I started typing this entry a half hour ago, just starting the questions and one sentence and a dependent clause later, I wiped away tears and swallowed in shallow breaths to run about to set the scene for this confrontation.  Candles.  Music.  Wine.  Comfy clothes and a bellyfull of determination.

Because I’ve figured out what the hell has had me running scared and gaining ten plus pounds in the past three weeks.  Of all the things that I’m terrified most of for Le Retour au Cameroun (The Return to Cameroon), what I’m scared most of all is all the leftover pain and fear.  How cliche-fear of fear itself.  But powerful.  Pent-up emotion doesn’t expire it turns out.

I thought I could skate to Cameroon and back without waking up old pain.  All of my plans have been outlined with fuzzy pink clouds and feelings.  How metaphorically appropriate–to climb Mount Cameroon, la di da!  I think I even thought that I was over it, to the point that I felt strangely numb about the entire experience and can speak about it dispassionately.  I remember at some point during my healing process speaking the words “It feels like an experience I will carry with me always.”  There is no cure.  But what does cure even mean?  That it doesn’t cause me pain anymore?  Or simply that I don’t wake up in pain?

I am who I am today because of what happened Monday February 28, 2008.  I remember after the mob invaded the university, all I wanted was to go back to my homestay family’s home.  The violence of the mob had planted a seed of fear against Cameroon and against Cameroonians and I knew that returning to my family’s home, talking to my homestay sister would restore my faith and kill that seed before it could take root.  Instead it became a monstrous growth as we were quarentined in a hotel for four days, forbidden to look out the window and taken through emergency evacuation procedures in the event the mob would break into the hotel.  Taken further and further from that place, running to grab my things to join a military convoy across country.  Walking through the doors of the American embassy, wearing the same clothes I’d been wearing for a week and smiling for a picture with the ambassador.  Even now I can’t relive this moment without laughing in bewilderment.

Two days in the Hilton hotel and flying away for three cold and isolating months in France.  Returning was the only thought I could hold onto when I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t form a sentence without Cameroon passing pass my lips.  Fought for the first time with my family, fighting to return that summer.

And now I’m finally going back.  And just like last time things are spinning out of control.  Why am I going?  After all this time it feels like stabbing a healed wound just to remind myself of the color of my own blood, the way it feels to twist it back and forth and watch the blood make designs on my skin.  I’ve been avoiding thinking about all of this but now that I am I don’t know how drinking too much wine and crying in the dark with candles and music is better than watching three seasons of True Blood.

I have all these reasons I’ve been talking about to return.  To see the school.  To face my fears.  To conquer my PTSD.  To move past the entire experience and remember it without regret.

What am I really afraid of?  Besides being afraid and avoiding pain like the plague, I’m afraid of how I’ll react when I arrive.  I’m afraid I’ll step off the plane and revert to old bad habits, and not want to even be there and be counting down the days till I come back.  That I will be introverted and shy and completely not myself.

I’m afraid I won’t be able to speak French or understand it with the thick Cameroonian accent.

I suppose I’m afraid something will go wrong.  The fear I think I’m supposed to have is that there will be another riot–but really that isn’t something I’m afraid of—I simply don’t believe it will happen.

I’m afraid things won’t go according to plan, that I will loose control.  And this is a very realistic fear because nothing ever goes according to plan.  The plans I”ve made have already been shot to hell and I don’t know where to start reparing them.  I’m ready to throw my hands up and let the pieces fall as they may–making another plan will just make me that much more upset when it gets unraveled.

I’m terrifed that all the ground that I’ve gained in the past two years will fall away from underneath my feet.  And I will once again loose myself.  I’m afraid that going won’t involve any earth-shattering realizations but simply give me more questions and send me back into the oblivion of indecision.

I’m afraid, and this is a bizzare one, that Cameroon doesn’t really exist.  For two years it has existed solely in my mind and my memories.  Where am I flying to?  I’m afraid that the place I’ll arrive in won’t be the same Cameroon I went to two years ago.  That it will somehow mock my old memories and ties to Cameroon.  That I’ve created an entire Cameroon in my mind unrelated to the real Cameroon. 

I’m afraid that I will forget the lessons I learned, such as how I cannot hold myself responsible for the hardships of another people.  That I will let the need once again overwhelm me.   That I will return bearing more guilt than I can carry.

I’m afraid that it won’t be a big deal at all.  That I’ll return and realize I’ve created an enormous shadow for something that was never that big at all.  At the same time I’m afraid that all those fears were founded on an entirely too real reality and that everything that could possibly go wrong WILL go wrong and that I will be in danger again.

I’m afraid that I won’t get to climb Mount Cameroon at all, that me and Katie won’t get there because of her obligations to the program she is in.  I’m afraid that if we do climb Mount Cameroon that I won’t be strong enough to make it to the top, or that I’ll be embarrased by how out of shape I am.

I’m afraid that I’ll get back on the plane after two weeks and not have anything to show for it.  That I’ll arrive back home and nothing will have changed.

I’m afraid my aunt will die while I am gone and that I will miss the funeral.  I’m afraid that even though my mother says she understands that she really doens’t.  That if I miss this funeral, my cousins will never forgive me for not being there to help them grieve for their mother.  That I will miss another important family moment.

I’m afraid that can’t name the fear that is the one fear that is so important that I actually talk about.  That this unnamed fear will ambush me the moment I step off the plane in Douala and I will realize the ultimate important task or spiritual precautions I should have taken or done already.  That it will be my downfall.

I’m afraid that I will get typhoid.  (really).  I messed up the dosage of the vaccination–its a series of four pills every other day and somehow I took two, two days in a row.

I’m afraid that my parents will be terrified while I am gone.  That I’ll keep getting into fights with them before I leave.

I’m afraid that I will wake up tomorrow morning the same way I have for too many days these past few weeks–feeling scared and lost and full of grief.  I’m afraid that this list will never end and that after I post this it will be as if this entire experience of confronting my fears will evaporate as if it never happened.  Which is why I’m putting the list on pause.  For now I am too tired to think of more fears.  Don’t worry I won’t loose them, they have a habit of sticking close.

And now I’m going to bed.  Goodnight moon.  Goodnight Cameroon.  Goodnight sister friends, and goodnight fears.  See you all tomorrow.  Or in two weeks.

Alexandra Marie

And although my body is still becoming accostomed to eating less, stomach still shrinking and thus hungry most of the time, dang if it doesn’t feel good.  But mostly that’s because of my new obsession.  One that I am nurturing carefully, trying not to overdose on and carefully crafting my schedule so that it becomes a staple in my life right along with two habits I’m more addicted to than breathing (sleeping and checking facebook).  My newest obsession is exercise.  I’ve never been a big fan.  Exercise was always a necessary evil that came along with the best game ever, soccer.  Running was a chore.  Amusing if you are chasing after a ball or slide-tackling the other team’s forward, but completely groan-worthy in any other circumstance.  Tolerable during pre-season training, but even then running was short drill after short drill.  Suicides, sprinting, run from cone to cone and pass, head and juggle at each station.  No joke, just talking about these fun drills makes me want to go sign up for a soccer camp, sigh, if only they had one for adults.

Thus integrating running into my life has been a bit of a hurdle, more mental than anything.  I never took legally blonde seriously when she talked about the power of endorphins, keeping you happy, not killing your husband.  It wasn’t until a month or so ago after a short fifteen minute run when as I walked back chatting on the phone I noticed that I literally felt happier, my mood boosted.  Today it feels like an afterglow.  No matter how rough the workout, whether I feel my sides splitting from cramps, have to slow down and walk or feel dizzy from the heat, afterward I feel fuckin great.  And I can feel my body starting to crave the movement and the work out.  I’ve found that when I do too much, like last weekend three days in a row a total of almost six miles and lots of abs, I burn out and get caught in another slump of about 36 hours hibernating in my room.  But every other day seems to be workin well.  Though I have to stop myself from fitting it in on my off days.  Balance baby, balance.

 But just between us, I’m hoping next week or the week after I can move up to running everyday.  Here’s hopin.

hugs,

Alex Marie

Before I know it, my typical evening cravings are mostly satisfied.  Tomatoes are the solution.  This is the life I am creating for myself here at home.  At first thought, moving home was the worst possible last resort option to ending the summer without a job or career.  But after returning from my final summer fiesta triumphant, finally filled with both sisterly and brotherly love, driving away from the airport my heart led me home.  (That and helpful directions from a sister I’d just left behind in Cali).  Everyone I met out there spoke with nostalia for good ole Michigan.  Even my brother expressed, god forbid, jealousy for returning home rent-free with the parents.

I have a unique opportunity to position myself well for my future.  This fall is for me.  I am focusing on myself.

For my health: a balanced diet, a nearby hospital to hold me accountable with free nutrition classes.  Exercising with Dad in the mornings and Mom in the evenings, planning on classes at a local gym and maybe a local soccer team?  It’s time to get my ass in gear.  Self-esteem wise I want to have a banging-hot body.  I’m not taking no for an answer.  For my health, with so much alcoholism, heart attacks and breast cancer on both sides of my family I am setting myself up for whatever health problems later in life.

For my career: studying for the GMAT several hours each day.  After I take it, looking into business programs to apply to next fall, and then jobs which will diversify and strengthen my resume until I go.

Lets not forget finances; hopefully working part-time at DSW, and saving whatever I would have spent on rent and other luxeries in Ann Arbor.  And finally organizing my overflow of useless leftovers from each temporary move which have started taking over every empty room on all three floors in my parents house.  Structure, focus and determination.  Following these things through to the end.  Being a good housemate—-I both helped cook dinner tonight, then sat my parents down for a show and cleaned up for them.

We’ll see how long these ambitious goals last.  I’m sharing them tonight to let you hold me accountable.  The biggest hurdle I fight as ever is my inertia.  Every night fighting the urge to sit where I am right now, watching tv online on this moniter, snacking on whatever seduces me from the kitchen which lures me directly to my right.  Tonight I’ve been pretty fabulous.  Before I know it, my typical evening cravings are mostly satisfied by munching my way through two enormous, you guessed it, tomatoes.  Blogging and Beatles instead of escaping with yet more television and snacks.  This is the life I am creating for myself here at home.  After I finish this post I’m going out for my first fifteen minute exercise block that will continue every day!  Regardless, I’m feeling especially virtuous today because of my tomato intake.  It might not last, but its a good start.

“Trust yourself. Create the kind of self that you will be happy to live with all your life.” -Golda Meir

It’s brilliant and taught me to be less verbose (correct use of this noun Katy?) in every scope of my life—conversation, job applications, even blogging.  So I would like to be brief and let you know whats going on.  The last time we talked I was feeling lost and had lost two important posessions: my bright blue sunglasses and my mp3 player.

Tonight at this very moment I am not feeling lost.  I just finished another 12-hour day that should have left me exhausted, frustrated and resentful, my typical mood when I walk out of work.  Instead I am completely overjoyed–last week my buddy Eric found my sunglasses in my boss’s office, hooray!  I could have kissed him but since he is recently married I thought it wise to refrain.  Instead I showered him with false promises that I would bake him a cake.  And today B-dubs in C-bus texted me to let me know my mp3 player turned up in her room.  And I get to see her on Sunday–which means two items I mourned loosing the past few weeks returned home to me. 

I’m feeling incredibly excited about this.  Not only are the next two weeks going to be fun-tastic-fabulous-filled, but I have the tools I need to be me.  And to top it all off, sexy men with good hearts keep applying for jobs and our office is going through another cycle where we have more men than women.  Makes me feel like dancing–or like kissing somebody.

So much sunshine this summer I’m ODing on Vitamin D.  Wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kisses until I see you lovely ladies next–and I think I can see you all within the next couple of months, so kisses to you too Delta airlines for making it possible!

Alex Marie *on est ensemble*

I was watching this movie called Timer.  It’s about a product that is a watch implanted on your arm that counts down until when you meet your soulmate.  The leading lady has a timer that hasn’t started counting down because her soulmate hasn’t gotten a timer, and it snowballs from there.  And really, for a typical chick flick it’s pretty profound.  How many times have I wished I just knew who I was supposed to end up with–or had a guarantee.  Of course she ends up in a relationship with someone else and when the timer finally counts down, she’s mad because she broke someone’s heart.  And it made me think how mad I would be if I had no choice in who I ended up with.  And I think Joe is waking up right now to go to work… I can hear mainstreet traffic starting to pick up as the day rolls in.  And as I continue to force my body to stay awake way past when I wanted to fall asleep, my light sensitivity causes tears to fall down my cheeks.  I can’t find my sunglasses and I have my sunglasses party tonight.  I can’t find my mp3 player since I came back from ohio and I think that’s why I haven’t been able to sleep.  I also don’t want to go to bed because it will be one step closer to dragging myself out of bed and to work today.  And even though I only need to fundraise a measly 39 dollars to hit my quota this week and technically could do nothing from 4-9pm tonight…  I know that it will be draining to just go to work.  Six hours of sleep if I fall asleep in five minutes and wake up an hour before work–no time to shop for drink ingredients I need or tidy for the party.  Just barely enough time to look fabulous, or passable.  Just in case my timer will go off, and in any case so that no one will know that I don’t let myself sleep some nights.  I really just want one day, one single day to sleep.  One day without the pressure to apply to jobs and clean my room and wash the dishes and do the laundry and go to doctors appointments and all of these other things I do to find fulfillment in my life.  Inertia.  She named the chronic symptom I have lived with for years without giving it a name.  For me its something more…it feels like a choice to remain at rest.  Out of fear or avoidance or god knows what I hit the pause button, procrastinate trying to gain a moment of clarity and control.  Procrastination spinning myself further and further into a funk which I have to claw my way out of in order to catch up.  And I never catch up.  If I feel like I’m just getting the hang of something thats when things fall apart and I have to rebuild.

When I really take a step back–I have come so far in the past four years.  I have built and invested in friendships which are my foundation and support.  I have taken huge strides in confidence and expression, and in the role I play within my own life.  I no longer see clutter and disarray as a personality trait, but admire and strive for organization and cleanliness for the peaceful zen it brings into my life.  It’s a process, I keep reminding myself.  And thank god I don’t know exactly who my soulmate is or what my destiny is—you know I would hate it on principle if I had a planned route.  It would make me feel claustrophobic and I wouldn’t feel alive, walking down it knowing exactly where each footfall would land and the exact sound of my bare feet scraping pavement.  I might stop walking simply out of boredom.

Such a balance–letting go and preparing for the future.  Finding a path that is right for me but not obsessing over the perfect path.  Organizing my life and making practical decisions while wondering if loosing my faith in idealism will send me toward a monochrome life in a cubicle.  Admitting I love being near my friends and family and this place which feels like home and giving up my wanderlust and desire for adventure and culture.

Confession: I always feel the need to share profound thoughts in this space.  Often I only come here when I have no other outlet for repressed feelings.  Which means the first half of my blog is a space for complaints and moanings, the second half for reflection and ending on a positive note.  At all costs I wish to avoid becoming the blogger who whines about how life is hard for one so young, boopity boopity boo, shubidy shub shub.  Here’s the thing.  When life is good—which it so often is many moments every day–I’m going to call you and share it with you.  I’m going to enjoy the moment and forget about it a second later when something goes wrong.  Its those moments of doubts and fears that I try to erase from my mind and end up resurfacing here.  So maybe I need to stop ignoring negative moments.  Maybe I need to reflect more on happy moments.  Maybe it doesn’t even matter.

Oh and on a completely unrelated note, recently I decided that I believe in God, like to pray and am going to join a religious community once I have a more permanent place of residence and employment.  So bless you all and love you bunches. Sweet dreams…

-Alexandra Marie

Things have come full circle.  One year ago at this time I was almost in the exact same spot–literally and figuratively.  Just a few streets away in downtown Ann Arbor.  Recent college graduate, starting training at my new position today.  As summer keeps threatening to emerge and bright eyed university students flood the office I keep catching myself in flash backs from last summer.  All of my first impressions of this job.  I remember speaking to my canvass trainer and being completely astonished that he had worked this job for several years.  I couldn’t even imagine working that long at this position.  Looking back I don’t know if that was because I viewed it as a short term position or I had never had a full time job before in my life…probably both.

I was lusty for love.  I remember enjoying the simple presence of men in my everyday activities, a presence that was sorely lacking at our sorority and college campus.  I evaluated each one, qualifying potential for fucking, dating and relationships.  And lets not forget the biggest mistake I have ever made in terms of judging men occured right at this moment–thank goodness for womens intuition saving me from more than one intimate encounter with a man who blackmailed his embezzling ex-wife (who gave him US citizenship) with a sex tape.  I was a bit more cautious after that…or so I thought.

Time moved quickly and before I knew it the summer was over and I was traveling to different states to escape the duldrums of suburban life living with the parents.  And stumbled upon a couple of other opportunities.  I never gave proper homage to the man I met in Chicago.  Let’s just say that he took the Bible too seriously in its advice to go forth and multiply, and his main technique to unzip my pants was preaching.  Whispering sweet nothings about the lord our father in between kisses and dancing hip to hip and cheek to cheek.

Then I was in Indiana for three weeks.  And although Fort Wayne is perhaps one of the most boring metropolis’s I have ever visited, it was one of my favorite travels because of the people.  I was a shining and rising star in that office–working with a mentor I grew to love and admire greatly and receiving grand recognition for my outstanding performance.  Not to mention tapping the ass of a fine young black man that used to box–and that means exactly what you think it means ladies, his abs were quite well defined.  And after that three weeks somehow that fling lingered much longer than it was intended to…until he stood me up on valentines day.  That makes two years in a row, this is starting to be a tradition that blows.  And now he’s in jail.  For burglary.   I’d say I need to start dating men that are not breaking laws.

Thanks Alexi–sometimes I feel like drowning.  Actually its more like most of the time.  Full circle, here I am again, subletting and single in Ann Arbor.  Next week marks my last full week as a canvasser before I start working four days a week.  Today as I took an hour long break I felt relieved as I don’t think I would make it through the summer working full time at a job that is no longer challenging, where the challenge has become how to motivate myself to keep knocking on each door.  What happens after August first, the deadling I’ve given my boss?  I have no idea.

This past Monday I was ecstatic.  Full of bliss.  For a multitude of reasons.  For one the difficult exhausting weekend was finally over.  After a disaster strewn saturday I spent Sunday actually finding a wrench that fit the screws and put my bed together, aided by sexual inuendos about screwing and whatever else we were giggling about.  Made my bed for the first time with him inside it, then crawled in next to him.  A good amount of time breaking the touch barrier as he calls it, both relaxed as he used my bosom/stumoch as a pillow or wrestling for whatever item he was keeping from me.  Driving to Ann Arbor I was high on adrenaline after a stimulating and successful interview.  Skated through my long work day with just the right amount of work and fun to keep me occupied and not too concentrated.  By the end of the night I was still bouncing up and down off the walls.  Walking home to my apartment I was empowered by the ease of living nearby to the office.  Living nearby to downtown.  I love living close to the pulse of downtown Ann Arbor, walking outside and joining other pedestrians as we go about our business walking our dogs, going to class, exercising and meeting friends for lunch at the delicious sushi place two blocks away.

And yet after another sleepover, which included an encounter between my landlord Joe meeting my completely plutonic friend both shirtless and now creating the impression I have a large muscled lover, I am back to square one.  Finally I fall for a man that is going places in life and am stuck forever in the friend zone.  But he still calls at night before he goes to bed and squeezes my thigh to say goodbye.  Dear sir you are a shameless flirt without any comprehension of gray area.  I don’t know whether I’m glad we skipped over a potentially awkward moment in our friendship or pissed that we remain in a gray area.  Probably both.  At least I didn’t spend my first night here alone after all.

All I know is that I don’t know where I am going to be in three months.  I’m waiting for the District Manager of this bank to call me for a final interview.  I am determined I’m going to loose weight this summer but this week I’ve binged two nights in a row now and have yet to return to the Y.  My room is a mess.  I need some woodglue so that my bed isn’t going to fall apart.  Two of my best friends just moved far far away, and my only friend right now that shows up consistently is a grey zone friend.  And now I’m just whining.  But I want to move forward.  I want things to change.  And I am going to make this a summer to remember in my favorite city in the world right now.  Tigers game tomorrow and wine tasting with the parents on Sunday.  And this is the slice of life thats going to last until I return shocked and appalled that I’ve procrastinated sharing whatever is happening again.  And full circle.  What really is keeping me up right now is wondering where I’ll be a year from now.  Fearing I’ll come full circle again, no closer to a career or falling in love.  I am closer.  I know much more about what I want today than a year ago today.  And still I wonder, what can I do today and tomorrow and everyday to take one step closer to those goals?  And how do I not loose focus or motivation?  Just some things to think about.  Much better here than running circles in my head before I fall asleep.

Sweet dreams sisters,

Alexandra Marie~

Thats my ice-breaker question of the day at work, as a contact writes a check or waits for a spouse to return with the debit card.  How’s your new year going so far?  One of my favorite contacts from last week was a short man roughly the shape and size of Danny Devito with wrinkles and a frown on his face as he answered the door at 8:30 pm while on the phone.  After a few moments of my explanation he paused, hollered at his wife to talk to whoever was on the phone and threw it casually on the stairs.  “Come inside its freezing,” he said gruffly and he led me inside and sat me down at his kitchen table.  He listened to me repeat what I say everyday and became impassioned about our great lakes, sharing with me how he was a fisherman and talked about his favorite fish in Lake Higgins.  Of course he brought up his concerns about the Asian carp and I joined in his dark grumblings about how they will ruin our lakes.  As he wrote his check-a generous 30 from a man on social security-I asked him about new years.  And he calmly said, “It hasn’t been a very good year so far.  Unfortunately my wife and I lost our son in the first week.  He was in his forties, the prime of his life.  Just one of those things.”  I imagine he thought of me in a fatherly way as he offered to let me have a glass of water, snacks or use the restroom.  He was one of the people I meet on my job who give me a slice of life.  Like this man, they give their time, their passion, their energy and their funds, and thank me as I leave for the work I do.

This man’s story really has little to do with the slice of life I want to share with you tonight.  He’s another story I collect each day at work and add to my overflowing sack of moments too big to let pass unshared.   I realized a few days ago I no longer expect the click of claws, shrill barking and a furiously wagging tail and excited expression on my puppy’s face as I come home.  Instead I finish my long day at work, endure the ride home in a mindless trance and go through the motions each night to get up the next morning and start all over again. And again.  And again.

Repetition.  Repetition is the father of learning.

Thats my Gary Indiana boy talking.  He says it everyday, repetition is the father of learning.  The same boy that I ushered the new year in with.  When I remember New Years–the exact moment the ball dropped, I was sipping some champagne with a good friend who came as a wing man and trying not to be too disappointed that my new years nookie was practically ignoring me.  Later on–after I made the first move–we had a lot of fun, stolen moments talking kissing and being together.  The rest of the night became a techno-popstar worthy dance marathon paired with drunken moments with my boss as we became excited about the possibility of me becoming a canvass director.  Good morning new year and goodbye to a hungover withdrawn and cranky boy.

A week later I made the first move again by visiting him.  And again he ignored me until he mustered up the confidence to enjoy our visit and share some moments together.  And as I said goodbye he withdrew again.  He hasn’t contacted me since-despite several attempts on my end.  And again that feeling of disappointment.

Repetition.  Repetition is the father of learning.

I’m learning everyday at my job how to be a good manager.  Just this week I confidently conducted six interviews and did not invite back two unqualified candidates and invited back the other four for a second interview.  And I will be honest–it is the repetition that has brought me this far.  The repetition of doing more and more interviews which brought me confidence.  The repetition of visiting other offices which has convinced me to consider canvass directing as a serious option for the future.  More and more it feels like a step in the right direction.

Puttering around on facebook tonight I stumbled upon pictures posted from the most recent Albion trip to Cameroon.   Without warning regret, loss, jealousy returned to keep me company as I clicked through photos; new Albion students surrounded by the village children searching for the candy, grabbing hands and playing games at recess; posing in front of the school with the chief; a close-up of the plaque, glossy naming our college and the name of the non-profit I started.

I looked around at my empty house on a Saturday night.  I worked today, and it feels no different than how I spent any other day this week.   What the hell am I doing?  What am I waiting for? I used to not be able to speak two full sentences without mentioning Cameroon; a stark contrast with the relentless repetition which masks the lack of passion in my life.  A lack which I have felt and been unable to fill since the evacuation.  The true moments of inspiration which give meaning to my work, the stories of the people I meet, fade into the repetition of returning to an empty house every night.

Fuck repetition being the father of learning.

I learn most and feel most alive when I am changing, growing, being challenged, following my passion and stepping outside of my comfort zone, taking a risk on a bad romance.  And as I think about it, thats what my New Years was all about.  Despite disappointments and disillusionment with boys, it was the best new years celebration ever.  I was so nervous for the evening–after the pressure of the exact moment of the new year wore off I got my new years nookie and danced until dawn.

Resolution~to spend this year repeating the same experience of ushering in the new year with change, again and again and again.

~on est ensemble,

Alexandra Marie

I don’t have any answers, just these few thoughts- enough to leave a footprint on the interweb of this moment.  And in this moment I light my candle and listen to Paperbird, a local band from Fort Collins and they are absolutely phenomenal.  Three women lead singers with honeyed voices of angels that sing and weave a pattern, backed up by a bluegrass band.  It doesn’t get better than that.  Right now my favorite is Lost Boys.  Their voices wax and wane hauntingly, its beautiful…

But these past few months I’d forgotten.  Felt too disconnected from everything we said goodbye to when we took off our robes on that absolutely frigid day in May.  From taking time in my hands to listen to what my soul has been whispering.  Too engulfed with my past and future to connect with my present.

It seems I’ve been spending a lot of my time remembering the days when I could run down the hall to ask your opinion of something or drive off to Taco Bell in mutual frustration.  Nostalgic of the zeal fueling me when I woke up every morning determined to build a school in Africa.  Sizing up graduate programs like I search for a good outfit, trying to find that perfect fit, holding up everything in comparison with those days before the evacuation, before I had more questions than answers.  Wondering if I can ever recapture the synthesis of passion, personal growth and empowerment–while secretly fearing that I manufactured the memory of purpose, of being on the right path, of following my north star.

I keep spiraling round and round this job I have.  You see (if you’ve been keeping up with the past few posts : ) from the beginning this job was intended as a substitute for a future, a stand-in for a real job, or as we like to call it, an in-between.  And I was vehemently against letting this job become my life.  Yet it is happening.  The lines are blurring and I’m loosing sight of following my dreams–because lets be honest.  The reason I didn’t apply to grad school this Fall is because I don’t know what degree I need to follow my dreams!

These past few weeks I have really started to embrace the everyday moments of this job.  As a community organizer I am a part of a community that stretches across our nation.  Every day from 5-9pm I join hundreds of other organizers in different cities and states as we knock on doors and empower individuals to become a part of the solution through petitions, fundraising and supporting democracy via contacting their representatives.  The people drawn to this work are my people.  We are the hippies of the 21st century, the tree-hugging vegan minimalistic high-as-fuckin-kites children with dreadlocks, a grudge against the man and an idealistic almost naive faith in grassroots organizing.  Oh and we listen to good music.  And although I’m blonde blue-eyed meat-eatin sorority girl from Bloomfield Hills, these are my people.

I keep thinking I need more experience in the nonprofit world in order to figure out my next step, the degree I need to achieve my dreams.  But now that I am taking these people and my position seriously, every time I think of leaving these people I know that I’d be heartbroken.  Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, this job and these people became my new home.  And here’s the thing.  Even though I know that I am not zealous about the work–I’m a damn good organizer.  This is so damn close to what I want to be doing that it feels wrong to move away from it.  But how can I move forward if I settle for less than my dreams?  How can I stay and not be drawn in further and further until I loose sight of my future completely?

Today I lived every single moment.  Usually by the evening I am tired and ready to be home and eating dinner.  Driving home for an hour results in a zombie-like state where I end up at home not remembering how I got there, and where I immediately eat dinner and watch tv, continuing to zone out until I fall asleep.  Tonight I kept myself company with my thoughts, aware and alert.  I ate dinner and had absolutely no desire to watch a television show.  And upstairs I came, ready to prepare a briefing for the office tomorrow, and as I pulled out my information sheets I found myself pulling out my playlist titled ‘Candles *on est ensemble*’ mix, and placing my candles around my room.

The warm glow of the big candle with four wicks holds the energy of my parents, sleeping just a room away, and Zach so far away lost in Hollywood.  The steadfast and unwavering flame of the candle the color of my soul brings each of you here with me.

Again I cannot believe that it has taken me this long to bring you here since I moved back with my parents.  I waited until I came back home to the present to share my today with you.  Thanks for being here tonight; I’ve missed you in my everyday moments.  I don’t know what tomorrow brings, but this moment right here right now in my dark candlelit room-feels good.

~on est ensemble,

Alexandra Marie

Listening to Alexi Murdoch…he’s telling me he’s on the edge of some great truth, finally in his place.

I miss that.  It seems each day which separates me from Albion provides another glimpse into the way that it shaped who I am.  And how I feel like I’m on a one way street, driving parallel to my true path.  Everyday I head to work I rack my brains for another reason to enjoy what I’m doing.  To turn negatives into positives, to take this experience and suck it dry.  I turned around and turned into the non-descript office building and made it to work three minutes early, and proceeded to create busy work for myself for the next forty-five minutes.

I’m going in the right direction.  I’m certainly moving.  Adding to my resume and skill set, putting pieces to the puzzle of what I want to do with my life.  But growing increasingly uncomfortable being aware that this is not the right fit for me.

Finally, I was able to do some training and then our office’s lobbyist arrived.  I need to back up for a moment to give you a real picture of who this man is.  Mind you, my campaign back in Ann Arbor is to pass the federal climate and energy bill.  I get paid an extra bonus each day that I bring in 18-24 letters urging Michigan senators to strengthen and support this bill.  The office here in Fort Wayne opposes this legislation.  I heard this man speak at canvassers conference-personally I found it hard to see past his aggressive sarcasm and blatent loathing of corporate america to the true nature of the bill.  It was this man that arrived to speak about nuclear weapons.  He gave the same presentation he gave to some political body considering nuclear weapons.  Of course in his words, it boiled down to investing our economy in nuclear and restarting the cold war.  Not that he doesn’t have valid points.  But his slanted perspective makes it difficult to consider his words.

I have been volunteering four hours a week to our campaign back home.  And now I am committed the next three weeks to gathering letters demanding Indiana senators and our president withdraw their support from the same legislation.  Hypocritical much?

But it gets better–the last few days, working on a completely issue that I have no investment, that if anything I have reason to disagree with, I have raised an outrageous amount of money.  My fundraising efforts have been so successful that I have astonished and impressed each member of the staff, including the regional director of the umbrella corporation of canvassing offices across the US.  The director here, after giving me a hard time about having the wrong position about this bill, commended me for my canvassing skills.  In her words,

‘If you can canvass both sides of an issue, you know that you are a good convasser.’

To me, if I can canvass both sides of an issue it tells me without a doubt that my success has everything to do with my abilty to smile and charm the pants off whoever opens the door and looks me in the eye, and nothing whatsoever to do with my connection to the cause.

Tonight was staff night, as every thursday has been for the past thirty years in canvassing history.  We went over to the office manager’s house and played poker in her garage.  The office manager is the founder of Save Maumee, she has incredible random knick-knacks around her house, including the skull of an enormous sloth, an oven plastered in grassroots bumperstickers, and pictures of her son everywhere.  In the garage as we listened to anything heard at woodstock and I learned poker on a long card table covered in-you guessed it–a tie-dyed table cloth as we passed around a joint and chugged beer.

I had fun.  But it didn’t fit.  And here’s why.  On the way home I asked Mary, my boss that I’m staying with–who mind you I have everything in common with–(we both love the same murder mystery novels, studied abroad in Africa, spent time in Albion and the coincidences keep coming)–if she loved canvassing immediately.  She said yes.  And again the disconnect.

I don’t love it.  It works.  Just like Mary and I aren’t immediate friends just because we have a lot of common interests.  Just like I don’t smoke pot anymore and they all wonder why.  They can sense it too-as I question them about their passion and try to absorb their enthusiasm, they can sense that I am not enthralled by this grassroots organizing or impassioned by damning the man.  Who would’ve thought?  Turns out I’m really not a hippie guys.  Took me to be surrounded by vegan pothead green loving quirky fabulous people to realize I have too many pairs of shoes and wear too much mascara to be a hippie.  And I’m ok with that.

Again…it took me a while to put this into words.  It still feels like nothing much is goin on with me.  All thats happening is that I’ve figured out that nothing is happening.  As always, I miss you all.

on est ensemble,

Alexandra Marie