My girlfriend thinks that you are a victim of global warming which has caused a shift in the seasons making you more like April than your usual self. She might be right and your recent strangeness is not your fault. I can understand that there are things beyond your control, that you react to your environment but you also have a hand in creating that environment. You are not merely a helpless cog in the seasonal machine, May. Have you become a ghost of your former self? You are wreaking havoc all over the country. Of course, you might be driving these forces yourself and not a victim at all.

I would like to think, however, that you have evolved into a month of kindness and warmth. After all, you house Mother’s Day and Memorial Day, the beginning of summer. But I know better. You can be incredibly temperamental as I remember from my childhood in Alabama. You are the prequel to hurricane season for the Gulf Coast and never tire of reminding us that you can conjure powerful storms. And though I love a good southern thunderstorm, the flooding I could do without.

May, you have been quite unexpected and confusing. I’m not sure what to make of you, so far. But I suppose I have never felt secure in our relationship. Unable to fix you, I’m never sure whether to love you or not. I am afraid, May, that you are too changeable and your capacity for returning my affections too shallow. Then I wake up to your sun and breezes, a perfect day of tulips and green and I find myself loving you in spite of myself. You are a contradiction, May and I’ve never been able to resist the mysterious. It would be wonderful if you could talk to June and arrange for a pleasant few days, at least for my brother’s upcoming nuptials. I realize you’ll probably have to negotiate with the state of Alabama, which is never as simple as it seems. Good Luck with the whole identity crisis hot/cold, summer/fall issues. Believe me, I understand what you’re going through.

Love, Devon

Michelle’s grandmother (her father’s mother) died unexpectedly and suddenly last night. We’d eaten brunch with her earlier in the afternoon. She seemed herself, happy to be surrounded by family. She was in good spirits when we left around 3. Then on our way out of town, we stopped by B’s where we got the call that we needed to go to the hospital because Grandma Ralston had had a massive stroke. We later found out the stroke was caused by a brain aneurysm. We arrived a little after 8 and within 20 minutes, M’s grandmother had stopped breathing.

We are sad and still in shock. Grandma Ralston was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. She had a way of making you feel comfortable and at home. Because I am so far from my family, I spent a lot of time and holidays with her and never felt like an outsider. She treated me like family and often introduced me as her grandchild. I only spent four years as part of her life, but I heard so many stories and shared so many happy times, it feels like longer. I can only imagine the loss her true family is feeling. Anyone who knew G’ma Ralston shares in our grief that she will no longer be a physical presence in our lives. We will always, always be grateful that she cared so deeply and tried to take care of all of us. She did not suffer and I suppose knowing that eases our minds. But our hearts, well, that’s another story.

The Last Night She Lived
~Emily Dickinson

The last night that she lived,
It was a common night,
Except the dying; this to us
Made nature different.

We noticed smallest things, –
Things overlooked before,
By this great light upon our minds
Italicized, as ‘t were.

That others could exist
While she must finish quite,
A jealousy for her arose
So nearly infinite.

We waited while she passed;
It was a narrow time,
Too jostled were our souls to speak,
At length the notice came.

She mentioned, and forgot;
Then lightly as a reed
Bent to the water, shivered scarce,
Consented, and was dead.

And we, we placed the hair,
And drew the head erect;
And then an awful leisure was,
Our faith to regulate.

Four years is a long time to be committed to something, particularly when that thing is actually a person. M and I have been together for four years yesterday and I’m just as surprised as anyone else that she puts up with me and has done so for so long. We celebrated by working out, doing laundry and eating Quizno’s salads. We lead such an exciting life. The following letter attempts to celebrate the everyday moments between us as well as the big and important ones.

Dear Michelle,
I knew when I met you that you were unique. I was drawn to you in ways I still can’t explain. You’re one of those people who makes an impact on others just by being yourself. And you have this easy way about you; you’re comfortable with who you are and the decisions you’ve made. It was one of the things I noticed first: there’s no pretense with you. You’re refreshing, like the Spring night air after a thunderstorm. I don’t always understand you but I love that about you, the way things just are… no conflict, no tortured overthinking. You are a constant surprise in many ways and yet I know I can always depend on you.

There are times when you’re feeling low or particularly insecure or you just want reminding of all the reasons I love you. Sometimes I find it difficult to put into words the depth and intensity of how I feel about you, not to mention the elements which I may not be aware of yet. There’s this invisible thread that runs between us, making sense of our togetherness when I cannot find language to do so myself. You are complex and thoughtful and explaining my feelings for you are never simple. However, for this occasion, I will do my best to tell you how and why I love you.

You have these looks, as if your heart is leaping through your eyes straight into mine. You make me want to tell you all the secrets of my life, even the ones I don’t know yet, when these looks cross your face. It isn’t something you do on purpose nor something you’re really aware of. And I think that’s why they affect me so much.

I love your heart, the largeness of it, the way you believe in second and third and sometimes fourth chances. I love that you think the world is mostly good and that change is possible and worthwhile. You care about people, people you don’t know, that you’ve never met but you care because they exist on this earth and as part of humanity, you see it as your responsibility to care. The depth of your generosity astounds me daily. I love that you meet no strangers and genuinely love to share yourself with others.

You are always, for better or worse, yourself. There are no facades, no barriers to you. You give yourself openly and freely. You don’t take yourself too seriously and take pleasure in the everyday moments life presents to you. You don’t think too much about one thing or another, rather you accept the beauty in a rainbow or clear night when you can see the stars. This is not to say that you do not think deeply. You are incredibly perceptive and smart. I love our conversations, how they range from silly to intellectual. I love that you will argue with me, that you call me on my bullshit and let me know when you disagree with me. I love when you pout and how stubborn you can be when you know you’re right. (which is a lot.)

You’re a great storyteller. I can listen to your stories over and over again, hearing your voice rise and fall with each detail. I like to watch people respond to you, watch your eyes light up when you come to a particularly funny or important part of the story. When we’re in a large group or at a party or conference and we’re talking to different people and mingling, there’s nothing I like better than to look over at you and see you engaged in conversation, smiling or laughing, enjoying yourself. I watch you with pride, with devotion and I know that when I’m not looking you glance over at me and feel the same way.

I like that you can be in the same room with me and not feel as though you have to fill the silence. Sometimes, sharing physical space with you is enough. I love the way you sleep, how you tuck yourself into the covers like a cocoon. I like that you look peaceful and sweet as you drift off to dreams. I like that you need me beside you to truly feel like you can rest. I like how your body fits next to me at strange angles, how warm and soft you are. I like that you want me to tell you stories or sing or read to you, that you want my voice in your ear to be the last thing you hear before sleep. I do not feel worthy of this need and it scares me some nights when I look at you, when I touch your face and tell you “L is for the way you look at me.” I do not know what you see when you look at me, but I know that it is more than I am. I aspire to be the version of the girl you see, the girl you love so completely.

After four years with you, I am still figuring out how to love you. The intensity of my emotions overwhelms me not because I need you, (I do) and not because I desire you (I do) but because being with you makes me happy. It makes me better. I want to see the world through your eyes for as long as you’ll let me. I want to learn from your affection and your kindness until you no longer have the capacity to teach me.

I love you for all your quirks, the way you prefer rolling down the windows on a warm day to air conditioning, the way you think people who have pictures of themselves are vain, the way you eat corn on the cob, the way you hate fake strawberry flavoring but love blue even though it’s not really a flavor. I love the way you make up words to songs on the radio and try to pretend that’s how the song really goes. I love that Toy Story is your favorite movie and how most of the movies you own are animated. I love that you are a child of the 80’s and that your favorite music comes from the decadent, lavish, flashy era that gave us both Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer. I love that you are unashamed of your adoration of Wilson Phillips. I love our differences and how we drive each other crazy.

I love that my favorite moments include you, that many of my stories are really ‘our’ stories. I will always think of our early relationship when I hear “I’m saving all the love that I’m supposed to give to Jesus, so that I can give it all to you.” I will think of taking you to work, of road trips to conferences, of laundry nights and arguments on hot summer nights when you lived on Robinhood Lane when I was stuck between loving you and hating myself. I love our history, despite its rocky beginnings and my inability to accept that you were exactly what you seemed. I love it because it is ours. I love the memories of squishing you against the wall in my twin bed, the way my heart beat so fast as we stood in the kitchen and I wanted to kiss you so badly. And when I told you, you said “I know.” I think I fell in love with you at that moment because you seemed brave and unafraid of your feelings. I was terrified of you, of how I felt and how I could feel about you. I remember feeling that everything was new. I shivered in the snow and watched flakes fall on your lashes and thought if I could stay in that moment, I would be happy forever. Lucky for me, you were willing to give me another chance…perhaps because after I ran away from you, I came back. Maybe because you could sense something true about me, something in my heart. Or maybe you saw my second chance as an opportunity for you, too. Whatever the reason, you gave me a reason to believe in second chances too. And there hasn’t been a day since then that I haven’t learned something new about you, about myself, about relationships, about love. There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t loved you.

I love you because of who you are, all of you. I love how you love the little things and that you don’t believe in making promises you can’t keep. So, I won’t promise you forever. But I will promise that as long as I love you, my love will be unwavering. I promise that I will be your support. I will work to make your dreams possible. I will dream with you, beside you and for you. I can’t promise not to take you for granted and I can’t promise to be unselfish. I can’t say that I won’t make you crazy when I leave on lights or the cabinet doors open or that I won’t forget something important that you tell me. I can promise that I will try, that I understand when you get upset or when I’ve hurt your feelings. And I can promise that it breaks my heart when are you sad or when I’ve done something that makes it seem as if you are not important because you are. You’re my person, for as long as our love lasts. And I will continue to figure out how to love you, for as long as it takes.

Happy Anniversary.

Love,
Devon

Something happens to my brain when I feel stressed. What, I’m not exactly sure but it makes me unable to see the forest for the trees. I begin to obsess about what’s in front of me, instead of taking some time to let an idea, or what someone said, really sink in. It may also be that this happens when I get stubborn. And when I’m being stubborn and I’m stressed… well, let’s just say it’s a bad combination. I haven’t been writing much about my dissertation here because I’d be pretty much repeating myself: I’m worried about the time crunch I’m under; I’m worried about getting it done; I’m worried it won’t be good, etc. Recently, the work took a very big turn not in a completely new direction but a more narrowly focused one that obviously requires additional work and attention. It is an exciting development and one that is definitely more me but it comes with its own challenges. I’m still working out some of the ideas and so everything seems chaotic and messy in my head, in my drafts. I feel like because of this, the process is taking longer than I expected. And that’s okay except that I don’t have the distance I’m usually afforded to reflect on my ideas and the way I’m pulling stuff together, which means I am writing at least one sometimes two additional drafts to get at whatever it is the distance gives me.

I don’t know if I’ve been particularly stubborn this week but I went in to my weekly meeting with my Director expecting him to be as excited as I was about the work I’ve been doing on my pedagogy chapter. And he was, but he was also concerned about a few things and I think a part of me shut down when he kept pushing for where he thought I should go. Because since then, I’ve been in a weird state when I sit down to write and I’ve been thinking about how to process his suggestions with my own expectations and ideas. Sometimes I think, “you just don’t get it.” And then I am brushing my teeth and something switches in my brain and I think, “Oh, that makes sense.” But it takes the distance from the conversation, the email, the draft and I don’t have the luxury of time as distance right now, not really. My challenge is to trust that the understanding will come, and trust my Director. It is not surprising to me, at all, that this is a struggle.

My mother says to me, “I don’t know why you don’t believe in your talent, the way that we all see it.” I

I laughingly said, “Me either, Mom. I’m in therapy for it.”

Maybe we can’t ever see ourselves the way others see us. Maybe that’s why we surround ourselves with the friends, lovers, colleagues, acquaintances that we do: because we need their version of ourselves. In Kate Hunter’s brilliant novella The Dream Sequence, the narrator loses her memory and when she runs into one of her friends, the friend is disappointed that the narrator has forgotten her. I don’t have the book in front of me so I can’t quote the exact line but the sense is that because the narrator no longer remembered the friend, she could no longer reflect the friend back to herself. It’s a poignant moment and one I have not captured very well here. Nonetheless, we want to see versions of ourselves in others; we define ourselves through our connections to others. This is part of what my dissertation is about– the negotiation and play, performance and maintenance of identity. And of course that’s what I’m struggling with now, what I’ve always struggled with. When I first began to focus on identity in my research, I thought I understood why. But as I’ve gotten into it, well, as The Dude would say: “Some new shit has come to light.”

I’m sure that you recall that I turned 30 this year. As a thirty-year old I officially get to talk about the good old days and wax nostalgic about Rainbow Brite, She-Ra and Strawberry Shortcake who were totally my idols as a kid. Well, maybe not idols, but I adored them just the same. What I remember most fondly about growing up, however, are the movies. My parents love cinema and I remember going to the movies at least once a week. Depending on where we lived, we might see a current film, one that was months old or a retrospective that was playing. My first significant movie moments occurred during a Disney weekend at the local theater; I was about five. After the lights came up after Snow White, my mother couldn’t find me. I was behind the thick red curtains looking for a door backstage. You see, I thought the movies were like a play and that there was someone “playing” Snow White and I wanted to meet her. (I also thought people lived in my radio until I was like seven, so cut me some slack.) My mother tried explaining “it’s just a movie,” but I did not believe her. I knew it wasn’t “real” exactly but did not completely understand. When we returned to watch Pinocchio, I freaked out during the scene where Pinocchio is drinking and playing pool and turns into a donkey. I started screaming, “I’ll be good I promise; just don’t turn me into a donkey!” The scene is terrifying for a five year old. We left the theater because I was such a state and I was a teenager before I watched Pinocchio again.

I was scared for weeks that if I did something wrong I would become a donkey, like Pinocchio had. Still, when I watch it today, I feel a bit queasy.

If we weren’t going to the movies we were renting them. I remember, particularly, the small town video store right off the square where we’d go to select which movies to watch for the weekend. Usually, we picked one and our parents chose one, though typically we’d watch them both together if it was kid-friendly enough. We watched Stand By Me, Footloose, Top Gun, Flashdance , Legal Eagles, The Untouchables,Broadcast News, The Big Chill, Dirty Dancing (though it was a tough sell; my mom only cracked because I was having a sleepover.) We also watched movies like Candleshoe, Chitty, Chitty Bang, Bang, Bedknobs and Broomsticks, Mary Poppins, The Sound of Music, (lots of Julie Andrews movies).

Watching movies together, as a family, was one of the few times I remember feeling a sense of togetherness with all of them. No matter what was happening in our lives, we always had movie nights where it seemed for 2 hours, everything was going to be okay. We could escape our lives, live vicariously through the flickering images on the screen.

I love movies. I love the whole theater going experience, sitting in a dark room with strangers, experiencing something together. Sometimes, I go to the movies by myself. When I’m the only person in a theater watching a movie, I feel liberated. I also love sharing movies, quoting lines, laughing or crying together in the same parts. I like watching movies with friends, talking afterward about our favorite parts, discussing the acting, the plot, being movie critics. I never gave much thought to why I’m into movies and M is not but I think it must come from the frequency of films in my childhood. My parents made them important and I agreed.

Today, when I watch a movie like Footloose, which I love dearly, I remember my brother and I dancing around to the soundtrack (on record) and making it skip. I remember the first time I saw the film. I remember feeling unsettled because it was about a preacher’s daughter and I was a preacher’s daughter. I was young, maybe seven or eight, when I saw it and I remember thinking that I would never be like that girl. But eventually, I was. I disappointed my father. I rebelled not against him or his beliefs but against what I thought people expected of me. And when I see the movie now, it is layered with experience. I’ve lived in those small towns. I’ve driven to the county line for things I couldn’t get in town. I’ve been a teenager, angry and misunderstood. I’ve always loved the story and now I understand some of the more poignant moments. Plus, the dancing and the Kenny Loggins music is awesome. There have been rumors for a while of a Footloose remake, well, not exactly a remake. It would be a movie version of the musical Footloose. (Kind of like what happened with Hairspray). Supposedly Zac Efron of High School Musical fame has been slated to take on the role of Ren, which Kevin Bacon performed in the film. If this happens I will not see the film. I do not want a film that somehow has meant so much to me to be bastardized with some tweeny bop star. Besides, there’s no way that the cultural significance of the story would carry over. At least not for me.

There’s something about movies like Say Anything that work for their cultural moment. I was only 12 when I saw it but I teared up when Lloyd said, “I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen.” I mean, how can you not? And Jon Cusack was so perfect the way Kevin Bacon was so perfect for those roles. I can’t imagine a re-imagined version. I won’t.

Dear April,
I’ve been incredibly worried about our relationship for some time. I thought perhaps I put too much pressure on you, choosing you as a favorite. Maybe you don’t like standing out from the crowd. And I definitely singled you out, April. I professed my devotion to you and anticipated your return, hoping the way I remembered you wasn’t all in my head. For the first few weeks you were here I thought perhaps, my memories were illusions. You weren’t the warm and lively April I vowed to write odes to. You were fickle and pouty, bitter and cruel. It was as if you and March hatched a plan to torture me. Well, it worked. Oh, April; you’re supposed to be temperate and graceful, fresh with green and blossoms. I don’t even mind the way my allergies act up when you arrive, that’s how I much I have adored you.

For a while, I did not know if I could love you again, at least not in the same way. But lately, you have been the April I know and love. You have been the Spring I longed for all those winter months of ice. You sure took your time comin’ around, though, April. Are you trying to tell me something?

May will be here soon and I cannot even guess the surprises in store but for now I’d like to enjoy the short time I have left with the one I have, since childhood, been fond of. And that is you and only, April. It’s your turn to seduce me again with your soft breezes and gentle caress. Make me fall in love with you the way I did lying on the hay bales on Annie’s land as the cows grazed nearby. You were sweet then, even the air smelled like honeysuckle and I believed in your promise. Even if my devotion to you is born of nostalgia, I can think of worse ways to begin a relationship.

Belong to me, again, April. I’ve missed you, so.

Yours,
Devon

When I was learning to walk my parents would stand a few feet apart and try to coax me to walk from one to the other. I would take a few steps and stop, looking from one to the other and giggling but remaining in between them. At first, my mother was concerned that perhaps I didn’t want to take sides, that if I walked to one instead of the other it would be interpreted as preferential. One afternoon my mother was in the kitchen; I was sitting on the floor while my father was preparing for a lecture or maybe Bible study. Stacks of books surrounded him, big encyclopedia type books, and maps. I pulled myself up using the table and half walked/half stumbled through the small space between the books and the chair and made it almost to the kitchen before falling/sitting down along the way. If there was an easy route to where I needed to be, I never took it. Instead I challenged myself by choosing a path that to others seemed puzzling. I needed to figure it out myself.

My mother reminded me of this when I complained recently that I feel like I’ve gone in a circle and that I could have made the process easier by trusting my instincts earlier in the process. I wish I had focused my comps. better, been more vigilant and proactive with my research. There are about a million things I could have done to make it easier on myself. It’s like the Dixie Chicks song, “Takin’ the Long Way:”

Guess I could have made it easier on myself

But I
I could never follow
No I
I could never follow

Well I never seem to do it like anybody else
Maybe someday, someday I’m gonna settle down
If you ever want to find me I can still be found
Takin’ the long way
Takin’ the long way around

So, yeah I’ve always done things the hard way, the long way, my way. It isn’t about being stubborn, not really. I try to take help when it’s offered, when I need it. But the difficulty is about finding my way, knowing that it’s my take on something whether it be teaching or research or cooking. I make a lot of mistakes and though there are other ways to the same end, I have to make my own way, which doesn’t mean I ignore advice or refuse help and support. Instead it means that I don’t always take the map with me; I create it on the way. It may be chaotic and messy but it’s mine. And I think there’s something to be said for that.

The first time I ever had laryngitis was in Kindergarten. I remember the torture of not being able to communicate. I talk a lot and as a kid I talked even more. I could write some, so I carried around paper and a pencil in case I had a question or needed something like to ask to go to the bathroom. I’ve been hoarse and lost my voice since then but not usually to the point where I can’t speak at all. Since I’ve gotten sick and my nose and chest are full of phlegm, it’s been more difficult to talk because it hurts or sounds just awful. Yesterday, at the grocery store my voice was high-pitched and squeaky. M kept asking me to repeat things partly because she couldn’t hear me and partly because I sounded hilarious like Mickey Mouse sucked on helium.

I’ve been pretty awful, complaining in a series of moans and grunts or whining about how badly I feel. Michelle is pretty fed up with it and so am I, to be honest. I hate being sick; like anyone enjoys it really. But I think that some people are more quiet and graceful when they’re sick, protesting they don’t need anything; they suffer silently. Not me. I suffer loudly and obnoxiously, reminding everyone around me that I am unwell. Just in case you forgot in the few minutes it took you to read this: I FEEL ABSOLUTELY TERRIBLE!

Sigh.

I only have three things to say to both of you:

Are you kidding me? Seriously; WTF?

That’s all I can manage right now in my weakened, I feel as though I am dying state.

Some alien sickness has taken over my body, particularly my throat which sounds more raspy than normal and low and growling with squeaking gasps. I am tired and achy and feel as though I’ve gargled with nails. Baby Kitty meows as though it pains her when I speak and I can only imagine that somewhere dogs are howling.

Also, Zicam is disgusting and Halls Breezers cough drops are saving my life.

I hope you are well and that no dogs near you are howling.