L’avvenire
“Gab, just look at the life we’ve made for ourselves. Only twenty-seven years old and here we are, together, standing in our brand new backyard,” said Jaimie.
“I know, Jaim, it’s nice and all but I’m sorta regretting not getting a house built. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love this home. It’s lived in, has a beautiful patio overlooking a spacious yard, and it has those little stepping stones made of brick I’ve always wanted. There’s just something missing,” said Gabriella flicking a bug off her wrist.
“I don’t understand you, Gabriella. I worked my ass off at the firm day in and day out to pay for this home for us to create a life in and all you’ve got to say about it is, ‘There’s just something missing.”
Jaimie stood up with his coffee, pushed the chair in, and walked up the steps, into the house.
Winter passed and Jaimie and Gabriella hadn’t spoken about their conversation. Jaimie continued his daily shuffle of waking up at 5:50 am every weekday morning, going to work, and coming home at 6:35 pm, while Gabriella kept herself busy by creating jobs around the house. She shampooed the carpets, worked on her and Jaimie’s wedding album, and painted the bathroom walls. Her favorite job, though, was to plant flowers in the backyard. It was fenced in and full of green. She often referred to it as, “Serenity in my own backyard.” It was a place where she could just “be.” It was a place where the early morning breeze could swim between the leaves and through her skin. She would often walk around the perimeter of the yard, stopping at each flower to bask in its beauty. She was proud to call it her own.
“I’ll see you when I get in tonight, sweetie,” said Jaimie kissing the top of Gabriella’s forehead.
“Okay, I’ll be waiting. I didn’t sleep much last night. My stomach was so queasy,” said Gabriella.
“It must have been those chives you ate in the pasta last night. You know they never settle well with your stomach. Just rest. I’ll be home normal time. Don’t go crazy planting anything either,” said Jaimie.
Spring passed and Jaimie and Gabriella settled in their home. They were happy and they were healthy. What more could they ask for?
“Hey hun, I’m home. Shit, that was a long day. I thought it’d never end,” said Jaimie ripping at his sport coat.
He heard nothing.
“Gab? Are you outside?”
“I’m in here, Jaim,” called Gabriella.
Jaimie followed her voice and walked into their master bathroom only to see Gabriella sitting on the cold, linoleum floor.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Jaimie.
Gabriella stood up slowly tightening the loops on her terrycloth robe.
“Remember that conversation we had a few months back when I said I felt like there was something missing?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Well, it looks like there was something missing from our new house after all. I’m pregnant.”
Summer passed and Gabriella was carrying a watermelon around with her. Her due date was arriving.
“Hi hun, nice night out isn’t it?” Jaimie asked walking into the backyard.
“It’s perfect. I went for my check-up today, and I have a surprise for you. Remember how we said we didn’t want to know what the sex of the baby was?” asked Gabriella.
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, I got antsy and cheated. We’re having a little girl.”
Jaimie said nothing as he walked over to his wife and held her close. A tear fell down his face.
“I already know what we will name her, Avvenire. It means “future” in Italian,” said Gabriella.
Fall passed and Jaimie and Gabriella were living happily in their home with their new baby girl. Life was good.
Gabriella came home from the supermarket one Saturday and opened the kitchen door to find a tightly wrapped box with an oversized pink bow sitting on top of the table.
“What is this, Jaime?” asked Gabriella.
“Just open it. You’ll see,” said Jaimie.
“You know how much I hate surprises, Jaim,” said Gabriella.
“They’re not for you. Just open it already,” said Jaimie.
She hesitantly unraveled the pink bow and lifted the top off of the box.
“Oh, Jaim I love them. They’re so precious. Avvenire will love them too,” said Gabriella.
Avvenire did love them. She wore her Mary Janes everywhere. She even wore them outside when she swung on her swing. With each swing, the outsoles of her Mary Janes would brush against the tightly -packed dirt beneath her. For Gabriella, there was not a sound more soothing than this.
 A seed of wisdom planted within.  Serenity in my own backyard #twitterive  One's arrival is always the result of another's departure.  These three trees have been together for 15 years #twitterive
Stepping Stones
The cement never felt so artificial as it gripped the arches of my feet.
I heard her in the distance. She was laughing and she seemed happy.
I used the sound of her breath and the creak of clanging chains to steer my direction.
I began feeling ill following the repeated sound of her worn-in Mary Jane outsoles brushing against tightly-packed dirt.
Soon, I was buckled over in an agonizing pain I had never felt.
Beads began slipping from my temple, falling softly along the contour of my chiseled cheekbones.
Beads of sweat carried my apricot blush all the way down my face, until my reflection resembled that of striped curtains.
My chest felt heavy and my heart felt weightless. I continued to walk.
The inhalations of fire-grilled dinners and citronella candles quickly soothed my stomach.
The wind began hesitating with each step I took.
I suddenly couldn’t hear the creaking of chains anymore.
I relied on her heavy breathing. It grew louder as it whispered my name.
Quiet. That is all I heard.
There she was, sitting on a rubber, hammock-like swing seat peering out at me.
She said nothing as she extended her arm forward.
I could see the dirt impacted under her chewed, fragile fingernails like it had been resting there for decades.
The cowlick separating her bangs, sprawled outward like the legs of a spider, but her paintbrush haircut sweetly shaped her apple round face.
I reached out and touched her stiff hand. It felt as if it had been smothered by bricks of ice.
She smiled. It was cockeyed and endearing.
I wanted to be gentle with her, for she resembled a little girl I saw once before.
Five steps away, holding her hand, I asked her her name.
The slits of her eyes widened like almonds as she glared up at me.
“I do not have a name yet.”
Tweets:
My swingset used to be riiiggghhhttt here #twitterivehttp://twitpic.com/2oppxb
It is quite unnerving being present in such a place of past #twitterive The material objects change, remove, rot but the ground it was once steady upon, doesn't #twitterive
In “How to Tame a Wild Tongue” by Gloria Anzaldua, there is a sense of bitterness and frustration that seems to have plagued her for years. Her willingness to share her pain and disappointment with those who have disregarded her language is pure bravery. She speaks of language as a way of defining her inner being when she states, “Repeated attacks on our native tongue diminish our sense of self.”
I found it rather difficult, almost impossible, to connect to Anzaldua while reading her piece. I have been fortunate enough to have never felt oppressed as a result of the language that I speak. I have never experienced her anguish and I know I never will. I am an English speaking woman. I grew up in an all English speaking household, attending an all white Catholic school whose tongues were all identical. I don’t know what it is to have to adjust my language to those with whom I am speaking with. I don’t know what it is to feel a sense of pride for the language that comes out of my mouth, only the words that I speak. I don’t know what it is to deal with the repercussions of speaking my language around people who do not. I don’t know what it is to have my language so closely tied to my culture that when the knot is torn, I am torn. I don’t know what it is to have memories of being isolated because of my language. And I don’t know what it is to have my tongue tamed.
It is an unfortunate situation that I am presented with, having read the works of Anzaldua simply because it punished me for taking my language for granted. It is apparent that the reason why I felt so severely disconnected to her writing is because it never occurred to me that language was a means of identifying with oneself. It never occurred to me that language defined my role in society. It never occurred to me that those who didn’t speak my language were battling for their own.
This issue, language defining self-worth, is foreign to me. I give my gratitude to Anzaldua for exposing my ignorance. The struggle between homecoming and alienation is one that I never wish to endure.
“This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.”
This quote is just one of many that exudes the fervor and passion that the main character feels for Mangan’s sister in James Joyce’s “Araby.” “Araby” is a tale of love, obsession, fear, anxiety, and anticipation. The plethora of emotions that floods the main character seems to ambush the reader as well. The enigmatic gravitation that the unnamed boy has toward the unnamed girl is so effectively portrayed that it becomes questionable as to how someone can want, need, desire someone whom they’ve never spoken to. The fact that the object of his affection is nameless, and his descriptions of her are shadowlike (“…her figure defined by the light…”) give way to the notion of her being an apparition, or merely a figment of his imagination. It’s not as if she didn’t physically exist; rather, she represented something that the unnamed boy longed for in his life. It wasn’t until his vacant attendance at the bazaar as it was closing down and turning dark (leaving him unable to bring the unnamed girl something special) that he realized his longing was unattainable.
I read “Araby” in my junior year of high school in an Honors English class. The teacher, who touched my heart and ignited my fire for writing, had a very lax method of instruction. She allowed us to pick the stories we read in her class and she offered us the freedom to interpret them however we wanted. With this newfound, unexplained freedom, I chose a piece from Joyce’s Dubliners called “Araby.” I can’t remember just why I chose this piece, but I did. The title of it was somewhat mysterious so I took this as an invitation to read it. I can remember reading the story, wishing I was the unnamed boy, experiencing all of those severe, yet confusing emotions. The unnamed boy was so oddly enthralled by the thought of being in the presence of the unnamed girl that it left me wanting more. I can remember being able to connect with the unnamed boy having tasted just a teaspoon of love, obsession, fear, anxiety, and anticipation, but in my real life, I never quite reached the pinnacle of agony that he had. As a result of this, I was invigorated to continue reading, hoping to lose myself in the unnamed boy’s emotions only to reach that moment of satisfaction that he so painstakingly didn’t achieve.
Going back, now, as a senior in college, I read “Araby” having totally forgotten that I read it in high school. The name sounded familiar, as in “I kind of remember my first grade teacher’s name,” but I couldn’t quite recall what it was about or when I read it. So I began reading “Araby” and slowly, the memory of the unnamed boy and the mystifying outline of his desire became lucid. I remembered. I remembered how passionately connected I felt to the story reading it once before, yet, similar to the unnamed boy in the story, I was left feeling unsatisfied, for I didn’t receive the same gift of emotions as I did reading it when I was younger. Like the unnamed boy, I had built up the anticipation of “feeling this feeling” while reading “Araby” and I was left “Gazing up into the darkness.”
Adam Gopnik maintains a realistic approach to inform his audience about the misconceptions one may have about Paris. Much of what he describes about Paris is lifeless and dilapidated, much like his depiction of the “musicless and graceless carousel and the “taxidermized animals.” Despite his rather blunt portrayal of attractions in Paris, he is in awe at the peacefulness that the “musicless and graceless carousel” and “taxidermized animals” bring to Luke. Luke’s state of contentment that is foreign to Gameboys and television gives hope to Gopnik that maybe, just maybe, there is a Regulon. It isn’t until Luke becomes a back-up singer for the theme of Entertainment Tonight, that Gopnik is convinced there truly is no Regulon.
One way or another, we, the human race, are all somehow connected on the same technological wavelength through “exponentiality.” Gopnik compares French and Americans to the technologies and media that are characteristic of them. Unfortunately, unlike the population of the human race, there are no predators in technology, only shinier, more user friendly ones that outsell and outadvertise the next. Regardless of the country we live in, we still have the media to thank for our connectedness as a people; it’s just a matter of what outlet we’re using.
Oh, and you might want to pack a pair of sunglasses, because it’s going to be sunny tomorrow.
Wendell Berry writes, “Looking out over the country, one gets a sense of the whole of it: the ridges and hollows, the clustered buildings of the farms, the open fields, the woods, the stock ponds set like coins into the slopes. But this is a surface sense, an exterior sense, such as you get from looking down on the roof of a house.” This exterior sense that Berry speaks of is the sense that I, a stranger to my own land, possess. The beauty and stillness in the nature of my backyard has, in the past, been my “looking down on the roof of a house.” The knocking down of 25 something trees, the raking up of mulch, soil, and weeds, the digging of a pool, and the placing of heavy stepping stones are what Berry would consider a result of “…the true American pioneer, perfectly at rest in his assumption that he is the first and the last whose inheritance and fate this place will ever be.”
Admittedly, what has been done to my once wooded, untouched, natural backyard is equivalent to the building of the “road.” My family and I have unconsciously resisted our adaptation to the land and it wasn’t until my reading of Berry’s chapter, “A Native Hill” in The Art of the Common Place, that I realized this tragedy. Neither my family, nor I have allowed ourselves to become one with the land that surrounds us. I, especially have not respected, admired, felt guilt, or felt anything for that matterin regards to my backyard. As a child, it was a world for my imaginary horses to trample upon and now, as an adult, it is nothing short of a distraction, a chore to keep groomed and modernized. It wasn’t until recently that we took our pool down, ripped away the stepping stones, and I began seeing the yard in its entirety. The dismantling of my pool was somewhat of nature’s way of inviting me to witness my backyard through a different lens, a lens that has the ability to magnify the strength of the wind on a Monday morning. The openness of the trees is something I now view from the center of my yard, rather than from the window of my old bedroom up above.
My transformation is certainly not one that can be compared to Berry’s experience of transcending beyond his physicality and becoming one with nature. I find it to be very ironic that it wasn’t until the destruction of a manmade, money pit (my pool) that I began to truly swim in my backyard, looking through goggles that clarified the purity and intricacy of nature. It was this that inspired me to record observations about my backyard for the Twitterive assignment. I have yet to “rise above” myself when looking in awe at my yard, but Berry made it possible for me to walk outside, stand on a mound of mulch, and wonder about who used to be here, who will be here?, what will they do? My hope is that I will create my own path with the everyday passing in my yard as I tweet observations and “…allow [my] eyes to become dependent on [my] feet.”
Gian Pagnucci explores the idea that through the telling of our own stories, grand or miniscule, we can make discoveries about who we are in life. The stories that we choose to tell are a direct result of how we perceive ourselves in everyday life. It is through the regurgitation of our memories that we can safeguard our celebrated experiences that have molded us into the unique beings we call “I.”
According to Gian Pagnucci:
“Living the narrative life is about embracing the stories that make us who we are.”
“Living the narrative life, then, means learning that who you are is all about the stories that form your life.”
“Living the narrative life means never closing the book on your own stories.”
“Living the narrative life means answering the call stories impose.”
“But if there is any real value in the act of writing, it is in how we use writing to teach ourselves. To live a narrative life, a person needs to understand this.”
“To live a narrative life, then, is to open yourself up to the possibilities of stories, to give yourself over to them, to trust them.”
After reading, “Living the Narrative Life” by Gian Pagnucci, I was convinced and rather inspired to “record” a story, memory of my own.
I can’t remember what month it was or what day of the week it was or what time of the day it was (probably around noon), but it was snowing. It was snowing hard and the sky was as white as a sheet of crisp computer paper. The streets were iced and the grass was slushy. Devon and I were going sledding. It was a tradition for the both of us, being best friends and neighbors, to help each other put on our gloves and earmuffs. The neighborhood that Devon and I lived in had a retention basin that had high walls of grass that sloped inward toward a large open area that collected water for drainage. During the winter, the retention basin was off limits, but luckily Devon’s backyard faced the basin with only a wire fence separating us from the thrill of sledding. Each winter we would dig deep holes passed all the mounds of snow and through the grass beneath the fence. We would take turns slithering under the fence through the holes we dug. It wasn’t until this particular day, I was eight and Devon was seven, when we discovered we weren’t tiny enough to slither anymore. We solved the issue by climbing over the fence.
Of course there was an ulterior motive as to why little girls were working so hard to pursue a few hours in the retention basin: boys, boys who we both had crushes on. Their names were Justin and Greg. I can’t seem to remember which boy I liked, but as I recall, Greg was always teeing off on his front lawn and was somewhat socially backward with gangling arms and legs. In fact, his nickname was Bones. Come to think of it, I probably had a crush on Justin. Anyway, it was typical for the boys to try to show off to the girls by standing in the middle of the retention basin all competing for our attention claiming that they were strong enough to crack the ice with the impact of their jump. Neither Greg nor Justin could crack the ice that day so I decided to show them that girls could be just as strong as boys, if not stronger. I slid down the snowy walls of the basin and slipped my way down to the center. I can remember yelling, “I bet I can crack this ice!” The boys and Devon crowded around me and I jumped high, hoping for the best. Instead of cracking the ice, the heels of my snow boots slipped on the ice and before I knew it my legs had buckled under me. I didn’t crack the ice or any bones thank God. I can remember lying on my back, mortified. Justin wasn’t impressed and I didn’t get to prove that I was stronger than a boy.
I’m not sure why I remember this story, but it seems it has earned its position in my memory bin of archives. It is the first time I’ve shared this story outside of Devon, Justin, and Greg. In digging up this memory and sharing this story with others, I’ve relived a few minutes of my childhood and the person I was 13 years ago. My experimentation with “Living the Narrative Life” has validated what Pagnucci so confidently believes about storytelling. And just as Donald Murray states, my voice is the product of Italian and Irish genes and a suburban environment, of Catholic sermons, and the Pilla living room, of all the language I have heard and spoken.
The first assignment that was given to me in this course allowed me to write about my journey as a student, my goals as a future teacher, and my experiences as a writer. Before I began typing away I adhered to my usual routine of jotting down quick phrases about my interests, my past struggles, and my goals with writing. I quickly followed with a brainstorming method of listing all of my previous writing courses taken at Rowan University and Camden County College. With this simple list, nostalgia took over as my thoughts raced from one course to the next, drawing on my experiences or lack thereof, with writing, research and technology. At this stage in the game, I had a messy, incoherent jumble of notes, with which I knew I had to advance to the next stage by cohesively threading them together, one experience and interest at a time. As I began typing, I kept in the forefront of my thoughts that this was the first writing assignment for Writing, Research, and Technology and that my audience consisted of one person, my instructor. I decided to spill. With the private nature of the assignment, and the fact that this was the first impression of me as a writer and a student, I made the conscious decision to disclose my feelings about writing and my gratifying experience being a Rowan University CGCE student.
In this paper, I even made mention of the fear and uneasiness that overwhelms me when I share my thoughts and feelings through a public blog post. Ironically, I opted to “copy and paste” the version of my paper (that was intended for a one person audience) to a public blog. My decision to not make any revisions was a result of my willingness to immerse myself in technology by unveiling who I am as a writer and as a student. In doing so, I hope to overcome feelings of vulnerability in the future.
I find that writing serves an extremely therapeutic purpose of allowing my unorganized thoughts to take on an acceptable, cohesive form. Throughout my seventeen years of writing I have developed my own, unique concept of writing. I feel as though my writing has become a direct reflection of who I am as a student and who I am as a future educator. I’ve set an objective for myself in this course to allow my writing to reflect my creative and somewhat unorthodox ideas and emotions. I am a person who is extremely verbal and expressive; therefore, in the past I found no need to express my emotions in my writing because it was always something that I chose to verbally express. Academic writing is what I do best; therefore, it is the type of writing that I enjoy and am most familiar with. I am willing to venture out of my place of comfort in hopes to establish a sense of security and an openness to share my opinions and emotions through writing that isn’t necessarily organized, academic, or structured.
Likewise, research in the academic form is what I am most comfortable with because of my experience and success in doing so. My previous research in high school and college has been through databases and the library system (books, encyclopedias etc.) and although this method of research has served its purpose, I am looking forward to performing research that can be done outside of books and the library. I have recently taken an interest in conducting my own research through face-to-face interviews. I take pride in this type of research above all else because it gives me a sense of ownership over my findings. I recently interviewed my grandmother and some of her friends for a Writing Arts course I took in June and it was an extremely rewarding experience. I discovered that I love learning about the past (lifestyles, historical events, places) through the words of an elderly person who directly experienced it. I am not only honored to interview the elderly, but I am fascinated at the results of my findings. When I am speaking directly to someone I can almost feel the pain, anguish, excitement, and sincerity in their delivery, which makes me feel like I’m living it as well. Juxtaposing the experiences of a seventy-three year old with my experiences as a twenty-one year old woman holds the power to disclose a reality that I would have never tasted had I not performed the research.
Technology is something that I rarely indulge in; however, I’ve recently dipped my toes into its pool of possibilities. In the past few months I’ve created my own blog, my own twitter account, and I’ve just purchased an iPhone. I have not written on my blog since June of this year after I posted an assignment on there for my ::Technologies and the Future of Writing Course::. Again, I have some sort of barrier blocking me from sharing my thoughts and feelings in writing for everyone to see, so I chose not to post anymore. I have, however, been inconsistently tweeting. I must admit that I do enjoy twitter for its brevity. I find myself picking up my phone and tweeting something sweet and simple for all to read. Having said this, I am probably the only person on this planet who does not have a Facebook account because I do not want to get sucked into a world inside of my computer and outside of my tangible reality. Moving on, I very much enjoy my iPhone. I’ve found that it needs to be at an arm’s length distance at all times. I can appreciate its affordances of providing me with an instantaneous e-mail response while simultaneously keeping me in contact with all of my relatives and keeping me up to date with school assignments posted on Blackboard. Even though I have yet to jump into the technology pool full body, I’ve found a way to leverage it for my own purposes and needs.
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