Angry at a Dead Man

Yesterday, I received a terrible shock; one of my coworkers had a heart attack on the job and collapsed. He never recovered. I wasn't working Wednesday night; I learned of his passing when I came to the store to pick up a handful of necessities. I didn't cry when I was told. I finished my shopping and made my way out to of the store, feeling the emotion build as I neared my car. I fumbled with the key, taking a few deep breaths before settling enough to unlock the door. The tears came when I slumped into the seat and slammed the door closed behind me. I called home to say that I would be while; the cell phone beeped angrily in my ear before I could finish and the battery ran out. I was angry, and to my own dismay, I realized I was angry at him, angry at a dead man for dying. How completely irrational; how completely normal for someone who is grieving.

Heart disease ran in his family, but he was so terribly thin. I don't think I ever saw him eat, except on special nights when we would have a cookout or hold a potluck. He was young, too. But he smoked, and that was why I was mad at him. He knew the risks, and he smoked. I love too many people who smoke, and his death was a poignant reminder of the effects that cigarettes can have on the heart. It made me angry at all the people I care about who haven't kicked the habit; it made me mad at myself for having smoked in the past. Last night, the smokers still practiced their nicotine rituals, even though the conversation was quiet and half-hearted. I wondered, did they even for a moment feel the way I had? Did they think to themselves that they could be the next to leave behind a spouse? A child?

I used to take his baseball cap off and turn it around backwards. It became a game, and some nights it was very difficult for me to catch him off guard. He had an incredible mind for song trivia; I could ask him the name of the artist for almost any song we heard at work, and he could spout out the artist, album, and even the year. He knew backstories behind the lyrics, too. On our lunch break, he would get into one of the motorized carts and do a tour of the store, popping into the break room to buy a bottle of diet soda before motoring out the door, waving like the queen. I didn't know him well, but he was a part of my life and I will miss him. This will take some getting used to.

I think of him--sitting on that motorized cart, feet propped up on the basket, waving that silly queen mum wave--and I smile.

And I'm not angry anymore.

--Gaia_song

The Silence Between: Part 2

Many college students are faced with the need to work in order to support themselves, certainly more so now than in the past. Tuitions and textbooks are increasing in price at an exponential rate. Simultaneously, federal financial aid programs are being cut. It is estimated that the average cost associated with four years of college is about $45,000 for public institutions; private institutions may cost double the amount (these prices include dorm fees; the price is significantly lower for commuter students at around $20,000 for four years in a public college). Factor in $3,400 for textbooks and you’re faced with some serious sticker shock. Looking at these figures, I can appreciate how aggravated my parents must have been when I failed two courses in my first semester at college in the fall of ‘95—I have paid my own tuition ever since.

I have been in and out of school for a number of years; I finally settled on a major in 2002 and was ready to truly tackle school for the first time in my adult life. Through it all, I have continued to work. Things have been difficult, but not impossible; I have managed to get to where I am today thanks to the constant support of my family and friends. They are the people who make this segment of The Silence Between something that I can proudly share.

Part 2: Work and Home

In my previous post, I mentioned that I work an overnight job (many people are astonished that I can do this and attend college, but it is not unlike working during the day and going to night school). I stock shelves at a department store. The work is not terribly difficult, except for the departments that require a great deal of heavy lifting, and for the most part nights go by smoothly. There are occasional tensions, as one would find at any job, but I tend to kill the frustration with humor. I have taken to shouting “CHEESECAKE!” as the answer to any questions I am asked when I’m particularly hyper (which is often). When one of the managers asked me why I chose that dessert I replied “because cheesecake solves everything!”

One of the great joys that has come from my nearly nine years with the same company has been the opportunity to meet so many different people. I have known teachers and factory workers, bakers and EMTs, and single parents and working families. I have moved around within the company and even thought of moving up for a time (there have been many opportunities), but in the end I knew that retail was not my real calling. I had the need to do something bigger, something that would benefit the community. I learned about that calling through my work as a volunteer tour guide for the Hamburg Natural History Society. I walked groups of school kids across an ancient ocean floor, helping them find fossils of trilobites and brachiopods while we explored ways in which the animals might have lived. I was outside and growing with the children as I taught them, and I loved it. A short time later, I was back in school. Through school I had the opportunity to volunteer at the Buffalo Zoological Gardens, and I continue to volunteer for the HNHS and the Buffalo Museum of Science as my crazy schedule allows.

<--Indian Rhinos Tashi and her baby Asha at the Buffalo Zoo.

With all of the time that work and school demand of me, one might think that I do little else but sleep when I get home. During peak parts of the semester, this is certainly true; around midterms and finals I am akin to a Hollywood zombie, staggering around with a blank stare and muttering “brains…need brains.” However, I have a number of hobbies that are quite rewarding. I enjoy such creative endeavors as writing poetry, cooking and experimenting with new foods, and composing music. My favorite hobby of all, though, would have to be gardening. There is nothing finer than waking up early in the morning and sitting out on the front porch with a cup of tea while the scent of lilacs is carried on the breeze. The dew makes the roses sparkle; the soft edges of ferns and goat’s beard are reminiscent of a woodland hideaway. I cannot count the number of hours I have labored in the many beds, trimming shrubs and pulling weeds until my fingertips were black with soil, but every minute of time I spend there is a moment of meditation for me. Gardening is not work; it is a sanctuary for the soul.

When so little time remains for us to get back in touch with ourselves, the need for a supportive network of friends and family becomes readily apparent. There are so many people who have helped me on this journey, more than I could possibly thank in this post without turning it into an eighty-page homage. I intend to dedicate future posts to the people who have lifted me up, patiently contending with my temperamental moments along the way. Until then, thank you all so much!

--Gaia_song