essay one draft one

Essay One


Breakfast, Ceremony

That first morning I woke up in my small bed, having to take a moment to regain my bearings. I was in Germany. I was in a stranger’s home. I was in a bed with no sheets but, instead, an odd down comforter similar to a sleeping bag which smelled of starch and stranger’s laundry. The night before, Carolin made clear that breakfast was at 8:15 am (8:15 Samantha. We must be complete with eating by 9:00. We must start walking at 9:00 to make it to the church on time. Breakfast is at 8:15. Should I come and awaken you?) Breakfast had never taken me longer than the time it took to toast cinnamon pop-tarts or mix instant grits and run out the door. That morning I lay in my bed, eyes examining the ceiling as I acknowledged the tightness in my chest and emptiness in my gut, the uncomfortable disorientation of a different country, a different culture, a different home, and a different pillow with its stale stranger smells lingering by my face. It did bring with it a sense of adventure, though, that double-edged sword of removing yourself from what you are comfortable with.

It is only in the feeling of displacement that I have been able to feel really free, free of myself and free of my diversions. I am free to experience things and people and places that are the Other, that are not like me. They are scary and odd, but so damn beautiful when discovered within their contexts, the musty wooden homes and ivy-covered, blood-stained histories. When I am away- out from under the cloak of what I know and what I understand - I find in myself a kind of naked trust, a sincerity, because I have nothing else. In displacement I am vulnerable, and I hate it, and I love it.

Bad Salzungen is a small town in central Germany, rural and spotted with farms and hills, townspeople walking the cracked sidewalks, cigarette vending machines, and salt baths. I remember the salt baths being a source of pride and a loitering topic of conversation for the people of Bad Salzungen. As their only tourist attraction, it was placed conveniently in the center of the town, commerce and cars and lives buzzing around them. My host family lived on a street adjacent to the one primary school which spoked outwards from the center of town. The sounds of screaming and laughing children floated down over the asphalt and cobblestone, providing a constant backdrop to the goings-on of the Finks. Tall German Oaks lined the sidewalks and filled the gaps in between the traditional Dutch houses. I remember this Bad Salzungen in hues of oaks and moss greens and concrete grays, all surrounding the picture of the Fink household.

I was hosted in the home of the Finks, consisting of Carolin, my host peer, her father (who I can really only recall while laughing or watching fußball on television), her mother (who looked at me in the eyes so sincerely as she tried to speak to me in German I couldn't understand), her grandparents, her aunt and uncle, and various children I couldn't place as nieces, nephews, cousins, or siblings. All in the same house. It was like an episode of Family Matters, dubbed over in guttural language and big-boned, blond-headed Europeans.

Their house was large, a compound including several apartments that made a square around a central, open-air courtyard. I remember the courtyard fondly. In my mind it is a freeze frame of old red-rust lawn furniture, a collection of children's toys and tricycles, and various potted plants all scattered amongst the bricks and weeds (things you can assume have been in the exact same position for many seasons, watching and listening to the Finks grow older, settling reluctantly into their places.) A functioning clothesline did, however, run from one corner to the opposite corner, adorned in hanging rags, blouses, and braziers in a spectrum of faded whites and tans. I always had to walk through the courtyard to get to my apartment-type room, and it was always my first and last impression of Germany each day.

That first morning I walked down the worn wooden stairs, 8:15, out the door and into the courtyard. The cutting air of the morning welcomed me to Germany, to the unknown, to the hope of getting to know the unknown, to the hanging underwear and strong scents of food. I have always despised getting up for mornings- I don’t like the sound of alarms or the feeling of sleep still to be had behind my eyes, and I have a love affair with beds. Mornings really are my true love, and my bed is the convincing fling-on-the –side. Morning was happy to have me that day, and on the other side of the courtyard I spotted the door into the kitchen and dining room, and walking towards it, trailing voices became louder until I was in the midst of my first breakfast in Bad Salzungen.

I stepped into the kitchen door, taken aback by the scene. The whole family was awake, walking around, shuffling past one another while speaking in potent German, broken only at points by hearty laughter. They all welcomed my arrival in various tones of "Guten morgen!" and I replied, shyly, unsure of my German and nervous, but happy to be a part of this family for a moment. My gaze met smiling faces and then found the breakfast table. The Magnificent Breakfast Table.

Now, as I sort through my memory, there are only certain parts of the breakfast I remember most ardently. The actual table was handsome, hitting at my hips and kingly in stature, with a rich wooden finish which I brushed my fingers against lightly. What a lovely table that was, not a lap in a car on the way to school, not a Styrofoam plate from a carry-out window. Carolin's mother outstretched her arm to the seat I was to take, speaking in German so close to my face as Carolin translated. Sit here. She wants to know what do you drink? Juice? Coffee? Water? Tea?

Tea. Tea. I rolled the word and image around in my head for a moment, the pressure of an answer hanging over my right shoulder, dressed in gray sweatpants and an over sized t-shirt. I had never tried hot tea beyond a few sips, but at this moment it seemed delicate and sophisticated and German. I turned to Mrs. Fink, smiled, and nodded overzealously about the tea, my desire to be polite and engaging often manifesting itself too-big smiles and overzealous head nods. She was straight away to the kitchen before I could begin to analyze myself or my decision, making me uncomfortable but for a moment before I was hit with how fun this all was. I was having hot tea in Germany with the giant Fink family at the handsome table. I was intimidated, but only in a sense that I was not familiar with breakfast and ceremony together. Eyes bowed down to my hands in my lap, smiling a discreet half-smile, I breathed in and thought this is so nice. This was the gentle juxtaposition of discomfort and contentment, of fear and adventure, of newness and learning, of the others and me.

The first thing I noticed on the table was fine china, porcelain and painted in Dutch patterns around the rim, fragile blue on egg white. With a full set of china and a cloth napkin before each chair, each member of the family had a place to sit, myself in the middle on the long right side. I can't recall all of the dishes, which sat in their platters, plentiful that morning. There is a hazy picture of sliced meats, casseroles, and colorful spreads of loaves and jams. Toast was familiar to my empty traveler’s stomach, seeming to be a good start to a journey of foreign foods. I took it onto my plate, choosing a deep red jam that looked most recognizable amongst the other light yellow and orange jams to spread. With bits of fruit pushed at the sides of the clear glass jars, I imagined that the Fink’s may have made the jams themselves, picking fruits from their trees and vines in the thick of summer and preparing the preserves in that kitchen, placing it all into their jars to use throughout the year. With the windows and doors opened, too, I could picture it. So much work into this breakfast, so much tradition in this lifestyle.

Mrs. Fink set my cup of tea in front of me. How many lumps was I supposed to take? Do you put cream in tea?? I felt awkward and exposed, my inexperience with hot tea written on my face. Mrs. Fink smiled and placed two lumps of sugar in my cup. I took my spoon and swirled the sugar around, tapping it lightly against the rim when the cubes had disappeared. I listened to the conversation like a melody in the background, not recognizing the breaks of words and sentences but noting the song, the rise and fall of deep tones and the hitting of hard consonants so effortlessly in the backs of throats and tips of the teeth. Their conversation was in the background of my morning, and looking back, I'm sure I was in the foreground of their morning conversation. She likes toast and jam. She likes the tea. She looks unsure. She is not eating the meats or casseroles.

I took a bite of the toast and jam. The taste was light, but so full of texture and flavor, so full. I loved the way it looked on the plates. I love the way the plates sat on the rich browns of the table. I took my tea in my hand, its clear wooden color showing me the leftover tea grains at the bottom of the cup, still swirling from the spoon. Light, smooth against my tongue, warm and soothing and perfect in contrast to the crisped wheat toast. I loved the sounds of German and laughter and soccer on the tv while we were eating. I love that the door to the courtyard was left open to my right, inviting the day to bleed in, inviting me to go out into the day. I remember that picture of the courtyard in the doorway like a photo in a frame. I do like mornings. I like mornings with tea and toast.

Each morning for ten days was the same. Family. Tea and toast. An awareness of certain foreign words and repeated Danke’s and Bitte’s. The morning of my departure, Mrs. Fink placed a tall and slinder bag on my plate, with symbols I couldn’t understand and a picture of a sailboat against the bright yellow plastic background. She smiled her whole smile and spoke excitedly. Carolin laughed, explaining that her mother had bought me the grains of the tea I had enjoyed every morning of my stay.

I still appease my love of my bed on certain days, but much more often I peel myself out of bed to sit at my tall, bar-like kitchen table, eating toast and jam, drinking my German tea.

episode draft - advanced creative nonfiction

When do you go from trying to be who you want to be and actually being that person?
One evening last week, I walked into my bedroom on a B-line to the bathroom. As my toes shuffled across the white carpet anticipating the tile, I looked around and was overcome by an awkward sense of pride over my space. I turned around and stood there in the doorway of my bathroom, shoulder perched against one side of the threshold, my b-line trip temporarily halted.
I don’t know what exactly I was looking for, but I scanned the room with all the thoroughness of a stranger in a new place. Based on what I saw, I was proud of the person I imagined myself to be. The bed was made, three small white pillows behind one large white pillow with quilt detailing. One would think the inhabitant of this space is responsible, neat, a master of making beds, very pretty beds at that, every single morning. I smirked a half-smirk, adjusting my shoulder against the doorframe. I’m terrible at making my bed. I much prefer staying in my heaven of a bed until the very last moment in which I shift from being “just on time” to “barely on time”. I had recently read something in a Discovery Health article about how making your bed every morning provides a “reliable framework” each day and something about separating a sleep mindset to an alert mindset, so I had been wrestling with myself to get it done every morning. The inhabitant of this space is helplessly messy, a chronic attempter of self-improvement.
My gaze shifted to my beloved Christmas lights draping along 3 of the 4 walls (the one strand I stole from my parents garage didn't quite fit the whole way around), whimsical and cluttered and reminiscent, to me, of a type of romantic Fern Gully nymph-tree décor. I smiled to myself again, knowing of the inner turmoil this one strand of old Christmas lights had given me since Christmas had passed. In the doorway I appeased both sides of myself, the girl who loves those lights even post-holidays and all the Disney-esque feelings they give her, and the girl who, in the back of her mind, loathed the fact that they did not make their way around all four walls perfectly. I loved the fact that it seemed artistic and inspiring and hated the fact that my room did not look like the pages of Real Simple magazine.
Again my gaze scanned the room, to the dark antique furniture I borrowed from a family friend, to the Polaroid pictures of myself and my friends and our various faces stuck on the mirror of my dresser, bringing back over me where I was when those photos were taken and how I felt in those moments. My room, I decided, was full of contradictions of who I really am and who I want to be, and how extremely normal that is.
Toes brushing back over the clean carpet, I pulled back the sheets to my bed, and climbed in. I squirmed and pulled until I had the optimum position for relaxation and observation. I scanned the room from my new perch, noticing first my little weekly dry-erase calendar that I have up on my wall, just beside the door of my bathroom. I thought to myself that I do a pretty good job erasing it and writing in my weekly goings-on every Sunday. I am a collector of a plethora of organizational products to actually or theoretically keep my life in order. I don't know how many times I actually look at the calendar and remember what I have to do later that day or later that week, but I think the writing it down helps me. So I write it down there. I write it down in my pocket planner. I write it down in daily lists I make on loose leaf papers so I can feel the utmost productivity when I cross off things from the list. Bored with my own train of thoughts, I pulled out my hands from underneath the warm, homey covers and held them out before me, wall calendar blurry in the background. My nail polish was chipped and my hands looked older than I remembered, like they didn’t belong on the end of my arms.
At that moment, my room felt like a representation of everything I wish I was. I wished I was organized and I wished I lived in Europe and I wished I had lots of money to appease my expensive, Crate & Barrel, white-girl taste. I wished I didn't have that taste and that I really cared enough about world hunger and orphans and widows to devote my life to actually helping them. I wished I remembered that girl in the pictures, my former self, young and not jaded yet and hopeful about anything and irritated at people who used the word "jaded" in reference to growing up. I turned my body the opposite way to face towards the wall, feet tangling in the messy sheets. I pulled the comforter up underneath my chin, breathing in a deep sigh.
.

look like heaven.

i am so tired
bare-backed and withered
a tree of winter
sick for spring.

i do not mind if
you look in pity
and think that you are
glad you're not me,

because once april turns
and my body is in bloom,
a gown of rose and white,
you'll say "she looks like heaven"

benji.

and i have reached
the end
of a tightly twisted rope and,
with this,
i do not know what words are left
to say.

my arms are worn
they fall
at my side and i surrender
all while
balancing, one foot just behind
the other.

if i take the last step
i think
it will be one of two ends:
that i
will love you and wait until you come back to me.
or that you have left me for good, and i must be stronger for it.