Your Life Will Be Enriched and Simultaneously Ruined By Social Media: A Letter From The Future

Dear Child Of The 1980’s –

In what may feel like eons but is instead just a few short years hence, shit is about to get real. A phenomenon known as social media will pervade the consciousness of the world you find familiar now. It will have the ability to force every human closer in distance yet leagues apart in anything resembling genuine emotion. For instance, someone you have never met [nor will you ever have the displeasure of meeting] will discover a way to find you both intolerable and repulsive simply because you look content with your own life in a few photographs visible to the masses. Without warning, anything from enjoying a relaxing vacation to dating that guy becomes a silent competition no one has told you that you’ve entered. No matter how much you may think you are simply living your life, you are consistently moments shy of losing some ubiquitous and universally accepted foot-race towards Lord knows what: Seeming happier, thinner, or more in love than the next person? The truth is, Reagan or Daddy Bush Era Child, even as we upload photos and update statuses, those of us living in these uncertain times are vastly uncertain of why these daily actions are such necessities.

Sure, we could say we do it to stay connected with that friend who moved away in third grade, or to remove the creepiness of stalking celebrities [because if they shout it from instagram/foursquare/twitter, it’s fair game to know their whereabouts] but this voice from the future has a sneaking suspicion that while each of us may rattle off a disparate rationale for our obsession with virtual “likes”, it is the need to foster relationships without actually fostering a relationship that motivates us. In the same fashion that children born in this era will play “tennis”, “dance”, and “kick a ball” on a virtual screen rather than do any of these actual activities in three dimensional form, friends [as well as the derivatives, friended, unfriended and to friend] become loosely associated with the definition of friend that you might come to understand in your youth.

My advice to you is to enjoy the distance while you can. No matter how annoyed you are at that girl [two rows over] who keeps making fun of your Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper, trust me, one day you will be longing to engage in an argument over something tangible. Rest easy that with the advent of social media, you will never have to lose tabs on your best friend from ballet class [even if you do not speak to her for the next fifteen years and she gets married, this thing called Facebook will put her maiden name in a shaded gray color to make her accessible to old friends like you]. And whatever you do, do not become that 21^st century individual who has nothing better to do than flounder in her hatred of the happiness of others. Worst comes to worst, just click elsewhere, because anonymity within your animosity is an angry person’s sole companion in this brave new world.

Good Luck,

carter [of 2013]

chronomentrophobia

Recently, the phrase, "I bookmarked your blog URL so I’ll have something enjoyable to read" has replaced the phrase, "You look beautiful" for most enjoyable words to hear. As it turns out, one way to demarcate the passage of time is to recognize what compliments make your heart soar and when. "Cool Tamagatchi" turns to "Nice Ass" which turns to "You’re the kind of person I want to spend my life with" and "Your baby has your eyes" [For those of you who do not know what a Tamagatchi is, you are missing out on countless hours of weird fun]. Still reeling from the fact that I am bookmark-able, I began thinking about other ways in which the passage of time is measured. 

Jonathan Larson could give you an exact number of minutes that occur within the Earth’s orbit around the sun, while others might measure their time by a series of stagnant moments that aren’t Friday yet. Before I could tell time well enough to grasp how long a span of time felt, my parents would create units I could understand. "We will be leaving in about as long as it takes to watch Saved by the Bell" [30 min.], for example. Yet even after I could construct meaning from looking at a clock, minutes and hours never seemed to possess great importance to me. As long as I can remember, my measure of time has been marked by Septembers and Junes with a few months of freedom interspersed. Life as a non-student, however, brings a unique perspective to the complexities of time. 

I have found, that as an adult, time is often measured by the entrances and exits of certain individuals. Those who were once as integral to your quotidian activities as breathing may seem a distant memory, while someone you never thought you would see again is [three years later] the best thing to ever happen to you. It would be most helpful if some sort of omniscient formula existed. We could input the names and characteristics of those in our lives and a specific calculation would determine if it's worth our time to cultivate worthwhile moments or let them tell their story walking. But that wouldn’t be life at all, would it?

Because even after the most calamitous friendships or relationships have ended we are socialized to believe it was not a complete loss of time; there is something to be learned. That “something” can be anything from I’ve learned only weirdos are attracted to me to I’ve learned I am actively projecting a signal that it is okay for weirdos to talk to me. Whatever the case, someone somewhere recognized that to keep us all from a perpetual state of depression because of all the misused time, that it would be a good idea to pretend like something good can come from it. As a Pollyanna optimist, I would like to believe no time is lost time. Sure, my life might not be enriched by a “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” marathon, but in those four to six hours, I made a conscious choice and stuck with it. That’s just good character.  

How time is measured and what we find essential is evolving just as we are. There is still the occasional Sunday when I feel a heart palpitation trying to remember if I’ve finished all my assignments for the week. And come each May, I’m still surprised to find myself not relocating from a dormitory. But even with these conditioned temporal elements, maturity has brought with it a few valuable lessons.

1. My body has somehow been able to ascertain how long just thirty more minutes feels while utterly asleep and sans snooze button.

And

2. Although I am fully aware that those who I care for today might not find their way to forever, I would not be completely living if I did not live and love as if the rest of our lives was the only unit of time that existed. 

~carter 

Martyr Hill

According to French lore, St. Denis, the Bishop of Paris was beheaded on Montmartre (the hill of martyrs) in 270 A.D. Picking up his own head, the beheaded St. Denis is said to have preached a sermon for two miles before he fell.

I had been propositioned seven times before noon. This one’s name was Geneviève. As my hand grazed her graceful leg punctuated with stubble, I was reminded that Montmartre never disappoints those with low expectations. Mozart’s Requiem floated out of the window of the above appartement. Geneviève began tapping her foot as if it were Hendrix and not the most beautiful mass ever written. Disgusted, I put my pants back on and left.

The overly bohemian and artistic atmosphere of the 19^th and 20^th century hadn’t yet become obsolete. Painters and peddlers lined the streets along with the Middle Eastern duo that insisted on singing selections of Sting’s repertoire. After the second verse of ‘Eeenglishmaan Eeen New York’ I stood from my seat on the steps leading to the Sacre-Coeur; my wife once loved the way the top of the cathedral seemed to touch a cloudless sky.

“Denis, with one ‘N’?” She asked when I wrote down my name and number on the napkin stained with her lipstick.

‘My mother was a bit of a Francophile. She named all of us after important or literary French figures. My sisters are Héloïse and Jeanne.’

‘Jeanne?’ She asked.

‘After Jeanne D’Arc, Joan of Arc…my mother was odd.’

‘I think it’s fascinating’. Theresa smiled, squeezing my hand. ‘It was very nice to meet you, Denis.'

We had been dating six months when Theresa finally learned of all the quirks my mother imposed upon my sisters and me.

‘You really had to celebrate Bastille Day?’

‘Every July 14^th…you have no idea how humiliating it was. We were the only kids perhaps in the world and surely in New Hyde Park that were forced to wear those tri-color bonnets and parade around in front of our house.’ Everyone wondered why my mother was almost comically obsessed with everything French. I didn’t learn until years later that she once fell in love there.

‘…to my father.’ I told Theresa as we sat in Central Park one afternoon.

‘She met your father in France?’

‘Yes. Apparently she had an affair with a French man who was already married. When she found that she was pregnant with me, he stopped speaking to her. She decided to come back to New York and it wasn’t until after I was born that she met Héloïse and Jeanne’s dad who became the father I know.’

‘Absolutely fascinating.’ She would say constantly, ‘I would think being jilted by a Frenchman like that would make her hate them all.’

‘I think she still loves him.’

‘That’s the kind of love I want, one day.’ She started, ‘The kind that couldn’t die no matter how much time has gone by.’

I stared at Theresa for an uncomfortable length of time then and when I think of her today, it is that same image I see. The soft, auburn waves of her hair gently grazing her shoulders, her blue eyes piqued with interest and the green sundress she would pack with her on every vacation. Albums are filled with the image of Theresa standing in front of countless monuments in countless countries wearing that damn green dress.

We were happily married until Paris. Years of my mother’s insane obsessions and romantic ideals had penetrated Theresa’s thoughts until all she could think about was the City of Lights. Standing in our understatement of a fixer-upper on the Left Bank, I was in awe of a woman who had forced me to another continent.

‘You come to Paris to fall in love not to stay in love’ I shouted.

‘Always the pessimist, Denis, just open up and live a little.' So we did. We lived every day and spent every euro in an effort to live up to Theresa’s expectations of what Paris was supposed to offer. It was our lack of funds that led us to Montmartre on Saturdays and Sundays. Luckily, sitting and watching the tourists as they marveled at the view from this unassuming hill was free of charge. We met Laurent one Saturday morning in between his tours of the Sacre-Coeur cathedral. Laurent, a certified tour guide of French cathedrals, would rotate from the cathedrals in the heart of Paris throughout most weekdays to the Sacre-Coeur in Montmartre on the weekends.

‘I went to school for it.’ He told us one Sunday afternoon. ‘Tour guiding was a major at my university. It was much harder than one would have you believe, the final examination is gruesome.’

‘That sounds fascinating’ Theresa would say after ever word he uttered.

‘What isn’t fascinating in your opinion, Theresa?’ I muttered.

After over a month of between-tour-meetings on the steps of Montmartre, and café lunches, Laurent began to realize we didn’t know anyone else in France. His less than stereotypically French benevolence surprised us, when he asked if we would enjoy a visit to his home. Laurent's cottage on the outskirts of Paris convinced me I took up the wrong profession. The surrounding countryside alone implied that the money in tour guiding must have been better than free-lance journalism. Acres of greenery surrounded a small cottage home that added to the pastoral notion that Goldilocks was moments from being escorted away by her three friends.

‘Beautiful stuff you have here.’ I said slamming the door of the small Citroën Picasso.

‘Thank you, it is very old. It has been in my family for generations.’ He said as only Europeans can. We entered, and the smells of authentic French cooking imbued the air. A tall gentleman stood at the stove. Dressed extremely well, the apron covering his elbow-patched blazer and khaki pants seemed somehow out of place. Ladle in hand and cigarette dipping from his lower lip, he turned to us. I saw Theresa’s face and I suppose, had I been a woman, the look on mine would have been similar. Rugged and professorial, this man in his mid-fifties must have personified every co-ed’s dream. His strong jaw was punctuated with the manicured scruff expected of the wise -even if slightly pedantic- aging Frenchman. His hair was finely trimmed and peppered with gray. As the sides of his mouth began to wrinkle into a smile, his eyes grew bright and I saw the resemblance.

‘This is my father, Auguste’ Laurent mentioned stepping in behind us. ‘Papa, voici les-’ his father interrupted him in lilting English.

‘These must be your American friends. Please, come sit.’ Placing the ladle onto the counter he came over to Theresa and kissed her once on each cheek. Assuming I was next, I stuck my hand out. He shook it firmly.

‘I simply love a good American greeting, don’t you?’ He said, shaking my hand once more. ‘What are your names?’

‘Theresa,’ my wife said breathily, as she was the only one of us he was looking at.

‘Ah, after the saint?’ He inquired.

‘No, actually, I was named after my grandmother. But Denis is named after a saint!’ She gestured in my direction.

He looked to me, ‘The man with no head?’ he said condescendingly.

‘The one and only’ I uttered.

‘Well’ he paused, looking for the right words, ‘how nice for you.’

Possessing the uncanny yet formulaically feminine ability to force me to do anything that I detested most, Theresa and I ventured out to Laurent’s cottage once or twice a week. One morning, however, I received the most positive news of our Parisian sojourn. 

‘Theresa!’ I shouted after setting down the phone. Theresa looked up from the journal she had started upon our arrival. ‘I got the job with the magazine.’ La Vie Americaine, a new magazine for those interested in American life had found their newest journalist. Luckily, for my sanity, working for the magazine would require long hours on my part to help get it off the ground.

‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to travel with you as often to Laurent and Auguste’s home’ I mentioned, trying to seem unenthused. Looking down at her journal I thought I saw Theresa hide a smile.

‘That’s alright,’ she said clearing her throat, ‘I won’t mind going alone.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

She scurried off into our bedroom. Leaving the door ajar slightly, she began to slip on the green dress that made the red of her hair brighter and the blue of eyes more striking; I should have known.

We spent four more months in Paris together. I, busying myself with the magazine and Theresa began busying herself with guided tours and the homes of tour guides. One evening in late autumn, I came home to one of her many notes that read: Off to Laurent’s for dinner, will be back soon.

I went to the kitchen in search of the Cup o’ Noodles I had Jeanne send me from the states. Its fascinating the kind of things you start to miss when living abroad. While adding the hot water there was a frantic knock on the door.

‘Denis, ou est Thérèse?’ He began again in English ‘Where is Theresa?’ Laurent stood before me sweating profusely.

‘She’s at your house.’

‘Which one?’ He asked matter-of-factly.

‘You have numerous homes, now?’

‘I have my apartment in Paris for work and my cottage near Fontainebleau with my father. You’re saying she is at our cottage?’

‘That’s what I thought all these notes meant. She’s there once every few days.’

‘How does she get there?’ He asked.

‘Laurent, what the hell is going on? You drive her, you take her to your cottage, isn’t that what has been happening for the past few months?’

‘Denis,’ he said stepping into my apartment and shutting the door, ‘I have had a lot of tours lately; I have been living in Paris and haven’t returned to Fontainebleau since I took the both of you.’ The noodles fell to floor.

‘So where is Theresa?’ I asked, collapsing to the couch. Stepping over processed American noodles, Laurent handed me a small brown envelope with my name on it.

‘I came to give you this’ turning it over, I saw Theresa’s signature next to the words: Please give this to my husband.

‘I do not know why it was delivered to my apartment but I was hoping she would be here to explain.’

I only read the first few words of her handwriting before I began to tear it the pieces: Auguste is the type of man I have always…

I walked to the window throwing fragments of paper to the street below.

‘She’s run off with your father.'

Just as my namesake had centuries before me, I stumbled. Dragging my broken body along the seedy streets of Montmartre, I realized I would have rather lost a head than a heart. No one has ever been canonized for possessing a broken heart. It’s the beheaded guys who get all the recognition. Staring downward for a significant portion of my journey, my feet had led me to Geneviève’s apartment.

‘How long has your wife been gone?’ She asked adjusting the sheets.

‘How did you know I was married?’

‘They always are.’

She said ‘They’. Geneviève was not speaking about me specifically. She instead referred to me as another, one completely disconnected and removed. I wondered how Theresa refers to me, now. Her former husband, Denis with one ‘N’ or perhaps as the man who should be revered for his ability to stumble along with his heart in his own hands and still manage to stay alive. 

~carter 

[a work of fiction]

"Why Would I Ever Make A Promise to A Flag?"

There is something eerily regimented about watching children recite words they have yet to understand.

What’s a pledge?  It’s a promise

What’s allegiance? It means you will be loyal and honest

It is a trying and humbling experience teaching the ins and outs of a practice you do not necessarily remember learning yourself. But there I was, standing with twenty five-year-olds watching their faces turn up toward the flag like the Peanuts Gang caroling on Christmas. What began as an exercise in memorization became a moment that paralyzed me with contradictory emotions. Yes, I was proud, and as much as it felt like we were creating miniature-indoctrinated drones, there was an element of hope that maybe this next generation would force the flag to make good on all its promises.

My student asked a very reasonable and literal question. Why would I ever make a promise to a flag?

The answer I had at the moment sounded something like this: You aren't making a promise to the flag, really. The flag is just a symbol for the country. You are making a promise to be honest and to be a good friend to the country. She smiled and said, I can do that. I'm a good friend.

And that's when my emotional paralysis began.

As I scanned the ethnically and socio-economically diverse classroom, I was proud of them. I was proud they stopped fidgeting long enough to ask probing questions, stand up straight, and put their hands over their hearts. I was proud of the country that finds the language to educate children who speak disparate languages at home. I was hopeful that each of them would add a gift to this world that would not be there without their presence. And I was fearful the road would be more challenging for some than others.

Throughout our lives, how many of us, have been loyal, giving and overly just to friends who didn't quite deserve us in the first place? Please do not misread my intentions, I am about the most star-spangled person you will meet above the Mason-Dixon line, but if we are going to make children recite words that they are meant to fully comprehend, then I damn well hope the flag keeps up its end of the bargain. I am not simply talking about the right to a decent education or health care or reasonably priced produce items, it's the fact that this place we call home requires each of us to believe the same truth in exchange for our loyalty: if you have the good fortune to be a U.S. citizen, then you will not be forgotten.

I love these children. While their presence in my life can often be described as the best birth control on the planet, their happiness and sense of belonging is what I strive to cultivate with our time together. Hardships are a universal occurrence, and as much as I would like to follow my munchkins around for the next thirteen years to protect them from the world, I realize that is an impractical [and legally unsound] solution. So how do we ensure today’s children grow up in a nation that never forgets their existence? We empower them with the right words, disposition and fervent desire to act when injustices become commonplace. An empowered child becomes an empowered adult who recognizes the perfect pitch at which to scream, THIS [insert injustice here] NEEDS TO CHANGE. With a generation full of an informed, screaming populace, who could ever deny their presence? So, readers of this post, if you know a child, tell him the greatest part of being a good friend is making your good friend an even better one. 

~carter

My Heart Would Stop When I Had to Parallel Park and Other Irrational Fears

I.

If you happen to frequent this blog [thank you for your patronage…Hi mom] then it is no surprise to you that I originally hail from the City of Angels. For the purposes of this post, let us call it, The Land of Abundant Parking and Sunshine. Perhaps it was a regional quirk or perhaps it was a bout of good luck before the rules altered, but parallel parking was not a requirement on my driving test, oh-so-many moons ago. While we are on the topic, here is my mitzvah for all aspiring California drivers: I speak from tragic experience when I implore you not to wear a beautiful light blue turtleneck to take your driver’s license photograph, which displays a beautiful light blue background, for you will look like a floating head ten years hence. 

As I was saying, after years of spacious parking lots and eager valet attendants, the mysterious phenomenon eluded me…. and then I migrated to the east coast. Based on parking space alone, it’s no wonder that whole Manifest Destiny thing really took off. As my quarter-laden purse conjures the wistfulness of a reindeer’s jingle bells, metered parking has become my sanctuary. I have circled blocks, wiped sweaty palms and walked from sensational distances all to avoid the pressure.

II.

To this day, recalling the first date I went on after my Supposed-To-Be-Forever person and I ended puts a knot in my stomach. Each gesture or word spoken was unfairly compared to his predecessor and I spent half the time mentally framing a very detailed Pros and Cons document. Miserable seems to be the word I am looking for here and, in my eyes, nothing was ever going to “click” again. Pretty depressing realization for a 22 year old, n’est-ce pas? I kept breathing, so my overly-dramatic death from sadness hypothesis didn’t quite pan out and as long as I remained above ground I felt I shouldn’t waste the light. But no matter how many smiles or “it was really nice meeting you(s)” I feigned, I discovered the fundamental cause of my doldrums was fear. I was afraid misery would find me all over again, afraid to meet a new family, absorb new childhood memories or laugh so hard with someone new that I betrayed the memories of the old someone.

III.

Years later, while circling the block for a tractor-sized space, The Manfriend asked me why I had passed up several normal-sized spots directly in front of our destination. I probably mumbled some nonsensical response to which he replied, “Stop whining. I am teaching you how to do this and we are not getting out of the car until you get it.” Now, a lover of metaphors and other literary tools could spin a beautiful narrative about how “love is a journey, and as long as you stay in the car, everything will be alright” or “the man who taught you to love again also taught you to park properly” but I will not go that route. Instead, my lovely readers, I will say, that fears only seem rational when there is no one there to tell you otherwise. You can be afraid to let yourself feel something for someone again and you can even be afraid to tackle the public humiliation of parking on a crowded, Boston street but my hope for you is that you find someone who makes you forget those fears existed.

Signed,

Parallel Parking Goddess.