In August 1987, my family moved away from the pretty, curved lanes of our Wilmette neighborhood to the unknown--Lebanon, Ohio. There are few things I remember about this period of time (I was, after all, only 32 months old). Mainly, I remember the large cardboard boxes, whose rough edges, in my many attempts to make forts or climb them, managed to slice open my hands and knees many times over. I also remember a profound sense of sadness, though I couldn't quite place that description of feeling at the time. I knew things were different than they had been and that things were changing. I simply didn't like it.
Then, one night, shortly before we left, my mom took me on a walk around our neighborhood. It was one of those walks where we brought the stroller, but I would jump out and then push the contraption myself, playing Mama to my doll Baby Nikki, who was named after our six-year-old neighbor (who I revered). We trailed about the quiet black street, the decorative rocks that flanked the road catching the last orange-pink light of sunset. It had rained earlier that day, and the wetness held fast onto the light in its last moments. My mom had already explained the move to me several times, but I asked a lot about it. As we rounded onto another street, she explained again.
"We have to leave Caitlin's Big White House"--that's what I called our home--"to move into a New Big White House," she told me. The prospect that the new house would also be Big and White was somewhat reassuring, although not entirely welcoming. But it wasn't just the house I didn't want to leave--I didn't want to leave Nikki, or our other neighbors, or the garden we had, or this neighborhood. My entire world revolved around about a square mile radius around Lake Avenue and Meadowlane Road, and I wasn't about to leave it.
As I shuffled my feet along the blacktop, I spotted a different white house, not quite so big, but close enough to our home. "Couldn't we move to This Big White House?" I asked.
"No, honey," my mom said. And then she explained why, but I stopped listening because I realized that it was inevitable. We were leaving My Big White House, we were leaving my world.
Eventually, my parents closed the sale on our house, and that night we stayed in a motel near Old Orchard. We hit the road in the middle of the night--3 AM, actually--so we could be in Lebanon the next morning for my parents to finalize those papers as well. I don't remember any of this, but I do remember stopping at a Perkins somewhere in Indiana as the sun approached rising. I wore my Doctor Denton's jammies and padded around the restaurant, excited now about all the activity.
I fell asleep for the rest of the trip and woke up as we pulled into Lebanon. My eyes adjusted to the light as my neck, gone limp in sleep with my head lilting onto my right shoulder, now craned to see what was around me. As things came into focus, a large, baby blue building towered over me at the corner of what I'd later know as Broadway and Silver Streets. We continued down the town's main street, already bustling with weekend tourists, and finally made a left turn to trudge up our long, hilly driveway. There, at the top, was the New White House.
I'd like to say that it was here--where I got out of our Jeep Wagoneer, running about our huge yard, hugging the towering trees and chasing butterflies--that I fell in love with my house, that I adjusted. But I don't remember. Here, everything goes fuzzy again. My mom tells me that I cried sometimes before bed and asked when we could go back to My Big White House. I didn't understand, it seemed, that this wasn't just a long vacation where we brought all of our belongings. But, evidently, I adjusted. This New Big White House allowed for lots of Big Changes as August slipped into fall that year--a big girl bed, potty training, some light swimming lessons. And eventually, it wasn't the New Big White House, it was just My House and it was home.
I guess I write this out so that as I pack up the things around me, interview for more jobs, try to convince my parents that I haven't ruined my career future and cope with leaving behind a city, a boyfriend, and a life that I love, I can remember that it'll be okay. That there are more Big White Houses in my future.
Monday, August 27, 2007
My Big White House
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Day Trip to Northern Illinois
We decided last night, at about 10 pm, that a day trip was necessary. And though I can't quite do justice to all the moments, but in bullet-point form (my go-to in lazy moments), here are a few:
--A underworn-socked-light bulbed-scrubbered trip to the Target on Golf
--A lunch at the First Ever McDonalds (well, across the street from the First Ever)
--A windows-down trip up to Lincolnshire for sweet corn
--A putt-putting adventure at Par-King (most ridiculous, strangest mini golf ever)
--A lovely drive through the country-ish/north-westerly suburbish of northern Illinois
--A trip to an abandoned beach and an abandoned nuclear plant in Zion
--A discovery of a small envelope in a soda vending machine that read: OPEN ME. We did, and it was nine pennies. We put it back in case they were laced with SARS.
--A marshmallow and hot fudge creme sundae from Culver's
--A trip to the Naval Academy.
--A jingle-filled afternoon of fresh made songs about Kennilworth and Wilmette
--Oh, and making that damn good corn at the end of the day for dinner. :)
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Summer in the city
Things are slow, quiet. And for the most part, that's good. After the boiling hot/smelly subway/New York chaos that was last summer, the lazy, beachy, part-time employed life is somewhat welcome for one last Summer Vacation. Not to mention, that being away from New York as long as possible is good considering who knows how long I may spend in my future there...
I spent yesterday morning with Hayley at the Farmers' Market where we bought raspberries, blueberries, and various other goodies. We subsequently packed ourselves turkey bagel sandwiches and threw on our swimsuits for a trip to beach. We basked in the sun for almost four hours, catching up, reading, plunging in the cool lake and throwing a frisbee around in the waves. It was great.
It was also nice to spend some time with a friend I hadn't seen in a while. It seems so hard--maybe at this age, or maybe forever--to keep in touch with friends. I've spent quite a few nights here saying "goodbye" to people, promising to keep in touch, and wondering if we ever will. I also keep running into friends and acquaintances on the street, half-making plans to go get dinner or a drink and seemingly never following through on the promise made. I can't help but wonder if sometimes an unreturned or unmade phone call is my fault or the fault of someone else, or if it's no one's fault and we're all so busy. But then I find myself sitting around on a sunny afternoon and thinking that it should be another day at the beach or something of the like.
There must be some delicate balance between the quiet buzz of the air conditioning in a room by one's self and the loud roar of a college party. It's just hard to find in the middle of July when it's almost 100 degrees outside, I suppose.
Monday, June 4, 2007
thoughts upon graduation
I'm running on little to no sleep from the last few days, but it's important that I update now.
I'm done.
Done with college, that is.
After a website crashing, recreating it, a finished documentary, and an econ final in the last, well, three days, I'm done.
If it were not for sitting at John's computer, listening to the raging theater party outside my window and having just returned from Jeff Redinger's apartment where I hung out with freshman year Willardite-types, I might be able to fully appreciate and comprehend that phrase--I'm done.
But instead, I languish in the residue of heat, the drip of the Ridge and Davis air conditioners, and the darkness of this darkened room and pretend that this is not it. That this might be another beginning.
And I suppose, ultimately, it is. But how can one move forward when one is too busy looking behind her?
So I will allow myself this time to decompress, to wax nostalgic, and to do whatever it is that all graduating seniors do (drink? cry? repress?) in the next week before graduation. Perhaps I will be ready. And perhaps I won't.
But at the end, for most of my life, I will be a Northwestern graduate. So for now, I will relish in this threshold--this in-between--and wait.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
"How many of you guys have heard of... blogs???"
When will journalism classes teach appropriately for students who have already mastered the crazy wild unruly media of the Internet? It's nothing new for us nutso college kids. Nothing earth-shattering. I'm so tired of reading about the Internet.
Monday, April 23, 2007
VT
I find myself setting aside my homework and obsessively reading about the Virginia Tech tragedy. Since last Monday, I've been engrossed. When I first heard from a voice message from Katie Sparks, I practically sped home to turn on the television. Of course my first thoughts were of Michael, my friend from home who goes there, and I started contacting anyone who might have heard from him. Eventually, I got a hold of Brandon who had just spoken with Mike and knew he was okay.
I couldn't focus on my homework all Monday night, nor could I focus in class throughout the day on Tuesday. Instead, I looked at the facebook profiles and news on each individual victim, imagining what Northwestern's campus would be like if something like that happened here. As more details emerged about the killer's bizarre life and his gross, unfounded anger, I became so angry one day that I literally broke a spatula.
I finally received an email from Mike on Thursday, assuring me (after my panicky email from Monday afternoon) that he was okay. I was sad though. Mike and I grew apart over the last three years, and although I hear about him from friends like Nick, I miss him. I guess that's what a tragedy like this does--it puts things in perspective. Mike and I may have lost touch, but there's a part of him that will forever mean so much to me since we were so close in high school and a part of me that feels like we could as easily grow close again as we grew apart. When I heard about VT, I couldn't help but think back to my senior year when Brandon, Michael, Katie Odell and I formed one big hug on my front lawn after attending the visitations of two girls in their class who had died two days before in a car accident. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you guys," Katie said. It's four years later, but I still feel the same way.
I guess I had to get that out. I should get back to homework--a new website due on Thursday, a quiz on Tuesday, etc. etc. I tried to relax this weekend by celebrating John's early graduation, surprising him with a trip to the floatation tank center and then a crazy night of dancing at Smartbar for DJ Heather's new Om record release and birthday party. And today was gorgeous, although I spent most of it scoping out Marquette Park to find a new documentary subject (our subjects backed out yesterday, a day before our scheduled interview). We found one, thankfully, and the sun was shining.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Northwestern on the Southwest Side
My feelings about the nearing end of college are not unique or original, but that's okay. I still feel anxiety, excitement and a bittersweet twinge inside when I imagine traipsing about Scott Hall's lawn following the Medill convocation. Maybe it will rain instead.
Still, how am I to know what I want to do? I write. That's something, I'm told. Professor-mentors pull me aside and tell me that I've got "it," but words of encouragement mean nothing if you don't believe it yourself--especially if you don't know what "it" is. Instead, I run from one thing to the next, hoping that something will click. If it's not service, it's narrative non-fiction. If it's not writing, it's film. If all else fails, I'll audition for the next production of Cats.
Before I collapse back into another six hours of sleep, I have to mention that my six hours on the southwest side today culminated into much more than almost two and a half hours on the road and some fruitless exploration.
Two of my groupmates in my documentary class joined me in Marquette Park today as we sought out what remained of the Muslim population there. We ended up poking our heads into a boarded up storefront whose door was open, discovered it was a "Social Club," and sat sipping tea with the owner Ah'med, a Palestinian immigrant, for almost two hours. We walked away from his shop with the beginnings of an amazing doc topic and, quite seriously, a new friend. We have made tentative plans to bring our cameras and empty stomachs for a traditional Palestinian meal at Ah'med's house during the weekend.
We were happy enough with Ah'med, but ventured on a bit further down the street to a Muslim community activism center. There we discovered yet another great topic for our film--this one involving released convicted armed robbers and murderers who have turned to the Koran for guidance as this community organization puts them on their feet. I'm basically psyched.
Can't college last forever? College makes experiences like I had today so easy to access (given that you major the right way, I suppose). I may have to work harder in my future to make these things happen in my life. But I do know that I will, no matter what I end up doing, keep seeking new these new places and people. It's what I love to do and what helps me breathe--especially when I'm anxiety-ridden about an impending job search. :)
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
It's Finals Week
And I'd be remiss not to mention that after running into Grant and Scott, who were carrying an emptied Heineken box full of Rockstar Energy Drink, red cups, two ping-pong balls, and--for some reason--orange juice, I have now seen two "grown" college men play energy drink pong in an emptied library tower past closing time. And now we are sitting in the dark, backed up against a wall and testing our computers to make sure they will turn off at a moment's notice if someone should open the door to this room to make sure it's empited.
I guess it's college, and I'll enjoy it while it lasts.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Because I can't get enough Mary Poppins...
Here's a theory.
Remember the scene in Mary Poppins when she teaches Michael and Jane that "In every job that must be done, there's an element fun. Find the fun, and snap! The job's a game!"?
I'm pretty sure that scene ruined not just me, but my future as well.
Let's get real. There is no work being done in this scene. Mary, Michael and Jane run around the nursery, half-playing with toys and half-snapping their fingers, causing the toys to jump back into place, cupboards to shut in orderly fashion, and clothes to fly into the air, folding themselves mid-launch, and plop into dressers. I'd happily do that "job" every day.
Now, I know we're supposed to look through this scene and see the true message, but I can't. My brain remains childlishly literal: They weren't having fun while cleaning! They were just having fun!!!
That said, I seem to expect that things will simply drop into place for me. That a job will come by my door, that I will become some discovered actress/writer/illustrator/blogger/trapeze artist and things will be set. Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way. I'm singing showtunes and snapping my fingers when I really need to be tidying the nursery.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Inconsistencies
Perhaps I'm crude, but I couldn't help but comment the other night as I watched the last hour of DM on Julie's computer that it seemed strange to see all those strobe lights and lasers for a dance marathon to benefit people living with epilepsy.
I remember vividly my freshman year when our efforts to raise money for autism research were personified as a mother and her autistic son took the stage to thank us for all of our hard work. How was the thanking handled this year?
I know, I'm horrible. But aside from the fact that this was a legitimate question, I took note that this was yet another in a string of incidents marked by irony and inconsistencies.
In an art store, it turns out, you get all types. Not just the crazy sculptors or the anal architects...
Last weekend, I helped a blind woman to the paint aisle to pick out black paint for her. As I asked her which "black" she wanted--Mars Black, Ivory Black, etc.--I wondered what her artwork looked like, if it was somehow prophetic, or if maybe people's praise precipitated from their discomfort with looking at the artwork of a blind woman. I later found out she is not just a painter--she is a teacher.