessarily a fear rooted entirely in trepidation or self-doubt, but rather a fear birthed out of my own stubborn practicality.

This is a prime example of one of the times where my practical nature has taken the reins. I love to dance. That’s something I can honestly admit. It’s almost always on my mind, especially when I’m bored or idle. The second bedroom in my apartment is empty right now (save a few boxes and other miscellany scattered about the perimeter), but I’ve definitely turned it into a makeshift studio a few times since I got here. Even though I practically live and breathe dance under normal, happier circumstances, I don’t know how or if I could transition from where I am now into that world. It would be totally insane to walk away from my career to study dance full-time. TOTALLY insane. UCSD and San Diego State both have commendable dance programs… the former more so than the latter. I’m not sure I’m prepared to take such an enormous leap of faith now or ever, even if I do feel like I’m drowning slowly in a life that doesn’t belong to me. But even beyond all that practical self-doubt, what does it say that this is the place to which my heart continually returns?

Even if dance isn’t the answer, there has to be something. Something that isn’t this. Something that wasn’t given to me. Something I can accept and embrace as my own.

Something that kills the monotony of this dull life and brings me back to a place where complacency and I can be reintroduced.

Maybe a change is worth considering a bit more earnestly. Especially if it’ll keep me out of closets at 4:00 AM.

early voting.

When I was in kindergarten, we had a school-wide mock presidential election.

I attended a small Christian private school in Georgia (which may or may not be an important piece of information to know for the rest of this anecdote). The mock election was a pretty big deal for most of the middle and high school kids who were intellectually advanced and interested enough to understand the actual issues at hand. The kindergarten students weren’t nearly as invested… except for me and a classmate named Monica.

Monica and I had what some may call a love-hate relationship. I stood decidedly on the side of hate. It wasn’t uncommon for me to mix my paste into an extra-watery formula for the sole purpose of pouring it all over her work during our arts & crafts sessions. I’d frequently pull her sandy brown pigtails – partly in jest, but mostly out of a desire to strip them from their taunting position of pendulous swing just above the desktop. Monica, however, always seemed to be quite fond of me. She’d share her morning and afternoon snacks with me on a regular basis. She made sure that we sat next to one another during Chapel and always managed to make her way to the seat directly across from me during lunch, no matter who she had to dethrone in order to secure that spot.

Whatever the case, we managed to join forces for the purposes of our mini-election. I’m not sure if Monica was merely following my lead or if she felt just as strongly as I did about politics. All signs point to the former, but you never know.

When news of the upcoming election began to spread down the elementary hall, our teachers sold it to us more as a “Pick A or B” type of deal. I suppose we were expected to make a decision based solely on how the candidates looked, what their names sounded like, familial party affiliation, or who seemed to be the overwhelmingly popular choice among our other peers. Whichever vine we chose, our choice was expected to be completely and totally void of any real knowledge or information. After all, how politically savvy do you expect a room of five year olds to be??

But that wasn’t good enough for me and Monica.

My grandfather has always been, and will always be, a die-hard Republican. It has been one of the many points over which we’ve been able to bond and connect throughout the years. Some of my earliest memories involve sitting silently in the barbershop while my grandfather debated other gentlemen about political issues and party differences. In those moments I admired his passion, I respected his consciousness, and I inherited his fidelity to the right-wing.

And so, with the modest amount of political knowledge and understanding I possessed at that young age, Monica and I managed to rally a faction of pro-Bush tykes in the rear of the classroom. I did my best to recall the things I’d overheard my grandfather say about H.W. as I attempted to explain his platform positions, though I’m sure it made absolutely no sense to anyone listening. Monica provided auxiliary support, in the form of adorable construction paper campaign signs and dutiful agreement.

We eventually cast our votes by a show of hands, but the budding and charismatic Arkansas governor emerged the victor in our class. Monica and I cried together that day during snack time.

Across the hall and throughout much of the rest of the school, “41” won by a landslide. It wasn’t exactly prefigurative of the decision our nation would eventually make a few weeks later.

That may very well have been the day I first earned my GOP stripes. And sadly (but not surprisingly), it is worth noting that a large segment of the nation still employs our classroom’s superficially uninformed practice of voting to this day.

Who would’ve thought kindergartners would be political trailblazers?

minor adjustments.

Tomorrow marks eight weeks since my move to San Diego. I’m still trying to process the change of scenery -  the different sights, smells, faces, and dispositions all seem just as foreign to me as they did when I first touched down.

I’ve been leaning heavily on trifles of familiarity. Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Waldorf salads from CPK keep my palate grounded in Atlanta. Faithfully following my currently undefeated Falcons and maintaining an active hatred of the Saints has kept my pride and spirit intact. Fielding early afternoon phone calls and even earlier morning texts from east coast friends and family has made me appreciate the value of time a lot more now than I did before.

I made an impromptu trip back home to Atlanta this past weekend, and it helped me realize a few things, primarily, how much I’ve missed home even in my short time away. But also how I’ve adjusted (and failed to adjust) thus far to my new life, and the many other changes that still await me.

Probably the most significant thing I’ve had to deal with has been the feeling of seclusion. I arrived blindly in SoCal as a proud Southerner, charting new and untried territory with almost no points of reference. I didn’t have friends here to connect with upon my arrival. I haven’t been able to fraternize with my coworkers the way I have in my previous positions, because I now hold a position of authority and… who really wants to be friends with the boss off-the-clock? I didn’t know much about the city and knew even less about how different the California lifestyle is. Not having someone here who I can physically lean on has been a difficult pill to swallow.

I still don’t know as much as I’d like to about San Diego, nor do I have any better of a grasp on how Californians live their passive and reflexive lives. But what I have accepted is that I’ve been deposited into a place where I have the ability to learn so much more about myself and my ability to adapt and prevail than I ever would have in the comfort zone I called home for over two decades. I’m challenged every day to succeed, because failure to do so means returning home tail-tucked and disappointed in my inability to grow and thrive in a new setting.

I don’t want San Diego to be home, but for the time being it is. I don’t want to accept my role as a leader, but I understand that I must in order to be as successful as possible in my assignment. I don’t want to have to create a new life for myself here, but I understand that either my discovery or my self-hindrance of happiness will directly affect everything else around me.

I’m ready to let down my guard and step into the inescapable shoes I must fill in this season of my life, even if it means a bewildering amount of sacrifice of the things I love the most. Every day that I refuse to do so is another day I inch closer to accepting my inability to break free. And I can’t imagine anything worse than remaining bound to the apprehension of being here.

fyi.

I’ve haven’t abandoned my blog (or my story).

My apartment was broken into last Friday. Among the items taken were a bunch of personal effects, such as shoes, watches, cufflinks, and gift cards; the most notable losses were a brand new television, a new pair of Beats headphones, and my laptop.

And since most of my writing is done from the couch via that laptop, my updates have been missing in action.

My insurance company has been less than cooperative. Apparently, my renter’s insurance policy only covers items that I have receipts to prove the replacement value for. Unfortunately for me, the only receipts I have on hand are for one pair of shoes I bought before heading to Vegas, and for the TV.

The good news:  I decided to bite the bullet and purchased a new laptop today. I plan to get back to regular updates ASAP, which includes catching up on my #XD30 story.

Stay tuned.

#XD30: these three words. (day six)

I returned home from the mall to find the house consumed by a typhoon of emotion. I entered the living room to find my aunts sitting silent and motionless, a state I had never seen them in before. I could hear loud arguing in the distance and immediately recognized my mother’s voice; my sister’s shouts registered soon after as the other involved party. As I began to move towards the stairs, my Aunt Lez’s voice broke through the stillness of the room.

“Don’t go up there. Let them get this out,” she barked. I ignored her appeal and continued my climb to intercept whatever was going on upstairs.

As I reached the first landing, I heard the door to my mother’s room fly open. My sister came darting out and rushed into her old bedroom. I followed cautiously behind and found her sitting at her desk, writing feverishly.

“Sis, is everything okay?”

She barely looked in my direction, and I could tell she was trying to conceal her tears. I sank to the floor at the foot of her bed and sat quietly, waiting for to say something. She stuffed the tear-soaked pages into an envelope and carefully sealed it. I was used to this routine. As kids, whenever Stephanie got too angry or flustered with someone to verbally express how she was feeling, she’d write a letter. I’d received more than my fair share over the years, but something told me that this particular letter wasn’t for me.

She finally turned to acknowledge me, smiling as though the room had suddenly transformed into a step-and-repeat. I could see her puffy eyes fighting to hold in whatever it was that was upsetting her. “I need you to do something for me.”

I didn’t like the direction this was headed in. “Sure,” I reluctantly obliged.

“Give this letter to mommy in the morning. Durrell and I should be in Niagara Falls by then.” The release of each word seemed like more of a struggle than the one preceding it. I knew exactly what was happening but decided to indulge her.

“Niagara Falls? Pre-wedding vacation? A bit unconventional, but that may be a good idea for you two.”

“Scoot,” she called me. I hadn’t heard that nickname in years. As a kid it was cute, but lately it had become an indicator that a bizarre piece of information was about to follow.

“Durrell and I are eloping. Mommy and I… I just don’t think this whole wedding thing is a good idea.”

There were a ton of things I wanted to say. But I know my sister almost as well as I know myself, so I knew that they wouldn’t be received well. Instead I rose to my feet and quietly exited the room.

Steph didn’t want to tell me what was going on, and I knew I wouldn’t have much better luck with my mother. But I did know someone who could bring some sort of resolution to this.

ink jones.

I had to fight the implantation of a serious YOLO idea today. I’m pretty sure the idea won.

While enjoying a nice lunch with three of my team members at work, I noticed a young couple enter the establishment: two Caucasian males that couldn’t have been any older than 27 who were seated directly across from us.

The reason I know they were a couple is because they spent the next 45 minutes ogling one another while holding hands across the table, entrées be damned.

During this stretch of time, our entire table had the opportunity to observe the terribly excessive amount of body art on one of the young men, whose tattoos danced from wrist to collarbone and escaped from the hem of his cargo shorts back to safety beneath the cover of his high top sneakers.

I’ve never been crazy about tattoos. Not nearly as crazy as most people are. I have gotten three done in my life, one of which I’ve since had removed (please don’t ask because I can assure you that’s not a story I’m at all interested in sharing openly). I’m somewhat opposed to the idea of getting a few others, because I wrestle with their perceived unprofessionalism when placed in visible/semi-visible areas.

Whenever I attend any event off the clock with coworkers, I refuse to even wear a t-shirt without sleeves long enough to completely cover the lower edge of the cross on my right arm. I even stand in the mirror and do reach-and-stretch tests to make sure it’ll remain concealed, and when all else fails I opt for the fail-safe button-down or the rolled sleeve.

But this gentleman’s canvas of flesh seemed to inspire me. I’m not sure if it was a side effect of the poppy seed vinaigrette I drizzled on my salad or if I’m approaching that infamous quarter-life crisis stage, but in that very moment I decidedly established my desire to get another tattoo.

On my ribcage. Of a lion being slain. By a sword with the word “PRIDE” emblazoned along the hilt. While surrounded by a flurry of sunrays and gemstones. And the severed heads of exes past.

Okay, definitely not anything THAT elaborate or psychologically unhinged, but I’m not entirely opposed to settling for the word “Loyalty” in an ornate freehand script either.

These are the kinds of hasty and thoughtless decisions I was supposed to struggle with years ago. I’m not understanding why they’re beginning to take hold now. Maybe Vegas awakened something perilously maverick-like within me. Maybe I’m just tired of looking at bare obliques every time I pass a mirror. Maybe I’m just in search of a conversation-starter for the gym locker room.

Or perhaps I’ve officially lost my traditionalist ass mind. There’s gotta be a way to blame this on San Diego, and I fully intend for that to be the story I choose to stick to.

#XD30: these three words. (day five)

Auntie Van mumbled something intensely incoherent between a mouthful of food and a swig of Diet Coke. After pausing to swallow, she gave it another shot. “Where’d you learn how to cook like this, sis? I know Lez didn’t teach you!”

The whole clan broke out into laughter, some with gaping mouths showing off half-chewed remains of the meal that once lay upon the almost-clean plates in front of them. Contending for the title of least-amused was my Aunt Lez, who had been unceremoniously labeled “the sister who can’t boil water” since she was a teenager.

My mother, however, remained stern-faced and untickled. This further fueled the notion that the news bestowed upon her earlier in the evening was far from exciting. I have always been able to read people, whether in regard to their emotions, intentions, or just their overall character. As I sat, I observed my mother’s unusually sullen demeanor and the way that she ate her meal especially slowly, which contrasts with her normal routine of “swallow now, breathe later” (a procedural method that most of our family has duly inherited).

Amidst the sound of clanking silverware and hungry jaws going to work, I could almost hear the silent discontentment radiating from her heart. I’ve never really been able to handle seeing my mother sad or angry. When I was four years old, my Uncle Terry died and it was the first time I’d ever seen my mother cry. I felt as though I could feel every bit of her pain, almost as if each tear’s trek across her cheeks had made its original departure from my own two eyes.

As my own food grew cold, I wanted so badly to ask what was troubling her so much, to rush in and save the day and make everything okay by telling some corny joke or singing a sappy song from my childhood. Anything to bring a smile to her face. But as my awareness of the other four women at the table returned, I already knew my inquiry would be met with a resounding chorus of “don’t worry about it” and “stay outta grown folks business”, and decided it would be best to stay silent and finish my meal.

Later that evening, my sister stopped by to check in on how things were going with the wedding plans. I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen her around the house since I had returned home, and it almost pissed me off that she was leaving so much of the planning up to my mother while she was nowhere to be found.

“Lil bro, you ready for the big day?” Stephanie asked as she popped a plate of cold leftovers into the microwave.

“I believe the question is, are YOU ready?” I replied, naively expecting her to give an honest answer.

“Of course I’m ready. Durrell and I are really happy together and I know this is the right step,” she said, almost as if she were trying to convince herself that what she was saying was true.

“Yeah, whatever.” I took a deep breath. “You know, I think you could really do a little more to help as far as this wedding is concerned. It’s only a week away and momma is damn near killing herself trying to make sure everything is perfect for you. Meanwhile you’re M.I.A. as usual,” I scolded.

Stephanie looked up at me, smiled, and pulled her piping hot plate of food out of the microwave. “You know I need to stay as calm and stress-free as possible. That’s too much for me to deal with. You don’t want your big sister walking down the aisle looking like a nervous wreck, do you?”

“I don’t want my sister walking down the aisle at all,” I muttered under my breath.

Stephanie continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “I’ve gotta deal with school and getting these last few credits before I graduate. Work is kicking my ass, and the baby–”

There was a very awkward pause, and it seemed as if time stopped. We both shared this moment of clarity together. As I studied my sister’s face, for the first time in my life I finally saw her completely unshielded. All of her insecurities, fears, doubts, and reservations were there, clear as day and laid out in the four feet of space between us.

Not knowing what else to do, I simply tried to move on. “You know momma’s been acting real weird ever since Auntie Van and them got here. They told her something but I’m not sure what it was.”

Stephanie decided to follow my lead and tried her hardest to appear unfazed. “As nosy as you are? I find that hard to believe.”

“That’s why I was hoping you might know or at least be able to find out,” I said, pilfering the last forkful of risotto off her plate. She always hated when I did that and I’d been doing it since I was old enough to learn which buttons of hers to press.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She tossed her plate into the sink and ran a little water over it. Her crossing jacket made the most annoying swishy sound as she moved. I had become thoroughly annoyed by the bright pink and green hues that snuck their way into my childhood home ever since she joined her sorority.

“You know those could quite possibly be two of the ugliest colors ever known to man,” I teased.

Stephanie laughed and played along. “You might think that now, but I’m pretty sure you’ll change your tune when you’re trying to find one of us to marry in a few years.”

I sucked my teeth and gave her a slight nudge with my elbow as I walked back to the living room. Stephanie quickly shoved me into the wall and, in a scene all too familiar from our childhood, the chase around the kitchen began. It was a bittersweet moment as I realized it would be one of the last that I would share with my sister as a student, daughter, and sibling. A week from now she’d be tacking “wife” to the list, and “mother” about six months after that.