Like Gertrude & Ernest

…and then I found myself furiously scribbling away in Paris. I would tote my journal along from the Luxembourg Gardens to every café my shrinking euro stash would allow to Père Lachaise cemetery [but mostly] to the quiet areas of the 6^th arrondissement that will always be my own.

In the heart and mind of a fifteen year old who had never even been to sleep-away camp, this solo summer sojourn meant the world. I planned on having Paris validate all my dreams of Paris. A place so far removed from the culture of home that I could not help but create an alternate persona. Someone who sauntered a little slower, savored even the most fleeting moments, and perpetually pursed her lips between sentences. Utilizing my French speaking skills, I spent my free time pretending I was a native parisienne, aiding tourists with directions or in taking a family photo in front of many a monument [in the age before the “selfie”].

As profound as I attempted to be at the time, I suppose it could be said that being fifteen anywhere in the world has its moments of growth, realization, and coming-into-one’s-own. But since I only have my own experiences from which to draw and since my coming-into-my-own happened to coincide with a once in a lifetime excursion, I am going to conclude that I discovered the sole enduring facet of my life as a teenager in Paris: I am a writer.

Pardon me while I quote myself, but in a school paper that year, I stated the following: Oscar Wilde said that, “When good Americans die, they go to Paris”. He almost got it right. I believe that when good Americans truly live, they go to Paris to find a home, find themselves, and to find a way back. [Boy did that fifteen year old know what’s up] But here’s the thing, to an idealist teenager, it seems every truth will remain so indefinitely and every talent will come swiftly without life’s inevitable intrusions. I was able to feel at home in Paris; the feel of pen and paper did not alter simply because I was 6,000 miles away. I was able to cultivate my creativity because I had the time and I uncovered a generative place within myself to which I could consistently return. I became more confident; while I may have felt a little too dark or too chubby under the Los Angeles sun, in Paris, I was one more Ooo la la away from not making my returning flight. [Shout out to the European men who consistently walked the fine line between respectful and kind of odd advances] see post below for more on my views of male/female interactions.

As I was saying, life discovers a way to try and thwart you from your desired path. I’m sure the fact that for the next seven years I was a slave to academia and did not even want to read a menu or write a grocery list had something to do with why my personal reading and writing took a back seat to more pressing literacy priorities.

It took years to return to Paris-grade Me and I have you, the L.O.T. Blog enthusiast, to thank for my rejuvenated love of doing what makes me feel most at home. I may not be able to host all of you in my living room for bohemian events, but this is the 21^st century and the interwebs can be our salon. We are not the Lost Generation of our great-grandparents, but there remains a dire need to collectively share our thoughts. There must be a place where people won’t look at us strangely for using proper grammar and polysyllabic diction, and where putting your delusions and ingenuity into words can be valued, praised, criticized and re-worked. I thank you for this opportunity and invite you, just like Gertrude and Ernest did before me, to join the conversation.

#writeon

~carter

Excuse Me, Sirs, Who Raised You and Can They Demand a Refund?

Let me start by setting the scene: 
A man and I are walking together and a puddle is obstructing our next steps. If said individual removes any article of clothing to allow me a smoother puddle transition, I will giggle at him and his sodden outerwear. While you are appreciated, hypothetical person, your archaic gestures could use some updating. 

This is not a post bemoaning the absence of chivalry. Chivalry is alive and kicking for those who expect it and choose their mates accordingly. 

This is also not a post enumerating how the boyfriends and husbands of the world could do a better job at being more boyfriend-y or husband-y because quite frankly, ladies, these are the men you have chosen. I would assume you enjoyed something about the factory model so do not complain when they do not change. 

This is, instead, a post about the 21^st century men whose mating rituals leave something to be desired. 

Every bipedal female has experienced it. A catcall here, a car honk there and [for we dazzling urbanites] the occasional, clichéd, construction man hoot-n-holler. Sure, there is a time and a place to feel like a piece of ass, like when you are leaving the gym in your sweatiest sweat pants and someone still manages to find you attractive; that’s perfectly acceptable. Barring this very specific instance, however, women [on average] do not enjoy being treated or gazed upon like juicy burgers to voracious individuals. Flattery is not evoked. Hearts are not aflutter. And your chances of procreating with a woman steadfast in the knowledge of her self worth continues to diminish the moment disrespect masks itself as interest. There are only so many “Hey Baby”, “Let me talk to you for a minute”, “Can I holler”, “So, you got a man?”, and inebriated interactions one can take before she realizes no one has any idea what they’re doing anymore.

As someone without a husband or a son, I am making a pretty bold statement when I say: I believe mothers need to start demanding more of their male progeny. A man with a strong role model [male or female] will recognize that “having game’” is an ephemeral notion that is entirely dependent on current fads. Possessing the characteristics of a gentleman, however, will always be in style. While we are not expecting your best dinner jacket to line the intersection after a rainfall, similar sentiments such as concern, respect, and self-giving are pretty en vogue regardless of the century.  

It has been my dream to [one day] produce enough cultivated, driven, and compassionate male heirs to aid my Alma Mater’s ailing football program [GO BOSTON COLLEGE EAGLES!]. And while I am only somewhat joking, the truth is, I am excited by the possibility of producing strong-willed and strong-minded men who truly comprehend what “being cool” is: I will nurture men who will dress well, men who will look every person in the eye when they are speaking or being spoken to, men who disagree without being disagreeable, men who are proud of their flaws and work each day to contribute positively to the lives around them, and men who understand that their mother demanded to be loved respectfully and did not stop searching for their father until she found it. Strength is gender neutral. A real man has the strength of a woman who reared him and the strength of the woman standing beside him to thank for his ability to have swag [whatever that is] through the ages. And no matter how audible and deliberate the whistling or hollering, a real woman has the strength to keep walking.

~carter

Under Construction

Between the ages of 9 & 12, I managed to both break and sprain my right ankle. The break was clearly a backyard accident but the culpability of the sprain lies entirely on the head of that gargantuan sixth grade girl charging me as I tried to defend the hoop. She didn't get the basket and I didn't get to finish my season.

16 years (of ballet performances, volleyball games, personal training sessions, walking/dancing in heels, before school kickball games, treadmills, running after children, hopscotching and down right existing) later, I was told yesterday, I am missing an entire ligament that connects my ankle to the rest of me.

Sure, my ankle cracks, creaks, aches from time to time and hangs a little funny when I've got my feet up, but missing a ligament sounds kind of serious. Like when a trainer tells you she is surprised you can do everything you can kind of serious. As it turns out, my body [wonder that it is] has discovered a way to protect itself by overcompensating in some ways [tightening my Achilles tendon] to render and entire ligament unnecessary for more than a decade and [hopefully] ages to come.

Self-healed…far from perfect… but completely functional.

We, as humans, spend a lot of time assessing the figurative damages and scars events can leave in their wake. Ankles are fortunate enough to get casts and splints while broken hearts, spirits and promises never quite get the physical therapy they deserve. Aside from the trite notion that hardships build character, it turns out, without lacerations [of both the figurative and literal kind] we would never fully comprehend the joys of how freaking cool it is to depend on yourself. We are constructed to survive; we were not created to depend on external aid for our protection. No ligament? No problem. A victim of infidelity? You will discover a way to love you more than he did and survive to tell the tale of that guy you knew once.

Don’t get me wrong, trusting in your own will and welcoming the unpleasant brings along its own set of challenges...mostly in the form of what is left behind. Just as I might be able to tell you when rain is on the horizon by my gait, an individual who has been disrespected one too many times may take much more convincing that the person confessing his love is genuine. When we are ruptured, we cannot expect healing to return us to what normalcy once meant. Instead, we must have faith that rejuvenation will take us to a place we could have never predicted.

We are undeniably works in progress. 

Walking Under Construction signs preparing for the next great project to give us a reason to uncover our strengths. 

I do not advocate underestimating the strength of a sixth grader charging for a basket nor do I advocate actively seeking relationships which only mean to cause you harm. However, I do recognize the value of a certain self-respect, which only manifests, as the bottom seems to let out from beneath our lowest moments. Because when you are the only one left, you start depending on the right person. Trust yourself to heal, rejuvenate, accept, move past, and ultimately re-enter the game. 

~carter