Thankful

Well I knew it would come to this. It's 11:14, 46 minutes before this post is due. I've never been good at mastering the art of completing assignments early, and every teacher tells me that it's an essential thing to learn before my college years. Truth is, I was distracted today.

Here's why. My mom let me sleep late today. Last night she informed all of us that she would be waking us up promptly at 9 AM to help her cook and clean the house since Thanksgiving was being held at our house this year. I expected a frantic orchestra of pots and pans sometime around 8:15, but instead I woke up to a soft smiling face and familiar hands through my hair at 11:10. "Wake up sweety, it's Thanksgiving," was all my mom said, before she walked out the room and closed the door gently.

I stretched. I had slept for 11 hours which is longer than I can ever remember sleeping since the summer when it was normal to do those sorts of things. My brother and sister were asleep by the time I got home last night and zombied my way to my bed. This morning I attacked my sister in the pull out couch and jumped on my brother's back to say good morning. I don't know where I would be without them. Frank and I had always been close, and we haden't seen each other for a few months. I had seen Gina over the weekend, but there's something about all of us being home that makes a world of difference.

I don't use the term "all of us" lightly. We were hosting Thanksgiving for " all of us" and this is what "all of us" entailed. My mother, my brother, my sister, my aunt, and me. Just the five of us. There was no extra table extension needed to fit everybody. There was no need to search the hosue in a frantic looking for extra fine china to serve food on for everybody. There was no last minute scramble to get more food because there wouldn't be enough for everyone. We originally planned to sit around the T.V. with take out chinese food or some to-go burritoes from Taco of the Town. They had prior obligations, we couldn't blame them.

It wasn't always like this. Every year until I was 13 we would take the 6 hour drive to Rochester, New York and spend Thanksgiving with 30 relatives on my dad's side of the family. It was the warmest chaos that I've ever known. Everywhere I'd turn, there was a piece of me. If I looked behind me, I saw my eyes. To the left of me was my lips. Behind me was my nose. Everyone always said that I looked like my Aunt Donna's blast from the past. We were identical in every way from sense of humor, to laugh, to chin structure. The only thing that kept us from being twins was time, and even that had a hard time stopping us. I "looked like a Mobilio." I loved that.

I wasn't as close with my mom's side growing up. Her side doesn't have any cousins around my age, but my cousins on my Dad's side were just a few years older than me, and the five of us were inseperable. We would put on plays. They would last about 20 seconds because we were all too little to remember lines or format, but, still, we would have to gather every member of our huge family, every neighbor within a five mile raidus, and even random people we met at the Food Lion just to watch our groundbreaking performance. I remember seeing all of my Aunts and Uncles look down on our innocence with the look of unfiltered love painted on their faces.

I was the baby of the family. My mother and I almost died during my birth due to her developing ovarian cancer during my pregnancy. When she found out she was just going to her doctor for a normal baby check-up. When they performed the ultra-sound they discovered something else that, unlike a child, was not a promise of new life, but of a possible fatality. She was advised, no, ordered to terminate me upon discovering the cancer so that they would give her the proper treatment to survive. The medication would, undoubtedly, kill me, or else they would have to use less-effective treatment that was not garunteed to work, but still sure to harm me. She didn't waver, and told them no. Here I am, 17+ years later, healthy as can be. She is currently cancer free. It's a bond we share that I can not explain, but we look at each other and know.

I didn't even mind the 6 hour drive. It taught me patience, patience I would need very soon in my soon to be changed life. Most of those smiling faces and those warm hugs, and that feeling of teogetherness and community have not been a part of my life for almost 5 years now. Upon my parent's divorce, my father's half of the family, quite literally, divorced us as well.

I don't understand, even now that I have grown up so much more. I look at pictures and old home movies, and it doesn't make sense. I still see my eyes, my lips, my smile, my laugh, my small hands and my broad shoulders, my thick hair and my pale skin. They still share my blood, my name, and the title of "aunt" and "uncle" and "grandmother." Every day was a special day, and was treated as such. Birthdays involved a phone call from at least 6 at a time singing happy birthday. Report cards were rewarded with a card in the mail or an e-mail with fireworks writing "WAY TO GO" in the cyber night sky. I have stared at the phone every birthday since then expecting the sing-a-long that I looked forward to so much every year. I would record it on the answering machine and save it for months until my mother would complain that there was not enough tape left. I want to remember their off-key voices, and the laughter when one of them would stumble on their words. I loved that the best, because then I could hear all of them. But I also loved when all of them blended together to create and expression of love and thought.

I don't hear of either anymore. It's been 5 years since my last birthday symphony, since my last card in the mail, since our last gathering as a together family on such an important holiday. I hope they are well, I really do. I never want to divorce, but should that ever happen to me, I don't understand why that means that you stop being an aunt, a grandmother, an uncle, a family. Two people didn't get along anymore (one wasn't truthful), but does that mean that you quit on the children? Their faces while they watched me forget lines to Little Red Riding Hood seemed to send me promises of a love that would last forever. I wasn't the adult there, I was a child who was scared and afraid when her father drove away. Little did I know that I wouldn't see him for a good 3 years as well.

These years haven't always been kind to me. I lost half of my family, I lost contact and touch with the people that gave me these eyes, this smile. I don't want them to think I'm ungrateful. I want them to know I think of them every day. I hope they had a great day today, I really do. I want them to prosper and continue on and be happy. If that means handing out a smile or a pair of lips and moving on, then I guess I should be thankful to have even been given something at all...right?

So this Thanksgiving has happened twice before. Small, 5 people, always enough food on the same section on the counter. Very personal, no one else out of the conversation since we all shared the same one. We all ate at different paces. We don't go around in a circle like we used to and say what we are thankful for. "Grab a plate." And we do.

I look around at the family that stayed with me. Maybe it's because they're closer, or that I, as well as my brother and sister, announce and proclaim ourselves as my mother's child. Maybe it's because of the distance. I know I will never have another Thanksgiving like I did as a child, but the point is I did. Not everyone is that lucky. Maybe they were only a family to us because they had to be. They didn't hold us while we cried, or feel us shake when the tears ran dry. They didn't sit with us while we read the newspaper articles of the things my father was accused of doing to a girl in this very school of whom I knew. They weren't there for me when I held my father and felt him tremble at the touch of innocence after he spent his 3 days in jail.

My Aunt Risa was there. She was actually the one that sat me down and told me why my father wouldn't be coming home that night. She told me where he went, and why. She held me up when my feet buckled up underneath me, and when the fear sunk in when I learned that the entire town would soon know the exact details I was just told. My sister stayed home from school with me the next day and we sat in silence watching day-time TV, not saying anything, not looking at each other, not touching, but knowing that being next to each other was enough. Having each other was enough. My brother showed me strength. He never missed a day, and he would come home from school, and while everyone cried and I couldn't anymore, he was the one to look at me and suggest that we go downstairs and play Nintendo 64, just to get away from the reality that was upstairs. I wish we could have frozen time, and stayed down there forever, never having to go back up and see my mother's swollen eyes. They weren't mine, but I understood so much where they came from, and what they spoke of. Frank and I gripped onto those controllers like they would somehow teleport us into an alternate reality, into the game in which we played, where you were given life after life to start over, and re-create the opportunity to reach your goal while having all the more knowledge of how to do so.

And then there is my mother. I could never explain the ways that I love this woman. Her eyes may sometimes remind me of pain, and it's a different thing than I was ever used to growing up, having to hold her while she cries, which she still does, we all still do sometimes. She is the stongest, bravest woman I know, even though she argues differently. She could have been someone so much different. She could have given up on us, hey, half of my family did, she could have been another addition. They gave up, and it wasn't even as if anything happened to him. She got hit with every blow harder than I can ever imagine. But she held onto all of us. She knew whenever we needed a hug, or a quick whip with a dish towel to make us laugh, even if it was just for a moment, we were reminded that we still knew how.

It was as if through all of those tears we shared together, we grew into the most beautiful display of colors and strength. We're not out of the weeds yet, and we may never be, but at least the thorns are in the past. We face those problems every day, and an unthinkably uncertain future. It hurts to think of the lives that could have been, but look at what is. I spent such a meaningful day with the most true, dependable, inspriational and important people in my life. Today, I was surrounded by more than smiles because they had to smile, or laughter because it was polite, or a gathering that was just tradition. I looked around, and I didn't see my nose, or my smile, or my lips, but I saw what I can not see in the 30 people that left me behind, and I see family. I see strength and a loyalty that comes from more than an anual trip up north or south. I see people that confide in people because that's their only way, not because they feel like they should. I would be nothing without these 4 people. I only need that small number, our humble dinner, and our laughter that we let go on without end. I am thankful for every smile that we express together, because we all know what such a small suggestion means, and how quickly it can leave. We have each other. We have our un-extended table, and we have a rich history of battles fought, and won, together. It was a wonderful day. I hope you all had one like mine, because then that would mean that everyone shared a special day with the most important people they have, and felt a feeling that grateful can not even compare to.

Happy Thanksgiving everyon.

Social Class

Being a predominantly middle-class society we are very sheltered to the lifestyles of the extremes. However we are given quite a unique perspective of the extreme lower class in The Glass Castle. After our research I have come to my personal conclusion that I don't konw how sorry I feel for the impovershed who have become the class of poverty. Being born into it and creating it yourself are two entirely different things.

Sorry to say it, but my sympathy for you is non existent when you get involved with drugs, lose all your money in a court suit inwhich they take your dog and your golden retreiver and you are left on the streets. Then, with the only money that you have, you choose to spend it on drugs. People wonder what the problems are with government aid such as welfare. The problem does not lie in the fact of politics and the question of should or should the government not help out its citizens. It is not a matter of liberal or conservative, donkey or elephant, but there are no ways of knowing what that aid is going to. A large percentage does not go towards putting food on the table, but rather drugs in veins.

I do not feel sorry for the people who create poverty. I do, however, feel sorry for the people affected. It goes further than children and other members of the immediate family, although they are the primary sources. It goes out to extended family as well as friends and employers, even though they are far inferior to the children.

People who create poverty for themselves and the people around them have many sources available to them to avoid it. In the case of substance abuse there are such sources as rehab, AA, other counseling groups, therapy, other medications, (and will power maybe?) Whether or not they have the financial means is not important since self admittance to get substance abuse help is either free, payed for by insurance, or given to them regardless, and then asked for payback later. Here's another idea...don't become a drug addict or alcoholic. I'm sorry (not really) if that seems naiive or harsh, but it's true. People may not all be educated, but they are informed enough to see their bank accoutns and wallets and jars above the refrigerator shrinking in quantity. And they are also informed enough to realize that the bulk of that money if not all of it is going towards their substance abuse. Yes yes they may not have the mental stability to stop themselves but the laundry list of options dangling above me will surely help out with some of those issues. If not, then they are too far gone, have missed the warning signs, and all hope is lost. Kidding, but seriously.

In the case of debt, things get messy. I recently became in charge of my mother's debit card since she underwent surgery on her feet and needs me to help around the house as well as go food shopping and run countless errands and prop her feet up and fetch her crystal light, you know, slavery. Anyway I was shown into the wonderful world of debit. It's mezmerizing really, pressing in those buttons and having the money just pop up out of that little slot. I have yet to experience the credit world, but it doesn't sound nearly as fun as making money appear. There's just one problem with this mesmerization, people become obsessed with it. Don't worry everyone I'm not going to take the debit and run to Vegas and get conned by old women selling glass figureins that they "hand made" and are made of "marble." I'm not quite there yet (kidding again) but I can see where this obsession would come from. If you can sign your name to a computer screen or press a button and have your merchandise be payed for or see money come out of a slot, I'll bet you'd stop paying attention to how much you owed just because of the convenience of it. But see again, I do not feel sorry for you. You have the patience and the control of a three year old and you do NOT need that leather couch for five grand. When your debt numbers start climbing into the ten thousands range, you know you've got yourself a problem and a half. Generally, I would think that when one sees any sort of debt that is more than half of their anual salary a red flag (or seven) would wave saying STOP SWIPING ALREADY. So when the government or the IRS comes to take your house and your golden retreiver ask yourself how worth it that little 2 x 4 (I don't really know the exact measurements so don't quote me) piece o' plastic was worth, and your leather couch.

Okay okay I'm aware that there are a million other circumstances ther cause a person to become homeless/impoverished, but in the case of the Walls, IT'S BY CHOICE. Mind boggling. I don't think that one has to live the life that those children were forced into in order to be taught fine morals and principals. Today I went to the mall and bought shoes and a pair of jeans from a brand name store and I scaled down the price of a really pretty dress with some coupons I got in the mail. Does that make me immoral? Or a cultural slave? Or a clone of society? Call it what you want, but I don't consider myself a waste just because I have shoes that will keep my feet warm, jeans, and a dress that I basically robbed from Express with how much I took off from coupons (I almost felt bad. . I'm completely kidding I didn't feel bad at all). I don't think that it means that any of us are of lesser human status or morale because our shirts say the names of stores on them, or we use air conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter. Sure there are other parts of the world that are not fortunate enough to have these luxuries, but is the fact that we have them enough to say we have no values? What about the things that impoverished countries have that we don't? In the world of the material we are obviously ahead, but aren't we lacking in the spiritual? The hopeful? The believing? The connection to religion in our country has dropped to such a point that we are careful to use the word "God" in any context, because it will offend someone.

I'm ranting.

But seriously, the Walls parents had that spirituality that we are missing. Impoverished countries don't have the means or the ability to have what we have, but the Walls' did. They could have connected the two and had both. Ultimately the father robbed the family of all of their money with his alcoholism, the mother was depressed to such a state that she starved her children while feeding herself chocolates and unable to motivate herself enough to work.

I'm sure there is so much more to be considered, but I don't think that impoverished America is doing enough to help themselves get better, or stop it from happening in the first place. Maybe those of us offering help need to offer a wider hand, or speak louder.

Can anything really ease the burden of war?

Maybe. Being a terrified 17 year old girl with not so much the courage to pull the trigger on a paintball gun, let alone a rifle, I can not say for sure. In the case of John Wheelwright in John Irving's "Owen Meany" I would be the one who accepted Owen's offer to cut off my right trigger finger so as to avoid every possibility of going to war. Call it a lack of bravery or what you will. I'm prepared for criticism (and mockery). I do, in fact, have excessive respect and admiration for those honorable men and women who willingly and anthusiasticaly enlist themselves for the safety and security of our country.



I believe, though, that in the case of Vietnam, it was a different story.



My grandfather passed away when I was nine, but he was a WWII veteran. I would occasionally hear him speak briefly of his memoris of flying the fighter jets, coming within inches of death more times than he cared to count, and the timeless picture of the orange/red explosion of the planes that never landed. That must have been on fewer than four occasions, and although I was young upon hearing them, therefore unable even to understand the true concept of a "world war", let alone the second, I always noticed his eyes drift and shift after he spoke. Eight years of education later I know that I am no closer now to understanding the true essence of what he saw, and what he still saw, than what I did as an uneducated nine year old. However naiive I am to war, I know that what I saw in his expression was not something of glorification of his skills as a pilot or his thankfullness to be alive, it was more. I will never pretend that I understand, but I do know what I saw, and it makes me uncertain as to whether or not expression of war experience proves to ease pain, or re-create it.

While I may not have seen war, I have, in fact, experienced tragedy. In my personal case, my feelings were surpressed for an incredibly long time before I was able to open up. However, once I did, it felt like a giant elephant decided to find a different place to sit rather than my chest. Weird analogy, but I'll bet it makes sense. I would not say that it eased my pain or that it made coping easier. It did, however, allow for an outlet of frustration. While it may not have been my prescription to solving the battle I was having internally, it definitely made me remember that I had a voice, and that using it reminds you that you are not lost in the shuffle just because you have had your butt kicked around by the world.

In Tim O'Brien's case it is difficult to tell whether expression relieves or creates more pain. The entire book is O'Brien's stories, not his opinions, thoughts or reactions. Whether it makes a difference to tell stories of things you saw, or express in detail everything you felt is not up to me to judge. As I have stated before in my self defense, there is only so much I can contribute having not been anywhere within light years of a battlefield. I am a firm believer in the power of expression and opening up, but not all are. I think it depends on the experience itself, the person's individual morals and beliefs, and their courage to open themselves up to share their most supressed dark memories.