A Lasting Impression

Today I met an 80-year-old war refugee with lipstick in her teeth.

I was walking back from the park near my house at a brisk pace. The old woman stepped out of her apartment building just as I was approaching it. Her gray hair was chin length and pinned back on one side. She wore peach-colored lipstick and a smile that I immediately returned. In that moment she quietly gasped. She said, very slowly:

Oh, how pretty you are!

Still walking, I turned to thank her. But she wasn’t finished.

“No, come here for a second, I just have to tell you something.”

I stepped back toward her. Then this lovely old woman delivered to me a quiet, measured, matter-of-fact declaration of admiration.

“You are so...”, she lifted her hands as though she were holding a vase by its sides, “…slender. You have the body of a model.”

I raised my eyebrows, amused by her opinion of my form, which at the time was rather indiscernible beneath a thick sweatshirt and sweatpants. She brushed away my thank you as if to say, I’m not looking for gratitude.

“No, no. You just are…how tall are you?”

“Five-seven? Somewhere around there?”

“Do you like to eat?”

I laughed. “I love to eat.”

///

She continued to survey my body. Then she asked me if I was a “Chicago girl.”

“No, I just moved here actually. About a month ago.”

“Where did you come from?”

I told her Minnesota, and she said Minnesota is a beautiful place. Yes, I agreed. It is beautiful.

She asked me if I had any gentleman callers. She used that exact phrase.

Then she asked where my family was. I told her they’re all in Minnesota, and she asked if I go back and forth between Chicago and Minnesota.

“A bit.”

///

“Well,” she said, and returned to her original discourse about my body, tracing again that imaginary vase with her hands. She said something about beauty, and her age, and how fast life goes by. Her sentences weren’t complete, or at least I don’t remember them to be, but I understood. I nodded along. Then:

“Is your family here with you?”

“No, my family is in Minnesota.”

“Oh. Do you go back and forth between the two places?”

“A bit, yeah.”

I told her I came here to take classes. What do you study? she asked.

I hesitated. “Comedy writing?”

She found this intriguing. So you’re very talented, she told me.

“We’ll see,” I smiled.

She asked me once again where my family was. I told her, then asked where she was from.

“I’m European,” she replied, as though letting me in on some sensational secret.

I figured as much from her accent. Where in Europe?

“Yugoslavia.”

///                          

She had fled to the United States during World War II, when she was about 20 years old. Her mother was among the family she left behind.

“I never saw her again,” she told me.

My eyes filled immediately, and it caught me off guard. Maybe it was putting a face to what were normally faceless stories that affected me. Maybe it was the fact that she was about my age when she fled, and that made me imagine leaving my own mom for what would turn out to be a lifetime.

“If the war had never happened,” she said, “I would probably still be there.”

At first I thought she kept asking about my family because her memory was fading. Now I wonder if she simply didn’t understand why anyone would move away from their family when they didn’t have to.

///

Eventually another woman showed up. She looked younger than my new friend, and she wore thick glasses. She didn’t stick around to chat, but instead told the older woman that she’d head upstairs to “see what you need.”

“Well, I’m holding you up,” my friend said when the other woman had gone into the building. I just smiled. I wasn't anxious to leave.

As our meeting came to a close, I thought of asking for her name. But she never asked for my name, so, taking her cue, I figured maybe names aren't that important. I wish I had now, though, mainly so I could refer to her by name instead of as "the woman."

She left me with a reiteration of her opening remarks, and then added that her friend has a son about my age with big muscles.

I laughed again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I told her it was nice talking to her, and I meant it. When our conversation began, I had wondered if this dear woman had snatched up the first friendly face she saw for want of someone, anyone, to talk to. But I think I got more out of our interaction than she did, and I walked away from her with a tinge of reluctance.

\\\

My world is small. I think that’s true for most of us, even those who make conscious efforts to expand. It’s not easy, and when more pressing objectives like making rent or paying for school or supporting a family take priority, there’s not always time. But over the past few months I’ve come to believe that one of the easiest ways to gain insight and perspective is to talk to those who have simply been around longer than I have.

Today, an afternoon walk led me to a person who made an impression on me. I feel very lucky that this woman was there to pull me from my world; I was in the right place at the right time. Part of it may be happenstance, but it also has to do with frame of mind. I don’t think personal transformation is possible when you assume that you’re doing someone a favor by talking to them.

What would it be like if we all assumed just the opposite?

The Ones Who Fall For Cities

A few years ago, I was moved far enough to attempt my first true love poem. It went like this:

It’s the city of bridges, Big Ben and the Eye
Parliament, Victoria, Kensington High Street
Out of my league, but somehow I got a ticket
It was love at touch down
smitten and disarmed by old London town.

Portobello is the first kiss
seen by silver antiques on a narrow street
long enough to fill the day.
And Hyde Park in the fall, I get to know from every bench
every stretch, way, path and gate.
And I’m falling like the leaves are, slow and savoring my fate.

Then I’m there, at the bank
I meet your river and I’m gone, cross the bridge
to its heart and I look down
Confess my love and beg return, but the waters surge on,
indifferent to all suitors.

And that’s it, I don’t need to leave this island
take the sky to other cities,
‘cause I’ve been hit.
And when I leave three months later it’s a forced quit,
a "til then" fit that fuels my westward trip.

Two years since and my city’s sound,
a worthy rival in unbiased eyes
But you haven’t let me go, no
soul’s pulled to the Thames’ depths, the Underground.

The ones who fall for cities seal a certain fate
adopt an altered state, body trained
to a direction that won’t change.
Due east is a city living free,
self-possessed, unconcerned
doing just fine without me.

How I wish you'd stop your river
let the people slow down too
Look around like something’s missing,
like I did more than just pass through.

---

I'm sharing this with you to illustrate a simple point: I am one who falls for cities.

Not all of them, of course. Until now, I've only loved two.

With Minneapolis, the feeling grew slowly. I moved there to go to school, and over the years I gradually discovered its pockets of beauty and charm (much of which I have yet to uncover). It's a quiet love, but it has staying power.

London was a head-over-heals, star-crossed kind of love. The whirlwind romance lasted just more than three months, but years later I still dream of returning and not looking back. If we were given a real shot, I think we could last a lifetime.

But it's happening again, you see. That familiar feeling sneaks up on me as I ride the train into the city at dusk when most others are leaving it, and the skyline slowly peaks through in bits as I get closer. That weightless rush intensified the other day when it started to snow, and the flakes got bigger and bigger, and I couldn't believe my luck that I got to wind among the white rooftops and catch fleeting vistas of glowing streets that stretched as far as I could see. And the people, too. Spending a part of every day in close quarters with a group of strangers with whom you have in common, despite all your apparent differences, this small window of time is deeply comforting. It's often said that living in a big city can be especially lonely, and I don't disagree. But you can't share a quiet train car with fifteen other people for thirty minutes and not come out of it feeling less alone.

It's easy to be in love with more than one city, but you can only really live in one place at a time. And no matter how much you love the city you're in, your mind inevitably wanders toward what life could be like somewhere else. 

Eventually I may have to choose where I want to build a more permanent life, but now is not the time. Right now, I'll let myself fall.

The First Week

Welcome to Irving Park, my neighborhood of residence for at least the next few months. It wasn't my first pick, as this station is a good 8-minute drive / 25-minute walk from my apartment. It's the main reason I decided to take my car to Chicago, as much as I wanted to rely solely on mass transit. The truth is, having my car here has been really nice. After unpacking on my first day, I got into that trusty gray Camry to go to Target. My mom and sister had left me a few hours prior, and I was feeling alone, vulnerable, and a bit lost. The minute I started driving, though, this sudden rush of confidence and invincibility surged through me. I felt like Harry did when he took flight on his Firebolt during the First Task: suddenly at ease, because I had this piece of familiarity in an otherwise unfamiliar place. Also, Katie Perry's "Roar" was playing on the radio, and that junk is pure magic. It was my first euphoric moment of "Holy shit, I've finally done it. After all this talk, I'm here. I'm living in Chicago."

I've enjoyed a handful of similar moments since I got here. But those fleeting highs aren't really what I came for. As expected, the last 12 days have brought me face to face, on multiple occasions, with the real objects of my pursuit.

Aloneness

Eating pasta while watching Netflix alone in your twin bed on a Friday night feels slightly more glamorous when you're doing it in Chicago. But I won't pretend this kind of behavior is a consequence of my being new to a city - I pull that kind of shit all the time. What I'm not used to is having entire days to myself. Nowhere to be, no one to see - just me and my own agenda that unravels as my fancy directs it. I don't mind this a bit. I'm a selfish person, you see. Or at least I feel that way, when a person I actually do care about talks to me while I'm reading or something, and my reaction is to wish that I lived in a city where no one knew me so no one would bother me. (At a recent interview I was asked if I'm an introvert or extrovert, and when I answered introvert, the woman assured me there was nothing wrong with that, that her sons were both introverts and they got along fine at their jobs. As though introversion is a mental disorder with which one must find ways to function normally. At the time I was amused by her remark, but now...perhaps she was on to something?)

I've unconsciously surrounded myself with strong, somewhat wild female characters who seem to be at ease, and perhaps at their best, when they're alone.

Discomfort

Breaking down and crying in the middle of a restaurant after your mom and sister, who will be leaving you in Chicago in a few hours' time, ask you about your Thanksgiving plans is uncomfortable. But it's a great way to usher in the thousand more inevitable moments of discomfort to come. Like the one where you get up and move to the other end of the rail car to distance yourself from a screaming toddler AND a muttering old man (they were not traveling together, thankfully). Or the one where you have to read something you wrote to a classroom of fifteen peers and hope to God you get some reaction. Oh, and that other one where the overenthusiastic improv student takes it upon himself to teach you and a couple other rookies how to freestyle rap (too much too soon!).

And then there's just the general discomfort of missing people, and not being sure how long you can keep this up, or what exactly you're after, or if it's possible to go back to what's most familiar merely because it's what's most familiar.

This is my living room floor; it won't have any furniture for a while. This is another source of discomfort, as I value aesthetics and coziness. But there's a silver lining here, and those who know me well can probably guess what it is. I gravitate toward the center of these things - they're perfect for practicing your pirouettes and six step. 

In the midst of all this, I'm finding great comfort in riding the el, the raised doughnut selection at Jewel-Osco, and http://seinfeld-episodes.com. 

Comedy

It's a novel thing to be around people who take comedy so seriously. In one of my classes, the instructor doesn't really laugh. If he thinks your joke is funny, he'll tell you why it worked. If he doesn't, he'll question the people who laughed at it and then turn to you for an explanation. My other instructor (who looks, sounds, and talks like Steve Martin*) is a bit more gracious with his praise, but asks us questions about the characters we've written as though they're real people whom he genuinely wants to get to know. 

Here are a couple bits that intrigued me most during my first few classes. To be clear, this isn't me thinking I'm equipped to give you a lesson in comedy. If I come across as didactic, it's because they taught it that way.

> Satire is the highest form of humor because it carries a subtext that the audience arrives at on their own. The message is always an astute observation or opinion about the human condition or the state of the world. This is different from snark, which is more direct and nasty, and therefor a lower form of humor.

> One rule in writing satire is to "comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable." This is why virtually all satirists are left wing. Right-wing doctrine tends to favor the status quo and isn't inclined to correct systemic imbalances and inequalities - which is the opposite of comforting the afflicted.

> One instructor claimed that professional writers don't like to write, they're just compelled to write (an interesting statement, though I don't think the two are mutually exclusive). If you're not at a point where you feel compelled to write, a good exercise is to set a timer for 30 minutes and write continuously for that period of time. Write whatever comes to mind without self-editing, and keep the words flowing, even if they're filler words, like "I don't know what to write." This way you become comfortable churning out garbage, and writing becomes easier. He likened it to milking a cow: if you do it every day for two weeks and then skip a day, the thoughts build up and you're compelled to let them out. What is more, you can begin to guide your thoughts so you're producing workable material.

*may actually be Steve Martin?

Before I moved here, I had read this article about our tendency to imagine ourselves failing, and how when we fail in our imaginations, it's always much more dramatic than it is to fail in real life. I imagined myself failing in the sense that I'd be so unhappy in Chicago that I wouldn't be able to focus on any of the things I came here to do. I imagined myself crying, a lot. Now I know how ridiculous that'd be, given my current life of creative pursuits and scant responsibility. But I couldn't be assured of this in advance, because as I said before, it's tough to enjoy a perspective you haven't yet earned. Still, it's probably worth it to discern when your imagination is encouraging you and, conversely, when it's being a conniving ass.

Moment of Comfort: Lincoln Park Farmers Market

Perspective

That's me, in the life jacket. I just caught that fish, insofar as I was probably at some earlier point holding the rod that reeled it in. Judging by my expression, though, I sorely wish this hadn't happened.

Twenty years have passed since this photo was taken, but I'm telling you, I can identify with the kid on that boat. In a way, this snapshot is symbolic of my adult life in general, with the fish representing any number of things:

- biking in the city

- trying to find a parking spot downtown

- running out of food during a day trip

- crossing paths with extended family and avoiding them on the premise that they probably don't recognize me

- riding the bus in a different city for the first time, for fear of holding up the line as I figure out just how to insert my fare card into the reader

- networking

- calling my grandparents on the phone

There have been many times when I've felt like a generally scared human being, and that no matter how much I wish I had it in me to take some particular risk, I couldn't overcome the fear of whatever awkwardness or embarrassment or mistakes might come of taking that leap. Over the past few years of general happiness and comfort, I think I let that feeling of self doubt and disappointment build up. At least, that's the only explanation I have for why I would decide to, within a matter of months, quit my job, move out of my apartment, say good-bye to the people I love, and leave a great city for a place where nothing and no one is waiting for me. 

I guess I've been craving a little discomfort.

It's an exciting and pivotal time. But with a week between me and the big move, I'm mostly scared. And just like my young, cowering self in that photo, present-day Megan could probably use a little perspective. If I had lived in a war-torn country, or fought a life-threatening illness, or survived some natural disaster that annihilated my entire community, I feel like I would gain the type of outlook where, as long as my body and health are intact and I'm existing in a relatively peaceful civilization, I'm going to be okay. But I don't have that, and I don't want to experience anything that would give me that kind of perspective. So even though I know I'll have money, a place to live, and plenty of love and support coming at me (albeit from a distance), I'm still scared. 

If little Megan had the perspective that I have now, she probably would have conducted herself with a bit more composure. But she didn't. She cried when her mom dropped her off at school, or was five minutes late picking her up. She cried when she had to transfer buses during her morning commute to first grade. She cried at loud noises, people in full-body costumes, and fish out of water.

That little girl is still very much a part of me. And just like her, I can't claim perspective that I haven't earned. Like her, I'm going to have to do this the hard way.