Monday, March 26, 2012

Week 7 : Character Profiles

Sitting in the waiting room, he leans on his old oak cane. The hat that covers his bald head is the same color tan as his pants; he is wearing an old winter coat over a plain gray sweatshirt.
He's silent while the others around him are talking about anything and everything. His old green eyes are unfocussed and far away.
Mom notices his his distance and gives him a kind rub to his shoulder.
"I'm just worried about Nana." He said quietly and stared back at the door where the doctor would come out and end the wait that has already seemed so long.
Inside of his head, he was probably a million miles away. But he was here, at Eastern Maine Medical Center, waiting in a room while his sweetheart was being operated on.
The cane he carried and the way he held his back as we walked was a surefire sign that he has worked hard in his life to earn that extent of being sore. His simple clothes and demeanor makes it obvious that he is in no way an extravagant man. The lines on his face have changed the look of a man that was once young, vital and handsome. Today he looks like an old man who has lived a long life.
He slowly stands up, groaning as he does, and he walks to a table with a coffeepot on it. He's done this a few times, but every time there is no coffee in the pot. However, every few minutes he still tries. Does he forget that the pot is actually empty? Or is it at least something to get his mind off of wherever his sweetheart is?
He returns to his seat with a simmering cup of tea because there still is no coffee.
"She's strong, Dad." Mom told him and patted his knee. "She's almost 80 and this is the first kind of surgery like this she's ever had."
He shrugged, "I know she's strong. I just want two things. I don't want her to be in pain, and I don't want her to be afraid."
Mom said nothing and just looked away.
His words showed how much he cares about Nana, and the way his hands shook and the fear in his voice made it obvious how much she means to him.
In the parking lot, the 'Veteran' symbol on his license plate meant that he has served our country during his life. The tired look in his face shows it. The way he stares at that door, jumping at every person who opens it, shows that he is, as patiently as he can, is waiting for the doctor to come out. He's waiting for Nana.
If I were to guess, I'd say that all he is thinking about is how Nana is.

***

Working for a local business in a small town, you begin to see more of the people from your community then you ever thought you would. I worked in a grocery store for two and a half years. I knew all of the regular costumers, and usually I could tell you what they were going to buy before I even bagged it.
There was the old woman with the scratchy voice who bought nothing but Bud Ice and cartons of cigarettes. There also was the guy who only bought cat food and then liked to dig in the trash cans outside (rumors were that he ate the cat food). The 97-year-old woman named Ester with a crazy blonde wig and a great sense of humor was always a hoot when she came in every Saturday. Mrs. Foley did her shopping on Sundays; she only bought organic food and brought her own reusable bags. And then there were the few classic, rich-looking housewives who came in and only bought the top-of-the-line expensive foods, and insisted that they only get paper bags because plastic bags are made out of 'oil by-parts'.
So basically, if you did a lot of grocery shopping in Calais, chances are I'd be your bagger. If you came in to shop enough, you'd be another familiar face to me. There weren't many regular costumers that I didn't chat with when they came in.
One particular woman always made me feel a little sad when I saw her.
My mom used to point her out when we would see her around town. She was as skinny as a rail and she was always going for a run around the streets of Calais. Mom said that running was all she ever did, and that she has always been that thin. That oh-so-very unhealthy thin.
She came in the grocery store at least once a week. Usually on weekends. She didn't buy much; probably because she didn't exactly eat much. She always bought a four-pack of Shutter House white wine coolers, fresh vegetables and a loaf of french bread from the bakery. She'd ask for it all to be put in one plastic bag, probably to make it easier for her when she ran home.
Working in a grocery store for as long as I did  is probably what contributed to my fascination with human behavior. I realized early on in that job that you can tell a lot about a person by what they buy for food.
This woman was always one of the most interesting regulars.
When she approached the register, you can smell her before you see her. She always smelt of body odor. Why, I'm not exactly sure. I always thought it was from her extensive running. She was always polite but never said much.
My mom had always told me that this woman was anorexic and always ran. She was never very happy with herself, so she punished herself. 
I would smile and say hello as I bagged her things for her. She asked for it all in one bag, and she always paid with a check that was already written for $25. In my mind, I decided that she did this so that she never paid more then $25 dollars for food. That way she couldn't eat a lot; that way she'd still stay thin.
I was always as polite as possible to her, but she never seemed to notice. Her eyes were so preoccupied. Her mind always elsewhere. Her skin had a yellow-ish tint, and her long fingernails were brittle and many were broken off.
Every time when I watched her leave the store, I hoped that the next time she'd come in she'd be a little heavier. I always secretly prayed that maybe she'd decide to stop running and start living. I wanted her to eat more then she did. A cheeseburger. A piece of apple pie. An ice cream cone. To me, it always seemed so profoundly sad to be so governed by something. Her life always seemed a little sad to me.
But, until the day I resigned from my position as a Costumer Service Clerk, Joanne never did gain any weight. She always had those same sunken-in eyes; she always had those same broken fingernails. I swear that woman weighed no more then 95 pounds, even though she was at least 5'7.
And although I may not have known much about her life other then local rumors and what I saw of her inside of Shop 'n Save once a week, my mind returns to her sometimes. I haven't seen her in a long time, but I still hope that she found some kind of help for her disorder. Because a life that is so closely governed by your own fears really isn't living at all.

***
Every high school has one. In the movie The Breakfast Club, he hid dope in his locker and was in Saturday detention because he pulled the fire alarm. He had torn jeans, combat boots and an 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. If you're a fan of the famous 'Brat-Pack' movies of the 80's, you'd know that I'm talking about the criminal.
The criminal is that bad boy in high school who was always stirring up trouble of some kind. Everyone is afraid of him; he's always the talk of the town. He had that look on his face that basically taunted everyone around him. He was cool; he was badass.
In my high school, it was a certain fellow who took his role as a criminal a bit too far.
He's tall, with blonde hair and a nice smile. He has a strong build and has a surprisingly quick wit. He sat in the back of every class he was in; he started every fight in the hallway. A day didn't go by that you didn't hear his name being called over the intercom by an angry staff member.
There are a million things I can say about this guy. There was the day that he pushed by me in the hallway to help his friends start a fight. This was the same day he got in trouble for hitting a teacher. He was always in the paper for getting a summons of some kind. He sold the best drugs in town. He screamed at teachers; ripped things off the walls; came to school high as a kite.
I'll never forget the time he threw a chair in the lunch room that just barely missed hitting me in the head.
"FUCK YOU!" I remember hearing him yell at Mr. Noyes as the flying chair almost throttled me.
There also was that one infamous time where, one day after school when the building was empty, he shit in a chair.
Yes. He shit in a chair.
He somehow got into an empty classroom during after hours and shit in a chair. The worst part? No one even noticed until halfway through the next day of school.
Going to school with him certainly made school a little interesting. He went to jail during senior year; no one was surprised to hear the news. When he returned, he ironically was the first person to graduate in our class. How he passed, I'll never know. A huge part of me thinks the school just passed him to get rid of him. He graduated on time and, for once, it seemed he was going to do okay.
But nowadays, things are a little different for him.
He's been in and out of jail a few times. He pulled a knife on a cop once. A certain new and very dangerous drug took hold of him, and he spent a month in jail because of it. Whenever I run into him, he never looks very good. His eyes are always dark underneath; he is too thin for his frame and looks weak.
"How are things going?" I ask when I run into him.
He shrugs and simply says, "Same shit, different day."
He always says he's a fuck-up and will never amount to anything. He has said before that the only thing anyone sees in him is a failure.
But little does he know that he actually has so much potential.
In English class he'd always come up with these ridiculously smart answers, even if he didn't read the book. Whenever he played basketball, you'd see this different person come out. Gone was the violent and unhappy guy that everyone had an opinion of, and in his place was a graceful and very talented athlete. He had a way with people that instantly made others like him; he had a confidence that seemed to make him invincible.
In high school, I used to think his wild ways were 'cool'. I thought to myself, Why aren't I more like that? Because I care too much, about everything. But he just seemed to go through life, with one lucky break after another. One more time where the drugs he's done should have killed him but didn't. One friend who will bail him out of jail after another. An alcoholic at 20; never seeming to have a real care in the world.
But that has stopped being cool in my eyes.
Everyone has told him he has potential; everyone has tried to reach out to him. 
But after a while, you just give up. You decide to let him float on, and you decide that your effort is pointless.
Hopefully someday he'll see the potential that we all saw in him. The one that he so obviously has forgotten he has.

Friday, March 9, 2012

Week 6

I can remember what it was like being eleven. I was full of shit when I was eleven. I had a million dreams and I never shut up. I thought that there were millions of possibilities for me. Everyday was an adventure. I had so many things to say, so many things to do.
Now, it's almost ten years later, and I'm standing in the early March cold, somewhere in Bangor, with a child who is eleven and has Autism.
He looked just like a 'normal' child. He was a foot shorter then me, with large blue-green eyes and shaggy brown hair. He wore a coat with Spider-man on the back.
Only this child will probably never be able to have even a single hope for his future.
Every day when I go to work, I see a seven-year-old in a diaper. I see an eleven-year-old who will never be able to hold a deep conversation with anyone. I see a thirteen-year-old boy who was born without eyeballs.
On this particular day, I'm standing outside in the playground with the eleven-year-old.
"What would you like to do today?" I ask him for the tenth time as I knelt down to his level. I use an encouraging voice in hopes that he responds with words.
He doesn't say a word. He looks at me with blue-green eyes. They are eyes that are simply looking at me; not ones that are seeing me. He turns around and walks away.
I sigh loudly. I used to think that all the dreams I had as an eleven-year-old were taken from me and replaced with harsh reality. But it is children like this who had their dreams robbed from them before they could even have been dreamed. Children like this aren't given the chance to speak.
I observe him as he plays. He's putting snow into his hand and pushing it onto the fence. It sticks to the fence, and he does it again. And again. He seems to do this for minutes on end.
According to the rules, he's not supposed to be flicking snow. It's 'unsafe'. But he's alone, he's not hurting anyone, and quite frankly I don't care whether or not he flicks snow. He looks at me with aware eyes; he knows that it's against the rules. He may have Autism, but he's far from stupid. I smile at him as he looks at me. I hope for a smile back but I'm not surprised when I don't get one.
How long does he flick the snow at the fence? I'm not sure. But once he's flicked off all of that sticky snow, he starts to hit the ice with his fist to break it, and then push it off the picnic table. This is also probably against the rules, but again I don't care.
If this is all he wants to do, why rob him of that? Why rob him of something else? Why take it from him?
I walk over to him and try again talking to him. He looks at me but doesn't answer. I can read nothing from his face.
He continues to break the ice with his fists. For a moment I think about making him stop and bringing him inside, where he can sit in the corner and cover his ears with his hands as they all play loudly. He doesn't like being around his friends; they're loud and they hurt his ears. Playing with toys doesn't entertain him. Coloring doesn't interest him. He likes to play in the park, but in all the ice and snow, that just can't be done.
So here he is; breaking snow with his fist. To him, this behavior isn't abnormal. To him, when he jumps up and down for no reason and answers questions with grunts, it feels totally normal. But in public people look at him like he's different. They don't react well to his behavior. They don't understand why he doesn't talk. And it breaks my heart to see their faces as they watch him play.
I give up on trying to talk to him. If anything, I'm bothering him.
I sigh and decide to join him. I take my fist and I start breaking the ice with him. I don't say a word as I start breaking the ice myself. His eyes widen and he watches me intently. I can't decide how he feels. But in my mind, I thought that maybe he wanted a friend to join him. I had no idea how he felt, but I'd hate it if he felt alone.
He allows me to stand close to him and break ice with him for a few minutes. We move in silence; pointlessly breaking ice and pushing it off the table. My hands get cold and it's a little boring, but I had no idea what else to do.
But I knew that it wouldn't last. The boy looked up at me and put his arms on my midsection. He pushed me away with light force.
"Stop." He mumbled quietly. His eyes were silently pleading with me. I sighed in defeat and lowered my arms.
Trying not to get discouraged, I stand back and let him finish his project in peace. He didn't want my help, it was clear.And I decided it was pointless to ask why.
When I was eleven, I was riding bikes with my friends after school every day. I explored possibilities, played soccer and read lots and lots of books. I had plans and hopes for my future already; I liked to write stories and tell stories, go camping and hiking.
Here is a boy who should be doing all of those things too. But for him, just the presence of someone standing close to him made him feel uncomfortable, made him feel unsafe. After a year and a half of seeing this boy grow, he still can't even handle the simplest of human contact.
Once he's finished, we silently go inside. I help him take off his coat and his mittens and we hang them up. He washes his hands for snack and sits at the table with his friends. He uses almost inaudible language to ask for 'bread', because that's the only thing he likes to eat for snack. He sits in silence while his friends are all talking and chatting around him.
Many of the kids here will someday be able to live alone. Some of them may even have kids when they're older; most of them will function as 'normal' members of society. But the little boy with the blue-green eyes, he'll never live alone. He'll never get married and have kids; he'll never be able to have a deep conversation with anyone. Someday he'll be able to use a sentence to ask for what he wants to eat at a restaurant, but I fear that that may be the extent of it.
I'll never be able to forget the tired look his mother bears; one, even though it's so full of love for her son, it's also tired and worn out, because raising a child with needs like this is exhausting.
But my job isn't to 'fix' him, or to 'change' him. As much as I'd love for that to come one day, it may never, so right now, he just needs to learn to feel comfortable.
I sit next to him at the table during snack. He looks at me and I smile. His eyes are a mystery to me, but after I say hello, he is able to echo it back. I sit far enough away so that he has plenty of personal space, but also so that he doesn't feel alone. He continues to look at me with wary eyes, but I just keep a warm smile on my face. I pretend to understand him, because I know I never will understand him.
But for him, and for me, that will have to be enough.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Week 5 : Adult Memior

Is this really what it's come to? Is this really how I'm living my life? I wait and I drift; day after day until I find something that really matters. I've found myself searching in ridiculous places for inspiration. Even if it only lasts a fleeting second and then it goes away, it's still that one moment of feeling so very alive. For me, that feeling can quickly go away. Nothing seems to make it stay. Nothing seems to make the loneliness go away.
I'm sitting alone in my car, in a parking lot of a gas station, deciding if I want to do this or not.
I just think to myself 'fuck it'.
This is something I was told never to do. This was something I swore to myself I would never do. But because I feel the need to punish myself, I do it anyways. In these moments where I realize I'm in control of myself, I do it to prove just that.


I'm sitting in my car a minute after I did it, and I have a pack of menthol cigarettes in my hand. Marlboros. I used some of my hard-earned, 3 job having, 15 hour a day working money on a pack of smokes. I felt I deserved it.
To someone else, this probably isn't a big deal. To someone else, this is probably nothing. But everyone saw me as this pleasant little girl. I grew up always being a pleasant kid. I cried desperately the first time I got a detention. I never talked back to teachers. I never even got kicked out of school.
I had smoked before; at keg parties or the occasional cigar. I was 19, it was perfectly legal. Then why did this feel like such a rush?
Probably because no one thought they'd see a cigarette hanging from the mouth of the wholesome girl who used to bag their groceries with a smile.


Later while I was driving, a lit Marlboro in between my fingers, I suppressed tears as I thought about my life. I smoked and I inhaled, and I relaxed the tears away.
I lifted my phone to my eyes and checked. Zero messages. Zero anything.
Is that any big of a surprise? No one exactly ever goes out of their way to talk to me. I usually just drive alone like this; a car full of thoughts bouncing off one another. My phone stays silent.
How many nights have I spent time staring at a phone that never rings?
I smoke and inhale again, the sunset in the rear view catching my eye.
The emotional roller coaster that is my mind has almost always been made peaceful by the rising sun or the setting sun. For me, it's always been the sign of new things to come. New things have always given me hope, because that means the feelings can be left behind.
Unlike the scene in a rear view mirror, life's problems aren't as easy to escape.
I smoked the cigarette until it was gone and then abruptly lit another one. I hated how it made my mouth taste, and I didn't even wanna think of how it made my hair smell.
I gripped the steering wheel and thought about why I chose this to silently rebel. I chose smoking. Something that, since day one of consuming second-hand smoke from my mother, I decided that smoking was something I would never do.
But it was something in my reach. It was something I could do and no one ever had to know. It's sort of me giving the finger to everyone who loves me and everyone who has wronged me. It's self-destructive. It's risky. And above all, it's basically pointless. So for the duration of this drive, I smoke.
Normally, something like this would depress me. It was, yet another, realization that promises are almost never kept, and plans are made to be broken. I swore I'd never do this. I'd never smoke. But every time I looked in the mirror, it was another reminder of all the plans that had gone wrong. Those few extra pounds I put on and swore I'd lose, they're still there, staring at me. The tattoo I had planned and dreamed of getting; the non-inked skin was still there to remind me that I chickened out. My short fingernails are still there; I've never kicked the habit of biting them, but I've tried at least a dozen times.
These are all things I've failed at. These are all things I did not, could not, or would not do.
I think about all of this while I drive and while I smoke. It made me feel a little bit more alive then I did before.   For a reason I couldn't explain, that little secret I had to myself, made me feel human.
I flicked the cigarette butt out the window and continued on driving down the winding Route 2 I had taken countless times. My thoughts were whirling as I fumbled for a piece of gum in my purse.
Those were the only two I smoked as I drove home to Waite on that warm summer day.



A few weeks later, I was working at Border's. It was a busy, hectic and hot day, and for some reason, the person who made the schedule hated me that day and made me work all by myself. I'm sure I looked like a crazy woman as I ran from one side of the kitchen to the other as I threw things together. I had no help and was on my own all day. But somehow, I was getting costumers' orders out in time.
I was frazzled, sweating, tired and in need of a nice long nap when an old man came up to the cash register to order something.
"Can I help you?" I said with as much of a smile as I could muster.
His face was weathered but very warm and welcoming. He peered up at me and grinned. He leaned on his cane and pushed his glasses up his nose as he pointed at my necklace. "Are you a photographer?"
My necklace was a simple chain with a tiny, old-fashioned looking camera pendant dangling from it. I put my hand to it and smiled, "Well, I'm working on it. I hope to be one someday. It's what I love to do."
The man looked up at me and smiled broadly, his eyes bright as he winked, "Wrong answer, my dear."
I laughed, "What do you mean?"
He pointed at my necklace and said, "I asked if you were a photographer. You should have simply said 'yes'. Because you are." He paused and then continued,  "You are a photographer, my dear."
At that point in time, I had gone through life feeling as if no one could read me like I had wanted them to. I was looking for answers from people who could not give them to. But after having a little bit of conversation with this old man and handing him his peppermint tea and oatmeal cookie, I realized that I was very easily read by a stranger.
And what he said to me was exactly what I needed to hear.

I woke up the next morning, for some strange reason with a smile on my face.
I was still working 3 jobs and 15 hour days. I worked 6 days a week on a good week, and my feet always hurt. It was the middle of summer, my first summer away from home, and I had only gone swimming a few times and really had done nothing exciting.
But for some reason, I still had a smile when I woke up.
The sun came through my window that morning. My cat was snoozing at my feet, and I lifted my arms to stretch, my tired bones cracking as I awoke.
For a minute or two, I lay in bed. My walls are covered and scattered with pictures of smiling faces. My tassels from both my preschool and my high school graduation. Pictures with all of my closest friends. I had almost every ticket stub from every concert, movie and show I had seen in the past two years. A giant purpledream catcher Cindy and Todd got me as a gift when they went on a trip. I like to keep everything and hang it on my walls, and my overflowing bulletin board showed that.
It was then, in the morning light, that I had a realization.
As a person, I'm always looking for more depth. I'm always searching for another thing to put on my list. Not necessarily a bucket list, but a list of things that make me who I am. Make me human. Sometimes I feel as though everyone in life is a list. Every person has a list of things that make them interesting. So I'm always off searching for that ultimate thing to put on my list. That one thing that'll make my list stand out.
I'm always searching for that hidden piece of wonderment.
I was always so concerned about the list. I was always so concerned about those little secrets that made more human, that made me more complex.
But in all of these pictures, I had a smile on my face. Every item that decorated my wall represented a happy memory. They all were a symbol for a time that was good.
Just like those moments when I smoked the cigarettes and felt so alive, these happy moments were also fleeting. And they felt even better then the cigarettes.
I stood up quickly and found that same pack of menthol Marlboros that had been sitting on my cluttered desk for weeks. I had never smoked any more then those two I smoked that day. I hadn't even touched them. I tossed them there and forgot about them. For some reason, they lost their appeal right after I smoked them.
Sort of like many things that don't work out in life, that idea turned out to be not what I wanted.
I picked them up and threw them into my trash can. I quickly realized how little I needed them to make my life more interesting. While I was looking for things to put on my list, I had forgotten about the list I already had.
And you know what... My list was already pretty damn good.



Holliann Bergin 
daughter, good friend to plenty, seen too many movies, thinks too much, is afraid of spiders and snakes, doesn't like snowstorms, reads a lot, has glasses, Star Wars and comic book fan, loves to drive, photographer, writer, loves adventure, loves the outdoors, loves life.