This Is Not An Assignment

I don’t know why I do it; ever since I was five I’ve been preaching to other people about not doing it. I think it’s the smell. I love the smell on clothes, on fingers. I like the taste once it’s lingered in my mouth a bit. The taste is what takes me back: to steamed windshields, to Sunday mornings with the blinds open, the feeling of your tongue and your fingers wrapped around my own.

I don’t know who I am anymore, really. I don’t know what I am doing here, what I want to be. I can’t help feeling like I have settled, or help feeling that I’ve settled because of you. It kills me that we had a plan and now we are in the same city but we are more distant than ever. Tuesday would have been our one-year; instead I’m alone and lost. I made the mistake of letting us define me.

They—that anonymous, collective “they”—say that “you find yourself in college.” I liked who I was. I don’t want to find something new, something worse than what I began with. But despite not wanting it, I’m here—unsure if every move I make is done to please me, or the people around me.

A cigarette bummed from a friend warms me while I sit out in the cold. Soon, I will be tucked in, eyes closed, mind calmed, while others run about wildly, stumbling into each other in the dark. I, on the other hand, will be asleep, with my just my smoke-scented fingers resting gently next to my face on the pillow.

As we get older the urge we have to be accepted seems to calm itself. But think back a few years; growing up, it means a lot to be cool. When you were in middle school you had to be cool, whether that meant dressing like your favorite TV star, playing with the popular kids at recess, disrespecting your teacher, or ridiculing those who were less cool than you.

I was never the ridiculer, always the ridiculed. I suppose with my fleece vests, round face, round glasses, and bowl-cut I was a pretty easy target. Nevertheless, I tried my hardest, always inviting the few most popular girls to my sleepovers, hanging on desperately when my best friend began to join their clique.

I suppose it was with those memories and that sentiment that I trudged down the slick cement stairs outside Mickle Middle School, umbrella in hand and jacket buttoned against the wind, to Portable 8 this morning. Fuck middle school. Fuck middle school-ers. Did I really want to revisit the days of being a hormonal, chubby, book-worm, outcast from my fellow classmates?

I stepped into the classroom greeted by the sounds of an elderly teacher (my mentor!) barking “John how many do you have? Four take away three is not two, seriously!” The students were packing up their Trapper Keepers, this was not my group. A few minutes passed and new students trickled in, their clothes speckled with raindrops.

Once we had all been introduced, I began seeing myself in some of the students, my old classmates in others. Alexa Who-Loves-Books may as well be the seventh-grade version of me. Liz Who-Likes-The-Color-Purple reminded me of the few middle school bad asses we had, head-to-toe black garb and all. Andy Who-Skates had the same apathy of the boy I played footsie with in eighth-grade Health. Thomas Who-Doesn’t-Go-A-Day-Without-Playing-Video-Games was a spitting image of the kid who pooped his pants in the sixth-grade.

From an outsider’s perspective, these are the kids that make a real impression. I can’t tell the rest of the Jaydens from the Jaylas from the Kaylees and Kyles.

I want to scream to them: “It doesn’t matter if you have your nose in a book or a funny hair cut, if you laugh when the class is silent or have a crush on another boy in your Cub Scout group, someday kids, standing out instead of fitting in will pay off! Don’t wait to establish yourselves later; the sooner you figure out what you stand for, the easier life will be for you. Please don’t waste your time being cool!”

Why are so many people following the same routine day in and day out; leading shallow, selfish lives that are satisfactory at best? What makes a life better; more fulfilling?

Ultimately, things that the Foundation For a Better Life names (things like courage, ambition, hope, achievement) all lead to self-betterment. But the one virtue that really leads a person to living a better life is sacrifice. Whether it be sacrifice of time, of talent, of treasure--giving up a part of your self for the benefit of another or others is what leads people to truly successful lives.

What I wish that more people realized is that these sacrifices don’t have to be large, as long as they are meaningful. Many people, if they choose to perform service at all, choose large, well-hyped projects so as to appear ambitious and, in a sense, super-human. Others just find the idea of service to be too large, looming, and time-consuming.

Service is not about networking, or image, or any of the selfish spins that some people put on it. Service is about stepping outside of yourself and your problems—whether it be to address another person’s problem, a community’s problem, a nation’s problem, or an overriding problem of society as a whole.

“A lot of little actions add up to huge changes in the world,” says Kristi Shoemaker, member of the Leadership Lincoln Board of Directors. “I think people can forget that it’s the small things that often make a difference.” This year Leadership Lincoln is recognizing 305 everyday heroes for the service and sacrifices they incorporated into their daily lives.

Flashing a smile at someone you pass on the street could turn a day from gloomy to bright. Being positive and vocal in the work or classroom environment could inspire your peers to approach their work in an entirely new way. You have the potential to change the world through your actions. You can initiate this change through one person, one deed, one phrase, one gesture, one smile.

Do you live everyday on purpose? Do you live it as an example? Maybe it’s time to start.
Think about it and, as the FBL says, “pass it on.”

A Tissue For Your Issue

It starts with a tickle, an itch. Your eyes start watering, your cheeks redden and your face tightens. Ah-AH-AHCHOO!

I myself never say those well-known customary words when another utters an explosive, high-pitched snort. I don’t know why I don’t. Maybe it’s because I am not comfortable with the religious connotations the words “bless you” hold. But, if this were true, I could easily substitute the phrase for the German word “Gesundheit,” which wishes the sneezer “good health.” More likely, it’s because I am a firm believer in saying what I mean at all times. I don’t mean “bless you,” I don’t wish a figment’s blessing upon you just because you were able to spout mucus out of your nostrils. I don’t mean “excuse you,” you just interrupted my paper-writing because you couldn’t control a damn sneeze. I really don’t wish you “good health,” I could care less if you catch cold just as long as you don’t spread it to me.

But, I always have had the words said to me. A good portion of the time, if I sneezed in public, there was someone there to pardon me from my infraction—whether it be a pastor, a classmate, or my grandma using the German version in her heavy accent.

Today was the first time that I have sneezed in public on campus and no one has said, “Bless you!” I had just sat down in the computer lab, opened my browser, and without delay a sharp, quick, particularly tickle-y and particularly loud sneeze issued from my nasal passages. There were several other students in the lab, but none said a word, let alone looked up from their mountainous math equations. It was a lonely feeling, not having anyone to at least pretend to wish you well.

That is why, from here on out, I propose that I adopt new action to extend to other sniffle-ridden students. During cold and flu season, I will carry personal-sized tissues and hand sanitizer with me at all times. In the event that someone around me sneezes, I can simply hand them the goods and say, “Here, clean yourself off and then go buy some chicken noodle soup and OJ so your germs are out of my proximity.”

Panache: Finding a Home at "The Coffee House"

I don’t know exactly what it is about initial visits to coffee houses that turn me into such an apprehensive, stumbling, wreck. As I walk into Panache, I shove my hands into my sundress’ deep cotton pockets, trying to look a little less eager and a bit more nonchalant. I step up to the counter to order, nervously and unnecessarily explaining that I’m not quite sure what I want yet. The clerk—a slim, energetic boy with cropped hair and black studs in his earlobes—humors me and points me in the direction of a small sandwich selection. I opt for a roast beef, veggie, and provolone, and slide the cool glass door to retrieve it and a granny smith apple. I place it on the counter and brazenly order a 20 oz. non-fat iced chai latte (the only order I’ve perfected like a true café connoisseur).

I fumble around in my backpack for my wallet, and look up to see that the clerk had walked to the other end of the counter to ring up my total. No wonder, there is no cash register in front of the spot I’m standing. I smile awkwardly, slide down a few feet, and pay for my items. All the while the clerk is having a playful argument with another employee. He attempts a resolution from me.

“Would you rather have twenty-five thousand dollars or one million dollars?”

“Well that depends on the means of getting the money,” I reply, warming. “No one wants a shitty job, even if it pays well.”

“If you won it from the lottery.”

“Well then, one million dollars.”

“But what would you do with all of it?”

“Invest, put it in savings for future generations,” he gives me a raised eyebrow, “and do a bit of shopping, I suppose.”

“But see, there is no way you could spend it all,” the clerk directs toward his friend. The corner of my mouth turns upward; I take my things and turn to the maze of tables that make up the hub of the coffee house.

I grab a non-descript table against the far wall. As I squeeze haphazardly between chairs, a fairly attractive boy looks up at me from his mountain of notebooks and folders. Another eyes me as he takes a swig from his coffee mug. I blush, but walk a little taller, feeling my self-confidence reaffirmed. I spread my bag and papers across the checkerboard-printed tabletop, place my plate and cup in front of my seat, crack the spine of my composition book, and plop down onto the hard wooden frame of my chair.

Sun beats in through the large storefront window, bouncing off of a huge gilded mirror, and shimmering on the tops of peoples’ heads. I bite timidly into my sandwich and subtly glance around at my fellow coffee-shop goers. For a Wednesday afternoon, there is an excess amount of energy percolating amongst the tables. A chatty girl with bleach blonde bangs is speaking loudly to an older woman who is wearing those thick, I-am-a-big-deal frames that are so popular right now. She speaks with an urgency that falls somewhere between passionately explaining a dilemma to your boss and sharing friendship frustrations with your mother; her white teeth flashing with each new word.

A young man sits at the table next to her—the stereotypical scruffy, college-student type—buried in a book about Islam. He has an expression of studied concentration; he seems to be either very absorbed in his subject or very annoyed with the chatter coming from his right. There is elegance about his coarseness; he prides himself in appearing pained.

One of the aforementioned “fairly attractive college boys” and his friend are seated right across from me, studying some sort of mathematics course that comes complete with huge textbooks and wrinkled brows. The other is now involved in a phone conversation with a significant other but occasionally flicks imaginary specs from his table and smiles at me.

On one of the sofas, which face a large storefront window laden with newspapers, crates, and an old-fashioned bicycle, a cheery couple laughs over a YouTube video. She has tawny skin and raven hair. His complexion is flaxen and light. Their grins are identical. They are young.

I curl my legs under me and sit hunched over my writing. Every few minutes I lean back, sip my chai and take the whole place in. Brick, mortar, and stained-glass stare back at me; the soft blow of the ceiling fans tickles the back of my neck. Bulletin boards boast announcements of indie concerts, anti-war vigils, and secular bible studies; a two-dimensional woman in a turban sips her cup elegantly above me. The lazy, low-fi sounds of strumming guitars bloom in my ears. I bite into my sandwich and start again, the lamp at my table casting my pencil’s shadow across my paper.

Several other customers filter in and out, creating a constant pulse and breathing life into the shop. Three Technicolor hippie girls in flowing skirts chat wildly while waiting in line; the owner of Rialto floats calmly through the crowd in a vintage military-style coat; an androgynous athlete snatches some joe on the go; two hipster girls in cuffed jeans peruse Panache’s array of sodas; a balding man strolls his bald baby around chairs; a woman stops at the condiments bar and flails along with the café’s music.

I sit in my wooden chair at my checkerboard table for a good hour, any insecurity lost in the café’s rhythm. The ebb and flow of customers refuses to cease. Here differences are embraced, being un-normal is the norm. Each new person brings their own spice to the air about the café; each one as colorful as the ingredients in their meals; each one equally important and eccentric, each one embodying the true meaning of Panache. Each person brings only themselves, but eventually, a give-and-take society, an ever-changing concoction, has formed.

When you step into Panache, you bring with you your similarities, your shared interests, and find yourself leaving with new thoughts, new impressions, new identity. Everything has its impact; the soft music, the vibrant artwork, the varied chatter, the fresh-roast aroma wafting above your head. But it’s the people that inspire and create change within you; the news junkies, the scholars, the free spirits, the business people, the chain smokers, the hat wearers, the happy couples dispersed amongst groups and individuals. Not a word needs to be spoken; simply coming in contact with this community leaves you changed, feeling more complete, more enriched than when you entered.

Only oat-speckled crusts and a fleshy white apple core are left on my plate. A glance at the time breaks Panache’s spell. I gather my things and attempt to discretely scan the room for a trashcan. I see one and, blushing, throw out my garbage; silently thanking God I did not have to actually ask where it was located.

In a final fit of bravery, I purchase an Izze Sparkling Blackberry Juice for the road. I step out onto the pavement and the sun hits my back, feeling a fraction warmer than it did at the beginning of my afternoon. My eyes adjust to the light; everything glows brighter. A strange and beautiful September breeze picks up, rippling the waves in my hair and making my dress dance around my knees. For a moment, I struggle with the bottle cap and then, with a delicate hand, I lift the glass lip to my own and swig. The blackberry juice sweetly stings my tongue, and as I lower the bottle, a new-found vitality stirs inside me.

I exit the parking garage, weaving my way through downtown, windows down, hair blowing. At a red light, I carefully select a CD that will embed intrigue into passersby; I try to recreate the indescribable feeling of Panache with warm, sweet-smelling wind and mellow melodies. As the tingle of carbonation lingers on my teeth, I try to keep that feeling of community (of confidence, of creativity, of love!), that is living ephemerally in my heart, afloat.