For Christopher

"Soon as he touched you, he was dead.”

We were watching the pilot episode of "The Wire," an HBO show (that I should have already seen) set in the projects of Baltimore circa 2002.

The series has an interesting drug-hustling, detective-hunting kind of plot, with more corruption than a Dan Brown novel. I'd watched quite a few episodes for a class project—but for some unknown reason, I’d never jumped back into it post-college.

"You going on point, picking us business in the pit.”
"Why you giving me the low-rises when I had a tower since summer!”

The towers they're referring to are the tall, city projects with a plethora of drug traffic in the stairwells and elevators—a crack dealer’s dream. The disgruntle character (dubbed D’Angelo) had just been demoted to “the pit,” or the smaller buildings near the courtyard—less business, more visibility.

The scene ended as he jumped in a car and headed down the street.
Another scene began…

"Miss Britney, you know you sound like Hannah Montana?!" one of the girls ran over to me.  She wore glasses and had braids separated into pigtails. Her pink puffy coat was too big in the sleeves.

“You’re only saying that ‘cuz I’m from the South,” I said with a grin.

“Nooo,” she said with exaggeration. “Say somethin’ else like Hannah Montana!” I appeased her as we crunched through the snow blanketing Hyatt Court, hand in hand. The projects were quiet tonight. Even the Crips, who usually huddle in the corners waiting for God-knows-what, had moved indoors.

It was the end of March, but spring doesn’t always mean new life and growth. Sometimes things stay frozen, and it’s out of our control.
Newark, New Jersey taught me that lesson.

Baltimore looked run down as the camera focused back in on “the pit.” A drug deal had just gone terribly wrong, and there was blood to pay. My stomach dropped as an angry crew descended on an addict who’d tried to score some crack with fake 10-dollar bills. Kicking, punching, and yelps of pain ensued…

There was a squeal of laughter.
It was Christopher.
He was one of my favorites.

I know you’re not supposed to have favorites when teaching children.
But I did—and he probably knew it.

The first year I’d worked in Newark, we were on a college spring break trip. I’d hated it. The cold was unbearable, the children were utterly insane, and we’d slept in a dirty church with no heat. Weren’t 18-year-old freshman supposed to go to Mexico?

But there were a few great kids who, I’m now realizing, will forever haunt me. Christopher was shy when I met him, but you could tell he was something different. With 2 younger sisters, the 12-year-old was slightly softer than the razor-sharp, soon-to-be Crip kids of Hyatt Court.

 "You show that kind of weakness, you lose everything that comes after.” My wandering brain switched back to the television. One of the drug ringleaders on “The Wire” was reprimanding D’Angelo, disgusted by his mercy. He was too soft.

Soft like Christopher, the gangly kid who’d made me a cross out of popsicle sticks that said “I love you” in 2007.
The kid who still hadn’t totally lost his squeaky voice in 2008.
The kid I had to remind to give me a hug in 2009.
The kid who wasn’t so soft in 2010.
The kid I’d lost track of in 2012…

(I was beginning to remember why I hadn’t finished this show.)

“One or two in the back of the head. No witnesses. No suspects. You got a .380 casing on the ground there.” The pilot episode was wrapping up with a murder and a moral dilemma.

Then the credits began to roll. I felt awkward as I asked my boyfriend what he’d thought of the show. The entertainment. He’d liked it, fine. I’d like it, fine. We’d probably watch it again soon?

After he stood to grab a drink, I was left with my own thoughts. So I sat on the couch hoping (praying) Christopher’s story hadn’t ended the same way.

It seemed my conscience was still infected with whatever holy poison Newark had injected into my heart. If I couldn’t watch “The Wire” without thinking of Chris, or walk down Avenue D without a small twist in my gut…

I assume that I’m not doing something I should be.
Because even though we don’t have power over what’s frozen, we who have been shown warmth can cut the cold’s bite. 

Newark, 2009

“The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it. ”

— Albert Einstein

An Unbecoming Moment

I was trying to be "healthy."

So when my mom bought me a bunch of multivitamins during a recent trip home, I was ready: I was going have a nutritious diet! I was going to feel like an all star! I was going to ignore a Crunchwrap Supreme craving from Taco Bell!

Day 1

First, I popped a B12 under my tongue. It didn't taste too bad, and dissolved quickly. This little pill was supposed to keep me focused and feeling less sluggish. Since meat is a huge source of B12, and I've become an accidental vegetarian 80% of the time after moving to New York (aka POOR), I was ready to get this regimen started.

Next came the "once-a-day women's multivitamin," otherwise known as the "terrible tasting yellow horse pill." Gag, gag, but down it went. I shook my head in disgust. How was I going to take that thing each morning? I had been in college before I was able to handle sugar-coated Advil. In fact, our family basset hound had enjoyed most of my sick-day pills when I was younger... 

Day 2

B12, taken like a champ.

But the multivitamin looked intimidating before 8AM. So I had a brilliant thought: Why not cut the pill in half, and take two smaller portions instead of one scary one? Chop, chop and the yellow pill split down the middle.  

I swallowed the first half, and knew immediately that this I’m-going-to-be-healthy nonsense was most certainly going to backfire. After gagging down both pills with much water and controlled breathing, I went to the bathroom to fix my hair.

But instead I puked.
I’ll spare you the details, because this is already more than you bargained for in reading my blog. Let’s just say, I lost half my “once-a-day-women’s multivitamin.”

Note the important word in that last statement: half.
I lost half of my vitamin.

Flashback to the bathroom.
I'm pretty appalled, and a little confused. I was going to be late if I kept theorizing over what the hell just happened, so clean, clean, brush, brush, and it was time to head to work.

Despite the recent nastiness, I felt pretty good. I’d slept well the night before! I’d eaten some Greek yogurt! It was a lovely autumn morning, and the bright leaves were beginning to fall…

BAM.
My stomach revolted.
“No, no, no…” I said to no one in particular.
I stopped walking, and pulled over. 
"Nope. No, no!"
I would not puke in the street.
As an adult, I would not puke in the street.

But alas, my stomach twitched and I hunched over the sidewalk. I remember thinking, “This is really unbecoming,” and then there, near my neighbor’s azaleas and a pile of dog crap, I lost my battle with the unsinkable women’s multivitamin.

“Rough night?” some jerk said as he paused on his way to work.
I was unamused.

There will be no Day 3 of Healthy Britney.
Or, perhaps I will try taking Flintstones Chewables. 
Like an adult.

Connect the Dots

Of course, I hadn’t packed an umbrella.

The misty rain was dusting the top of my head, leaving little beads of (possibly contaminated) New York water in my hair. I was standing at the crosswalk of Madison Ave and 32nd, waiting for a break in traffic.

Slowly soaking, I thought of all the other times I’d stood in the rain before—sometimes on purpose, sometimes on accident.

One of my more vivid New York summer memories was a violent rainstorm that stuck my first year living in the city. It was the end of June, right as the afternoon’s humidity was building up to the point of combustion.

And combust, it did.

I quickly ran from Union Square toward an awning at the Strand Book Store. From there, I watched lightning strike a building, a torrent of water instantaneously flood the street, and a cute couple hide out from the storm in parallel phone booths, occasionally grabbing the other’s hand.

“Give me your hand!” someone said in clipped English.

I was in Ireland, on the outskirts of Galway. We were all bathing in some precious sun on a dock looking toward the Arian Islands, when pellets of rain began their victorious attack. Some of my travel buddies were from Italy, others from Belgium and France—but you could have guessed what expletive we all uttered in international unison.

We needed to find temporary shelter. “Come on!” the accent said again, so I grabbed his hand, and we ran down the slippery pier, half laughing, half cursing the lush, green country we so adored.  

I adored everything about Montreat, North Carolina. The quaint town of Black Mountain, the square dances held in an old barn every Friday night, the funny kids we worked with at camp each day—I loved it all.

But I did not love our rainy Fourth of July. This particular holiday is Montreat’s thing. The Fourth of July is to Montreat, as Thanksgiving is to New York, as Fat Tuesday is to New Orleans. Between the big parade and assortment of country fair-like activities, to the dances in the evening and the masses of guest from out of town, this little North Carolina community is in its prime on July 4th. So when the rain started to fall as I was watching someone attempt to climb a sticky pole, I sighed.

Mom sighed. 

“Girls you are sopping wet. No, no… come here, Gracie. Everyone stay put. I just cleaned the floor. We need towels…”

Kathryn, Grace, and I looked like three little drowned rats. We had been playing in the front yard, when a summer squall began brewing. I’ve always loved the beginnings of a storm; there’s an increasing buzz in the air. The wind picks up, and you can smell a shift in the weather—something is about to happen.

So going inside hadn’t crossed my 10-year-old mind.

Instead, the sisters had pretended that we’d lived on a farm. Were the cows safe? Had someone gathered up all the chickens and roosters? They wouldn’t survive the impending sheets of rain… and wasn’t there a horse missing?  

We ran around the front yard, collecting scared (and invisible) animals. Even when the rain started to pour down, we didn’t want to leave our posts. I was sure the animals needed us, the fantastic farming Fitzgerald girls.

You might say we had active imaginations.

My imagination was interrupted by a honking horn. It was before 9AM, and I’d already been to Ireland, North Carolina, home, and back to the city again. Almost no time had passed at all, as my brain had connected together hundreds of images and acute memories.

But it was time to cross the street.
I decided I didn’t mind the rain so much. 

Puddles on pavement

---

“Sometimes I see myself as a child in a rain storm, running around trying to catch all the drops in his mouth. I long for your adventures to be like the raindrops the child saves and not those which crash to the ground.”

— Author Unknown

---

Old Blogs and Old Men

I’m not going to lie.

I’ve had a bit of a hard time transferring over to this new blog. Twice last week, I sat down to write a post about pirate ships, pumpkins, and the end of summer. (It was sure to be a classic…) But both times I found myself logging into that dusty, ol’ Blogger account.

Also.
It’s harder to bare one’s soul on a white background.
 (Don’t laugh!)
My last website was dark, with white text.
Emotions didn’t seem so glaring.  
Anger didn’t seem so bitter.
 Joy didn’t seem so very annoying.

And did you know that I’d run that blog since 2009?! Five years seems like a long time when it’s a fifth of your life. Then one day, out of nowhere, I up and leave the blog and don’t look back! Seems a bit bad-mannered, wouldn’t you agree?

But of course...
That other website was disastrous.
 The poor thing probably wanted to be retired.
He was old and difficult to modernize.
Even his coding was out of date.
One more click, and he might have crashed into internet oblivion.  

So, to recap:
White background = way more vulnerable.
Vulnerable me = nervous and sad about change.
Stubborn and changeless = the creation of a coping mechanism.
Coping mechanism = depicting my old blog as an old man, praying for retirement.

What I’m trying to say, is that I’m not always good with change.
But it was time.
 (Right??)

Right.

View fullsize

Speaking of change, fall has officially arrived. 

Welcome to the New Blog

 It's about time, right?

Welcome to the new blog! You'll notice that I'm still trying to decide on a few things (fonts), and that some of the old blog posts are difficult to read (more font issues), but overall I'm happy with the update.

What to note:

• Sharing buttons for social media are now at the bottom of each post.
• To search for past blog posts, use the "Search" tab in the left-hand navigation bar. I've also imported The Why Blog's archiving system under this tab.
• There were over 700 old blog posts downloaded into this site, most of which have a few font errors. These will (eventually) be fixed.
• Even though I was able to preserve the old blog, I'm not going to put a redirect on that site just yet, as I'm still figuring out a few kinks.

Think something's missing? Feel free to reach out! And enjoy...

A Special Proposal

“I’m going to go try and flirt with this guy.”

Even as I said it, I knew my sister would barely buy the flimsy excuse. Kathryn looked at me with a strange expression on her vacay-tanned face and cocked her head. “Really?”

“Yeah, yeah… I’ll buy a drink or something.”

My youngest sister Grace chimed in quickly. “Oh my gosh, I’m coming too. I can’t believe you talked to him!” We ran off toward our condo’s outdoor bar, looking like idiots—but we were out of options.

The awkward exit left Kathryn alone with her (uncharacteristically nervous) boyfriend, Hector.

“We’ll catch up to you!” I called back over my shoulder. They were already walking toward the quiet beach, with its imminent sunset.

Good.

Grace and I ducked behind a column near the bar. We waited there for a few minutes, got questioned by an excitable security guard, and then headed to the outdoor courtyard where our semi-stressed parents were setting up tea light candles.

So far, the Fitzgerald family collective plus Hector and company had faked a condo rental, improvised a nerve-wracking dinner, and planned a surprise post-engagement party for a somewhat suspicious Kathryn. There had been a few hiccups (“No! You can’t keep the ring in your pocket… I SEE IT.”) but, overall, I was impressed with the family’s ability to remain nonchalant.

Detaching from Kathryn was always going to be the most difficult part of Mission Engagement. When the sisters are finally together, in one place, at the same time, we don’t often separate. It was relatively easy for the parents to slip away and sign fake condo papers with a fake realtor named “Anna”… but Grace and I were trapped.

So there we were, pretending I had a prepubescent crush on a bartender probably three years my junior. Whatever. We were almost in the clear, and I knew that ring was practically jumping out of Hector’s pocket.

But it couldn’t.

The ring needed to stay hidden at least another 30 minutes.

“DO NOT COME BACK UNTIL 8:45,” I texted him. Then I imagined poor Hec looking at his phone, and breaking into a second monologue about what life would be like together. (I later discovered he already had a fabulous speech prepared. His dilly-dallying was instead in watching the sun fully set and walking back toward the condo very casually.)

Horrible traffic on I-95 had delayed almost all of our guests, so only about 9 out of 20 were present. But even as I frantically typed on my phone, cars zoomed into the complex and disheveled friends began running toward our "Best Wishes" decorations.

By the time Kathryn and Hector had arrived—giddy and relived, respectively—nearly everything was in its place. The night turned into a happy celebration of the married couple to-be.

And I, for one, couldn’t be more excited.

The Fitzgerald girls will finally have a brother. We will be more complete as a family, and Kathryn more complete as the beautiful individual she has become. Giving away your younger sister is a difficult endeavor, especially if you’re raised the way we were. But Hector is already someone who understands our family, someone who actually can keep up (and put up) with the excitable, endearing, and at times overwhelming Fitzgeralds.

So welcome aboard, brother.
We already love you so much. 

Best Text Message Ever

This text was sent at 8:43am on May 3, 2013 after I’d accidently called a friend, and left an awkward "sorry-I-butt-dialed-you" voicemail. Their response might be the best recorded text message in history. 

Editor’s Note: Paragraph spacing and certain commas have been added for your convenience, as the words below actually came in one, long stream of consciousness thought.

*** 

"Butt dial? Butt dial on the iPhone… are you putting your butt directly on your phone? What? It needs skin contact. So this is my theory:

You were between that stage of being weird and crashing from the end of too much coffee, sweating but not hot, focused but could pass out, and you reach for your phone.

Possibly in a delusional state, you grab it just to feel something other than a keyboard and you start tweeting #fml, #omg, #nycwriter, #semihipster, #bittyfitz.

Then as you are tweeting you realize you need some sort of human interaction. You scan through your friends and family, but they would ask too many questions and your priorities are on entertainment and an insurgence of energy into your mundane, NYC late night writing sesh.

So you call yours truly for some entertainment, and I don’t pick up. You then freak out, throw your chair across the room (it’s not that big) and yell, “AAAHHHH!!,” and you begin to tweet, #AAAHHH!

After your rampage, the energy supply in your body is limited and you close up shop and leave for the day. Walking as if you were drunk to your subway, you stop, get a slice and move on.

Stumbling onto the train, you find a seat that doesn’t require you to make eye contact with a single person and you crash.

Eyes opening slowly, blurry views of black, tan, and brown emerge predominant, and you are in bed looking at your newly acquired One Direction poster wondering how you got home. What’s that in your pocket...!!??

To be continued..."

*** 

I’m posting this story because I decided it was way better than the one I was going to tell you this week. 

#lolz

Why We Should Never Shower

Today greeted me with a new experience. 

I was rushing to get ready Sunday morning; frantically figuring out what jacket/dress/shoe combination was going to get me through the day. When leaving my apartment in Queens, I most likely won’t be back from Manhattan for another 10 to 12 hours—and in spring that means NYC could have experienced 4 different types of weather. (Oh, you fickle season!)

After finding the magic outfit, I began blow-drying my hair, brushing it repeatedly to get the right poof, puff, and part. As I worked, I contemplated about maddening morning tasks: Think of the time wasted perfecting how much blush is on each cheek; which strand of hair should be pinned up?

I flipped my auburn locks over my head and continued the process.
Brush, dry, brush dry.

At one point I held the blow dryer against my brush, trying to dry the long pieces of hair near my eyes. Maybe I should have just curled my hair… How long had this taken… What time was it anyway? I moved the brush, hoping my bangs were dry.

And BAM.

5 inches of hair fell from my head.
Let me repeat…

I BURNED 5 INCHES OF HAIR OFF MY HEAD.

“NO!” I yelled at the hair dryer. “No, no, NO! How did you DO that!?” What smelled like tragically burned popcorn leaked from the bathroom into my apartment. Fused pieces of hair stuck to the brush and bathroom floor, while a stream of curse words clouded my brain. DAMNIT.

Looking in the mirror suddenly seemed like a horrifying endeavor. I stood slowly, with both eyes closed. First the right eye squinted open to assess the damage. When he was confident my left eye could handle such trauma, I opened both baby blues and began plucking at the fringed pieces with a grimace.

All these years blow-drying my hair and not once have I burned it off. Still confused, I gathered a clump from off the ground and held it up to my head. Could I glue it back on?

After deciding that was not practical (and probably more messy) my hands worked quickly to tuck, spray, and hide the new, eye-length DIY haircut.

This is why we should never shower, and instead, live like cave people.
Getting dolled up is just too much effort.
In fact, it’s downright dangerous.
Case closed. 

Part of the damage... May my bangs rest in peace.

PS - Enjoy the cliche mirror/bathroom selfie. I assure you they don't happen often. Alas, this was the necessary documentation.