Sidewalk Sitting

Tuesday morning, I waited in line outside of the US Supreme Court for almost eight hours. I arrived at 4:30 am and sat down on the sidewalk curb next to a co-worker. The Supreme Court has perfectly trimmed shrubbery; I can say that with authority. I passed about 40 people as I made my way to the back of the line. About 30 of them arrived prior to 2:30 am, some with sleeping bags and food supplies. I couldn't help but think we looked like a twisted form of Occupy Wall Street in suits. It rained lightly on and off for the next couple of hours and I waited for the sky behind the Capitol dome to change to morning colors.

At 6:15 am, one of my friends texted me, "Be safe out there! The weather woke me up and it sounds pretty nasty." As if on cue, the sky lit up with a flash of light. We spent the next hour watching lightening bolts in the distance and then watching the streams of rain pour down the side of the umbrella. The lights illuminating the dome of the Capitol turned off around 7am and the sky behind the dome turned a cloudy gray. The rain eased up, but the line ahead of us became saturated with bodies. Unfair place-holding resulted in an increase in our line number. We went from about 40 to about 60 then 69 and 70 by the time a guard handed out numbers and moved the line to the steps of the Supreme Court.

At 8 am, they let in the first 50 people. So we stood. And waited. To see how many would enter in the next round. At 9:45 they let in another 10. There was a chance we would be able to enter for the second argument at 11:00 am. So we stood. Then sat. And waited. To see how many would enter in the next round. By 10:30 am everything began to get hazy. Conversation slowed down, my brain stopped thinking in complete sentences. Perhaps It stopped thinking at all. I caught myself zoned-out, staring at the Senate Office Buildings, trying to remember the feel of the cool air-conditioning after a long summer's walk. Trying to remember the smooth floors, the hallway lighting, the carpet and wood in the judiciary committee room. Not being able to remember much of that at all, actually. A life time ago, really.

At 11:45 am, one of the guards approached us quickly and we all sprung up. They had enough room for 15 more of us to hear the last part of the last argument. We went through security, bound up the stairs, threw our things into lockers and waited, again, to walk into the courtroom. I had only been in the Supreme Court once, a few years ago, and my memories had faded. I had forgotten how strong the pillars stood, how high the ceiling towered, how even the floor seemed embedded with authority. How small it could all make you feel.

They opened the courtroom door around noon. After almost 8 hours of waiting, we finally walked into the courtroom.

I had been in there before, briefly, on a tour. It was smaller than I remembered. The Justices sat in their chairs this time and a rush of adrenaline hit me as I took my seat. The State was presenting its case. I disagreed so strongly with the argument that I had a hard time not dismissing it as illogical, nonsensical, and weak. Weak as in failing to do anything other than blindly follow authority. I'm going to leave the legal critique for another person in another venue, but I will say this much:

I have come so far. Without realizing it, I have come so far. My Con Law I professor made me nearly hyperventilate. I avoided him in the hallway because I was terrified eye-contact meant he would call on me in class. I re-read cases multiple before class because I didn't know which footnotes were the important ones.* I struggled with the Dormant Commerce Clause. I struggled with many clauses. Some days, I thought the opinions were certainly written in a foreign language. (Which yes, law is.) However, I sat in the US Supreme Court on Tuesday and respectfully disagreed with the State's argument. I understood every word. I knew the weight behind each sentence. I have carried the weight of each concept. Juvenile. Life. Without. Parole. Rehabilitation. Public Safety. Accountability. Intent. Adolescent. I have come so far from those textbook pages and multi-colored highlighters. I have come so far from diverting my eyes to avoid the Socratic Method. I have become fluent in a language that allows me to stand up for my ideals.

We listened to the State's argument and the brief rebuttal of the Defender, who used the opportunity to present closing remarks. We stood up and exited the courtroom with the rest of the crowd. We walked down the stairs and squinted into the sun and I wished my hair didn't feel so dirty.

I texted a friend who also happens to be a housemate and took her up on her suggestion to get lunch. She works in a House Office Building, so I stood in line for security. I remembered this time. The July heat, the weight of the suit jacket over my arm, the cold air streaming out the doors, the minutes in line hoping they didn't amount to too late. I remember the rush of energy that came with walking through the metal detectors, putting on the suit jacket and heels, and clickclacking down the hall. The last time I was in this building we met with a Representative and then flyered the whole building. My feet hurt and I promised myself that graduating law school would mean next time I would only have to participate in the first half of the day's activity. High hopes, I still had. But on Tuesday, I met my friend and we walked to the cafeteria for lunch together. I apologized for my lack of coherent sentences and tried to wipe the goofy grin off my face. The past and present wrapped up together can get complicated, but it can also make me deleriously happy.

After lunch, I called my mom as I walked past the fountain, the Capitol building, and up Louisiana Avenue towards Union Station. How many times that summer did I walk the very same sidewalks? Gushing excitement and joy in the sunshine, saying this. is. it. That summer, it was almost every day. A lot has happened since that summer. In the world and in my world. But still. I called my mom and gushed. In the sunshine, walking long-lost steps, I gushed. These days are fleeting, I know, but I earned them. I waited the eight hours. And longer.



[If you are interested in the substance of the juvenile cases, the briefs and oral argument transcripts are on the US Supreme Court website. Media coverage includes the New York Times, Washington Post, and CNN, among others.]

*Dear 1Ls, Buy a hornbook. It's not cheating. I promise. It's a lifesaver. And a memo I got too late in law school. Love, Emily. P.S. Footnote 4 in Carolene Products is The Important One.

Where the Broken Road Led

Our second year of law school, we made a mixed CD before the first day of Spring Semester. We popped it into her car's CD player and drove out to the boat launch on a cold January night. Lined up, shoulder to shoulder, we tossed baseball-sized rocks into the Atlantic, shouting as the rocks crashed through the waves. We threw the first few semesters into the ocean - the 1am morning hours spent learning partnership dissolution, the upchuck of strawberry yogurt before the exam, the walls closing in above the bed, the spilled edamame on Whole Foods' floor. We intended to throw away the bad and keep the good. Keep the very best. When we finished tossing rocks and screaming into the darkness, we climbed back into her car and drove around Portland until the CD found its way back to the very first song.

The CD contained mostly songs about relationships. The songs didn't mention a word about school or jobs, grades, careers, internships, or exams. Yet, they said everything we could have possibly said about that past year and a half.

I have a relationship with this career choice. I chose it and it chose me. Long ago, really. I fell in love long ago.

[I try not to get trapped into the dichotomous thinking of a relationship v. a career. One winner, one loser. I don't have to be monogamous in this regard; I can love both, him and it, at the same time. In the same breath.]

But it has been a long and bumpy road. And yet.

Today, and yes, today for the first time, for the first time ever, I feel like I am exactly where I belong with this career. With this love. Had I not experienced every single difficulty, heartbreak, and disappointment, I would not be in this place. Had I not let it carry me on the days I felt too weighted down to even move myself, never mind myself and a career, I would not be in this very place. I am certain.

I have moved from hope to faith to certainty.

[I believe in questions. Question this certainty, yes. Always. But I had to arrive at certainty to even begin to ask questions of it.]

I could not have gotten to this place without every single difficulty. If there had been even one less, if there had been one less turn, one less bump, one less ditch, I would not have arrived here.

And here. Here is a place with steady footing. For the first time in a long time, I can stand grounded, take a deep breath, and see out beyond the peaks and the valleys.

Here I catch myself smiling involuntarily at tiny moments in my day. Remembering how to better care for myself. Getting lost in the months ahead, rather than the years. I find myself letting go of expectation and marvelling that this is even better than I thought it could be.

I am finding myself in places I didn't know I was hiding. I am here now. I am finally in a place where I am certain. Where I am steady. Where I can belt out -  ... God blessed the broken road that led me straight to you.*


[*Sans religious implications, please]

Suits & Bracelets

She wore a bright-colored, glass bracelet, peeking out from under her black suit jacket. Matching suit pants. Wavy, long hair cascading over her shoulders. On some days, pulled into a simple pony tail.

She pulled out leather chairs in the Hill conference room and sat down with authority. But also sank into quietly into coalition meeting chairs without disturbing the loud rounds of hellos and announcements of personal ego. Her emails distributed out-of-office notifications with phrases like "six weeks" and "Guantananamo Bay"- but she spoke mostly of rafting trips and sun on California beaches. She smiled more often than not.

I cut my hair the summer before in favor of a shorter, older, more professional look. I wore naked wrists and naked earlobes.

More often than not, I still do, but two falls ago, I let my hair grow longer.

I want pant suits with perfect pressed lines hanging in my closet. I want the confidence to slip into one at a moment's notice and stand up quiet, loud, proud, with ease for what I believe. I have the belief, I have the knowledge, listen.

Most of the time, I want to wear jeans. I want to carry my camera everywhere and actually snap the shot. Stop. Move to the left. Bend down, stand on my toes, weave through the crowd, feel the eyes of the crowd, but take the photo anyway.  I want to take the photo and not notice the eyes. Everyday.

Write. Everyday. Write with a pen in a moleskin, notebook, journal. With the tumblr, twitter, gmail distractions closed and tucked away. Write with honesty at the core. Live with honesty at the core. Everyday.

Travel. As a lifestyle. Not a vacation. Not work. Buy tickets, pack the bag, and leave. Walk new streets, eat the food, say hello to new faces. In these moments, I am an extrovert. Sleep in tents, on trains, hostel bunk beds, airport lounges. Bring a pen. Bring the camera. Go, go, go.

Listen to music. Live. Stay up too late on a weeknight, lose my voice on a Saturday night, sing along, dance. Be inspired. To feel it. To express it. To share it. All of it. Listen to those songs on repeat, download the latest album, remember the old favorites. Fill the days, the hours, the minutes with melodies, harmonies, lyrics.

Drink more water, eat more protein, think about yoga on Saturday afternoons, pop a few vitamins, use more hand lotion, let the rest of it go.

Let most of it go.

I'll find my own bright-colored bracelet and slip it on under the cuff of my black pressed suit. 

Decembers

I got a new planner today. I filled in every date I could remember for this upcoming year. Crisp white pages and black lines. Pen and pencil and highlighter almost-but-not-quite smudged. I haven't used a planner in a few years. While I was thinking of it, I updated my google calendar and deleted old categories: classes, study group, exams, gym. I decided I didn't need them but then thought twice.

 

Yesterday's 5pm coffee; a rambling, panicked email; and finally the meltdown that had been brewing all day. A mini meltdown, but only because she knows how to defuse them - she has years of practice - years of Decembers and Mays. Almost a decade.

 

I have old-time comforts now. I fall into them without noticing. That playlist on repeat, vanilla lattes rather than seasonal specials, three squash soup and corn bread from Whole Foods, that old hooded sweatshirt. The hours of the day blend with the days of the week - I shower at almost midnight only to wash away anxiety and throw my wet hair into a bun. Disheveled.

 

One December, six years ago, I hung holiday decorations, planned thoughtful gifts, made Christmas cookies, wrapped presents, talked with Santa at our holiday party. I spent my evenings with carols and Delilah's everyday miracles. I sent cards that year. That felt like a miracle.

 

I haven't since. Done any of that. Felt any of that.

 

There is peace, though, that comes from my own December traditions and rituals. The coffee, the soup, the nights that consist of only a few hours, the days of marathon writing or studying. Accidental traditions and rituals but nonetheless orienting. A final push before calm and then change. 

 

It came again this year. Unplanned and unexpected. A December closer to anxiety-filled Decembers of the past but also closer to the familiar, the known, the soothing comforts than I have been in months. A soft reminder that these years, these Decembers, strung together built a life. I built a life. This December, that feels like a miracle.

 

I'll over caffienate and undersleep. The cashier at Whole Foods will worry about my blood-shot eyes and incoherent greetings. It has really only been a few days. It will only be a few more. But I've already settled into it, welcomed it back like an old friend stopping by for just a cup of coffee while passing through town. I have to ask, though, will you return again, soon? This time, maybe for good?

 

My planner and I would like to know.

All That Binds

That last year, I drove to Nicole's on Thursday nights. The week in the rearview mirror, I finally learned how to drive away without looking back. (It helped that Friday mornings promised to be gentle.) Some Thursday nights it was us three; some Thursday nights it was just us two. I'll always remember it as three though, no matter how inaccurately that memory paints itself.

Curled up in a pile of pillows, we watched Grey's Anatomy each Thursday night. I through finger tips and squinted eyes - ears plugged on occasion. Graphic medical scenes too often end with someone standing over me and my uncertainty as to why the room stands at a different angle. (Ask any of my high school peers whose laps I have landed in during science class.) Yet, I watched Grey's each week though my fingers (it has been a while since medical graphics have cause me to pass out) because they watched and they and I were a we. We watched.

The same we that talked each other out of hyperventilating in the bathroom before oral arguments and spent Friday nights in Whole Foods trying to decipher the federal tax code. The same we that plastered index cards with UCC clauses scribbled across them to her blank apartment wall, typically reserved for movie projections. The we that rotated seats in during our study groups when the hours in one place grew too long. The we that delivered coffee and cookies, breakfast, lunch, and dinner to the carrels we shared and didn't share and weren't ours but we sat in anyway. The we that learned to give each other pep talks in our sleep.

We were the same we that bore witness to each other falling in love and out of love and out of fear. We were the same we that crawled into each other's arms in tears at the end of trying days and flew into each other's arms at the end of best days. We danced and sang - with a band in front of us or just us around the dining room table. We laughed until we had to make a run for the bathroom and held each other when the tears wouldn't stop. We held each other up. We helped each other fly.

And we were a part of a larger we. The we of heavy books, multi-colored highlighters, complicated codes, socratic method anxieties, bloodshot eyes, late nights, early mornings, pots of coffee, briefs too long and too short, homes made in the library - the we of dream chasers. The we of sordid secrets, inside jokes, times of sheer insanity, moments of brilliance. All that binds.

We watched Grey's Anatomy on Thursday nights. We watched their we; the ties that bind - professional and personal, interwoven, desired or despised - they don't let go.

I only watched Grey's that season - that last year.

The we dissipated after that year. I dissipated the we after that year. Passive and active. A critical need to relocate the I, the first person singular. But those ties that bind don't let go.

Now, on occasion, a roommate will put on Grey's Anatomy. I watch with caution, but for reasons other than not wanting to witness the insides of a human being prodded with metal instruments. There is a pull and a dull ache and a reminder that even if I never tell another person that I went to law school, I will always be a part of that we, a part of all the we-s from those three years. There is a heart-cry for Nicole and those Thursday evenings when we lost our week in the cushions of the couch. Those Thursday nights when I felt a part of a larger whole. Like it or not, they had me and I had them.

I wonder these days, if I could make that identity all disappear entirely. I think I could. And then I wonder if I want to. Perhaps not.

But then what?


Related Post: Thursday Night Drives

Lessons in Honesty

My phone buzzes twice; I pull it out of my pocket. Breath held as I long-await a response of no significance and too much significance, with too much space in the between. "Hey I love you," the screen reads. Tears well up and threaten to spill. Amid these strangers and their casual conversations.

"It must be more than an interest," he comments, "you must have a devotion." I think of the years wrapped up in, held by, rocked by, steadied by this quiet love. This quiet love that holds my hand and leads the way when all I see is the chaos of my life swirling, when I close my eyes and wait to collapse. Should I, I should, shout this from the mountain tops.? Or at least, these days, to myself in a strong whisper: I love I want I care I am devoted. Honest declaration. If only in a strong whisper. Begin here.

After years, this is, perhaps, the only place I can begin. This is, perhaps, the safest place to begin.

It had been lifetimes since cologne-crushed tears fell. Burning, hot and acidic. A litmus test that would read: eyes diverted and hands dropped, the heart that has clawed its way into the throat plummets - falls into vast empty space.

To be shocked by these acid tears, this unexpected litmus test result - I have been eagerly dishonest with myself. A self-preservation method with an acidity level that eats away faster than realized. I didn't realize. Any of it.

She, too many miles away, practiced in letting me cry until the red rash appears on the tops of my cheeks and supporting my weight and my head on her shoulder, feels just that - too many miles away. A seasoned expert on me, she knows it is coming before I do. She holds my honesty when I am not strong enough to carry it.

I'll announce in a strong whisper to an empty room that I am building a career in a field I love. I love I want I care I am devoted. Honestly. Tangled or purposefully intertwined, the rest I cannot claim in a whisper to an empty room. I'm drowning in the divide between no significance and too much significance, filled with my own tears, into which I tripped and fell because I wasn't paying close enough attention. To my heart as it squeezed up and out of my rib cage trying to get to his. To how high it had climbed. To how far down of a drop it faced.

"Hey I love you," she texted me because she knew and she knows. And now, at least I know.  All of it.

From the Department of Life

Three years ago, I watched fireworks from the front lawn of the U.S. Capitol, blocks away from my summer stint at a youth policy non-profit. They shot through the sky and burst above the Washington monument. Electrified, I held my chin up to the night. Their spider legs reached down for us until they faded into smoke trails and eventually disappeared into the dark sky. We walked home through the humidity and fell into a content sleep to the hum of the air conditioner. 

Two years ago, I sat home alone on their grandmother's old couch surrounded by stacks of blue BarBri books and a borrowed novel. My muscles stiff from trying to hold it together and my eyes strained from black print and gray, penciled-in bubbles. I turned the lights off, the television on, and stretched out across the couch. From states away, I watched the fireworks shoot through the sky and burst above the Washington monument. Then I watched a lightening bug blink on our covered porch, waiting for the rain to let up. It never did. My phone buzzed, "coming from the fireworks & walking by your old place!" I sat up, turned on the light, and reached for the novel.

In an effort to save her life, the main character quit her job as a corporate attorney and, in the last few pages, became a writer.

At 1am, I put the book down and cried. Hard.

I shut myself in the bathroom, because I didn't want my landlady upstairs to hear, and went through half a box of tissues. If I had a flare for the dramatic, I would have climbed into the antique, claw-foot bathtub. Instead, I turned on the sink water, sank to the floor in front of it and didn't move for 45 minutes. 

The book wasn't that good. I wasn't reacting to the book. I was reacting to my life.

life 
–noun
1. the condition that distinguishes organisms from inorganic objects and dead organisms, being manifested by growth through metabolism, reproduction, and the power of adaptation to environment through changes originating internally.

If only it was that simple.

I started dividing my life into distinct areas sometime during my first semester of law school - professional life, personal life, social life, family life. Which ironic, because that is precisely when I started to dedicated every breath I took to my professional life. At the expense of a personal life, social life, and family life. At the end of three years, I had to take inventory. Family and friends stood by, but I had to find out, how much of me is left?

I began to write again. Slowly, clumsily, terribly. But I wrote anyway. Its loyalty is unfailing; it always rescues me.

I am a professional at the intersection of public policy, advocacy, and positive youth development. I work in the non-profit sector. The term "non-profit" is misleading. There are profits; there are profits we keep. I believe in the work I do. 

The hours in this sector are long. There is too much to do and never enough resources or people to get it all done. The issues are complex and thorny. Shareholder wallets obsolete, this sector has to ask: what serves the greater good? I could eat, breath, and sleep this work. But this is not Life. This is a professional life.

I am so much better at a professional life than Life. But I know what happens when I confuse the two. I will not define myself by my profession. That declaration has become a personal mantra. Still, I often I feel myself slipping.

I have devoured books recently. Work travel gave me permission to spend time reading, and I didn't stop when I arrived back. I have consumed books at a rate my wallet hates, but my personal life loves. I negotiate sleeping hours to read and then to write. I found a book that has been on my list for years at a used book store: On Writing, by Stephen King. The perfect combination and the perfect timing. Recommended years ago, time and time again, but only now can I really appreciate every word, every punctuation mark, every lesson. "Am I a writer? Is that the key to my Life?" loops its way through my thoughts as I turn the pages.

Midway through, Stephen King writes: "Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around."

My theory shatters. I will not define myself by my profession holds up better under strict scrutiny. 

I am a professional. I am a writer. I am a friend. I am a family member. And I am so much more. As I move farther away from what once consumed my days (training to be an attorney in the private sector), I feel more like myself. Less often do I have to take inventory, how much of me is left? It's all still there, just buried. Some days I have to dig farther than others to find it. On Saturday afternoons it bubbles up and overflows. I drink it up and my cup runneth over. But on Wednesday mornings, I am parched. I am finding out that Life isn't a balancing act between a professional life and personal life (family life and social life). Rather, I think it's something unto itself that forms at the core. These different "divisions" of life are stirred and mixed and perhaps even baked to form something more than all its ingredient. And from this core, the rest rises. That's the Life I hope to create.

Dismantled Suit, Iron-Worn Pants & Buttons Loose, I Am Here

 virtual tour

The summer interns arrive in droves. They wear crisp suits, fresh faces, and bright eyes. Razor burn along the jaw line and a forgotten dab of shaving cream behind the ear. Toe nails painted with summer colors and tucked under flipflop straps. We tuck our winter toes under the seats; has the season changed already? Our weathered faces point down or out, practiced at processing the sights their bright eyes soak up.

I had bright-eyes, too. Three summers ago, before and before and before... when I could walk to work each morning under the gaze of the Capitol building and watch summer thunderclouds wrap themselves around her dome in the evening. I wore those crisp suits until they melted my skin and wilted in the summer heat. I learned to stand in the entryway of Senate Office Buildings long enough for the sweat to evaporate and the goosebumps to form before replacing the suit jacket. Three summers ago, when I spent mornings standing in line outside the committee room, afternoons with a press-pass in hand, and evenings on conference calls dissecting proposed amendments.

I've rolled my eyes at politicians. You know this, you've seen me. But I've also stood in a church pew holding back an "amen" at grassroots campaigning and in the back of the state legislative library in our almost his-and-her suits, flipping through volumes of this and that and this... searching for nothing and coming up so close. I've sat on the couch in that office across the hall of flags. And with my legs crossed in the third row of the of the committee room.

Three summers ago, I threw my arms around her in the marble-walled bathroom four doors down from the mark-up. We celebrated the passage and our late-night work sessions outside the third stall until those-who-did-this-for-a-living walked in with tiredhappy faces. I took mine, with its wet eyes, for a celebratory milkshake that afternoon.

Three summers ago, before and before and before...

Before I learned that which means nothing to me can rise to mean everything and then settle into nothing again.

I am here again. Miles from the Capitol building, but I am here again. Dismantled suit, iron-worn pants and buttons loose, I am here again. Tired eyes, but I am here again.

All that's glamorous has fallen away.* The marble-faced buildings and the echo of my heels down their never-ending halls, the dark, wood panels of the committee room and spiral staircases, the balcony rocking chairs. The playful smiles and my eye rolls. The I know, I know, I know...

I work through tangled, misguided legislation passed in capitol buildings I've never entered by politicians who's faces I've never known. Slip my feet in and out of flats under my desk and leave them hovering over the green carpet. We adjust the air-conditioning and belly laugh until tears fall from our tired eyes.

I am here again and I am here for the first time and I am here for everything that's not glamorous. I am here for everything that's important.



*With exception, of course. Patience, Emily. Patience.

On Definitions And Fuel

The rush. The wave I ride through days of focused persistence and nights of determination. Important work fuels. Runs through my veins. Steady. Cluttered chaos falls away and I intuitively navigate. Hours melt away and minutes pass unnoticed. Until completed.

When it's time to go, nothing more to do here, solid job, I walk out the door into the night.  The air has a new depth with woven dark and damp pieces I didn't recognize before. The bright street lights force a squint until a yellow halo appears around the head of the man selling newspapers to support the homeless. The escalator doesn't move fast enough on these nights. I'm a few strides short of running and my feet move at a pace faster than my head. I'm still thinking slow and steady, as I stream through the entrance gate and slide into the empty seat in an almost empty car.

That song on repeat. As if I could ever help it. Perhaps I'm swallowed whole, but I already dove in. Let go and let this all wash over me. With my eyes closed I can see clearly and with them open I watch the rain slam sideways against the metro window. I'm already outside with it streaming down my face. Out there somewhere between laughter and tears where it all feels exactly as it should. We're here together. I can feel it all. I know precisely what to do.

The rush will wear off and the wave will deliver me to the shore, where my legs will give way. I'll end up laid out on the sand out of breath. Left wondering. About the dark woven sky and the feel of rain. Everything that I knew, now gone. The clutter returns. And I try, again, to define myself.

Daydreaming & Overalls

I'm not sure what happened, exactly, last week. Technically, I spent a lot of time at work, or at home doing work, didn't sleep very much, and ate a lot of ice cream. When I look back on this past week though, I'm pretty sure I'll remember it as the week when time folded onto itself. It will be the week when 2008 and 2011 occurred back-to-back without the existence of 2009 or 2010. And the week when opportunities I asked for showed up much sooner than I expected. Absurd, right? Also, awesome.

Back To Square One and That Is Fine [Part One]

The room is crowded and noisy. I don't know a single person, and I'm having a hard time finding my "networking smile." "Put your shoulders down." The silent command surfaces involuntarily. I'm not gentle with myself and my nerves barking orders doesn't help, so I try a different method:

"You are fine."
"This is not a big deal."
"These people are not wearing black robes, ready to grill you with questions the minute you open your mouth."
"You can handle this."
"Take a deep breath."

I'm reciting these impatient mantras, until I finally lose my patience with them. "JUST DO IT." (Nike sponsors my most effective mantra.) I step into the crowded room, put my coat down, say hello to a friendly face I "recognize" via the internet, and quickly saddle up to the nearest single person. Deep sigh of relief. I am now guaranteed not to be standing alone for at least five minutes of this networking event. She's a comfortable conversationalist and gives me time to remember my social skills. They're rusty, but they still work. When our conversation turns towards a natural end, I find the next closest single person and begin again. I breath through awkward pauses and sentences that drift away in the noisy room.

I introduce myself in simplistic terms with open ends. I am not part of this industry; I do not know the language, the hierarchy, the goals. I ask question upon question, trying to convey my genuine interest, hoping my lack of knowledge does not come off as disrespectful. I easily say, "I don't know" when asked even a simple question. I follow it up with an explanation that I am just "developing an interest" and ask a reflective question. I try to pay close attention to the answer, but I'm also stifling awe. I cannot believe how comfortable the phrase, "I don't know" feels after years of professional training to produce an answer (the right answer, even if not correctly paired with the question asked) when asked a question.  I'll realize days later that "I don't know" is the right answer.

Some questions I do have answers to - the ones that don't have to do with the industry or why I am at this industry's networking event. I'm home, after so many years away. The city is large, but I know the streets, landmarks, neighborhoods. I can offer an opinion on this place and that place. I know (it's so recent that it's not even a memory, yet) what it feels like to be "from away" but call the place you're standing home. I ask for opinions on the local places and then all about their other home. I wonder if I'm making friends and if it's appropriate to tell stories of awkward dating experiences. I'm standing up taller, laughing at the appropriate times, and my shoulders are three inches lower than when I walked in. This confidence? It hasn't appeared since 2005.

The networking works its way into speed-networking, the intended structure of the evening. Experts on one side of the table and non-experts on the other - we have three minutes to lean waayy in and try to talk louder than the pair on either side. When the whistle blows (or more accurately, the person to your left gets up), you move into the next chair and start again. Deep breath.

I am clumsy. With my law degree. Try to avoid it. Unsuccessfully. Have to explain. My background. Law and Public Policy BUT. Your experiences? Advice to beginner? I'm not here. For the wrong reasons. I know. The saturated market. I know. No pay. I can't. Quit my day job. TWWEEEEETTH. And it repeats.

Until I sit down four chairs down the line. In front of someone who instantaneously makes me feel comfortable. I tell him that I am new to the publishing industry, and I am just at the beginning of figuring out if it is a place that I might like to build a career. I tell him that I'm just really interested in how he got started and what he likes and dislikes about the industry. He agrees to share, but asks me first about my background. I give him the five-second version that somehow encompasses everything and comes out as smooth as warm butter on hot toast. I'm not even surprised - this conversation feels "meant to be." He tells me about his unconventional background and how publishing went from an alternative career to his own business. I'm trying my best not to spew out all the matches my undergrad experiences have to his academic background, when he asks me about college. So, I spew, but it's organized and conversational. Again, I'm hardly surprised. He says to me, "I understand where you are coming from and why you think publishing might be a good professional fit." I nearly fall off my chair. I don't think I have had somebody in a more "advanced" professional position tell me that they "understand where I am coming from" in the past five years - the entirety of my law and public policy degrees. I'm pretty sure the only reason I don't fall off the chair is because I am actually floating above it.

The whistle blows. The person next to me doesn't move. I'm not surprised - I'm fairly certain I'm not supposed to move yet. He tells me that the best way to see if I am interested in this industry is to talk to people who are offering internships. People like him. My eyes light up. I can't help it. He says that he is looking for interns - unpaid ten hours a week - for the winter and spring. Would I be interested? Yes. He says that often what the industry looks like from the outside isn't really how it works on the inside. "Oh, I know," I tell him. I want to tell him that law isn't Flashdance - it's rough, raw, untanned work. I don't though, because I think I might want this internship. He asks for my email address - he'll email me from his blackberry immediately. I tell him that I actually have a business card. The person to my left gets up, and I fish one out of my purse, which holds my box of 99, now 98, cards (that I had printed the day before from Staples, after putting together an online professional writing portfolio, because, of course, I had to have something on the card other than my name and the titles I decided fit best but stressed about for far, far too long). I hand over my card, shake his hand, and slide into the next seat.

We talk. About MFA's. (More school?!) And appropriate email addresses. And he doesn't. Answer my questions. So I start asking. Follow-up questions. To his insistence. On correct email addresses. And the whistle blows. And I slide to the next chair. And she's talking a mile a minute only pausing to sip her red wine and tells me all about facebook and twitter and blogging and tells me that the only way to get a job in this industry is to promote your social media skills and get 5,000 followers on twitter and 5,000 fans on facebook and then you can have any job in the industry as long as it is related to social media but don'tquityourdayjob. TWEEEETH. I'm left in a chair facing an empty chair. As is the person next to me. So I turn, and say hello. She bombards me with questions. Do you have a book? Do you want a book? When are you going to write a book? No, No, No.  It's a never ending onslaught of questions until I start aiming some at her. Do you have a book? What's it about? What's the publishing process? She answers, but she's nervous, because we don't have an expert.

I'm tired. I'm certain that whatever I came looking for, I found. I politely excuse myself, find my coat, say goodbye to the one I laughed with, and exit the bar. I call my brother to let him know I left early, and he invites me over to watch a movie. I decline even though he's only a few blocks away. We already had dinner together, and my feet hurt from walking around in heels. I had forgotten that walking around a city in these shoes without spawning bloody toes and heels requires at least two weeks of practice. I didn't have band-aids tucked away in my pockets, so I hobble to Grand Central with oozy heels and bloody toes. Grab a coffee and a seat on the south side, facing east. My mind races the entire way home, and I check my email on my cellphone (old school style) at least three times. No new mail.

When I get home, I crawl into bed with my computer. I'm determined to put the finishing touches on my new, online writing portfolio before The-One-Who-Gets-Me finds it via my business card. I turn off the light at 2:30am, and think to myself: Nobody can ever say I didn't try.

[To Be Continued]

In Which I Write To Sort Things Out (And Really Don't Expect You To Get To The End, Promise)

Sometimes on rainy Wednesday afternoons, the best thing to do is sit on the couch with a cup of coffee and watch a marathon of Sex and the City episodes on dvd. 

It's not that I don't have things I could be doing, perhaps should be doing, but this afternoon I needed a break.  My life has been swimming around inside my head lately, rather than playing itself out in real-time.  I haven't been sleeping well.  I needed to check out for a bit, and the best way I know how is by checking in with my four favorite NYC ladies.  With a cup of coffee, of course.

Maybe This Is It?

The last time I was here, the cardboard cut-outs of Hillary Clinton were 50% off.  Tourists stopped to take photographs with a two dimensional Obama or McCain.  Memory re-orders the shops.  I deem them misplaced but almost rejoice that they are all still here.  I know the best place to buy lunch, which line moves the fastest, how to find tiny altoids (downstairs at the convenience store tucked around the corner from the escalator).  The Starbucks line still falls out the door and accidentally mingles with the Hertz rental car line.  I remember how empty this space feels at 10pm.  It always  seemed like we were the only ones in the city who needed a late-night coffee to make it the 3 blocks home.  We probably were. 

I had forgotten the friendly nature of people here.  How much more they smile.  How much more I smile.  I recognize faces, although mine goes unnoticed.  My heart breaks a little when that face is homeless.  Still sitting and staring and chanting.  I almost walk two blocks in search of my favorite - he was a kind head nod and small smile every day that summer.  I don't want to walk by the old office and old "apartment", so I tell myself he is fine and almost believe it.  I still see faces of people who aren't here.  Who were never here with me.  People I have not thought of in months.  I'm surprised that this hasn't faded with time, and I wonder if it ever will.  Will this city always remind me of you?  I had forgotten how often someone asks me for directions: "I don't know *shrug* I'm sorry!"  I apologize that an ipod on doesn't mean resident, and they apologize for breaking my stride.  We meet in the middle of the sloppy apologetic puddle and move forward.  Kindness. 

This time around my thoughts form stories, laying words like bricks, but I'm not sure there is a foundation. This time I decide not to walk through the Senate office buildings and head straight for the Museum of the American Indian.  I stop and breath in the Capitol building.  Inhale and exhale peacefulness.  My eye searches for photographs and captures viewfinder shots differently than two years ago, when I played tourist with my camera and resident with my heart.  I sit in the shadow of the museum and watch the waterfalls cascade.  I'm gentle on myself for not remembering the symbolism of the architecture and landscaping.  Note the importance I assign this knowledge.  I pick up a brochure on my way out and promise to take the tour next time.  Next time.  Feel daunted and assured. 

At the end of the day I'm in Union Station, sitting in a gray suit with a pen in one hand and a Starbucks in the other.  If I am trying to reconcile parts of me - professional and personal - then maybe this is it?

Constructed Lives

We pass over the East River on a bridge different than MetroNorth's.  Roll through Brooklyn in the fog.  The buildings peak but the gray swallows the skyline.  The same gray as my suit.  I convince myself that I have not disappeared and wonder why this internal conversation sounds familiar.  When else did I have to convince myself that I have not yet disappeared?  What was I doing then?

As we pull into Penn Station I'm stringing words together but sitting on my hands.  Afraid I will write myself out of my life.  A constructed life, I remind myself.  It waxes and wanes, but you're okay, I coax myself.  My hands still pressed against the fake leather seat.  Willing myself not to get off the train and run into the warm New York rain.  Feel it rush down my face.  Scrunch my nose at the smell of wet sidewalks and the stench of misplaced garbage. I turn up my ipod, take a deep breath, and text a friend - my fingers need something to do.  Dismiss the thought that this must be what a quit smoker feels like after kicking the addiction.  Dismiss the thought that NYC has become an unhealthy addiction.  Call it back because maybe that will keep me in my seat.

A woman with fast blackberry fingers sits down next to me.  I grab my coffee as we lurch out of Penn Station.  Try to figure out if I started holding my breath before or after we left the station.  Scramble for my pen and paper.  Declare myself in bold ink A WRITER to the pages of my moleskin. "Once In A Lifetime" crawls into my headphones, and I can't help but wonder what this moment means for my life.  We cross what I assume to be the mouth of the Hudson, and suddenly this train ride can't be long enough.

"You may ask yourself: well... how did I get here? [...]

You may ask yourself
Am I right?... Am I wrong?  [...]

You may ask yourself: well... how did I get here?" 

[Once In A Lifetime, Talking Heads]

On Moving and Boxes and Goals

A good friend of mine moved last weekend.  Across a couple of states.  For an entirely new life. 

I talked to her this morning, and she sounded really happy.  The genuine kind of happy that sounds strong and graceful at the same time.  The kind that comes at the new beginnings that follow tough decisions or draining circumstances. 

Oh, and the kind that erases a long haul to a new place.  You know the kind, right?  The kind that begins with  oh my god how did i ever accumulate this much stuff?  that leads into  do i reaaaally need all of this stuff?!  followed by  welp here's where i find out because there is NO WAY it is all going to fit!!  It usually ends with a solid cry, a stream of four letter words, and then some angel swoops in with a kind face and tells you to go wash the bathroom sink for a while, or check to make sure all the windows are still in place, or some other small unnecessary task that gives you an escape or at least a private place to have a mini-meltdown. (Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything.) It always works out fine.  Somehow it all ends up fitting and arrives at the new place in one piece and full of promise. 

Full of promise.  I loved hearing about my friend's new place and new neighborhood.  She's standing at that wonderful place at the very beginning where anything can happen and anything is possible.  She decided to follow her passion and her talent, and it led her across a few states to a place where she can almost reach out and hold onto her goals.  It's that tangible.  If she slips, she can reach out and grab onto her goals.  They'll hold onto her as tightly as she will hold on to them. 

She talked this morning of unpacking boxes, ants, cleaning, and closet space, but it was light, and airy.  Solve-able chitter-chatter dunked in excitement and anticipation.  Contagious excitement and anticipation.  thankgoodness. 

I cried a few days ago at the mere prospect of the emotional and physical stress that comes with packing my entire life into a small space and then taking a leap off a high cliff towards the much anticipated "next chapter".  I have moved so many times, called so many places home (mostly for lack a better word than a sincere feeling), chasing the same goal, that the prospect* of doing it again reduced me to fearful tears.  It's the same goal I'm chasing - I just didn't realize how many chapters I would have to page through before I reached the end of this chase.  Before I actually reached the goal. 

Listening to my friend on the first real day of her "next chapter" sparked something stronger than fear.  It sparked excitement and anticipation for that graceful and strong happiness.  Excitement and anticipation for beginnings full of promise.  These things come with moving, too.  I know this because I have done it so many times before.  I can do this again.  I want to do this again.

My goals are holding on to me tightly.  We are intertwined.  They hold me up when I'm tired, worn down, and stumbling.  Their arms are heavy this summer.  When I got off the phone with my friend, they heaved a large sigh of relief, set me down, and shook out the muscle tension.  We both knew I was ready to carry them for a while.  I can't say that I am feeling strong or graceful.  But I can say that I am one wobbly step closer to happiness. 

Thank you, Bee.

*a possibility, possibility, possibility.  tangible hope for a good fit.  for a next step.  send some good vibes into the universe for me? thanksiloveyou!

In Which I Write Myself The Perfect Job Listing

I spend a lot of time looking and applying for jobs.  Some positions make me feel like all of my hard work will result in a career I love; others feel like a long stretch - a mismatch, but what do I have to lose?  I know I'm not going to find exactly what I am looking for, but a girl can hope, right?  THIS [below] is EXACTLY what I want:

Position Available: Research and Policy Associate (As in, responsible for substantive work with real responsibility.  You will not be asked to babysit the fax machine or to brew coffee for the entire office.  In fact, we don't even have a fax machine.  Who faxes when you can email?)

Job Category: Public Policy, Children and Youth, Juvenile Justice, Advocacy, Writing and Editing

Sector: Nonprofit

Type: Full time (As in, M-F 9-5:30 with only an occasional 60 hour week for which you will be compensated with gratitude, appreciation, and coffee as needed.)

Salary: Commensurate With Education And Experience – Excellent Benefits. (As in, enough salary to pay food, rent, utilities, school loans, that cute dress from Anthropologie, a small emergency fund, and to toy with the idea of having an actual savings account.  In that order. -- As in, a large enough benefits package to include dental insurance AND a 401K.  Yes, we will wait while you squeal with excitement.  Just not too high-pitched, please.)

Location: New York, New York, Occasional Travel to Washington, D.C. (As in, two blocks from Grand Central Station, so if you have to live at home and commute for the first few months to save money, you don't have to spend an extra hour commuting within the city.  Or, when you decide you do want to live in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, your total commute time will be only a half hour.)

Job Description: Research national trends in juvenile justice, positive youth development, youth leadership programs, substance abuse prevention programs, and community-based organizations serving youth.  Write reports, policy briefs, and educational materials on the above topics. Track federal and state legislation related to the above topics.  Advocate for changes and improvements in federal and state legislation.

Required Skills and Abilities:

• J.D.


• Master's in Public Policy and Management


• Experience with Juvenile Justice policy at the state and national levels


• Some direct experience with youth and youth programs


• Strong writing and analytical skills


• Proven interest in improving youth policies


• (Comes in with a smile in the morning because even though the day may promise to be long s/he loves the works s/he does and is invested in every moment of the day.  This includes the mid-afternoon moments when nothing tastes better than a fresh cup of coffee.  Must love coffee.)

How To Apply: Please send cover letter and resume via email. (We will reply with an automated email to acknowledge the time and energy it took to apply for this position.   We will notify you of first round interviews within one week.  Two of the five persons interviewed on the phone will be asked to come in for an in-person interview the following week.  The selected candidate will be notified two days later.  The start date is September 1.  This should give you enough time to de-stress from the fear of perpetual unemployment and allow you to enjoy at least two weeks of summer worry-free.  Enjoy!)

Other Plans

I make plans. I list. I organize goals, priorities, action-steps. I always have a five week plan, five month plan, five year plan... ten year plan. I calculate course credits, finances, time. And then I dream... in the recent years it is in the form of craigslist.org apartments, realtor.com properties, google maps of cities, potential weekend activities and evening events. My ten year dreams usually include furniture, travel, financial investments, clothing...

At fifteen, my ten year plan included an office with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and a desk with student midterm papers dispersed among my own research.
At twenty, my five year plan included a gorgeous condo in southern CT and an office with views in Manhattan. A publishing hot-shot, I intended to split my time between the states and London.
At twenty five, I spent most of my time in sweatshirts carrying heavy books, drinking too much coffee, cherishing the time spent with friends, and proudly walking across a stage, diploma in hand.

Sometimes my plans unfold as orchestrated. Often my plans meander and morph as new opportunities emerge. Occasionally I run face first into brick wall. Ouch. Although the brick wall collisions don't occur frequently, I have hit them enough to know that I'll eventually get my breath back. So, I still run full force ahead with plans, knowing that the fork in the path and the brick wall emerge eventually.

In the past year, craigslist and realtor searches have spanned multiple cities, and calculations have accommodated many altered finances and time frames. Five week and five month plans remain in tact, but the one year plans change and fade... The one year plan fades, and the ten year plan becomes abstractly more vivid - a comforting occurrence. The forks in the road, the detours in life, the brick walls - they may change geographical locations, budget restrictions, and short-term time frames, but they do not change goals, priorities, or dreams.

I plan. When life directs me, I readily alter my course, but I plan again. I will always be a planner. My dad constantly tells me, "Emmy, life is what happens while you're making other plans." And I'm okay with that.

State House

[originally written 2008]

2-12-08
Warm, yellow, light wraps its arms around me. Almost gently whispering, encouraging, a distant dream that I crawl towards on scraped hands and knees. Warm, yellow, light raises me to my feet, an arm around my shoulders, it provides support, absorbs my chills and uncertainty. It bounces off the marble floors, as if it pours straight down from the high rise dome. Softly encouraging a path not clearly marked, pointing out how far I have come already. In the warmth and embrace of its arms, I can set aside the doubt and appreciate the grace of this house, the pages bound in maroon, the decades of framed photographs, and picture the rocking chairs on the balcony. Surely wide-eyed, and infatuated with the architecture, the people, the issues, even the coffee in the Styrofoam cup he hands me. Reluctant to depart, but encouraged and uplifted. A loosely connected goal dancing in the distant future. For a moment, I could almost reach out to it, in the warmth of the yellow light.


4-9-08
I find the steps myself this time. The clank of my heels almost familiar, but the Appropriations sign hangs above my head, and I have to spiral up one more flight. A sea of faces, I scan for familiar ones, but I find none, so I take a seat in between. In between the House and the Senate.

This time I don't notice the light of the third floor, until we travel down a floor or two, stopping in the doorway of a darker hallway. A familiar face, and it takes me a little while to place why. A familiar con law issue, and it takes me a minute to remember why. A familiar admin term, and I know why. We pass through the doorway. Upstairs, I now have a friendly face to sit with, a reassurance that I understand more than I think I do, and a place in a conversation about a Bill I had never heard of. Sitting between two attorneys, I am not an attorney. Do I want to sit here as an attorney?

When they depart, I am left to watch my own thoughts run a treadmill race. Division into legislators and onlookers. I am somewhere in between. Lost in a sea of their pilot language, I try to translate with involuntarily squinted eyes. I know the importance of understanding the language, understanding the process, even if I never plan to stand in their place. I do not want to stand where they stand. Do I want to stand beside them - not on the floor, but in theory – helping to shape the conversation?

We leave for lunch, and I willingly sink into the familiar, concaved, red couch and look around. A coffee machine that that leaks water, books filled with rainbow highlights, and a hanger that probably once had a home in the car. Familiarity became an understatement as soon as we passed through the doorway. I wait for a comment about the lack of protein in my lunch, but he lets it pass. We let our conversation wander. To others it may seem like our own pilot language, but this one comes naturally for me, no need to translate. With two people it seems impossible to sit in between, but even when an additional friendly face arrives, I'm not worried about the in between.

At the end of the day, I'm not sure where I belong, but not I'm entirely lost either. At least I can find my way to the stairs.

Summer Rain

I wonder how I will remember this summer.
Will I think of the steady downpour of rain?
Jeans rolled up, collecting sand in the cuff,
Dragged in from the puddles in the parking lot,
Smeared onto the chair in the lecture hall,
Where I sit and swivel and sigh,
A deep sigh.

Will I think of the rain drops pounding the dark window?
As I toss and turn,
Searching for sleep,
Loyally abandoning consciousness,
Only to the betrayal of my unconscious,
Thrashing and gasping with fisted hands,
Not strong enough to fight,
The demons of my night.

Will I think of the steady streams flowing down the glass,
Over my right shoulder, in front of the dark gray sky?
Matching the dark gray circles,
The rows of penciled in bubbles,
Rules and exceptions,
Perfectly laid out in baby blue books.
A test I never wanted to take, for
A dream I never had.

Is that how I will remember this summer?

Promise

I will return here soon(ish). I promise.