tea berry-blue

I want to tell you all a story about my childhood. This was partly inspired by abhor.

I went to a wealthy-but-public school on Long Island in New York. In elementary school, I lived less than a half-mile from school, and was a "walker." Usually my mother drove me, but I would often walk to school with my little brother and one of the neighbor's kids, who was in my brother's grade.

When I got to middle school, I took the bus. I took the bus in high school, as well.

Bus stories of my own childhood, of which there are many, aside, part of the district I grew up in was an extremely wealthy neighborhood. When I say "extremely wealthy," I mean estates. Like, out of The Great Gatsby or Sabrina estates. Big houses, lots of property.

So the bus route that went through the estates had to go just as far as the other bus routes, but picked up a lot fewer kids. For this reason, the estate bus route used a vehicle that is colloquially known as "the short bus," a bus about half the length of a traditional school bus.

The disabled kids rode whichever bus went along their bus route. There was no differentiation. There were no kids in wheelchairs in my school, but I remember there was one kid on my middle school bus who had a walker/crutches and leg braces. And no one was singled out or put on a different bus for emotional or developmental difficulties. Some buses had an extra adult who rode along, and certain kids always sat near them, but I always assumed it was because they had really protective parents or had been the target of bullying or something.

When I was a sophomore in college, I lived on a hall with two friends: Raquel and Carrie. Names are not changed, because I don't think there's really anything to hide.

One day, a little drawing appeared on Carrie's door. It was a drawing of a short bus, in crayon, with a stick figure that was supposed to be Carrie, apparently, based on the caption. The caption was,

"Carrie rode the short bus to school."

This perplexed me because I couldn't figure out what the commentary was supposed to mean. What purposes would people have for short buses? Were they trying to say she was spoiled? Or maybe they were saying she was from a rural area? I could tell it was supposed to be a joke and not just an observation, but I couldn't figure out what the joke was.

I don't remember when someone explained the joke to me, but when they did, I was really surprised to discover that this was such a commonplace occurrence that it was common vocabulary that most Americans could hear and know exactly what it meant. It also surprised me that people would think this was a funny joke, but that's another story. There are a lot of other issues tied up in that part of the post that I know I can't make this post without stirring, but mostly, I wanted to talk about the phenomenon of growing up in a way where a common cultural association never enters you set of definitions. Because now, when I hear "short bus," my personal meaning is still different, because I can't hear that phrase without thinking about the jarring discovery that a term meant something different to me than it did to most other people in my peer group. And still, when I hear "short bus," my first inclination is to think, "rich kids."

I went out to eat with cacophonesque, cheshire23, and waterfaery tonight. I'd never met waterfaery before so it was very very nice. And Destiny and AJ are awesome as ever. I love people I like.

We talked a lot about Tarot cards and waterfaery showed us her spread that she does. It was nice to talk Tarot with sane people. I'm a bit irritated because that's what I created tarot_week for, but there are way too many loonies there.

I hate people on the internet sometimes.

I haven't written at all this week, but I think that's okay. I plan on bringing a notebook and trying to write things not-on-the-computer this weekend while I'm in Texas. Sometimes I find I need to rest my eyes, especially when I am at the computer all day long. I try to take breaks at work, when I need to rest my eyes, but so much of my work is on the computer. I had been trying to actually take my full lunch hour, but most people at work seem to eat at their desks all the time and I end up not having anyone to sit with in the cafeteria, so I feel a little bit intimidated by the whole crowd scene.

One thing I did want to talk about is my new and increased attempt at hydrating. Work has a water cooler and I try to keep drinking water all day long. I've also switched from soda to water at home. I am pretty proud of myself; I haven't had any soda since last week. Generally I go through a liter a day. I am hoping this will make me overall a healthier person.

I also have been making myself eat at home most nights. I used to eat a lot of take out. Now, most of the take out was vegan, so I was very healthy, but also expensive, and it was costing me up to about $10 a night to eat. By cooking my own meals, which are mostly tuna or cheese sandwiches, and grits and eggs, I have brought my eat-at-home budget down to about ten to fifteen dollars a week. Since I am saving a lot more money on food, but I really need to because I am making less money at this job than I have made previously, I am not really giving myself more freedom with expenditures (I'm actually seeing fewer movies), I've decided that one thing I can do is to actually carry spare change to give to people who are asking for money on the street. I don't give money to people on subways, since it's technically illegal to panhandle on the subway, but I do try to give change to anyone who asks on my way to or from work. I was raised to believe that it's better to give money directly to charities, but the more I interact with needy people, the more I realize that many of them don't go to charities for help, for good or bad reasons, and that the idea that homeless people are only using loose change to buy drugs is bullshit. I am sure there are some who do. But I would rather accidentally support someone's drug habit than not help someone get a hamburger at McDonalds. I am strongly in favor of the trickle-UP economy.

The sad thing is, I rarely have enough change in my pocket for everyone I see.

On that note, I would like to mention that the number of empty storefronts in my neighborhood is devastating. It has definitely more than doubled since last summer. Even Ben & Jerry's has gone out of business. This is the Ben & Jerry's around the corner from Times Square, which is a very well-trafficked area. A lot of mom & pop delis and bodegas are closing, I notice, too. It's pretty depressing. But when I see empty storefronts, there is a part of me that starts imagining what sort of business I would like to open in them.

The (friends-only, sorry non-friends) post I made the other day about facebook has really gotten me thinking of other things that happened when I was a kid. I know I said I was picked on but that I was a little snot, too. I will give you one example of me being a snot.

One of the kids who picked on me a lot was a boy named John. I wouldn't give out his name, but it's important to the story. All I remember is that he was one of those kids who by second grade still couldn't spell his own name-- and I could spell his name, because my father's name is John. But he spelled it "Jhon" without fail. He used to abuse the hell out of me-- verbally, of course-- but I honestly can't remember what he did now.

I do remember what I did to him. In second grade, we had "mailboxes" in our classroom-- little slots where our work was returned to us when the teacher marked it. One day, I left the following rhyme in his mailbox:

John, John, leprechaun
Went to school with nothing on.
Teacher, teacher, that's not fair!
Give me back my underwear!

I don't know if anyone ever figured out that it was me, but the teacher I think suspected something since she made "leprechaun" one of our spelling words the next week. I think she was trying to figure out who already knew how to spell it. So I deliberately misspelled it on my homework.

I went out to eat with cacophonesque, cheshire23, and waterfaery tonight. I'd never met waterfaery before so it was very very nice. And Destiny and AJ are awesome as ever. I love people I like.

We talked a lot about Tarot cards and waterfaery showed us her spread that she does. It was nice to talk Tarot with sane people. I'm a bit irritated because that's what I created tarot_week for, but there are way too many loonies there.

I hate people on the internet sometimes.

I haven't written at all this week, but I think that's okay. I plan on bringing a notebook and trying to write things not-on-the-computer this weekend while I'm in Texas. Sometimes I find I need to rest my eyes, especially when I am at the computer all day long. I try to take breaks at work, when I need to rest my eyes, but so much of my work is on the computer. I had been trying to actually take my full lunch hour, but most people at work seem to eat at their desks all the time and I end up not having anyone to sit with in the cafeteria, so I feel a little bit intimidated by the whole crowd scene.

One thing I did want to talk about is my new and increased attempt at hydrating. Work has a water cooler and I try to keep drinking water all day long. I've also switched from soda to water at home. I am pretty proud of myself; I haven't had any soda since last week. Generally I go through a liter a day. I am hoping this will make me overall a healthier person.

I also have been making myself eat at home most nights. I used to eat a lot of take out. Now, most of the take out was vegan, so I was very healthy, but also expensive, and it was costing me up to about $10 a night to eat. By cooking my own meals, which are mostly tuna or cheese sandwiches, and grits and eggs, I have brought my eat-at-home budget down to about ten to fifteen dollars a week. Since I am saving a lot more money on food, but I really need to because I am making less money at this job than I have made previously, I am not really giving myself more freedom with expenditures (I'm actually seeing fewer movies), I've decided that one thing I can do is to actually carry spare change to give to people who are asking for money on the street. I don't give money to people on subways, since it's technically illegal to panhandle on the subway, but I do try to give change to anyone who asks on my way to or from work. I was raised to believe that it's better to give money directly to charities, but the more I interact with needy people, the more I realize that many of them don't go to charities for help, for good or bad reasons, and that the idea that homeless people are only using loose change to buy drugs is bullshit. I am sure there are some who do. But I would rather accidentally support someone's drug habit than not help someone get a hamburger at McDonalds. I am strongly in favor of the trickle-UP economy.

The sad thing is, I rarely have enough change in my pocket for everyone I see.

On that note, I would like to mention that the number of empty storefronts in my neighborhood is devastating. It has definitely more than doubled since last summer. Even Ben & Jerry's has gone out of business. This is the Ben & Jerry's around the corner from Times Square, which is a very well-trafficked area. A lot of mom & pop delis and bodegas are closing, I notice, too. It's pretty depressing. But when I see empty storefronts, there is a part of me that starts imagining what sort of business I would like to open in them.

The (friends-only, sorry non-friends) post I made the other day about facebook has really gotten me thinking of other things that happened when I was a kid. I know I said I was picked on but that I was a little snot, too. I will give you one example of me being a snot.

One of the kids who picked on me a lot was a boy named John. I wouldn't give out his name, but it's important to the story. All I remember is that he was one of those kids who by second grade still couldn't spell his own name-- and I could spell his name, because my father's name is John. But he spelled it "Jhon" without fail. He used to abuse the hell out of me-- verbally, of course-- but I honestly can't remember what he did now.

I do remember what I did to him. In second grade, we had "mailboxes" in our classroom-- little slots where our work was returned to us when the teacher marked it. One day, I left the following rhyme in his mailbox:

John, John, leprechaun
Went to school with nothing on.
Teacher, teacher, that's not fair!
Give me back my underwear!

I don't know if anyone ever figured out that it was me, but the teacher I think suspected something since she made "leprechaun" one of our spelling words the next week. I think she was trying to figure out who already knew how to spell it. So I deliberately misspelled it on my homework.

I finished unpacking, sorting, and in some cases re-packing my shit.

Here is many photos of things I founds, with stories.

( large size photos )

That is all for tonight! It has been very interesting to go through all these things. Very interesting indeed and it is making me remember quite a lot about who I once was. It's good to have these things back with me now.

Unpacking boxes, I am finding all kinds of things I forgot about.

Tonight, I was about to pack it in and go to to bed at about 1:30.

Then, I found the longest love letter I've ever written. It's a book. One of those blank journals? I don't even know how many pages it is. Definitely fifty; maybe a hundred. It took me a full three months to write.

I obviously didn't send it. I feel like Beatrice Baudelaire. And there is a very reckless, very hopeful part of me that is tempted to send it now, years after the fact, because I don't feel any differently than I did when I wrote it. I do about some things; I've grown up, I've mellowed out, I've become more pragmatic and poised.

But not so pragmatic that I throw out fifty-page love letters I'll never send. It took me till three before I put it down-- and I didn't finish it, mind. I set it down, skimming through the second half. Only skimming. Finding the part where I finally declare "I love you," a full three quarters through the letter.

I am finding poetry and stories. A novella, illustrated, that was another love letter to someone else, also never sent. Never given, I should say, it was meant as a gift and then somewhere along the way I realized the person it was intended for would never care that I had written a book for them and them alone. I don't know. Maybe they would. There was a time when they would have cared immensely.

It's pretty wretched prose now, though. I would be mortified if someone gave this to me.

So far, now that the love-letter-book is found (and oh, how telling it is, and wonderful to read the intellectual curiosity I had at that age at work and on a page and swelling with fervor to find someone else who understood it and challenged it without competition), the only thing not found that I truly care about is my Pez collection. What does that say about me, really, that the things with the deepest meaning to me as reminders of a youth well-spent are an unsent love-letter that took a season to write, a Ouija Board from 1920, my tarot decks, collections of juvenile writing, books, and my Pez dispensers?

Really, what does it mean?

The most wonderful thing about reading that letter is now I feel inspired to live up to being the person I hoped I would be when I wrote it. And oh, god, I want the person I wrote it to to be what they wanted to be.

Remember, all of you, even though this letter was not to you (because it was only to one person, so it could not be to all of you, and it was to someone I knew before the advent of this journal, and that rules out all but a select few of you), that there is something in the universe that is deserving of your deep and complete love.

I don't think I've ever posted a remembrance, and because six years isn't a day one remembers-- I only see one other post in my LJ-- thanks, strangealchemy-- I feel like it's the right time.

ETA: It is also, and I was thinking about this a few days ago, the first Tuesday, 9/11, since the Tuesday, 9/11.

Six years ago today, I woke up.

It was like any other day. I walked to Grand Central, like any other day-- but early. I was a good hour early because I had a meeting at ten and I wanted to be prepared for it.

I walked into Grand Central, and I saw a man from my old job at Playgirl, asked how he was. It was an awkward exchange considering that he was one of the people who got offended whenever I mentioned that gay people existed, but friendly.

I had been feeling a little under the weather, so I went into Duane Reade to buy cleaning supplies to wipe down my desk at work so I could make sure I didn't get sick.

And that was when the world changed.

The radio station was interrupted to say that there had been an explosion in one of the Twin Towers. They weren't sure what it was, and at this point, they were speculating that it was a small craft plane.

I shrugged and kept on shopping.

By the time I got to the register with my purchases, they were getting conflicting reports that both towers had had explosions, that there had been a bomb, that a large airplane or a helicopter had flown into one tower and a piece of it had landed in the other and caused a chain explosion.

Still, they were saying there was a lot of smoke but it was isolated damage and blablahblah. Still no hint of the devastation to come.

I rang up my purchases and left. There was a girl crying outside the drugstore, trying to get in touch with her boyfriend who worked in the towers. She had two friends with her, one who was consoling her and reminding her that when the towers were bombed, everything had turned out all right. The other one was bitching her out for making a scene in public. That was the level of understanding that we had of the magnitude of the disaster-- it was okay, still, at nine-something in the morning, to be bitching someone out for being upset.

I got on the subway. I got off the subway.

On the way to work every morning, I used to pass the big movie screen in Times Square. This morning when I passed it, they were showing the towers. From the angle they were shooting, it didn't look so bad.

At nine-thirty-something, when I got to the office, the woman I was supposed to meet with called to say that traffic was insane because of the fire at the World Trade Center, and she was going to be running late, but she'd get there when she got there.

Nine-thirty was when other people usually started to come to work. In these days, we had two developers, one other designer, and my bosses. My bosses were in California. No one else had gotten in yet.

At ten-something, the woman I was supposed to meet with called to say that she was still stuck in the same place, and she was just going to turn around and go home, but she'd come in later.

I emailed my bosses and told them that the meeting couldn't take place, because there had been a bombing or something at the World Trade Center, and traffic was atrocious.

Minutes later, the first tower came down. I found out about it by refreshing Google News nonstop as I tried desperately to call my father, just to get in touch with someone.

Minutes after that, the internet slowed to a halt. The phone circuits were overtaxed. I was sitting alone in my office with no way of reaching anyone or finding out what was going on.

And then my father's phone call reached me.

"You're still at work?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered. "But no one else is here. I don't think they can get in from Brooklyn."
"Probably not," he agreed. "So you know what's going on."
"Yes," I answered.

We talked a little more, and somewhere in the conversation, I said something about how lonely the still standing tower was.

And there was silence.
After a moment, my father said to me, "The other tower came down, too."
"What?"
"They both fell."
"Oh God." I remember saying "Oh God" repeatedly. It was all I could say.

"This is going to be a very sad day," my father said. "A lot of people have died. A lot of people are going to die."

Those words are going to stay with me for the rest of my life, more than anything any celebrity or politician or survivor ever will. My father, on the phone, saying "This is going to be a very sad day."

When my father hung up, I just sat in the office, the office where I was still alone, and cried and cried.

Finally, the internet started working, and my bosses, who were on California time and thus had just woken up, had sent me an email saying that my email was the first news they'd gotten, and to go home.

So (after arguing with various family members about whether it was safe for me to go down to help and finally, grudgingly, being convinced not to as I have no EMT training) I did.

There are a lot of other memories of that day and the days that followed, of going to give blood, of being evacuated from my home, of the people wearing surgical masks, of the MISSING posters that plastered the city, of finding out which of my friends had died, which had lost relatives, of the anthrax scares and the bomb scares and the days when we were evacuated from three different places in one day, of the smell of burnt flesh that hung in the air, of the ash and smoke and the red cloud over everything. Of the weeks where it felt like that would be our lives forever. But those things-- those things happened to all of us. Every New Yorker. This one piece is what happened to me that day, when I was alone in an office in Hell's Kitchen. It's the one piece that only I can remember, so only I can pass it on.

I think, in the six years that followed, that New York has become a better place. But the world as a whole has become much worse.

ETA AGAIN
Since I posted, a number of people on my flist have posted their own posts, so I'm going to link them here. Some of them are locked, but this is so that I will be able to look back and see.

strangealchemy: here
pachakuti: #1 #2
mildlyironic: here
haldirsbitch: here
twowishesleft: here
_samalander: here
opaleyes: here
nightrose83: here
dragonmagelet:here
jerrica28: here
tigera4j: here
cinediva: here
smammers: here
quizzicalsphinx: here

I don't think I've ever posted a remembrance, and because six years isn't a day one remembers-- I only see one other post in my LJ-- thanks, strangealchemy-- I feel like it's the right time.

ETA: It is also, and I was thinking about this a few days ago, the first Tuesday, 9/11, since the Tuesday, 9/11.

Six years ago today, I woke up.

It was like any other day. I walked to Grand Central, like any other day-- but early. I was a good hour early because I had a meeting at ten and I wanted to be prepared for it.

I walked into Grand Central, and I saw a man from my old job at Playgirl, asked how he was. It was an awkward exchange considering that he was one of the people who got offended whenever I mentioned that gay people existed, but friendly.

I had been feeling a little under the weather, so I went into Duane Reade to buy cleaning supplies to wipe down my desk at work so I could make sure I didn't get sick.

And that was when the world changed.

The radio station was interrupted to say that there had been an explosion in one of the Twin Towers. They weren't sure what it was, and at this point, they were speculating that it was a small craft plane.

I shrugged and kept on shopping.

By the time I got to the register with my purchases, they were getting conflicting reports that both towers had had explosions, that there had been a bomb, that a large airplane or a helicopter had flown into one tower and a piece of it had landed in the other and caused a chain explosion.

Still, they were saying there was a lot of smoke but it was isolated damage and blablahblah. Still no hint of the devastation to come.

I rang up my purchases and left. There was a girl crying outside the drugstore, trying to get in touch with her boyfriend who worked in the towers. She had two friends with her, one who was consoling her and reminding her that when the towers were bombed, everything had turned out all right. The other one was bitching her out for making a scene in public. That was the level of understanding that we had of the magnitude of the disaster-- it was okay, still, at nine-something in the morning, to be bitching someone out for being upset.

I got on the subway. I got off the subway.

On the way to work every morning, I used to pass the big movie screen in Times Square. This morning when I passed it, they were showing the towers. From the angle they were shooting, it didn't look so bad.

At nine-thirty-something, when I got to the office, the woman I was supposed to meet with called to say that traffic was insane because of the fire at the World Trade Center, and she was going to be running late, but she'd get there when she got there.

Nine-thirty was when other people usually started to come to work. In these days, we had two developers, one other designer, and my bosses. My bosses were in California. No one else had gotten in yet.

At ten-something, the woman I was supposed to meet with called to say that she was still stuck in the same place, and she was just going to turn around and go home, but she'd come in later.

I emailed my bosses and told them that the meeting couldn't take place, because there had been a bombing or something at the World Trade Center, and traffic was atrocious.

Minutes later, the first tower came down. I found out about it by refreshing Google News nonstop as I tried desperately to call my father, just to get in touch with someone.

Minutes after that, the internet slowed to a halt. The phone circuits were overtaxed. I was sitting alone in my office with no way of reaching anyone or finding out what was going on.

And then my father's phone call reached me.

"You're still at work?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered. "But no one else is here. I don't think they can get in from Brooklyn."
"Probably not," he agreed. "So you know what's going on."
"Yes," I answered.

We talked a little more, and somewhere in the conversation, I said something about how lonely the still standing tower was.

And there was silence.
After a moment, my father said to me, "The other tower came down, too."
"What?"
"They both fell."
"Oh God." I remember saying "Oh God" repeatedly. It was all I could say.

"This is going to be a very sad day," my father said. "A lot of people have died. A lot of people are going to die."

Those words are going to stay with me for the rest of my life, more than anything any celebrity or politician or survivor ever will. My father, on the phone, saying "This is going to be a very sad day."

When my father hung up, I just sat in the office, the office where I was still alone, and cried and cried.

Finally, the internet started working, and my bosses, who were on California time and thus had just woken up, had sent me an email saying that my email was the first news they'd gotten, and to go home.

So (after arguing with various family members about whether it was safe for me to go down to help and finally, grudgingly, being convinced not to as I have no EMT training) I did.

There are a lot of other memories of that day and the days that followed, of going to give blood, of being evacuated from my home, of the people wearing surgical masks, of the MISSING posters that plastered the city, of finding out which of my friends had died, which had lost relatives, of the anthrax scares and the bomb scares and the days when we were evacuated from three different places in one day, of the smell of burnt flesh that hung in the air, of the ash and smoke and the red cloud over everything. Of the weeks where it felt like that would be our lives forever. But those things-- those things happened to all of us. Every New Yorker. This one piece is what happened to me that day, when I was alone in an office in Hell's Kitchen. It's the one piece that only I can remember, so only I can pass it on.

I think, in the six years that followed, that New York has become a better place. But the world as a whole has become much worse.

ETA AGAIN
Since I posted, a number of people on my flist have posted their own posts, so I'm going to link them here. Some of them are locked, but this is so that I will be able to look back and see.

strangealchemy: here
pachakuti: #1 #2
mildlyironic: here
haldirsbitch: here
twowishesleft: here
_samalander: here
opaleyes: here
nightrose83: here
dragonmagelet:here
jerrica28: here
tigera4j: here
cinediva: here
smammers: here
quizzicalsphinx: here

so when i was a senior in high school i had a whole bunch of insane online friends. then we all lost touch, mostly because most of us went away to college and made real friends, or something. i dunno. anyway, the resolutions quiz (remember that?) was made by a young gent named leviadams which happened to be the same name as one of these friends of mine. coincidence, i think NOT! it is in fact the same leviadams. so i wrote to him. well, i wrote to him before i knew this. then he wrote back. but i got the email on my parents' computer, goddammit!! so i losted it. i was too stoopid to look for the resolutions test again. but the ducky test linked to it! so i found him again and put him on my friends list! WHAH!!

that's all.