HERE I AM, IN ALL CAPS

Things I love, typographically shouted:
(as suggested by Brooketh, in her own cap'd list)


1. HARMONICA. Love learning to play it, love listening to it. Love its portability and versatility. Love how cool and jazzy it is.

2. LIBRIVOX. Last weekend's best discovery. All books that are part of the public domain are available for download in audio format, completely free. And it's not stealing--really!--it's just free. Awesome. Trust me, janitoring while listening to Walden and Emma is way cooler than regular janitoring.

3&4. FREE THINGS. As in, a free JOSH RITTER concert on April 17th at the record exchange. Kind of folky, totally original, Josh Ritter is a cinnamon swirl rain shower for ears. And I love him. Check him out.

5. ROMANS 8: 35-39.

6. BANANAS AND PEANUT BUTTER. I think I've eaten it at least every other day for the past two months. Can't stop.

7. RUNNING. I love escaping the world and pushing myself. I love when I've run enough that it suddenly is easier than I remember it being. I love that slightly bigger feeling in my chest afterward, as though my heart has been pumping iron. All the better to love you with.

8&9. THE TEMPLE. And MISSIONARY WORK.

10. WEARING TIES. But not Avril Lavigne sort of tie-wearing. Today I am basically dressed like a boy. A fancy, churchy boy.

11. STUDYING. Really searching a thing out, gathering pieces of it up in my thoughts and realizing that this is like this, which is tied to that, which relates to all he said before, which is beautiful. The more I study, the more connected I feel to the world around me.

12. ROAD TRIPS. Provo, I'm coming. Brick house, I'm coming. Romania girls, Molls, Beks, Easter, Conference, Dean family gargantuan dinner, Eagle kids, college life, writing center--don't worry, I'm coming. Wed-Sun. Let the wild rhompus begin!

And this is where I pass the invitation on.
THE THINGS YOU LOVE IN ALL CAPS. KAZAAM. GO.

Heartsick.

I can feel myself aching today.

Aching for sounds of fluid R's and round A's in a foreign tongue.

For the feel of tiny hands curled around my fingers.

For burning uphill/upstairs walks in heavy heat.

For the ability to read someone's eyes and know exactly what he's saying because he can't speak at all.

For that satisfaction that my life is not my own.

For that wonderful, painful heartsickness that happens when you're loved by a child.

I haven't been able to get Romania and the summer of 2009 out of my head for the past few weeks. I can't stop wishing that I were there still. Too much downtime.
I have posted a video I made of my experience to my old blog--www.woodswordsandwildthings.blogspot.com

I had to make it private for confidentiality reasons regarding the orphanage and the hospital I worked at. A few of you are already familiar with this blog. If you feel that you should be, but are not, let me know and I'll send you an invite to it.

For the rest of you, here's an excerpt from the land my head's lived in for the past little while:

Post from 6.17.2009

I am growing more and more attached to those munchkins at the Dancu apartments. I'm starting to wonder if I will be able to make it away from them. I feel like I talk more about the funny/terrible days on this blog than the good days, so I am not going to share anything about today.

Yesterday, however, they were all little angels. Really. In fact, so much so that I found myself ver

y much surprised. Ellie Young, of the BYU Special Education department, who specializes in behavioral analysis and correction, is visiting this week and accompanied us to Dancu yesterday afternoon. I'm not sure if her presence had anything to do with it, but they we better than they have ever been before while she was there and I found myself a little disappointed because I had wanted her advice regarding the difficult times, rather than the easier times. At the same time, however, I couldn't help but be delighted because it felt like we were really making progress with the kids! Some things that happened:

-B---, who only says so many words, said mulțumesc several times and sang the song back to me that I have been singing to him for the past two weeks.

-At the park M-----a started pushing C------ in her swing! And we didn't even facilitate it!

-C------ was being very independent, which is un

usual for her. While typically she takes a lot of encouragement to try new things and do things on her own, yesterday she finally learned to swing by herself and even took to Ellie very well, instead of being her normal, shy, C------ self. And she walked part of the way home by herself, without holding anyone's hand. Normally the workers don't like them to walk without holding someone's hand because they can run off if we do this, but C------ is usually too scared to anyways. So she is proving to be a lot more self-assured lately.

-M----n had the cutest bedhead when he woke up. And when we went to the park, instead of sitting quietly and watching all the other children, as he often does, he kept swinging and then yelling my name across the park for me to look at him.

-Once, while we were at the park, M-----a climbed up the biggest slide and yelled for the worker, D---, to look at her: "D--- uite!" And with a cursory glance, all D--- said was "stai cuminte", or 'stay good' and then went back to sitting in glowering silence with B--- on the swing. And M-----a literally slumped and slid her way down. This made me realize how important encouragement is--that most of the progress we've made with M-----a so far is probably due to the attention we've given to her for the positive things that she does. No wonder she does so

many naughty things--it's the only way she ever gets the attention of the people whose approval she craves most. Sometimes I wonder how things will be in the fall once we've gone and things go back to the way they once were.

------

Children come and go here like the rain. Just as I begin to really enjoy the cleansing, cooling wetness the heavens dry up and I am left steaming as I trudge through mud and puddles. And as I walk up the six flights of stairs I am greeted by the old woman who lives beneath us with "mai plouă?" So I whisper back, "Nu. A terminat."

Andrei left the hospital today.

It had been a while since I had seen him and I was surprised at how much weight he had gained--his face put on a winter coat for the summer. As we walked by his room in search of the other girls his scratchy little voice accosted us to give him a toy phone he dropped for our benefit. We went to him, his excitement in seeing us reward enough, and he begged to be taken outside, despite the rain. And then the nurses came and told us that his foster mother was supposed to come in ten minutes to take him home with her. For good. So I

stayed with him while Keilani sought out Alyssa, who had grown closer to him than any of us. She and Breanne came, looking very put out at the news. And the four of us spent a glorious hour with him, waiting for the dreaded 'mother'. And remembering him in the beginning--badly burned, tied to the bed, weakly moaning "Mi-e foame" over and over again. And admiring this cocă while talking to a woman about the Church, which is difficult in Romanian. Then, just when time had planted a seed of hope within me that, perhaps it would not be today, she came: a small, skinny woman, with more bangs than anything and more nose than bangs. This arrested our fun, mid giggle. The nurses

explained who she was to Andrei, who resisted until she promised that she would take him outside, and then he warmed up to her. We watched as the disheartening procession down the hall and back in to his room, fighting back tears and feeling silly for being so selfish, yet still wishing he wouldn't go. They came back out of his room and he was all decked out in newer, smarter clothes--in shoes that actually fit his chubby picoare and a knitted hat that would have been appropriate, except that they rain had stopped now and the sun shining as though it had never been. A crowd of interns and patients stood and watched them emerge. He turned, saw us, waved proudly, and then, at 'mother's' behest, he ran towards us into Alyssa's outstretched arms.

And then he marched stoutly away from us, hand-in-hand with a woman who seemed smaller than he was, who would not know how much he like dogs or that he does not really know how to eat bananas or he doesn't really like to be teased or that he goes rotten if you spoil him too much and starts spitting, or that he has the biggest, belliest laugh in the world.

And after that we didn't feel much like doing more, so we gave the woman a pass along card and headed for home. It was hot again and I felt that nothing seems very predictable here.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Yesterday my dad could not get away from work.  Thus, I was charged with the task of picking up flowers and a card for him to give Maa for Valentine's day. 

I realized there, in an overwhelming Albertson's isle that boasted an inordinate amount of hokey ways to say the same generic thing, that greeting cards do not equal romance.  I have never been one to despise Valentine's day.  In fact, I am all for celebrating love.  

However.

Give me a piece of loose leaf torn from a free notebook with a person's real thoughts scribbled on it.  

Give me a single flower hand-picked from the neighbor's garden. 

Perhaps if I were in love with Mr. Hallmark, such cards might mean something to me.  Yet, all it seems to really say is, I haven't thought enough about you to have much of anything to say on the subject.

...

Except this card:

This card really speaks to me.

In spite of the man, I hope you allow yourselves to enjoy a day just for love.

The world's bitterest love story.

A couple weeks ago I volunteered to accompany my sister's Special Ed class on a field trip. This is an experience I had, as I wrote it down a few days later.

You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll wish you had been there.






1.30.2010

I have little idea of what to expect. I can’t even remember what time I am supposed to show up—did she mean they should leave for the field trip at 8:30 or I should come at 8:30 in order to observe the class before the field trip? I told her that I would come early—was 8:30 early? On time?

Now early in any sense of the word seems regrettable. I pull at the skin under my eyes, trying to make them open a bit wider. An attempt to erase traces of night shift from my face, from my memory, from existence: futile.

I run into an old friend and try to look chipper. I sign my name, receive directions to Mrs. Carr’s room and act like I know my way around the school. I’ve only been here once before. Chaperoning Michelle’s homecoming dance. And one other time, bringing Danielle’s friend her phone charger, but I was in and out in a matter of seconds. Hardly even counts.

Luckily the walls are marked with signs: Rooms 100 – 110. I follow arrow clues and suspenseful numbers all the way to one-oh-seven: Mrs. Carr’s.

We meet. She looks nothing like I thought she might—very small. And kind of pretty. I remember how she told me that she undertook Special Education for the money. Who does Special Education for the money? We shake. We take turns mentioning how much Michelle talks about the other, how nice it is to finally meet after our conversation on the phone, how excited we each are for field tripping. She relieves me of my bag, tucks it away in a closet behind her desk, bids me follow her to the student in gym class. Gym class. Now I’m taken up by a wind of suggestions and following orders. Down the hallway again and we run into a few stragglers. A hefty smiley blonde, Kirsten, herding two students towards a ramp that ascends into a land of sweaty bodies and physical exertion. One of them hides her eyes from me, turning her entire body away, and clings to a small red cooler as though it were breathing. More introductions, more shaking and Mrs. Carr goes back the way we came. Paige is the one holding the cooler so tightly against her chest. Takes ice to the nurse on B days. Instead of looking at me, she hugs me. Apparently they’re working on that one.

I’m Ashley. Typical courtesies. Yes, I’m Michelle’s sister.

That’s
my name
too. 

An unnoticed, cramped voice from below sounds high wonderment through its owner’s nose. She’s sitting. In the hall way? In a wheel chair. Pinched features on a wide, freckled face look nearly worried (always nearly worried, I discover as the day wears on, as though longing for something slightly difficult to remember) as she peers at me through thick-rimmed black frames. Brown moppy hair and a lumpy sweat suit. She seems a soft heap of disarray. And sincerity.

Really?

Yes.
That means
we’re
friends.

How do you
spell it?

A-S-H-L-E-Y.

Oh.
Mine is spelled
A-S-H
L-A-Y.

Oh. That’s a good way to spell it. We’re almost the same. Seeing her awakens me slightly. I can’t help but converse with greater enthusiasm as we up the inclination. To my surprise, she takes the ramp on her own, wheeling herself with strength that her pillowy looks deny.
 
Look how strong you are! Maybe I could do that. Maybe.

She used to pull herself up it with her feet. Kristen. But she broke her leg and had to start using her arms instead. It was pretty incredible how fast she’d go. I watch and try to imagine her legs long enough to yabba-dabba-doo herself to the top.

Did you know
I
used to
live in
Oregon?

I didn’t. How long ago did you move here?

I think
maybe
about
six months ago.

On flat ground again. Nothing fazes her. We enter a small weight room on our left. Leaving explicit instructions for Ashlay to do her arm workout, Kirsten and Paige move on to the gym. She knows what to do, Kirsten insists, catching eyebrows I didn’t even have time to raise on her way out.

I wait for Ashlay to do something, unsure. She wheels close to the bench press equipment I lean against and picks up an elastic band at its base. This she takes to another machine, where she grabs the two handles and flings the middle around a vertical bar. Barely catches it. I finish pulling it on for her.
She goes to work when the chair’s brakes are set, pulling the handles toward her.
No wonder you’re so strong. Do you do this a lot?

Yeah.

The pulls are unpredictable. For the first few movements her right and left arms are coordinated. Then they begin to alternate. Then a small pause. Now together again.

Did you know
I have
a boyfriend?

Really!

But he’s
in Portland.

Portland?

Yeah. I
used to live
there.

Ohh. How long have you been dating him?

Since kindergarten.

That’s a long time!

Yeah.
He just asked me
one day if
I wanted
to be his girlfriend and
I said yes.

Ahh. Have you talked to him since you moved?

My mom’s
cell phone.

You talked to him on your mom’s cell phone?

I just
tried to
call
but he didn’t answer so
I just
left a message.

What did you say in the message?

I said
hi it’s your
girlfriend.
Bye.

A short pause.

I
love him.

Her hands drop to her lap, mid-pull.
You do!

But I didn’t
get to
tell him that
before
I left.

And the burden drops her chin to her chest.
Ohh no. I look at her, slumped over. The worried look has deepened above and around her eyes. It seems so real to her.

Yeah.

Another short pause. She resumes pulling again.

I
hope he hasn’t broken
up with me.

And here I have no more words because I am too busy drawing my eyebrows together and up. Even mere acknowledgments fail me.

I
will be so sad
if he has.

Probably he would tell you if he wanted to.

Yeah.
I will be
sad
if he has.

Now bittersweet tragedy makes me smile slightly.
Well, since he hasn’t said anything to you about it, that probably means he hasn’t.

Yeah.

She stops pulling on the elastic again.
How many of these arm exercises do you do?

Uhh
three sets.

I couldn’t tell where sets ended in her sporadic work. How many have you done already?

One.

Adjusting her grip with renewed determination, she is at it again.
Does it burn?

No.

After finishing her three sets, she unlocks her brakes and wheels herself a hamstring machine while I send the elastic home. For a moment I worry. The machine she chooses registers and I worry that I will have to lift her 20 year-old body out of her chair alone. I worry that I’ll drop her, that I won’t be strong enough. I worry that perhaps she’s doing something she shouldn’t be—hamstrings are definitely not part of the arms.

My mouth opens to voice as another class assistant walks over, adjusts the machine to its lightest setting, and leaves again. Ashlay, instead of looking to me for heavy lifting, positions herself behind the opposable extension and starts lifting it upward and back down again, with two hands. In that same, erratic pattern. Relieved, I straddle the bench opposite her and watch.

As she uses her arms, kids from another class—an average class—begin to file into the weight room next to ours and she watches them through the glass that walls between.

I like boys with
muscles.

The words bubble from her lips, a giggled confession.
My face curls in spite of itself. Is that why you like Toby? Does he have big muscles?

I don’t know.

Beat.

But that’s why he likes me.