JamieSue

Who I Was

Birmingham Alabama. I would like to say something important here. Something that explains exactly how I felt. But, I really don't know how to do that. I made a point to stop in Birmingham Alabama to visit the Civil Rights Institute. To stand on street corner of the 16th Street Baptist Church, where 4 children were killed. To see the streets where the turning point of the civil-rights movement happened. 

The museum was both exactly what I expected and not. An elderly volunteer that day told how his son was the first black boy integrated into the schools in Birmingham. He told about protests and said, "I went to jail. My wife went to jail. My daughter went to jail. My son went to jail. The only one in our house that didn't go to jail was the dog!"  He was proud and occasionally hollered out "Yes, Indeed!" The exhibit itself was very good and I was surprised by the amount of space spent on the white people who protested and also died in  Birmingham.

And here's where I'm not sure what to say. When I was in 2nd or 3rd grade there was a black boy named Ronald in my class. He was taller than everyone else. He smelled bad and his clothes were dirty and torn.  I don't remember who I was in 3rd grade. I remember that I was starstruck but intimidated by Mia. I remember Michael K. taught me how to play chess at recess. I remember that Mrs. Sweat and her timed math tests gave me nightmares.  But, I don't remember me. What I do remember is going on a field trip...somewhere.. and having lunch at a park with a pond. Ronald was there and all the kids spread out and something happened that upset me. Kids were calling Ronald names and someone started throwing mud at him and others joined in. They told him he stunk. I actually just had trouble actually typing the word "stunk" because I still feel so wrong. And I remember just standing there. Just watching him be treated in a way that I felt was deeply wrong and doing nothing about it. I certainly didn't stand up for him. I didn't even go and get a teacher.  I don't remember what happened to Ronald after that. I don't think he was in my school the next year, or at least, not in my class. I don't know where he is now. This is not a satisfactory story. There is no neat ending. 

And Birmingham made me remember all of that in a very intense way. I'm better than I was in 3rd grade. I stood up to my father and his racist comments. I've disagreed with other members of my family. I once stood up to a gigantic scary raging man who was flipping out at two women in Duane Reade for a situation that was ridiculous. But I'm not as good as I could be. I let comments slide too often. Two weeks after visiting Birmingham, I was at a campsite next to four frat boys who were drinking and making a lot of noise. I listened to them curse and laugh and make bodily humor references and sexual references for several hours. I listened to them chug a beer bong. Then, they referred to the inauguration as the in-niggeration, and I called the park services and complained.  Honestly, if I hadn't been to Birmingham, I would have just ignored their stupid comments.  I've resolved to "let slide" less from my acquaintances, family, and friends.  You don't need to agree with me, but you can at least be respectful of the rights of others to live in an environment that is not hostile. 

Anyhow, this certainly isn't my usual entertaining "let's see what mess JamieSue has gotten herself into" post. I've completely failed at expressing anything with the sincerity with which I feel it. But, I do feel it. The Birmingham Civil Rights Institute has done their job well. You should go there. Whoever you are. 

The "L" Word

All this scenery talk may be nice, but what about the real question? The one that everyone asks or wants to ask, “Aren’t you lonely?”

At the time I’m writing this, I’ve been gone from Buenos Aires for a little over three weeks. During that time I’ve talked once a week to my Mom on Skype and once or twice to a friend (hi Ethan!).  In my daily interactions now with driving and camping, I’m never in a place for long and so I’ve met no one. All of the conversation I have is in Spanish and is only for ordering food or gas. On camping days when I don’t go to a restaurant, I may go 48 hours without interacting with anyone or making a sound aloud. My car does not  have a radio so there is no singing along. Although I must admit that occasionally phrases do slip out aloud such as, “Where did I put that roll of freaking toilet paper?

Am I lonely? I feel like the answer has to be yes. That is what everyone expects. I understand why the answer SHOULD be yes. And, I keep checking and checking again thinking that maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe I AM lonely. Maybe deep down inside this whole “I’m having a great time traveling alone” blog is all a farce to cover up some part of me that is absolutely depressed to be alone.  But, the answer that keeps coming back is “I’m not lonely.”

I’m sorry. I’m really not. And it makes me feel a little less human. I’m –supposed- to be lonely. I’m supposed to be desperately sad to be separated from my New York City friends of seven years. Nearly every phone call with my Mom she asks, “Do you miss me?” She asks it in jest, but really she wants the answer to be “yes”. And I want the answer to be “yes” for her…but it’s just not., I’m not lonely for my friends. I’m not lonely for my family. I’m not lonely for my job. I’m not lonely for my coworkers.  Sure, I have my moments. Some memory pops into my head: the time my mom wanted to go to Sumter walmart at 2:00am because they were open 24 hours for Christmas and we drove all the way there but they were closed for restocking. The strange trip to see the flesh eating bugs with my friends Sandor and Yalli. The time Amanda, Sammy, Mike, George and Emily – all swing dancers-  went to Downtime – a goth club - with me and we danced swing to goth music. The time that Erika and I got into a fight so bad at work that we ignored each other for lunch for an entire week…and the fight was over a database table name. All of those  moments make me miss those people and drift into nostalgia about those times. And I’m really glad that I had and still have those friendships, and I look forward to seeing them all again. But, I don’t think that is lonely.

And wouldn’t I like to have some significant other traveling with me? Yes. That would be terrific. It would be great to have someone to share these experiences with. Someone to say stupid things to in the car. Someone to hold the other end of the damn tent while I’m trying to pitch it.  That would be great, but I don’t think lonely is the word to describe that feeling either. I like chocolate cake. Right now, I would love to have a piece of chocolate cake. But I’m not sad because I am without the cake. To me, the word lonely implies sadness. And I’m not sad over the cake. Or the lack of boyfriend. Or the lack of other people.

So, I’m not lonely and I guess that makes me a little less human. I do have a need for dialogue but the way my brain works every moment with me there is an internal narrative voice saying, “can you believe the color of those yellow plants. It’s amazing! What does it remind you of? Oh the line from The littlest prince – hair like the color of the wheat field. No. The mustard color in the bull fighting painting your parents had. No. The color of the candy wrappings on those chocolate coins that come in the netted packaging. Yeah, yeah. That’s it. Write that down.”  And lord knows, listening to that all day, even in a car without a radio, or a tent without a boyfriend, or a workday without coworkers – I’m still getting an earful. So, I don’t feel lonely. I guess I’ll just keep writing it down and listening to the voices in my head. Red rum. Red rum!

What Matters

I have a new favorite purchase. I bought a folding chair from the grocery store for about U$D 20 . It even has two settings -regular upright chair mode and low rider staring up at the sky mode. I’m sitting in my new chair, on the edge of a lake in Parque Nacional Los Alerces, eating a pear that is so ripe that juice is running down my hand. I have my shoes off and the soles of my feet are warm from the rock beach. I can see no one near the water. It’s cold in the shade but warm on the windless beach. The absolutely still water of the massive lake is spread out in front of me and I sit for an hour watching the weather change. The wind rises and pushes a bank of dark clouds over the mountains and across the lake. The world is easy and empty and, like on the bus, I feel I absolutely have to try to write poetry…but this time, not lyrical.

I know what is happening today
at my old job.
Somewhere, someone’s mouse has broken
and the cursing has begun.
The VP of Something is being instructed
to trim his budget by 3 jobs
and to put the column headers in bold.
An email has been written and sent, “Stop
chewing your gum so loudly. It bothers me.”
And the recipient has forwarded it
to everyone she knows – with the addition,
“Can you believe that bitch?”
The receptionist has lost three calls.
The books will not ship on time.
The CEO’s favorite phone model
has been discontinued and
someone has taken the last chocolate doughnut.
Incoming email is unacceptably delayed.
The fixed bug count is behind
by two point five percent
so another daily meeting
has been scheduled.
In the bathroom stalls,
two women are crying.
I am not one of them.

The rest of the photos can be found here http://www.flickr.com/photos/jamiesuec/sets/72157604666253794/show/

It's all about me (blog dribble)

I didn’t understand the phrase you can’t go home again until about a year ago. It’s not because home has changed. That was what I thought before. It’s because you have changed. In Manning, South Carolina, I am bizarre. I have lived in the big bad city. I am not married and seem to be wasting my life because I don’t have children. I wear too much black and like strange foods like raw fish and duck liver. I walk too fast through Wal-Mart and don’t spend enough time making small talk with cashiers. In Manning, I am a strange city girl.

In New York City, I’m too nice. I smile too much. I don’t wear enough black. I’m too open on the street and draw too much attention from crazy people. I dress far too casually and I don’t fix my hair. I know weird things like how to fish and I say funny things like “y’all” and “fixin’ to”. I don’t know the names of celebrities or Jewish holidays and I’ve never been to a therapist.  In New York city, I am a nice small town girl.

Once you leave a place, or a type of place, you never fit in again. You can move from tiny Paxville, South Carolina to Alma, Georgia. You can move from New York City to L.A.  That’s not really change. But Alma, Georgia to Paris and you can’t ever go back.

Not ostroicized. It’s different than that... and it’s not even projected from other people. They give you the opportunity to fit in…it’s you who knows you don’t. I’m the one standing in the conversation about the $50 bowl of soup, or the conservatory shipped from England, or the full time bilingual nanny for the stay-at-home Mom with one kid. The mom doesn’t feel awkward. I do.  I’m the one in the conversation about the fancy $8.00 bottle of wine, the disgust over the interracial couple (though certainly the term interracial wouldn’t be used), the son who lives in a trailer in his Daddy’s back yard.

So what’s the conclusion here? I don’t really have one yet.