Look Away

         Hours passed since the second tower collapsed. The dust nearly settled, but a horrid smell lingered in the air. The smell could hardly compare to the disturbing noises that melted together and poured over the entire city, making it as impossible to think as it was to breathe. Sirens, horns, yells, screams, cries. Hundreds of people pushed against the barricades, unable to enter the emergency room. We were all there for different reasons. Some came to help, many came to pray, others came for news. I came for assurance that this was all just a bad dream. Determined, clutching the photograph against my chest, I pushed forward. Somehow, I managed to get to the front of the line. Most of the crowd seemed to stand in a daze, watching the scene that unfolded in front of the hospital. Ambulance after ambulance pulled into and out of the emergency room parking lot.
Dozens upon dozens of hospital personnel waited at the entrance to the emergency room, frantically receiving the incoming casualties. One of the hospital workers walked along the line of the crowd, shouting directions. “If you’re donating blood,” called out a tall man in a green hospital uniform, “Please move to the left end of the parking lot. Please,” He continued to repeat this instruction as he moved along the line of the crowd, which was held back by barricades from swarming the emergency room. There was a shift in the crowd; countless of people began shuffling towards the left. The next thing I knew the hospital worker was right in front of me, walking past. Before I could align my thoughts, I reached over the barricade and grabbed his arm. I held it tight, desperate for his attention. His eyes grew wide as they met mine. “Please,” I whimpered, thrusting the photograph in front of his face, “My fiancé, I don’t know if he’s ok. Please.” I held his eyes for only an instant, and in them I saw pity I had never seen before in my entire life. The intensity of his pity shook something inside of me. I felt my grip loosen. He quickly looked away from me as he said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have any information on victims at this time.” He walked off, but I would never forget his expression. He looked...ashamed.
It wasn’t until months later that I realized that the hospital worker was shamed at not being able to look at me.  The eyes are the only organs capable of reflecting the full intensity our emotions. I suppose my own eyes held pain too intense for him to bear. He could not bear my agony.
That reaction, that shame, I would see for months to come. My friends, my family, even strangers, seemed unable to meet my eyes without huge effort. That is the side of grief no one talks about. The shame. It’s what everyone around you feels when they realize your pain is so horrifying, so penetrating, that words could never begin to mediate it. My fiancé, James, was lost that day, taken by evilness and misguided souls. A part of me, pieces I can’t begin to describe, was ripped from me. Now I’m incomplete, hollow. I do not wish to burden anyone with my pain. But every year, I see it again. Those shameful eyes, carefully glancing towards me, secretly wishing they didn’t have to face the agony in my own. What shame.

---

Fiction. I wrote this in Sept 2011. But I was inspired by an unfortunate moment I experienced recently. I felt uncomfortable in facing someone who had lost a loved one in an accident. My reaction--my selfish desire to turn away from their pain because it was too much for me, left me ashamed and terrified that the person would notice. Also made me wonder if this is something victims experience often. 

Trusting Your Voice

I'm struggling in my writing. I think it's because I am entering a realm I've never dealt with before: a novel.

All of my life, I've written short stories. Typically a short story may take me an hour or two to write, maybe less. I love the process: I get inspired, I write, revise and its done. Back to back. Instant payoff. And a few days later, with a clearer head I may go back and revise. Short stories have spoiled me. They are straight to the point--no nonsense. Now, I have finally accepted that writing a novel is a completely different process. And it's not going to happen in a day--or even a month. This is frustrating for me, but I'm making the commitment to stick to this story i'm writing.

Now i'm beginning to love the extended process i'm experiencing. Thinking of my story all the time, having random ideas fall into my head--its exciting. But now that i've made the commitment to finish this novel...I'm beginning to question my voice, my narrative style. Am I too minimalist? Do I need more...fluff, more words?

This may sound like a stupid question. By instinct, I am not very descriptive in my writing. I believe that if you describe a situation well enough, it will invoke a feeling. You don't have to tell a reader what to feel, just make them feel it. But my minimalist nature extends to other parts of the story as well. I find myself only describing what is essential to understand the current scene. I don't go on about what characters are wearing, unless their clothes are of importance to the plot. This manner of writing has always felt natural. But now I'm second guessing myself. When you are asking the reader to commit to a novel, do you need to offer them a more thorough description of the world? I'm really torn on this and actually stopped writing to question myself, and my voice.

After some introspection, I started thinking as a reader...what do I like and what do I not like. And this is what i've come to decide. On some level, I feel like descriptions of unusual things should be in more detail than descriptions of the common place. For instance, when reading other stories, I sometimes feel annoyed when writers thoroughly describe what their characters are wearing. I wonder, what does this have to do with the story? I would understand if the character's clothes are a hint to their personality...but in general descriptions of clothes--I think--are not necessary. Also, I think descriptions of a character's physical appearance doesn't have to be so in depth. I find it only necessary to describe specific facial features if they add some interest to the character's appearance.


I am spending a lot of time second guessing myself. I am analyzing, and reading other novels, I am beginning to build a truer sense of the writer I am. It's still not any easier, however. Writing a novel is a completely different process from writing short stories. Writing a novel takes dedication. It takes discipline. It takes losing sleep and writing even when you don't feel like it. I am making great progress. Facing my fear of failure. Telling myself that if I don't finish this, I may never forgive myself.

Afraid

I've just realized, as I sit in front of my computer...staring at that word document i've been working on for two years, that I am afraid. I am afraid to write. I was not always afraid. There was a time I would write because it felt good, because it was part of me--what my soul was meant to do. But ever since I considered that, perhaps, writing could lead to something more...boom, I got afraid. Now writing is a potential for failure. What if what I write isn't good? What if no one will read it? What if someone DOES read it?

I've got get over this. Quick. Because not writing eats away at me. Everything I don't put down on paper weighs on me, on my brain. Ok, first step is admitting the problem. Ok, problem. I see you, you're there.

Now go away.

This life is for Warriors

He's been called to serve, and so have you. In your closet, you find that pack again. You hesitate. It’s grown since you last saw it; almost twice as large. Every pocket seems stuffed to capacity. Just the sight of it makes you wonder if you could do this again. You shut your eyes and gather yourself, pulling the straps over your shoulders. God, it’s so heavy, cutting into your skin, almost too much to bear. It’s the weight of all the things you do not know, but worst of all, of all the things you do know. No one else can see this pack, but you will wear for the months to come. You're a military wife: this life is for warriors, and that’s just what you are.

Mediocrity is the new black

I’ve noticed that some of the hardest working, most driven individuals tend to feel unhappy, unsuccessful and mediocre. A few people I know come to mind; people I admire for many different reasons, people that have so much going for them but, for some reason, it just isn’t enough.

Here is the paradox: I know other, less admirable people; people who have very little accomplishments, no plans for their future, people who rely on luck, rely on others. Yet these people seem happier. They seem to take things as they come, staying down for only a few moments at a time when their mediocrity is brought to their attention. For the most part, they don’t feel mediocre. They feel quite alright.

So who should we envy? The ambitious people of the world who are always peering over the fence towards the greener side, or our mediocre neighbors that settle their lawn chairs onto their patchy grass with a glass of lemonade in their hands and a smile fixed on their smug faces?

While our carefree neighbors may seem to be making it, at the end of the day one fact remains: we live in a meritocracy—a society in which advancement is based on individual ability or achievement. What does this mean? Oh, something very simple: only the strong survive. And in the end, those who struggled will come out stronger. And those who took the easy road and were ahead in the beginning, will be left in the dust.

Conversations with myself

Me: Why are you giving away your dolls?

Four years old: (In a know -it-all tone) I don’t need these, silly. We're moving to America! I can buy all the dolls I want there.

Me: Is that why you promised your friend Yubelki a new doll?

Four years old: I’m going to send her one from America. Super express mail!

Me: (Laughs) Sure you will...

***

Five years old: What is this dirty place?!

Me: Well, Its a section of Brooklyn called East New York. This is America, Rosmary. Welcome.

Five years old: (Disappointed, clutching a post card with a snowy scene of the Manhattan skyline) Where....is....the snow ?

Me: (Laughs) Its March!

***

Seven years old: (Crying)

Me: Why are you crying, Rosmary?

Seven years old: Papi is homeless. He is sleeping in the subway. He has no food.

Me: Did he tell you that?

Seven years old: (Blows nose on t-shirt) Yes...he called me crying and--

Me: And how did he call you if he is homeless?

Seven years old: (Hesitates) I....

Me: Here, I’ll tell you how; he is sleeping in his sister’s house. Warm and comfortable. Away from all the problems mom is facing now.

Seven years old: But...he said...

Me: Yes, he says a lot of things to make you cry.  Don't cry for him.

***

Eight years old: (Writing attentively in a notebook)

Me: What are you writing?

Eight years old: A crime novel.

Me: Why?! Its summer break! They’re having a block party outside! The fire hydrant is open. Go out there, please, have fun!

Eight years old: (Stares out the window for a moment) Nah. I'll go later.

Me: (Shakes head) You will wish you did, one day.

***

Ten years old: (Crying)

Me: Why are you crying, now...

Ten years old: I’m just...embarrassed. People are giving us clothes.

Me: And what are you embarrassed of? That’s very nice of people to do. After the fire, and all.

Ten years old: (Whispering) But I don’t want to wear other people's clothes. Everyone will know .

Me: You listen to me, what these kids think doesn't matter?! This moment, right now, will only make you stronger.

***

Eleven years old: (Sitting in the principal’s office)

Me: What are you doing here?

Eleven years old: I’m going home.

Me: And why is that? Its only 10am.

Eleven years old: Because I got in a fight.

Me: You! Fighting?! (Laughs) Fighting implies you hit them back. Did you hit back?

Eleven years old: Well, he pushed me. So I pushed him back. Then...he put me in a headlock...and...I couldn't get out of it.

Me: (Laughs hysterically) He was twice your size! What were you thinking?!

***

Thirteen years old: (Writing attentively in a notebook)

Me: What are you writing?

Thirteen years old: It’s a mystery novel. I'm sending it to Roxy. She likes to read my stories. She's in the Navy now, you know, stationed in Virginia.

Me: Why do you bother?

Thirteen years old: (Looks up, surprised) What do you mean?

Me: (Shrugs) You’re never going to finish it anyway.

***

Fourteen years old: (Crying in a near empty bedroom)

Me: Why are you crying?

Fourteen years old: I hate it here. I HATE IT HERE!

Me: Woah. Calm it down. You're going to hurt our sister's feelings. She's only 23 years old and look, she bought this house and moved the family down here, because she wanted us to be together. Don't you realize what an amazing sacrifice she's made?

Fourteen years old: I...

Me: Besides, don’t you know who you'll find here?

Fourteen years old: Who?

Me: Yourself, you silly girl!

***

The one that got away

Though it had been three years since he last saw her, she seemed to have frozen in time. In a way, she looked so much as she had back then. But he was amazed at how many new things he noticed, things about her that he should have noticed then and were now too hard to ignore. Like the way she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and smiled when he complimented her, or how she would bite her lower lip when recalling some detail of her story.

But there was something different about her as well. Though her eyes were still kind and her smile as warm as ever, in her eyes there was something missing. She did not look at him the same way, the way she used to look at him back then.

As he pretended to be engaged in her story about the last three years, an odd sensation crept over him. As if something thick and cold was trickling inside his stomach; it was a dreadful type of feeling, one that pointedly made him wonder what he had expected when they made plans to see each other after so many years.

I expected her to feel the same way, a truthful voice said inside his head, and though the logical part of him knew he was being irrational, he could barely piece his feelings together.
Did he feel the same way? He had not really thought about it. In fact, he rarely thought of her anymore—a sign that, to him, signified his feelings had melted into time and space. After all, he had been with numerous women after her.

But as she sat before him, her brown skin appearing so supple that he was tempted to touch it, he slowly realized that everything he had felt, and perhaps more, was rushing back to him all at once.

Yet this realization only caused the dreaded feeling inside of him to intensify. Because although she had once been his, and his alone, and if all was the same he would have leaned in the middle of her story to kiss her full lips, the woman that now sat before him was farther away from him than anything else in the world.

But how could it be that he, who knew her body, who knew her secrets and details that no other knew, was now as much of a stranger to her as a man she had never met.

"So now," she said, her eyes full of excitement, "tell me all of your wonderful news."

He replied with something witty, something he knew would make her smile. And when she did, he could not help himself and he leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. It took only a second—he just wanted to feel her lips—but when he pulled back he knew at once, by the look in her eyes, it had been a mistake.

When she spoke, he thought he would die of embarrassment and disappointment.
"Cedric," she said slowly, her eyes bearing into his, "I’m engaged."

He glanced down at her hand. Sure enough, there was a ring on her finger. He had not noticed it, yet now it seemed so bright it was blinding. What could he say now? Three seconds before he could have feigned happiness for her. But now, she knew how he felt; she saw the words he did not speak lurking just behind his eyes.
And what was worse? She did not feel the same.