over the rainbow

I have talked with my sister, and -- provided the administratives work out for both of us -- she will be in Peru for two years starting this February. Chances are high that I won't be in the States next semester, either. Take a cousin in London here and a boyfriend in Belgique, and I may as well incorporate according to the laws of France and call myself an MNC. Jen's news about Peru is truly extraordinary: this is a girl who used to cry when we made her order pizza. This is also a girl who sent me Play-do in the mail this week, though, so she's obviously full of suprises. My news of London calling pales in comparison to that. I'm proud of her.

For some reason, there's a small lump in my throat for all the moments that will not come back easily now. Heaven knows what brings it on; I wasn't feeling much of anything when she called me tonight to confirm, but taking out the trash wearing only my slippers brought me back to high school. I could so vividly picture myself in CCA's mandatory culottes after a game or practice-- if memory serves me correctly, this would have been volleyball regionals weekend -- slipping into my dad's slippers to take the trash out, feeling too lazy to lace anything. I miss his silly jumping exercises in the basement ("I want you to see if you can hit this tile with your head") and tapings -- Dave's dad used to record games for us, and man, would we catch it if we hadn't posted up or boxed out or picked and rolled or won the jump. And by "we," I mean me: Jen was the athlete. I was the loudmouth. Still, she'd stay down in the rec room with him for hours while I'd inevitably wander upstairs to shower or play the piano...ah, another thing I miss dearly. Right now, this house is so cold that I miss crawling into bed with her -- which I would do for longer than I will admit -- just because she gave off enough heat at night to be dubbed "the Furnace." On cold nights like this, man...she was the best. Cold feet, cold hands, whatever-- she never felt it as long as she was asleep. Anyway.

My dad was speechless when I called to tell him the news this weekend. Poor man: in two days, he's lost two daughters to different continents. I don't think he quite gets that we took him seriously when he told us we could do anything, go anywhere, speak up whenever we wanted to. It's as if we're back to claim that promise only to find he never thought we were listening at all. It made all of this -- this glorious, messy law school existence -- feel like more of an accomplishment than it does in the day-to-day when he told me that what he respects is that I, repeatedly, jump out in faith because I believe in my goal, even though that is loosely defined. When he said, "I don't know that I could do it," I just kept quiet. Those of you who know me know my father has bipolar disorder and has been disabled since I was in high school; those of you who know me well know that that one statement gets to the core of the things I had to force myself to get past when I realized I wasn't loving my dad properly. The things my dad taught me about dreaming were all in second-person; in many ways, his illness talked him into giving up on his own life awhile ago. And I pray for change in that; but in the meantime, I take these moments as gifts. Times to tell him that, truth be told, my "dreams" only happen because so many people love me, keep me grounded, give me time, and he is not the least of these.

"The thing is, Jessica, that I know that one of these days you're just going to get on a plane and not come back. And I support you, you know that. But I just wonder when that day will come." What do you say to that when your own suspicion is that, yes, that's exactly right, that you won't be ready for it any more than the people you love will be, but that you're going to go anyway?

I think what I will eventually say is that broken people -- and we are all broken -- still teach truth, still spill love, still bring courage. Sometimes they do this more than others in better situations; what have they got to lose? I am even prouder of him as I hear him fight the urge to ask me to stay, to change the part of me that steals away from this side of the Atlantic, because he taught us that this? This is life. Fighting for things bigger than we are, believing and being the underdog, the long shot, the eleventh seat.

Sorry, Maura. I'm pontificating again. Must! Be! Funnier! Soon!




i'm in love with a girl who's in love with the world
and i can't help but follow
and i know someday she is bound to fly away
to stay over the rainbow
but sometimes we forget who we've got
who they are and who they are not
in love, there's more than black and white
keep it loose, child
keep it tight
- amos lee

My So-Called Bank Account

I like to think that bankers, not automatons nee computers, take a look-see at student bank accounts every once in awhile. I like to think there's a whole team of young professionals somewhere meeting in a break room in Decatur and cheering on various students as the numbers whiz up and down the charts:

"Oooh -- $24.67 for a night at The Big Easy. Not your greatest move, Skip!"

"Ouch! Look at that gas bill!"

"Wait for it -- wait for it -- wait for it -- don't overdraw -- SCORE!! BABYSITTING MONEY! HUZZAH!"

"Look at this dip: again! Again he takes that girl from Econ 101 out to a restaurant the entire country of Ghana couldn't afford. $37 for a starter of foie gras?! Are you kidding me?! This kid doesn't even know how to say foie gras, let alone spend $37 on it."

"Hey, you guys...what's Bert's House o' Pleas...oh. Ew."

I must say I get a little kick out of finding ways to save money. Creamer and milk in my coffee? Right, the school cafeteria has some for free (never you mind that I'm actually paying a cool $45K to live here and go here). Barbecue chicken? Market Basket had a sale on chicken wattles (Derek, I'm sure I know that chickens don't have wattles, but whatever) for 25 cents a pound, and I found this great recipe on how to make barbecue sauce with the little ketchup packets you find in (the same school) cafeterias everywhere, water, and a little bit of paprika. Roy left paprika. Is there any meat on a hock? Hey, I might not be making my own wine -- but I know how to make some mean barbecue chicken.

Time to go scrounge up a dollar oh seven for a tea with Irene coupled with an intensive look at two overdue manuscripts. Isn't it strange how three-digit numbers, a team full of cheering bankers, and a healthy dose of perspective could leave a girl feeling grateful for where she is?

Minus the chicken wattles, of course. A thigh would be nice. I'd settle for a thigh.

Note to Maura:

...how about a Sexy Wart?!

Note to Self:

Warts = Pain.

Consies, Why You Gotta Be Hatin'?

It's 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, and I'm happily typity-type typing away. Searching for "'rice Christians' AND Rwanda" on Google (thanks for the term, D-Dubs), I have come across a personal website with an ad for www.conservativematch.com. The tagline, you ask?

"Sweethearts, not bleeding hearts."

!!!, and !!!

Again, !!! !!!!

It continues: "Are you tired of meeting liberals at the bar?! Do you get sick of hearing your boyfriend or girlfriend bash conservatives [bashing: bad for the chemical romance]?! Now there is hope!" The picture below the caption shows five bikini-clad women hopping around an oil-field-turned-golf-course eating red meat and drinking beer while caddying for a lone Caucasian male, about 5'11", wearing a polo shirt with the collar popped up and a pair of Diesel jeans and talking loudly on his mobile with his stock broker -- something about thinking about the bottom line.*

Kidding! But darn it, now that it's been mentioned, I am tired of meeting liberals in bars. If there's one thing worse than meeting a drunkenly belligerent conservative in a bar -- and there is --, it's...well, no. No, I've still gotta say it's meeting a drunkenly belligerent conservative. But drunkenly belligerent liberals are a close second. Honestly, I think I'm just over drunken belligerence in general; belligerence and sobriety make better, more reliable bedfellows. As to drunken political scalliwags: git 'er done, as I (never) say!** Off wi' their 'eads!

The site reminds me of a great moment in Jessican history in which I had the good fortune of watching Andrew Cuomo make Peggy Noonan concede defeat in laughter. Along with other members of SJC's Honors Program, I'd secured tickets to the Connecticut Forum at the Bushnell to watch Peggy Noonan, Newt Gingrich, Andrew Cuomo and Jonathon Kozol talk at each other till they were blue in the face. Gwen Ifill moderated. Ms. Noonan, in a response to an audience question about media coverage of Monicagate, reminded the crowd that Hollywood still supported the Left, heathens though the Left may be: "Have you seen West Wing?" she asked. "They might as well call it Left Wing."

The next moment was priceless because the microphone just barely caught Mr. Cuomo's remarks. It was clear by the look on his face that even he'd had no idea he could be so spontaneously witty; it was also clear he was slightly mortified that an audience of almost 2,000 had captured a comment he intended only Mr. Kozol to hear:"If they called it The Right Wing, no one would watch it," he said.

The crowd exploded into applause and laughter. Even Ms. Noonan grinned like a schoolgirl.

Go, Supremes! And pass me a chicken wing. If you need me, I'll be in the back 40, watering the lawn in my Juicy Coutoure sweatsuit and reading Scalia while pondering the existential meaning of not having enough money for a pedicure.*

*Seriously, I'm kidding.
** Seriously.

Gone Till November: To the Men in My Life

This may come as news to both of them, but one thing I'm really looking forward to is the day Mr. Darcy and my brother, Patrick, are properly introduced. The more I think about it, the more I realize that they have an awful lot of the same redeeming qualities. For example, both are ridiculously goodlooking. And both will probably be able to communicate solely by sparring off with lines from the movie just referenced. Also, both have, at one point or another, "owned" me: Mr. Darcy's just too strong for me to do anything but gurgle a yelp of pity in impromptu football tackles; Patrick, once his armspan reached eight million feet, loved to keep his hand on my forehead and laugh as I tried to claw the empty air between us in my attempts to get to him. See? Instant kinetic connection awaits!

I got to talk to both today for extended periods of time. (And for that, I kind of loved today.) And listening now to a mix that Mr. Darcy sent, I realize that both have become intrinsically tied to the music to which I listen. Although it's been far too long since Pat and I got to talk, within twenty minutes we'd recommended bands to the other person. I love that. And I love that both of them have, over the time that I've known them, sent me mixes containing Incubus's "Wish You Were Here" and Wyclef's "Gone Till November."

I found that my brother posted this old poem of mine, originally on the old Joplinista (which I did not know he read), on his webpage. It reappears here for its sentimental value as opposed to being of any true literary worth. But as I read it now, I remember the place I was when I wrote it for him: Scared. Afraid that I couldn't un-become the creature I'd changed myself to be. Alone and ready to change, I was very much attempting to fly with broken wings. A word kindly spoken from him made me see the future wasn't so bleak as all of that. I imagined it more as a song but, without my piano, couldn't set music to the words just yet; someday, I promise.

As I read it now, the words seem oddly prescient of the other boy across the Pond who's shown me the same calm belief in my ability to move through this world and contribute to it in spite of my own love for falling down hills and scraping my knees. I am so thankful for family, for the people who've moved into my heart and stirred it up with their kindness and compassion for the results of my clumsiness, in all its manifestations.

(for my brother, who knows how to say things)

Lift this wing. Sweet child, lift this wing.
I've gotta know right now, love--you gonna lift this wing?
Is this the right place for the right time?
You got your marching orders, your shoes shined?
Come on, sweet devil, come on now!
Come on, lift this wing.

Two long years and seven days
spent living hard and fast, loose
cats on dying knees now with their heads
bent low -- they wanna know,
love -- they wanna know, you gonna lift this wing?

See, there's harm in open windows
when you've got no eyes to see; and Me,
Well, I've been walking to you
for miles now and singing,
thinking life is grand when you've been drinking good times down
with blondes and browns --when God Himself could call from

Heaven and it wouldn't knock you --
down past Orleans and across
the sea, yeah, I've been thinking
myself straight into the arms of
the right place and the right time
for you to come on, climb on
down the mountain of your life and

Lift this wing.

I Can Make You Start to Smile

Bizarre day!

Question actually asked in terms of getting evidence of specific bad acts into court: "Do the acts have to be real?" [Derek: "Can Puff the Magic Dragon be my witness?" Me: "Are you a blueberry?" Jennings: "These are $90 track pants!" Yeah. I KNOW. The exchange didn't make sense when it happened, either. You're not missing much; it's just Jennings, makin' me chuckle.]

Anyway, Derek said my blog could be entered into evidence since it goes to the issue of my verbosity. In response, go read his entertaining brush with old people and -- wait for it -- join me in a rousing chorus that I am seriously addicted to (again). Ready? Everybody in song lyrics in five...four...three....

Hold on, little girl
show me what he's done to you
Stand up, little girl
A broken heart can't be that bad
when it's through, it's through
Fate will twist the both of you
So come on baby come on over
Let me be the one to show you

CHORUS:
I'm the one who wants to be with you
Deep inside I hope you feel it too
Waited on a line of greens and blues
Just to be the next to be with you...***

This obviously begs the question: who's up for a real act of karaoke?!



***Happy second, doll.

Illuminate.

Law school does not lend itself to leading a reflective life. I really have to push to make time to evaluate the choices I feel called to make; heck, I have to push to make time to evaluate my coursework, let alone the actual good, thriving messiness of love and relationships and God and the meaning of this house’s current infestation of fruit flies (here’s the kicker – sans fruit! Bastards! There are enough of them that I’ve officially taken to saying that they, en masse, make up our fourth roommate.) Realistically, I should be reading for EU or writing this article or drafting that outline, or or or…but it helps, now and then, to step back and admit that I don’t always know where it is I think I’m going; and what good is the process of going somewhere, anyway, if one forgets what purpose it serves?

This ties into my next point, which is that only recently – i.e., five minutes ago, when I started typing this paragraph – have I remembered the original reasons why I started blogging, and that is confession. There’s power in speech. There’s power in keeping silence, too, power in withholding intimacy or keeping secrets; this second choice is one we more readily pursue, although I personally believe it is the more dangerous of the two and stands the greater chance of being abused. In my own life, honesty often aligns itself with confession, with admitting that here. Here are my limits. This is how far I can go on my own. So long as one remains silent, that space is unbounded; potential appears to stretch as far as the eye can see. Honesty breaches that divide between imagination and reality; too often, we're afraid that what people love about us is what we can promise, not what we can deliver. Confession bridges that gap and sends the losers who are just in it for them out on their sorry, fat arses. (Notice I didn't just say "fat arse." I happen to have a special fondness for those, myself. No, my hatred is reserved for the sorry, fat arse. Out on the street they go! Towanda!)

When I began blogging, I had no readership; none of my friends knew this existed and certainly, my family did not know (what’s up, Jen?!). Now that I have people from every area of my life reading, I find myself semi-restricted by my own wish to control the image of me that they take away from this page. And now I’m realizing that my discomfort with any audience at all is just my own discomfort with admitting that, hey, I don’t have it all together. I mean, you all know that – but each group you represent knows that in a different way. Combine this desire to avoid being “weighed, measured, and found wanting” with my almost-unsociable love for privacy of a certain area of topics, and you’ve got one bland little blog for the reading public.

Man, I talk a lot.

So this is my confession to you, Internet, and I say it in the off-chance that you feel something of the same: I’ve been struggling with myself lately and my own almost-paralyzing fear of making choices. This weekend was a powerful one for showing that the choices I make now don’t determine everything; I can decide to become an EMT when I’m 60 (go, Chapman sisters’ Uncle Ken), and my life will be better for it. I never have to stop learning. I will never be “locked into” a career because, hey – that’s not me. I don’t have to go the route I’m expected to go. I don’t even have to – wait for it – become a lawyer with this degree. (!!! !!!) But the kicker has been that, as I'm slowly awakening to the idea that the reason all of my "options" seem unsuitable is that they are unsuitable in terms of who I wish to be on my deathbed, I find myself frightened by the idea of forging ahead on my own rather than being excited about the prospect of new territory, a thermos full of good coffee, and my trusty internal compass as my Guide. Maybe it’s the realization that $90K of loans don’t disappear overnight, but suddenly I find myself becoming quite skittish about The Future instead of eager for it. Where'd that sense of joie de vivre go? As my friend Mark would say, "The 1998 version of me would kick the 2005 version's a**." (Actually, 1998 was a cool chick; she'd kick 2005 around and then take it shopping, followed by Vietnamese and Petersen's ice cream. There would also be peanut sauce.)

This was on the back of Uncle Ken's downstairs bathroom door this weekend and proved an unexpected encouragement about thoughts I've been struggling through lately; namely, that I am not, after all, Very Brave:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people will not feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not in just some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Nothing is easier than staking out your own map of the future, so long as someone else has provided the template; this little ditty helps me understand what’s holding me back. The Internet incorrectly attributes it to Nelson Mandela, but the real author is Marianne Williamson. Even my initial disappointment that some unknown said this, rather than a universally respected figure, is revealing: over the past year, I've become too content to have truth about Worth fed to me rather than taking things up in my hands and rolling them around to see how they match up. Too much credentialing -- which school? which firm? what grades? which internship? what career path? how much money? which offer? -- leads us to believe that the only system of worth we can impose is external, one chosen by other people. Here and now, I call myself guilty of the same.

Well. No more of that truck. Hold me to it: I’m reclaiming what I’ve parceled away in the hopes that one of these things—career, grades, leadership opportunities—would sate the beast of my own fear to fail. As always, ignoring the truth of who I am in all of that leads to unhappy results anyway. No, I’m not always supremely confident. I am often shaken. But I will—and this is a promise—remember that I do know, after all, how to boogey down. It may not be pretty, and it may not happen often, but it’s still dancing. (That was a metaphor, for all you lovers out there.)

And maybe I'll do it holding a candle, just to spice things up. Nothing says Good Times quite like awkward white girls, fire, and the rumba.

Miscellany

1. Dear PHurls and Eric: I hope you found the last entry to be informative and helpful when attempting to enter the common parlance of all things female. As representatives of PILF and APALSA, I sincerely hope you'll consider shedding light on this issue through those two reputable student organizations. Light dispels shame; shame breeds confession; and confession brings the sweet relief of clean seats for Jessica.

2. Dear Irene: In 14 minutes, I will exit my front door and whisk you away to meet (two of) the fabulous Chapman-Bivins-Ballard sisters, under whose tutelage I navigated the dangerous streets of Greenwich, Connecticut, in which I was interviewed by a newspaper reporter on my last day in town because, and I quote, "You know how to check your oil?! I admire any woman who knows how to open the hood!" If my car blows up on the way to New Hampshire this afternoon, please accept my apologies. I know how to open a hood. I also know how to ignore the rattling that's been going on under it for three weeks (e.g., turn up the volume!). Here's to hoping it's not something important.

3. Dear EU Class: Tuesday's going to be another day in paradise, isn't it?

4. Finally, dear UPS Man: Listen, I know I totally accepted your invitation to lunch the other day, but I sort of forgot to mention that a certain Pennsylvanian and I have come to the mutual understanding that we're sort of impressed by the other. I didn't mean to mislead you -- I'm sure I know exactly what Brown can do for me -- but there are a dozen beautiful longstems on my dresser right now for no good reason other than someone was thinking of me, and I highly doubt they came from you. That, UPS man, is class. You can't ignore class, especially when it's busy sending roses and growing a mullet.

5. C'est fin de semaine! A bientot!

Je t'aime,

JC

Bones to Pick, Seats to Wipe, Color Me Beautiful, GO SUPREMES!!!!

I have an issue with the women of BC Law.

More specifically, I have an issue with the women of BC Law who can't keep a seat clean.

More specifically, I have an issue with the women of BC Law who can't keep a seat clean in the faculty bathroom of Stuart Third Floor.

More specifically, I have an issue with the women of BC Law using said bathroom who practice the Hover Manuever made popular by the first arrival of HIV and AIDS onto the American scene and by countless mothers taking it upon themselves, in the wake of learning that Fido's rump-cleaning tongue was a "safer haven from bacteria than the porcelain seats at Starbucks," to teach their daughters either of the following two methods when seeking relief in public restrooms:

1. The Paper Method. This was DC's favorite and a staple of all family car trips: before sitting on any toilet at any time anywhere, take a 1/4 roll of toilet paper -- preferably made in America and prayed over in the confines of your own home -- and lay one long strip of paper down the left side of the toilet seat, another down the right, and one strip over the middle. Note any spots that turn a telltale yellow: if spottage is minimal, double up your papering efforts. If the seat's too wet still, DON'T TOUCH IT. Call your mother in for backup, and for heaven's sake, Jessica, can't you learn to look at a seat before you choose a stall?! (Cough. Residual issues.) When you're done pretending you can't hear the Herculean efforts of the woman sitting to your left, make sure to flush your makeshift toilet germ prophylactic and, using the Force, exit the stall without opening the doors with your hands.

2. The Hovercraft, aka "Pop a Squat." Usually reserved for outdoor escapades and national forests of remote African countries, the squat's popular with the athletic crowd because it strengthens thigh muscles and prevents having to touch anything, ever. But-- and this is key --the squat's not for those who prefer a leisurely stream. One reason for this is that strength and honor in the stream promote accuracy: you pee hard, you pee fast, you pee straight into the landing zone. And the best part is that, since you haven't come near touching the seat, you can usually justify touching the door. Logical? No. But I'm disease-free, so I must be doing something right.

Leisurely Hover Girls, bane of my current existence, leave some telltale drip patterns, and for the life of me I can't figure out why one would ever want to risk coming out of a stall, finding someone ready to walk into that stall, and then suffering the embarassment that comes when someone deems it's too dirty for them to use, thankyouverymuch. Does no one take professional responsibility for their actions any more?! Honestly! What makes the Hovering Population that, in my experience, generally shows greater distaste for touching the seat at all because of the hidden filth, think it's okay to just leave a visible mess for someone else to have to deal with? WHAT?! What?!


This has been a pointless rant brought to you by the letter I don't care if you're a bigshot law student, clean up your own da*n mess, and what would Harriet Miers do? (Besides serve coffee and donuts at church on Sundays. Oh, and get nominated for the Supreme Court. Speaking of which, personal life goals: one down, one to go.)

Editor's note: This blog was updated to include the supremely awesome link to what, I'm sure, is actually HM's blog. Thanks to Krish for the link. GO SUPREMES!!

Confucius Say:

It's come to my attention that this blog's lost a bit of focus. As usual, the blog reflects its author's tortuous path from whiskey-slingin' arch-villainess to straight-laced spinsterette. The problem is that neither end of that spectrum wholly suits this gal's predilection for eating smaller urban cowboys alive, quietly watching the sound and the fury that is "Battlestar Galactica"/knitting/naming future children after the Minor Prophets/making apple sauce, and raising what can safely be referred to as Cain on a daily basis, if only in the privacy of my own 3'x5' WC.

I'm working on it, kids. And in the meantime, Confucius really did say the following: "To be able under all circumstances to practice five things constitutes perfect virtue; these five things are gravity, generosity of soul, sincerity, earnestness and kindness." Guess I'm working on those things, too. Cheers.

Cool breeze, open heart, held hand.

I don't know why, exactly, nothing went according to plan this weekend, why it feels like nary a dent was made in my mountain of work, why my budget's still unfinished and my future still unsure, why I feel cagey and restless and yet -- somehow and simultaneously -- content. It probably didn't help that it took me an hour and a half to get from Brookline to Cambridge today after apple-picking with Tara, Bekah, Kate B. and company. Hitting street festival after festival, crowds of children and senior citizens picking their ways gingerly over Boston's uneven streets interrupted one set of plans after another. I thought briefly about skipping church and finding some place closer to my house to pop into. But I figured that so many obstacles probably signified that something great was going to be said; things worth getting to, it seems, always take a little bit of extra effort.

I heard what I needed to hear: that the message of Ultimate Grace has two distinct components, both the individual's coming to realize and know her own human condition and then coming to understand the vast graciousness of God in the context of that condition. In other words, I am not "good enough" for the kingdom; upon my acknowledging that, however, God is good enough to let me into it anyway.

I can see how those reading from outside the perspective of faith would find this idea of the human condition a limiting or even damaging world view. But even as I stand on the brink of Something Next and feel wholly unprepared for it, I realize the vitality and strength I draw from this perspective. I feel inadequate for what lies ahead because I, in my own strength, am inadequate. And this is known, not just by me, but by one whose love for me brings me into places and in touch with people greater, bigger, better than I. Why?

Recent experience has taught me that freedom exists, not in covering the past, but in revealing it to the beloved; that the greater value lies in knowing I am loved after full exposure rather than in a carefully executed montage of experiences made to paint me in my best light. Nothing makes one humble like a fully-suited and well-heeled tumble down a storm drain (literally and metaphorically speaking, this may have -- okay, totally did -- happen to me this past week. Again.). If this is true on a human scale, how much more so is it true with the divine?

So here it is, a weekend's restlessness resolved by the following: I am undone and wholly human, and I am loved for that. I, operating in my own strength, will never be enough. I am not asked to be enough. I am merely asked to be humble and honest enough to admit that the world scares me many times over and that, in an attempt to salve the wounds left by other people's demons, I often summon up my own. It's a good gift, knowing I will scrape my knees time and time again and that both his hand and his expectant laughter will be there at the ready.