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8/29/16

Little Things (day 5)


Ya'll know what this is by now. 

I am good at the little things.

Big things are untrustworthy. Institutions, churches, heroes, dreams- all those can be crushed. Fragile big things.

But small things, I love. 

When I was a freshman in college one of my history professors took us to the special collections section of the Marriott Library. It was my Early Civilizations class, and we were going to see the cuneiform tablets from Sumer.

I was so excited. I couldn't believe that my school kept artifacts from earth's earliest civilization in their library. It was so thrilling, to see these tiny tablets that started it all.

I came home and told my Dad. I was shaking with excitement, and my Dad worried I had a manic disorder, but my love of small things isn't a mental illness- it is the thing that keeps me sane.

Throughout college, I did the majority of my studying in the Marriott Library, near the special collections room. I knew the tablets were buried in there somewhere, and so I stayed near them. I spent hours pacing white tiled floors with their gold specks, pacing as I re-read my notes. 

Small things. The way books feel in my hands, the way a sharp pencil sounds against good paper, the light at the beginning of fall mornings and at the end of summer evenings. My baby curled against my shoulder. The smell inside museums, the first snow, wedding rings, freckles. All of them better and brighter and more sure than any big thing I've ever loved.




8/26/16

Adventure (day 4)

This is a memoir writing project created by Ann Dee Ellis. We write 8 minute memoirs based on her prompts. All the cool kids are doing it. Today's prompt: Adventure.

I put off writing this because the prompt made me angry. Adventure. I feel like there's a lot of pressure to be adventurous these days. All the Pinterest girls and their "Let's be Adventurers" prints. Let's be Adventurers. 

Let's just go to bed early and pay our mortgage and listen to podcasts while we fold laundry. 

Can someone make me a "let's just survive this next thing" print? In that fancy casual cursive calligraphy everyone knows how to do all of the sudden? 

For the record, I felt the same way about Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project. Which I never read because I didn't want to feel guilty about not finishing a project. I'm happiest not reading books on how I failed at being happy.

I'm most adventurous when I don't feel pressure to be something I'm not. 

I guess that's something. The best adventures of my life usually happen after I decide to be myself and not who I should be.

You shouldn't marry someone you barely know.

You shouldn't leave the church.

You shouldn't say that. 

You shouldn't quit your very stable, very reliable, very convenient job to try something new. 

But I've done all those things. (The last one I did today! I just got the letter from my school district accepting the resignation letter I wrote with a red grading pen because my printer was broken.) 

It's been an adventure. 





8/22/16

Billboards (day 3)


This is a memoir writing project created by Ann Dee Ellis. We write 8 minute memoirs based on her prompts. All the cool kids are doing it. Today's prompt:Billboards

What the fuck do I know about billboards?

The only billboards I can picture are the ones speckled along the freeway on the way down to Provo.There are three kinds of billboards as you drive down to Provo:

1. An ad for some type of plastic surgery.

2. An ad for some type of modest clothing

3. An ad for some type of MLM company.

I remember someone noting that the billboards on the way to Provo reinforce our cultural belief that women should have lots of babies, (as Modest Mormon Women) but never LOOK like they've had lots of babies (As Modest Mormon Women with Perfect Boobs.)

A friend of mine died getting a boob job. She had three girls.

But I am not against boob jobs. Your body, your choice.

But I am against that universal monolith of perfect Mormon femaleness.

The MLMs of course, are a reminder that perfect (righteous) people can get rich quick.

I remember driving down to Provo to visit BYU after I'd been accepted as a senior in High School. I really wanted to go to BYU. For the same reason I wanted a perfect body, and a perfect spirit and a perfectly neat organized life. BYU is so clean and sterile and I was (am) obsessed with perfection. 

If I went to BYU, I'd tame the wildness inside me and be happy.

Three weeks before school started, I decided to go to the U instead.

My life has been a tangled, wild, non-perfect mess ever since. 

I am happy.

This is the first time I've ever typed fuck on my blog. 


8/21/16

I Don't Rememember (day 2)


This is a memoir writing project created by Ann Dee Ellis. We write 8 minute memoirs based on her prompts. All the cool kids are doing it. Today's prompt: I don't remember...

I don't remember when the ache in my hands first started. I remember being very small, maybe four or five, and wandering around my basement with aching hands. I was looking for construction paper, because I very badly needed to construct something. I didn't know what. 

I spent my childhood constructing things, making things, painting things. Tiny clay princesses, dollhouse furniture, paintings, melting crayons into new crayons, origami. All I wanted for Christmas was "crafts."

I sketched and drew religiously until I was 22. 

Sometimes I still find myself walking with my hands open, hoping something will fall into them and I can take that thing and mold it, craft it, shape it, into something else.

When I was 20, my Mom bought me a sewing machine. "Why did you do that? She'll never use it." said my Dad.

I use it almost every day. I love my sewing machine. Her name is Joan.

When I was 22 I got my first teaching job. It was hard. The ache in my hands went away. One night, I was reading a book of poems by Mary Oliver. I read that Mary Oliver taught high school English (just like me!)

But she quit. She knew she would never write anything of her own if she kept teaching.

I'm 30 now. My hands ache. 



I remember when (day 1)

This is a memoir writing project created by Ann Dee Ellis. We write 8 minute memoirs based on her prompts. All the cool kids are doing it. Today's prompt: I remember when...


I remember when I laughed at Joey.

We were in 5th grade, standing in line outside the cafeteria waiting for school lunch. I remember holding a green lunch ticket, like the ones that come out of the game machines at Chuckie Cheese. It felt damp in my hand. It was hot, just a few days into the school year.

The boy in front of me started it. The merciless teasing and taunting of a chubby red-head named Joey. I remember that Joey was not adorable or sympathetic looking in any way. It was easy to make fun of him. I was new in school and I wanted to be normal and anonymous, and most importantly, not Joey.

So I made fun of him too, and the boy in front of me smiled.

The next day, I felt bad. I realized making fun of Joey was wrong. It wasn't nice.I didn't make fun of him. I told the boy in line to stop. I was nice to Joey- who reminded me that I had been mean yesterday.

For the remainder of the year I was nice to Joey. I sat by him, played with him at recess, and did not make fun of him.

Girls were vicious- the Ginas, the Meagans, (Hiiiiiii I see you on Facebook girls, and yes, these are your real names.) prank called me on weekends for two years asking if I was sleeping with Joey, or just making out with him. I'd see them standing outside the classroom window during lunch recess whispering about how gross we were.

One time some boys in my ward threw rocks at me as I walked home. (Hi Brad! Hi Jordan! Tell your Moms hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!)

Joey was not adorable or sympathetic. He would corner me in the halls and try and hug me or hold my hand. He was aggressive and sweaty. He'd back me into the corner of dark gyms during the 7th grade dance and slow dance with me. I remember the first time a boy touched me without my permission and I remember that I was taught to be nice, not to say "no."

I remember when I thought that being "nice" was the right thing to do.

I do not want to raise daughters who are nice.