Chasing Identity

Last night, Jenna and I had a conversation entirely suited for this moment in both of our lives. We were discussing any idea that came up in my popular music class; that, in one way or another, we all choose a medium through which we define our identities. Some people are inexorable attached to their fraternity, others are endlessly pursuing higher education, even non-identity is an identity because we are products of commerce at least. I, along with Jenna, define quite a large bit of my life through music—a soundtrack for everything. If you asked me to remember prom or the day I graduated with a BFA or the great Spring Break musical migration with Jenna, I would say Elvis and Guns N’ Roses and Calla.

I told Jenna that, after making a special road trip playlist for her (comprised mainly of the CDs I imported for her before Canada), I had this odd feeling that Jenna and her music didn’t match. I can’t exactly articulate what I mean, but I just don’t see the connection. Jenna told me that maybe it was because she’s an entirely different person outside of Leeds; maybe, she’s not as much Leeds as she though; maybe…she actually likes it here. We’re both beginning to understand how incredibly important this road trip is. I’ve been in the same spot, mentally and geographically, for a long time. I suppose it’s reasonable that I might just have assumed a Bowling Green identity.

Going West this summer, Jenna and I will listen to over 7,000 songs on my scarily telepathic iPod; we’ll form new perceptions of what sound means to experience; we’ll see 7,000 miles of NEW. Will Jenna stick around and get a PhD somewhere in Cali? Will I end up sweating my ass of in Arizona with Coop next door? It’s funny, now that I think about what was going through my head last night, sitting in a bar, 5 or 6 beers and a couple shots, having a light introspective chat with Jenna…in a bar called the Fishbowl!

“We’re just two lost souls living in a fishbowl year after year.” --Pink Floyd

Money: It's a Sin

The day I turned 14, I joined the working world. I got my first work permit and my first job, hostessing at King’s Family Restaurant. I worked Saturday and Sunday 6-2, made minimum wage and learned to loath the church crowd—huge families in fancy clothes ordering the whole left side of the menu. My parents never made me want or need for anything in my life, but they managed to impart the value of a dollar. While my wealthy schoolmates were charging away on their daddy’s American Express, I was happy with my measly, yet entirely disposable income. It was my money; I earned it. My parents agreed that since I was responsible enough to hold a job, they would pay for half of any major purchase. In 1994, I ordered 10-eyelet, black Doc Martens, straight from the London shop. Those boots have been through every concert and snowstorm of my life. Each time I lace them up, I think of my first job.

Fast forward…I’m 24, barely eeking by on a tiny, little stipend, living paycheck-to-paycheck and loving it. I have no debt to speak of, an average-sized student loan and a perfect 10 credit rating. In 2003, I was preparing for my trip to Italy. I decided it was time for a credit card. I did my research, found a frequent flyer program and got my first VISA. That credit card allowed me to make my way through Italy without going stone-broke. When I got home, I had an $800 balance. Somehow, through slaving away at Finders and squirreling away loan money each semester, I managed to pay off my Italy debt six times over in the first year of my foray into life through credit. Every time my hand paused over my checkbook, shaking at the thought of losing real money to pay off fake money, I would think of Italy: the $150 dinner in Venice, the first class train tickets, the bottles of Borolo, sausage and cheese like Kerouac in Florence, the Murano glass.

Now, my credit card pays for overpriced gas, groceries, and basic needs that my paycheck just can’t afford. Aside from birthday money (it’s the big 2-5 this year) and minimal funds I’ll be able to stash this summer, my road trip will be courtesy of VISA. I’ll admit I’ve been having heart palpitations at thought of maxing-out my credit card. It’s hard enough to keep a reasonable balance without being extravagant. Jenna and I have estimated about $600 in gas and another $200 in miscellaneous expenses. I get nauseous thinking about sliding that card every other state, but it’s what I’ve got to do. When I come home and start paying, I’ll think of the forty days I spent, crossing the country in good company, visiting long lost friends and family. I’m turning into quite the black-and-white kind of gal. I can either go on this trip and go in to debt; or I can not… If a huge credit card bill is the only battle scar I’ll get from crossing this great country, then it’s worth it through and through.

Listen to Your Mother

Had a great weekend! My mom came to visit. School is over. The "end of the semester tired"s seem to be wearing off. I'm one summer class away from the road trip. Things are falling in place...

My mom said she just read about a book titled something like The 10 People You Are In Your Twenties. [If anyone knows the actual title, lemme know so I can get reading.] Anyway, we started talking about all the people I've been and all the people I could be: I've been a curious, imagination-soaked only child; a tall, redheaded, tortured kid--just call me "Big Red"; an asshole, take my parents for granted addict, a sober teen, an anxious young adult; an aggressive self-starter, classic overachiever, Type A, detail-oriented student; and now, I'm not sure who I'm about to be...and I'm not scared at all.

My mom always says "the universe will provide" and I'm beginning to believe her. A few months ago, I was dealing with the death of my uncle from unexpected and quickly terminal cancer; the death of a woman my mother could call mom; the unhappiness of being where I don't want to be, doing what's easy and not knowing how to fix it all. I had no summer job, a broken futon, and tears most nights wondering how I was going to survive another year in Bowling Green. Fast forward, and Ron and Jean's deaths are helping me to learn the importance of holding family close and loving them as strange as they are; I'm planning this road trip, staking out my future, looking for a new bed and I've just got a six-week gig writing grants for COSI. See, the universe will provide.

I have no way of knowing which, if any, MFA programs I will get in to. I'm not sure what state I'll end up in next. I have NO IDEA how my parents are going to get over loosing their baby. I don't know if I want to teach or start a vineyard or open a fine arts school or buy a house, sit on my porch and write. I think that for the first time in my life, I understand that not knowing what the future will bring is more valuable than hating what the present holds. So, listen to your mother as long as it takes for you to learn how to listen to yourself.

A light at the end of this tunnel

There are those who let life happen to them and there are those who make life happen for them. I am the latter. I had a conversation this weekend with my friend Josh (one of the many Joshes I've known: a.k.a. Ballmer, DJ Baroque or BBQ) about me making the decision to take this road trip (which, of course, is in preparation for applying to creative writing MFA programs). He got me thinking about the idea of choosing how my life will move forward from Bowling Green, rather than just rotting here or waiting for the next best thing.

I'm at this point in my life where I've learned more about what I don't want than what I do. I know I'm sick to death of Ohio, I'm stuck in the wrong part of the country and I don't want this mid-Western life. I know I have one more, move-to-a-new-place-and-start-all-over set of energies left and I don't want to settle for what's easy and familiar (Pittsburgh). I can't count how many people I've talked to who never took that road trip, never tried to start over, never went out on a limb, thousands of miles away from their friends and family; and I refuse to be one of those people. This road trip is my light at the end of the Ohio experience.

When I initially broached the subject of going West this summer, my dad freaked about me taking my car ("You know that car has to last you ...") and my mom started, what I assume will be, a ("But it's so far away ...") guilt trip to end all guilt trips. I'm old enough now to be able to translate parent-speak: my dad is saying, "The thought of you eventually moving West scares the shit out of me, but, for now, I'll just focus on the mileage you're going to put on your car ..."; my mom is saying, "You know I love and support you, but we'll never see you and who's going to set the holiday table ...?" I hear them, but I'm not going to listen.

This is my life...
...and I'm about to make it happen.