Everyday Articles

My last post was about being an adult, so it seems fitting that this one should be about childhood.  Warning - this post is not a fun, upbeat story, and I think I normally post things that stay in that light-hearted space.  But today is a day for reflecting, so that’s the tone this keeps.  You’ve been warned :)

____

Songs and movies like to portray the bridge of time between childhood and adulthood as a lush, colorful period in life.  Even the phrases “coming of age” or “end of innocence” sound romantic and orchestral, while implying just a hint of hurt.   But for the rest of my life, I’ll remember my transition into adulthood as something that was very sudden and sharp.  I wasn’t given the luxury of time or the grace of preparedness.  I was given a single day, 17 years ago.  October 25th, 1995.  The day of the Cary-Grove Bus Accident.

I just realized I capitalized those words without thinking about it.  The Cary-Grove Bus Accident.  Like the Great Depression or a World War, those words are always capital to me.  I was a freshman in high school, just a few weeks shy of my 14th birthday, and I was concerned beyond measure about the stupidest things.  My girlfriends had started dating, wearing tighter shirts and getting out of gym class for “cramps.”  And while I would nod and sigh sympathetically, it was painfully obvious that I was a gangly beanpole of a girl who was still shy around boys and defined the term “late bloomer.”  I was falling behind in the pack of my friends, and this troubled me deeply.  That’s what I cared about the most on October 24, 1995.

But on the next day - the clearest and crispest yet that October - it would all change so fast.  A school bus would get hit by a commuter train.  The bus would be full of fellow students, and there would be dozens of injuries and 7 deaths that would rattle our little community to its core.  

At first, it was just rumors.  And they flew from classroom to classroom so fast.  I marvel at this now, because not a single one of us had a cell phone.  But it was as if The Accident was its own entity, and it was electric; crackling through the air and shocking each one of us in turn.  Soon rumors became truth and truth became terror and before I knew it, I was walking out of school in the middle of the day, surrounded by a hoard of crying classmates.  We must’ve looked like zombies, stumbling into the sun searching for parents, friends, comfort.  The world shifted under all of our feet when we left that day, and as we blinked up at a sky buzzing with helicopters, I think we all knew it.  

My body responded to this shock and tragedy by claiming me as a woman just days later.  It was almost poetic.   It was bittersweet.  While I could’ve finally been skipping gym class for cramps, instead I found myself in a church, head bowed and shoulders shaking, grieving with my friends, family and community.   I was different.  We were different.  And no one knew what to do next.

The days and weeks following would be an exercise in pain management.  While we all started with a fresh wound, a dark bruise; the shades of hurt would vary with time.  The deep blues and purples throbbed during the funerals and services, and stayed longer for those who lost someone close to their heart.  And then there were those of us who were spared such a close loss.  We could start to see the slow mending, the vague return to color.  We were all healing, but we would be tender to the touch for a long time.

It’s easy to say you should pause to count your blessings, but on this day every year, I make sure to stop.  Really stop.  And be thankful.  I am so blessed to have the love of my family and friends.  I am so lucky to have come from such a strong and supportive  community.  And even though that day holds so much sadness and pain, I try not to associate it only with the end of things.  The 7 that were lost that day have been carried all over the world in the hearts and minds of those who knew and loved them.  And the end of childhood was the beginning of a different kind of world, one with colors and emotions we didn’t even know existed.  On that day, I hadn’t known sadness could be so heavy.  I hadn’t known I could feel something so deeply.  But little did I know that in this new world, the same would be true of happiness and of love.  

If something heals well, it shouldn’t leave a scar.   But this is one I don’t mind carrying.  Looking at it now doesn’t mean it hurts, but touching it makes me remember the story.  And they say stories and scars give you character.  I think this has certainly given me mine.

For the 7 Angels of CGHS.  Love.  Hope.  Light.

I was always a pretty good student.  I sat in the front-ish rows and participated in class.  I filled lots of Five Star notebooks with barely legible notes.  I highlighted things and did well on exams.  So I’m a bit confused as to when everyone else learned this very important lesson that I seem to have missed.  When did everyone else learn about adult life?  And in particular, adult money?

I don’t know when everyone else took “Understanding Real Estate,” “Investing Your 401K” or “What the Hell is the Stock Market Anyway,” but apparently those classes weren’t offered at my place of higher learning.  At first, I only noticed these conversations in my older and more affluent friends.  These people had a couple years on me and were bankers or lawyers.  They were “real” adults and made “real” money, so it made sense that they should know these things.  At the time, it all seemed pretty boring to me.  Probably because I was young and had no money, which was both a curse (I was so, sososo broke) and a blessing (don’t have to care about boring stuff - yay!).

But now, I hear my friends talking about “equity,” “returns,” and “investments” in pretty regular intervals, so I’m pretty sure the jig is up.  We are all “real” adults now.  We make “real” money.  And apparently, I’m the only one in the room who’s still smiling blandly while secretly hoping I can steer the conversation to So You Think You Can Dance.

So I decided to take the bull by the horns and take a little baby step.  I was going to try to figure out what my retirement plan was all about.  I got on the phone with my Fidelity representative the other day and this was the classic conversation:

me: “Explain what the packet of papers I get every month means.  Pretend I’m a 10 year old.”

him: “blah blah Percentage blah blah Rate blah blah Market blah blah Tax blah blah When you retire.”

me: “Okay, let’s go with 5 year old.” 

I WANT to understand.  Trust me, I do.  But when he tried to explain it to me, I had the same reaction as when someone tries to explain what a black hole is.

I just.don’t.get.it.  

I feel that way about the stock market.  The real estate market.  Basically anything that ends with market.  (Except Boston Market.  I’m all good there.)   I think this is one area where I need to admit I am not going to be the star student.  No amount of class participation or extra credit is going to help me skate by.  It’s time to put my nose to the grindstone and do some honest to God studying.  And since there is no class (or is there and no one’s telling me??!), I need to start with my first logical investment.  The “for Dummies” books.

I think I’m in a place where I can write about it now.  I couldn’t at first.  It was just too fresh.  But now that I’ve said it out loud to a few people, I feel like it’s real.  I’m ready.  Here we go.

I lost my ipad.

Nope.  Dammit.  It still hurts and I still want to cry.  

Before I go any further, I want you to know I’m judging myself as I type this.  I know what a very First World Problem this is.  Oh how sad.   A completely trivial piece of technology I only use as supplemental entertainment is gone! And wait -I’m about to get yuppier - because it was FREE!  I won it at a stupid company Christmas party!!  Can I honestly be this upset over something so…stupid in the grand scheme of things?

And the answer is yes.  I can get this upset.  I left it on a plane after a 9 hour travel day filled with epic delays and a 1am landing, and in my hurry to get the hell of the glorified bus plane, I must have left it in the back seat pocket.  And when I realized what I’d done, I threw a tantrum like a child.  I kicked my carry on bag a few pathetic feet, screamed loud curse words with passion, and shed actual tears.  Thankfully I was alone in my apartment.  

Looking back now, I feel I’ve learned two valuable lessons from this experience: 

1) I’m never putting anything in that back seat pocket because it’s either a) a black hole or b) somewhere airlines attendants don’t EVER check after the flight because if they did they would’ve turned in your ipad and they didn’t because I called security and nothing was turned in AND THEY SHOULD ALL BE FIRED.

and

2) I am no better than a three year old when I lose my temper.  And I vow to remember this feeling down the road when I have children.   When they are losing their minds over whatever toy they left behind or lost, I will look at their screwed up, angry red faces, their tears of injustice and frustration, and I will remember what it is like to lose a shiny toy I loved.  

It sucks. And it’s okay to go nuts for a minute.  Just try to keep things in perspective, and try to learn something from it.  Focus your energy on something positive if you can - like maybe saving money for a new one or reconnecting with an old toy (oh hey there, kindle.  You’re just like the ipad, right?  RIGHT?!).  

Then, it’s time to move on.  And I know after one more complaint letter to the airlines, it’s time to do just that.

I saw a little girl on the subway today.  Actually, she was probably in her pre-teens or early teens.  So really, I guess I saw a little girl/woman hybrid on the subway today.  She was riding alone, holding on to the same pole as me, while playing some sort of game on her phone.  What caught my attention about this girl was that she was really cool.  And I don’t mean cool as a cucumber because she’s riding the subway alone cool.  I mean cool.  Her outfit was awesome, her shoes were killer and she had that fresh-faced yet edgy look of an ingenue.  It made me aware that I was in a tank top and jeans with a ponytail.  If we were in the same lunch period, we probably wouldn’t sit together.

But what it really did was make me see how different a childhood is when it takes place in New York.  Truth be told, I don’t see that many “kids” in this city.  I see babies, and I see NYU undergrads.  But the in-between is a rarity.  Probably because most people move away to raise their children; somewhere with a yard, a great school and enough space so that baby #2 doesn’t have to live in the storage closet.  But for the kids that do grow up here?  How could they not be the trendiest, coolest kids around?  They have access to the mecca of western society!  I might be forgiven for my 6th grade picture in which I am wearing a tie-dyed dolphin t-shirt, but I didn’t know any better!!  They should!!

I thought about this (and oh, so many other bad wardrobe choices of mine in the 90s) as I rode the two stops with this trendy child.  During this time, some loud homeless/drunk/or maybe just irate person was screaming from the other end of the train, weaving his way toward us.  He wasn’t confronting anyone, just yelling at the sky as homeless/drunk/irate people often do on the subway.  I hadn’t taken much notice of it, and everyone else in the car was unphased as he passed.  And that’s when I realized what else had caught my attention about this kid.  She’d paid no attention to the crazy person either.  She didn’t even have headphones in to block the noise, just a game on her cell phone.  And she didn’t look up once.

It made me think about how I used to cry when a villain showed up in a movie, and how aware I’d been of strangers.  How, when I’d take a day trip to Chicago, I’d clutch my Esprit purse with sweaty palms if I was separated from my friends for even a moment.  I’m not saying I was in the right.  In fact, I was probably kind of a baby.  But it’s nice to look back on that hyperawareness of being a child in an adult’s world.  To know that you don’t know everything, and you should have a healthy respect for that.  

Maybe this girl feels that way too, and I just couldn’t see it in the 2 minutes I saw her.  But to me, she had the cool confidence, appearance and ice-in-her veins tolerance of any adult New Yorker I know.  And while maybe that kind of childhood is much cooler than mine was, I wouldn’t change it.  Besides, my Esprit purse is probably considered vintage now.  That has to up my cool factor just a little bit.

Oh you posted something new?  Congratulations.

Ridiculous.  Unforgivable.  Deplorable.  These are some of the over dramatic words I use to berate myself when yet another day goes by and I haven’t posted anything new.  It’s called EVERYDAY ARTICLES!  It doesn’t even take that long!  Get it together!   But then I just shake my head and go back to whatever I was doing.  I can’t be held accountable, because…I mean what am I going to do?  Am I gonna fire myself from a blog that’s not a job and doesn’t even make any money?  No.  

But this is a slippery slope, my friends.  I’ve noticed that I’m starting to fall into the pattern of not finishing things.  I don’t like this.  It was a real wake up call when I was in France recently, verbally abusing myself on the streets of Paris for not learning French before I travelled.  I’d looked up all those courses!  Downloaded all those “French is Easy” podcasts!  Where was the follow through?  Well it turns out, Je ne sais freakin pas.  (That’s one of the few phrases - minus the freakin -I desperately drilled on the plane over the Atlantic.)

Not finishing something is a nasty habit, and it’s one I was raised to avoid.  In  my family, you could go out for a team or learn a new instrument, but if you decided after two sessions that you didn’t like it, well tough luck Chuck.  You stuck it out whether you were the best performer in the recital or the kid in right field staring at birds.  It wasn’t about whether you were really good or even if you loved it.  It was about finishing what you started.

So I promise, dear readers, I will try harder.  There are things to say and not nearly enough birds in New York to distract me.  Except maybe pigeons.  And they’re filthy anyway. 

See you soon…