An Epic Tale (continued)

Happy Hour Special

      “Do you want to meet for happy hour @ Bistro’s today? 3:30?” Was the text message I sent at 10:34 a.m. to Andrea Reyes; or as my phone says, “Dre Dre.” She replies with “Yea! Sounds good.” Followed with a “see you soon baboon.” “Perfect! See you then” I replied. God forbid I had lost my phone after that minimal exchange; anyone who found and read that discourse, would be found wanting. Such a simplistic text message could misconstrue our friendship to appear vacuous; it’s anything but.

For Dre and I, there is no need to state the obvious. In the few words exchanged, it was understood that I would see her after her shift from Zappos, at three o’clock. Giving her an ample amount of time to drive to Bistro Tuscan Grille, at Town Square. She found no need to ask why Bistro’s? The choice was not spontaneous in as much as it was inspired by passing remarks we made the Thursday prior. Of how my friends raved over the sliced steak with arugula and gorgonzola, or the $2.99 happy hour deal, which Dre and I agreed was a steal. A deal, Dre mentioned, would be taken advantage by others, so it would be crucial to get there early. Thus, it was no coincidence that the time happy hour started coincided with our date time.

Our last-minute get together went as smooth as the text messages we exchanged. We met up in front of Bistro. Dre was wearing her usual work attire, which is minimal, since all her customer interaction is done over a computer. She had on mocassins, sweat pants, and a zappos hoodie. She wore no make-up and her hair was curled up into a bun that took a mere five seconds to do. I was wearing the jeans and button up plaid shirt I wore the previous Thursday when we hung out. She very well knew this since she has the memory of an elephant. Yet, I felt no shame, no need to explain myself, and she had no need to ask. In earlier years, we would concern ourselves about looking appropriate, now we didn’t. It was a testament to our friendship and how we have embraced each other, even all raggedy.  

I allowed Dre to order, knowing I would be content with whatever, since she has a keen sense for what I like. We shared a variety of platters, none consisting of disgusting mushrooms, for which I’m grateful. We ate and talked for about an hour and half. From the general formalities of how our weekend went, how work went, to my attempt of explaining why my first kiss was with a girl I had no feelings for. In the end, my answer went from “I have no clue” to bluntly stating, “I was just in the moment.” I felt safe saying it. Did she get it? No, evident by asking me to clarify my explanation. Did I feel I could say whatever I thought? Yes. There was no judgment, mostly she was curious. After, that conversation simply transitioned to me expressing my disappointment over my Baltimore Ravens falling short of a trip to the super bowl. Dre sympathetically nodded her head, even though we both knew she cared very little for the sport and that I had raised this devastating news at least 4 times before. Whether it was good-hearted jousting, to the solemn discussion that in a matter of 3 months, Dre will be moving to Eugene, Oregon to be with her boyfriend; consequently, leaving me behind and rendering our best friend title obsolete. I followed up with a cliché of how life is always about moving through stages and how people come and go though those stages.  She said it was cheesy, but I pointed out that fact that she likes cheesy. We laughed about it a little.

             After paying, we went outside, where Dre gave a monstrous burp, which smelled like garlic. It was loud, but it always is so I wasn’t surprised. Glad to know after all the sentimental stuff, she can burp it off. We decided to do it again next Thursday, and we agreed we would invite our mutual friends next time. I gave her a hug, and said good-bye. I smiled at the limpid truth that I saw Dre Dre, and that she likewise, saw me. 

An Affair with Writing

Joseph Conrad saw his task “by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel-it is, before all, to make you see.” It is a task that requires oneself to have had a long lasting love affair with words. There is an intimacy Conrad wishes to share with others, one I have not fully experienced. I describe my relationship with words at best as…complicated, mostly because I’ve had so few words to say growing up. As in the early stages of dating, there is a lot of getting to know one another and attempting to feel safe to permit self-disclosure, a process I find painfully slow. I’m not too eager to rush in and impregnate words with my soul; the relationship simply is not there yet. This has been the source of my failure to use written word as effectively as Conrad, yet the very motivation to hear, feel and see written word at a more intimate level. It is a journey, one that begins with the past. 

Conversations at the dinner table were scarce growing up. Every day as my brother and I would arrive home from school, my mother would be putting on her make-up, racing against time to make it out the door by 4:15 p.m. to get to work. By the time that I would have finished schoolwork, my stepfather would have dinner ready, but would quickly eat and go to bed, attempting to sleep enough hours before having to work his graveyard shifts as a bartender at the Mirage Casino at 1:00. Mi familia was never too apt on conversing in general. There were no “How was school today?” or “How does that make you feel?” or even “What would you like to do?” It was more of “Vas hacer lo que te diga!” (You’re going to do what I tell you!). Very archaic, along the lines of “children are meant to be seen and not heard.” There was less encouragement to be expressive than to be obedient, culturally, a Mexican mentality. Expressing oneself didn’t hold a very high premium. On top of it all, unlike single children who are eager to socialize to make friends, I saw no need given I had a twin brother. I was the classic definition of an introvert. This plays out much into how I would write. The concept of voice in writing was all but foreign to me. What do you mean my writing should have a personality? What does that even mean? There is no opinion, just a stating of facts; I can do facts. Just don’t ask me describe what I think or how it makes me feel. Where it may have been simple to identify a thesis, it was not so much in trying to write a clear concise one and elaborate with paragraphs accepting or rejecting the premise. This is not to say that I didn’t have an opinion or don’t have things to say. I just ascribe it to the equivalent of an infants inability to communicate the need for food, or that they’re tired; resorting to elementary fussing, cries and facial expressions.

But infants develop, as did my relationship with writing. Like a child who learns to read may go on to analyze the internal anguish of Hamlet’s contemplation of suicide in the famous “To be or not to be” soliloquy. Coincidently, it was in reading authors like Shakespeare or Christopher Marlowe in my English AP class that I began to develop cravings. It was writing like Christopher Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus, that my appetite to feast on words grew. In hearing the pleas of Mephistophilis to Faustus, “Think’st thou that I, that saw the face of God, and tasted the eternal joys of heaven, am not tormented with ten thousand hells, in being depriv’d of everlasting bliss? O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, which strike a terror to my fainting soul!” It was in them, that I could hear a soul, I could feel anguish, I could see more than words on a page.

This reality was only solidified by my teacher Ms. Tilden, who herself exemplified Conrad’s heart. To her, words on the page were not black and white ink jottings but voices of the past. They were the brush strokes that captured the zeitgeist. They were words arranged intricately composing beautiful symphonies. I could see to her it was real; it was a passion set ablaze by written word. I knew then, that I wanted to speak! It was a novel idea, to me at least.

 An idea that quit frankly scares me even now. I get an unnerving feeling that expressing myself is a shameful act, a sin even. As though the moment I say what I feel, ridicule will soon follow. This fear however, cannot compete with my desire to speak. Even if it’s to say that I really feel naked when I write. What else can I do? Do I succumb to Freud’s theory that I am forever doomed to be fixated on one of the stages of my childhood? Or do I speak? I shared this tension of a deep-rooted passion to speak in a poem I wrote for that English AP class. It was then that I saw a glimpse of hope that perhaps I can write, I can say what I think, that I am capable to articulate what I feel and see. It was a poem that I received a perfect score on voice; the teacher even asked me if she could read it to the class. Underneath the burning red cheeks and my unwavering focus on the floor to avoid eye contact, was an overwhelming joy as she read my poem. Voice has made writing a lot easier. It has given clarity to ideas derived from critical analysis of a subject. It has helped improve stating a thesis concisely and boldly to an audience I am more aware of, making it easier to develop points. Words no longer are throw aways or fillers but valuable diamonds to be cherished and not so easily given away.

Although I see the shortcomings of my writing even now, I do remain optimistic. Why? Because even Conrad had to court written words, to become acquainted with them, testing the boundaries of his relationship with them. Words at one time were unfamiliar to him. The process is long, tedious, uncomfortable, but invigorating. The mistakes made serve as lessons, both of what writing is not and what it could potentially be. My journey is nothing short of a love affair with the writing process, to hear words, feel them and see, with the hopes that in that process others likewise will experience them with me. 

 - Jonathan G.