I was well into my second semester as a Creative Writing major when one of my professors made a comment that greatly altered my perspective. It came at the end of a story he told about his college days.

“That,” he said, “was when I first began to think of myself as a writer.”

As simple a statement as that was, it struck me in a profound way. Did I think of myself as a writer? I had been writing stories and poetry for years, and yet, whenever I described myself, I was a student, an employee, a friend – not a writer. Writing was something I did, not something I was.

That thought stayed with me, and gradually I began to come to view myself as a writer. To think as a writer, to live as a writer, to be a writer.

So what is the difference between a writer and someone who simply writes?

In essence, nothing. Anyone who writes is, in the broadest definition, a writer. However, once writing becomes so much a part of a person’s life that it becomes an inherent part of their identity, then the description ceases being “I am someone who writes” and becomes “I am a writer.”

For me, this happened when I began to see the world in terms of how it could be translated into words. I began to think of conversations and situations in life as potential material for stories, and I began to delve into my own thoughts, experiences, and feelings in terms of how those could be expressed in poetry.

Writing is no longer something I do, it is a part of who I am – I am a writer.

I have not always fully appreciated my parents.  In my younger days, even though I loved and respected my mother and father, there were times when my immaturity and inexperience led me to believe that I possessed some greater knowledge than my parents did, that somehow their lack of expertise in technology, their entirely different tastes in music and movies from mine, and the fact that they hadn’t learned Calculus, functioned as a sort of barrier, emphasizing the difference in age, in interests, in taste, making me feel as though my parents, for all their good qualities and as much as I loved them, would never understand me.

I knew even then that those were the kinds of thoughts that all teenagers have; I had heard, like every other teenager, the clichéd statements about kids thinking they know more than their parents or that their parents couldn’t possibly understand them, and of how young, inexperienced people always assume they are the exceptions, not the rule.  I had heard them all, and, of course, I was absolutely convinced that I was an exception – in my case, it really was true; my parents had me late in life and they really were out of the loop; the generation gap seemed simply impassable.

I had always considered myself a fast learner.  In school I always picked up quickly on new concepts.  Some things, however – the things that matter – may take a bit longer to catch on to. 

This is a story of me growing up – something that, I’m ashamed to admit, has really only happened lately, in spite of the fact that I’m now almost 24 years old.  I am even more ashamed to admit that it took my mom getting cancer for the second time before the lesson really sank in. 

My mom got cancer for the first time when I was ten years old.  I don’t remember much of the experience.  What I do remember is the feeling of terror that kept me awake at night, not out of concern that my mother might die (that possibility never fully occurred to me), but out of a realization of my own mortality, of the possibility of death in general.  Intellectually, I knew that my mother could die, but I believed she wouldn’t.  The fear came from seeing the possibility of death so closely, seeing it appear so suddenly, and realizing that it could happen to anyone, even to a ten-year old, at any moment.

Late one night I crawled out of bed, terrified, and made my way to the living room, where the dim light from the television flickered gently on the wall and the on-screen voices murmured softly.  My mom was still awake, sitting on the couch, and I sought her comfort, climbing into her lap.  She put her arms around me.

“I’m scared,” I said.

“I know,” she answered, hugging me, “but don’t worry; everything will be alright.  God will take care of things; I will be okay.”

I remember feeling comforted by the simplicity of her answer, by her calm faith in the stability of life: Everything will be alright.  God will take care of things. 

I didn’t tell her my fear was for more than her life, that I feared for my own life, for everyone’s, for the sheer possibility of death at any moment to anyone I might care about.  Her expression of assurance was enough to take the edge off my fear, and after sitting with her a few moments, I returned to bed, praying for God to protect and watch over us as I drifted to sleep.

That time they had caught the cancer early; they were able to remove the lump from her breast with a biopsy.  The cancer hadn’t spread.  My mother remained calm throughout the pre-op preparations, calm before going under anesthesia, calm after the surgery.  She remained calm as they informed her she would need radiation therapy for the next few months in order to ensure the cancer wouldn’t return.  She remained calm, in fact, until well into the series of radiation, when the stress to her body and mind began to wear on her.  Her spirits began to fall some then.  She spent a lot of time in bed; she cried often – yet somehow, she made it through alright, and before long her spirit of calm optimism came back to her, she finished her radiation therapy, and returned to work full-time.

She went nearly thirteen years cancer-free, far beyond the five years the doctors gave her as the “safe” margin.  Then, in November of this year, another lump appeared.

This time, things were different.  The cancer had been found farther along, and the doctors’ speed in moving her from appointment to appointment with specialists and consultants was alarming.  Within a week of having discovered the lump, my mother was scheduled for a biopsy and a probable mastectomy.

This time, I saw things as an adult rather than a child.  It never occurred to me, at ten years old, how much of the experience my parents must have shielded me from.  This time, however, I was there for the whole process.  I talked with mom as the doctors hurried her through the emotional ups-and-downs of deciding the lump was cancerous and that surgery was required.  I accompanied Mom and Dad to the hospital on the day of her biopsy, and I was there when the surgeons had her sign the release for the mastectomy, which they would complete while she was on the table for the biopsy if the lump proved cancerous.  My mother went under anesthesia for that biopsy not knowing whether she would wake up with her breast removed or not, and yet she remained calm, content, willing to accept whatever outcome was provided her.

This time, I felt fear in a different way, not out of selfish concern for my own mortality, but out of concern for the pain she would be going through.  I rode the elevator to the surgery wing with my father, aunt, and grandmother to hear the report from the biopsy.  I carefully noted the details, knowing that Dad would be too stressed to remember them later – right mastectomy, an aggressive type of cancer, testing the lymph nodes to see if it has spread.  I rode down the elevator with my father, listening to my aunt and grandmother repeat the surgeon’s words;  I stood in the hospital lobby as my father hugged me, crying, as he told me he was scared not for my mother’s life but for her suffering, the pain of the surgery, the loss of her breast, the emotional and physical recovery ahead for her.  I felt the love of my mother’s friends as they came to sit with us in the hospital lobby, waiting for her to come out of surgery, as they ate with us in the hospital cafeteria, as they brought flowers and cards to her room and sat to talk with her beside her bed.

And then came another struggle – the cancer, though it hadn’t spread, was aggressive, and likely to return.  The doctors recommended chemotherapy; without it, they said, the cancer could come back, untreatable, within five years.

This time, I saw the process from the inside.  I talked with Mom as she made the decision to go ahead with the chemotherapy, even though the doctors said it couldn’t guarantee that the cancer wouldn’t return.  I discussed the possibilities with her, the pros and cons, and she listened to my input; I talked with her not as a child, but as an adult, a friend, an equal.  I ached for her as she considered the side effects – nausea, fatigue… hair loss.  The nausea and fatigue were preventable, they make medications for those now, but the hair loss was unavoidable.  “That’s okay,” she said with a smile, “at least I won’t have to worry about my hair getting messed up anymore.”

My mother has now been in chemotherapy for almost four months.  She has lost all of her hair, and due to complications with her white blood cell count, she has had to take daily injections which make her whole body ache.  The day her hair began to fall out, in clumps, scattered across the floor, someone sent her flowers.  She cried when she got them, only for a moment, and then apologized. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve been trying to be strong; but I guess it just finally got to me.”

My father and I looked at her in astonishment. 

“You’ve been very strong,” my father said. 

I tried to find words to say something helpful, but all I could manage was an agreement: “Yes, you have been very strong.”

It’s a funny thing, growing up, because it happens sometimes when you least expect it.  Seeing my mom battle cancer for a second time has made me realize that my parents are stronger and braver than I ever knew.  My mom’s unfailing optimism has shown me a new side of her, one that I somehow didn’t really pay attention to the first time around.  I used to think that my parents just didn’t understand me, that their experiences were too different than mine, that their generation just couldn’t really understand what it was like to be growing up in today’s world. 

But now, I realize that what I perceived as a lack of understanding on their part was really just a lack of understanding on mine – taste in music, what’s learned in school, an affinity for technology – those things don’t matter.  Watching my parents, I have learned so much about dealing with life, and pain, and fear.  Seeing this experience for the second time, I feel as if I’ve finally grown up.  The petty differences I used to have with my parents just don’t seem to matter anymore, because I see now that there are much more important things, and that my parents have more to offer me on lessons of life than I ever realized before.  Love, empathy, courage, and calm confidence when life as you know it is crumbling around you – those are the things that matter.

Calliope: Voice of the Writers is now officially underway!

If you’re interested in writing (or reading) fiction, poetry, or non-fiction, then Calliope might be just what you’re looking for.

An international online writers’ magazine, Calliope includes monthly issues, weekly editorial columns, active forums where readers can leave comments for the writers, The Great Novel Race of 2008, and more!

Calliope is currently accepting submissions of fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and novel first-chapters for the April 2008 edition. Submission deadline is April 12th, 2008.

To see the March 2008 issue, or for more information, visit the Calliope website.

Calliope is an online writers’ magazine which is currently taking submissions now through March 12, 2008.

 Please check out the website for more information.

I’d Rather Be a Shoelace

(or, I’m Glad I’m Not a Prairie Dog! )

Pretend for a moment that you sell shoelaces for a living.

You got in on the colored-shoelaces fashion craze a few years back, and now the trend has spread, providing a healthy market in your town for your growing assortment of brightly colored and wildly patterned shoelaces, which you produce yourself on equipment you purchased just for that purpose.

Your business is thriving.  True, it’s only a local business.  After all, you can only produce a certain number of shoelaces in your little personal factory.  However, you’re happy with the success of your little neighborhood business, and you take pride in the return of your loyal clients week after week, as they come in to see what new shoelace designs you’ve come up with.  You are more than a shoelace salesperson.  You are a shoelace artist.

One day, you hear on the news that there has been an outbreak of fevers and strange rashes in a small town on the other side of the country.  Within a few more days, the sickness has spread to a dozen or more people in that town.  And then, you hear something alarming — the local authorities in the town have traced the sickness back to a small shoelace factory in that area.  After an investigation, it’s discovered that the materials the factory used to make the last batch of shoelaces were infested with a microscopic parasite which has been infecting customers with a highly contagious respiratory illness.  Soon, nearly 20 people in that town are hospitalized with the illness.  A wave of panic passes through the entire shoelace-producing community.  Though the illness is easily treatable, it gives the medical authorities quite a scare, and the tiny factory in that far-away town is shut down. 

A few days later, you are notified that your factory is being shut down as well.  The disease is spreading quickly, and because medical authorities are worried that the infected shoelace materials might have been used at more than one factory, they ban the production of shoelaces nationwide.

Soon shoelaces become a thing of the past.  Those who own “clean” shoelaces from the pre-infectious period still wear them from time to time; everyone else just uses Velcro.

What is a shoelace artist to do? 
(And what does this have to do with prairie dogs?)

Some may suggest trying to adapt, finding a creative way to design colorful and wildly patterned Velcro.  But what about the stock of shoelaces you had produced prior to the infection?  You know they are “clean;” they were produced long before the suspected material ever entered the country, aside from the fact that you make your shoelaces from materials produced at a local distribution center.  Your materials would never have come in contact with the infected batch.

What are you to do with all those shoelaces?  According to government regulations, shoelaces are no longer allowed to be bought, sold, or transferred, regardless of when and where they were produced.  Do you use them for decorations in your home?  As stuffing for a new pillow?  Or do you simply hold on to them, in hopes that one day the ban will be lifted and you can resume your life’s work?

Now imagine that instead of shoelaces, we’re talking about a living creature which has to be cared for and looked after; which can’t just be packed in a box to wait until the ban is lifted.  What would you do then?

This is exactly what has happened with the case of prairie dogs.

Briefly gaining popularity on the exotic pet market, prairie dog sale and transport was banned in 2003 due to an outbreak of Monkey Pox in a localized trading circuit.  The Monkey Pox, which began with a group of infected exotic rats, spread to a group of prairie dogs caged nearby them in the same pet store.  Monkey Pox, similar to Chicken Pox, is highly contagious and infected the pet-dealer as well as the family who purchased the prairie dogs.  Though treatable, the disease spread quickly enough to cause great concern within the CDC, which consequently placed a permanent ban on the sale of prairie dogs nationwide.

The trouble is that prairie dogs are not like shoelaces.  They can’t be stored away in a closet now that the ban is in place.  So what happened to all the prairie dogs which had previously been bred or captured for the pet trade?

Well, as Diedtra Henderson of the Boston Globe mentions, some prairie dog dealers have “simply picked up a skill from the animals” and “moved underground.”

Others have opted for a less controversial route, and have devoted their time (and considerable portions of their homes) to housing abandoned prairie dogs and providing access to stocks of supplies for those residual prairie dog owners from the pre-ban period.  However, even this becomes a bit shady, as the ban also prohibits the trading of prairie dogs in any form, requiring a veterinarian’s clearance and quarantine procedures for even simply transporting the animal.

So what becomes of all the prairie dogs?

Surprisingly, prairie dogs have bigger things to worry about.

Considered a pest in many places, the prairie dog has suffered a variety of unfortunate injustices*, including being vacuumed out of its home and used as a food source for endangered ferrets, as a target for sporting events and as the main ingredient for cookoffs. And if that isn’t bad enough, scientists have officially labeled the prairie dog’s main function in life as being a primary food source for other animals.  

The next time you’re having a bad day, just be thankful you aren’t a prairie dog.

————————-

*I happen to be a residual prairie dog owner from the pre-ban period, and I’ve got to say, they’re really very charming animals!  Okay, so mine went through a phase where he rabidly attacked people, but now he’s perfectly sweet and loving, and has a wonderful personality.   And though wild prairie dogs may be perceived as pests, they also serve an important function in the ecosystem (even if it is partly just as a food source for other animals).

Why do we often define people by characteristics which are transitory?

When asked to describe a missing person, we give four major characteristics: Height, weight, hair color, and eye color.  Yet, at least two of those are easily changed (with a simple installation of colored contacts and hair dye), and even weight can be changed over time.  So why do we hold those as the defining characteristics of a person’s appearance?  Why don’t we describe nose shape, posture, the relationship of the length of the person’s arms to the rest of his body, etc. – things which the person would be far less likely (and far less able) to change?

I find myself often wondering about the way in which we classify people.  For nearly my entire life, I thought of people in terms of categories.  There was the “garbage man,” the “teacher,” the “mail lady;” I had “school friends,” “neighborhood friends,” and “work friends;” and, as my mom was always keen to point out, I had “play clothes,” which were never to be confused with “dress clothes.”  If ever my “teacher” interfered in my home world by shopping in my neighborhood grocery store, it completely overturned my perspective on reality, and I’d need nearly a full day to recover from the shock.

Based on my childhood views of things, I could currently classify myself as a “teacher.”  Yet somehow I feel that description to be wholly inadequate, because I know that only one aspect of my identity truly fits into that category.  I am also a writer, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend, an animal-lover, a singer, and a wannabe-rockstar.  Even in my own attempts to describe myself to others, I find myself trapped between the boundaries of categories.  When a person asks what I do, I wonder, should I tell them I’m a teacher?  And yet I’m also currently a grad student, and that takes up at least as much of my time as teaching.  Or would it be more accurate to say that I’m a writer, since that’s what I intend to do when I finish grad school? 

My life doesn’t fit neatly into a boxed off category, so why do I expect to be able to classify others as if their lives do?

Categorizing people and things is a part of the way we, as humans, make sense of the world.  And yet, it seems we often classify people by characteristics that could change at any moment.  A few months ago my little sister was a brunette, then she was a redhead, then a blonde; a few weeks ago, my mother had a full head of hair, and now, due to chemotherapy, she is rapidly losing the little bit she has left.  A few years ago, someone I knew lost nearly 50 pounds, and hardly even looked like the same person.  Yet hair color and weight are two of the four most commonly stated defining characteristics.

 It’s the same with careers.  Today I’m a teacher, but I’m not sure I always will be.  And eventually my dad will cease being a mechanic, and become … a former mechanic? Many people may describe him that way. But of course he will be involved in other things, his activities in life won’t end the day he retires as a mechanic.  

Again, why not focus on something unchanging, like the length of a person’s torso, the circumference of a person’s head, or the ratio of the length of a person’s fingers to his palm? 

Well, obviously, the reason we focus on things like weight and hair color are because they are the most noticeable characteristics, and the easiest to remember (aside from the fact that finger-to-palm ratio could be quite difficult to estimate, and quite awkward to measure when you’ve just met a person).

Likewise, the reason we associate people with certain careers is because they fill certain roles in our lives.  And, of course, because we have a fervent need to categorize things.

My interest, as of late, has been in the realization that our categories must be, by necessity, ever-changing.  My mother is no longer a brunette; I will not always be a grad student; my second-grade teacher is by now probably retired, and some of my “work friends” are now my “neighborhood friends.”  And yet my mother is essentially no different a person; after grad school, I’ll be one masters’ degree poorer yet no less myself than I am now;  and my teacher and my friends have merely found new roles in my life to fill. 

If it were possible to see a person and label them as something intransitory, what would it be?  Or does part of the intrigue of fitting people into categories lie in the very fact that we can reorganize and re-label as life goes on?

For my part, at least, I’d rather be known for more than my eye color and height (the appearance of which is easily altered by high-heeled shoes), and I’d rather not anyone start measuring the ratio of my arms to my torso. 

So until I figure out something more permanent to label myself, I guess I’m just a “temporarily teaching, currently enrolled grad student, who at the moment has long brown hair.”  Hmm.  Maybe I should just stick with “wannabe-rockstar.”   

Somewhere in the depths of a black plastic bag in the dark corner of a closet, three Popples sit.

It seems to me that a dark closet is quite an unnatural place for a Popple to be. They’re actually very bright and cheery sort of creatures.

Anyway, the Popple, in spite of its brightly colored fur and its sickeningly cute, cheerful smile, has a sad tale to tell. The Popple was an 80’s fad puppet/cartoon creation which, at the height of seemingly remarkable success and in the midst of the cartoon-character-turned-stuffed-animal craze, suddenly disappeared entirely from the face of the earth.

Where has the Popple gone? This question, like the common childhood query “Where do butterflies go when it rains?” has baffled people for years. Some say the Popples are all hiding out in dark corners of closets. For my own Popples, this, sadly, is the case. Others say that the Popples simply popped out of existence, rolling themselves into a ball and then into a ball again… and again… until they simply disappeared.

When I was a child, I used to wonder whether my stuffed animals came alive at night. I put a lot of thought and concern into treating each one fairly, in the belief that, should they ever awaken, my stuffed animals would remember my kindness toward them and show me mercy by not killing me in my sleep.

Popples look cute, and innocent, and their bright colors seem to suggest a general mood of happiness. However, should a magical fairy of some sort pass by and awaken my Popples, I wonder if their sunny disposition might fade at awakening to the realization that they’ve been stuffed in a closet for over a decade. That’s certainly something to ponder.

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For those of you who have no clue what I’m talking about, click here.

 The other day I was driving home, listening to some old-school Backstreet Boys, when I had a moment of intense reflection which led to a realization of such magnitude that its likeness will possibly never be replicated:

I used to think the Backstreet Boys were cool.

I know, I know; that doesn’t seem like such a staggering epiphany, but allow me to elaborate for a moment.

First of all, let me say that I haven’t followed the Backstreet Boys for some time now. In fact, since I was about 15. Just today, I checked the Backstreet Boys official website, and was shocked to see that there are now only 4 of them! I know this is very old news to many of you, but as the tragedy of the fivesome having lost a member is fresh to me, I am still struggling to cope with the loss. Farewell, Kevin.

Let me set one thing straight: I’m not knocking the Backstreet Boys. I still find them delightfully reminiscent of my pre-teen years. All I’m saying is that I used to think they were cool, and now I don’t. Now I view them with fond familiarity and nostalgia rather than admiration of their musical abilities. Is this a change in my own perspective? Or perhaps they never were cool, and it was all just a naive misconception?

Case in point: The song I was listening to at the time of my epiphany was “We’ve Got It Goin’ On”.

Now, I’d never claimed to admire the profundity of the Backstreet Boys’ lyrics; however, in my recent moment of clarity, I began to wonder how any self-respecting man (or pre-man, I guess you would call it, seeing as some of them were but teenagers at the height of their success) could, with any air of seriousness, utter the following lyrics:

“Well I’m creepin’ up on your left
Straight up funky when I get with you
I get ruthless when I get wet
Keep the party packed in my corner
Tough like granite to keep the crowd hype
Get up on this just to get right
What you want is what you gonna get
Backstreet’s got the special effects, uh.”

Again, I feel I must restate this one fact: I am not dissing the Backstreet Boys. I’m merely pointing out a shift in perspective.

The official Backstreet Boys website claims that they “redefined the modern musical landscape.” Whether that’s true or not, they certainly held my admiration. In fact, I was one of the few true Backstreet fans who rejected *NSync as but an imitation of the original (Justin Timberlake? What was that about?). My devout fanship, however, was short-lived, as I fell off the boyband bandwagon in about the year 2000. The self-titled Backstreet Boys album and Millennium are the only Backstreet CDs I ever owned, and I really only ever listened to the first one. I guess I was so attached to the original that once their music started changing, the pain was just too great to bear.

Which brings up another question: On the 1997 Backstreet Boys self-titled album, there was a song called “(Everybody) Backstreet’s Back.” Had they been gone? Weren’t they just getting started? I always wondered about that… and then I was even more confused to find out recently that they had released an album in 2005 called “Never Gone,” after they’d nearly disappeared off the map for a while. It seems like they need to re-evaluate the timeliness of their song and album titles. Not to mention the use of mummies and vampires in a music video…

In any case, I have now reached a phase in my life where I must relinquish the folly of my youth, and admit that the Backstreet Boys just aren’t cool anymore. Perhaps they never were… but they’ll always have it “goin’ on” in my book, at least the book that belongs to the nostalgic, pre-teen version of me.

I guess this means I’m truly grown up now…

Long live the BSB. They’ve had it “goin’ on for years.”

***
Addendum: For those of you unfamiliar with the BSB bandwagon, click here. Notice the seriousness of their expressions as they disclose their innermost feelings to you, the eager viewer/listener. They just couldn’t “hold it back no more.”

Sometimes when I sit down to write, my thoughts are like demons within me, romping about, bickering with one another, tussling in my brain. Every now and then one of them will call out to me, and I will struggle to capture it immediately, to imprison it in words on the page before it can slip once more from my grasp and resume its frantic scampering. I struggle with my thoughts one by one as they struggle with one another, and they are ever-moving, jumping, shifting, chaotic and unrelenting. Only when I have captured the very last one and fastened it firmly to the page do I finally feel a calm, elated peace – peace that comes, in part, from a sense that I have just accomplished something grand. I have wrestled my demons to the page, and now I can finally have a moment of silence.