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I'll be enjoying some time off from blogging the next couple of weeks. I'll be back on January 2.

Wishing you all the best for 2014!
Sarah

Fiction Friday: Bargaining

With the holidays coming up, this is likely to be the last Fiction Friday for a couple of weeks.

***

Daphne stared down at her hands, biting her lip.

"Yeah, I knew him," she said finally. "But that doesn't mean...you know..." She trailed off.

She couldn't lie, but she couldn't talk about it, either.

It'd be better to come clean, better for her, better for those around her. That's what the therapist had said. And she believed it, but she couldn't do it. She just couldn't. She'd open her mouth and say nothing.

Words would make it real. But it hadn't been real. It couldn't be real. It felt like a lifetime ago. Like a dream.

The detective smiled patiently. "I'm not implying anything. We're just trying to piece together the timeline from that night." She paused, letting the words sink in.

"Neighbors saw you enter the apartment. What time would you say you got there?"

"Around 7, I think," Daphne paused, deciding where to go next. There was no choice, she'd have to lie. "And then I left, around 10."

The detective tried to keep her face a mask, but Daphne saw it. The detective thought she was lying. Her mind snapped to focus. Anger and adrenaline began to kick in. The truth didn't matter any more, she had to survive. She'd do anything to survive.

Daphne took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. She smiled. There she was, her fearless savior.

"We had dinner together. I would have stayed later, but I had to get to work early the next morning," the lies were coming easier now. "I almost wish I had stayed. Maybe if I had been there...maybe then this wouldn't have happened. Maybe...I could have done something to stop it."

Daphne's eyes glistened as she bit her lip uncertainly. She knew how to play this game. "I know I should have come to you sooner, but...I just couldn't. I couldn't. It was too much. I couldn't believe he was really....gone." She stayed strong despite her grief.

The detective sat there silently, giving Daphne her space.

"I know it's difficult," the detective finally said. "But I need you to walk me through exactly what happened that night. I need your help."

Daphne nodded silently. She was in the zone now, she could make this work. But she'd have to be careful, thoughtful.

She didn't trust this woman.

***
Detective Jones waited patiently. She'd smoked out criminals before and this would be no different.

Be calm. Be polite. Be observant. Don't force it. It was like playing chess. And Detective Jones was very good at playing chess. She smiled.

"I'm not implying anything. We're just trying to piece together the timeline from that night. Neighbors saw you enter the apartment. What time would you say you got there?"

The woman she was interviewing responded - a little too precisely. Detective Jones made her face a mask, trying not to reveal her hand.

Everything told her that this woman knew more than she was saying, that she herself was likely the killer. But she'd have to get there in time. She didn't have enough yet.

Jones listened with detached compassion as the woman told her story, shared her grief. It seemed so real, but something was off.

She took a deep breath, focusing her mind. She could do this, she knew. Just a little further.

"I know it's difficult," Dective Jones said "But I need you to walk me through exactly what happened that night. I need your help."

She sat back and listened, thoughtfully, carefully.

She didn't trust this woman.

Effortless

There's an ideal of effortlessness that is simple unobtainable.

I was never very good at social interactions, so I used to watch people closely - so I could learn what a person was supposed to do.

Around about high school or middle school, I distinctly remember thinking that this is how girls were supposed to act:

• Eat junk food
• Talk proudly about how you eat whatever you want, and down on all those body shamers who would dare to tell  you otherwise
• Be really skinny 

 I never really figured out how people managed to do all three of those things. I was pretty good at those first two, but was shocked at the number of people who seemed to manage all three.

As an adult I see a similar trend in house upkeep and other adult-y activities.

You should complain about how difficult it is to keep your house in order, but your house should still be in order.

I don't know if this is a gendered thing, though certainly many of my interactions on this topic have been gender biased.

But it's interesting to me that there should be such an urge. I suppose nobody wants to be the kid at the front of the class who has their hand raised for every question, but must we always be both the kid who gets all As while simultaneously vocally complaining about how challenging the work is?

That seems like an effort in futility, but it also seems like the norm.

Be perfect, but effortlessly. All while complaining about how difficult it is.

Footprints in the snow

It seems that footprints in the snow are often used as a metaphor for individualism.

It describes those eerie and magical moments when you find yourself alone on a moonscape, forging ahead into unexplored territory. When everything's quiet except the pattering of snow and the whispering of wind. When the world has been transformed into a sea of semi-coherent shapes. When it seems as though you are the last living being on earth, leaving only footprints as a mark of your existance.

But I see footprints in the snow as a metaphor for community.

Walking through a snow storm last night and through the aftermath this morning, I was very thankful for other people's footprints.

The places where no one had shoveled, so the only path was the malformed imprints left from pedestrians shuffling past. The curb cuts where the snow was so high the first brave explorer must have plunged in knee deep, leaving a foot-sized clearing of compressed snow for the rest of us to follow.

I don't know the faces of those who came before me, but I literally follow in their footsteps as we collectively carve a path.

When I'm wearing good boots and feeling energetic, I make a point to step on the piles of snow still blocking the way.

Through this, I hope, those who follow can benefit from my footprints, just as I benefited from the footprints before me. 

Children Know Best

Too often youth engagement seems tacked on, or pointed to with feigned enthusiasm like the end of a Mentos commercial.

Adults start cooing about how isn't it just great that there are young people involved. Their perspective is just so fresh. If only more young people could be like these young people or if only we could get more young people to want to come to these discussions. Please, young person, tell us what we should do to make more young people like you.

That's about when it gets awkward. If it wasn't awkward already.

Adults seem awfully fake when they talk like that. Like they're talking to a baby. Or a puppy. Adults don't talk to people they see as peers that way.

This upset me when I was younger, and truth be told, it still upsets me now.

This morning I was struck by a memory from elementary school.We used to periodically have some kind of team building consultant come in and you know, team build or something.

The adults loved it. The kids hated it.

Honestly, I don't remember much about it except that I thought it was stupid and I thought the guy who led it was a total fake. And I remember raising a little bit of hell over it. Not too much, though, it wasn't that bad.

And my elementary school encouraged that kind of behavior. If you weren't happy about something you should speak up. Polite-(ish)-ly and vocally. We won a few battles. We lost many more. But it was always clear that advocating for ourselves and those around us was expected.

As I thought about it this morning, it suddenly seemed very odd that these adults who had encouraged us to become radicals, to never comprise our integrity, to always question authority - these same adults would be so enthusiastic about some phoney team-building business guy.

Oh adults, where did you guys go wrong?

Here's what I thought: Practicality it the enemy of the radical.

As I've gotten older, I've become more concerned with the practical, often to the detriment of the radical. I'm unlikely to do something radical, because I'm overly concerned with doing something practical. What's the long-term impact? What's the strategic thing to do?

Everything is very serious and adult-y.

As an adult, I've been conditioned to think in terms of the practical. To be overly-concerned with the little details.To be very thoughtful about how words and actions will be interpreted. To be careful not to rock the boat, or perhaps, to only rock it carefully, strategically.

These are useful skills, and I'm glad I have them. But I wonder if I lost myself in there somewhere.

I used to laugh at the commuters who would run to catch their train in the morning. So busy. So caught up in their little lives. I used to promise myself I'd never be so self-absorbed.

But I have run for the train. I have important things to do, after all.

It's like I've learned to lie to myself in a way I couldn't do before. I was much more genuine then. Now it's all just a show.

So really, we should probably let non-adults run the world.

Honestly, I think they'd be better at it.

Power

During my sophomore year of high school, I saw the same girl at the same time every day. Our PE classes were at the same time, and our lockers were right next to each other.

We never spoke.

Having limited social skills and being not so great at the whole high school thing, I quietly ignored her while silently hoping that some day she might say hi to me.

While the elusive rules of high school socializing were mysterious to me, I knew enough to not initiate contact with someone above my station. Since I was, or thought I was, a nobody in high school, I dutifully remained silent.

It was really awkward.

I mean, we we're right next to each other, and through no word or glance would we acknowledge eachother's existence.

It's possible my thoughts became less than charitable. I mean, yeah, I was a nobody, but was I really so low as to be practically invisible? It was ridiculous. What was that girl's problem, anyway?

Months went by.

Then one day I realized. All I knew about her was that she was in a PE class for Freshmen. All she knew about me was that I was an a PE class for anyone but Freshmen. For all she knew, I could be a senior with the run of the school.

Never in a million years would that girl say hi to me.

I was the one with the power.

It took me about six months to figure this out because it honestly never crossed my mind that I could be the one with higher social standing. I mean, really.

There's a tendency, I've noticed, to think about power as a binary state. The Haves and the Have Nots. Those who rule and those who are ruled. Us and Them.

But that's not really acurate.

We all have power sometimes. Whether we like it or not, every interaction has a power dynamic and in some of those interactions - perhaps just a few - you will have power.

Some of us are just so beat down and used to not having power that it can be hard to recognize those fleeting moments when you do have power.


It's important to me to remember this.

Because as much as we talk about building power to fight power, we also must be sure to recognize our own power. Because whether we like it or not, the person with power sets the tone.

Only by recognizing your power can you change the power dynamic. Otherwise, you're just the person in power that others need to build power against.


Making the world better isn't just about building power and advocating for change. If we're truly going to affect change, we must each intentionally recognize those moments when we individually have power. And we must use those moments to share our power as best we can.

And as for that girl in high school - yes, of course I said hi to her.

Fiction Friday: The Villain, Part II

Fiction Friday continues.

***
Remorse had started to creep in.

At first it was only a tiny pang of nothingness. A blind spot. Rough and calloused around the edges, but easily ignored.

But every day that hole grew bigger.

She'd wake in the morning and see his face. She'd catch glimpses of him while she walked down the street. See him smiling one moment, then broken and lifeless the next. And it only made the emptiness grow.

Daphne wondered blandly if this is how other people reacted - or would react if they did such a thing.

She'd expected it to be different. After she murdered Carlos, she'd felt - briefly - so alive. That moment was a flash a brilliance in her dull, grey, life and she'd thought, just for a moment, she thought she'd never feel so empty again.

She expected to feel terrible or exhilarated. To hate herself or feel the rush of pride. She expected to feel... something. You don't just kill someone and walk away the same.

But Daphne felt empty now, just as she'd felt empty before.

Some days she'd tell herself that she was a mastermind. She'd gotten away with it. No one knew it was her. It proved she could do anything. She could outwit them all.

Other days she'd say she was terrible. The villain of the story if there were to be one. A vile creature hardly earning the status of humanity.

But whatever stories she told herself, they'd never ring true.

Some days she'd stand in the bathroom for hours, staring at herself in the mirror. Wondering if there was a person under that skin somewhere or just a malfunctioning robot. That would explain a lot.

Some days she wouldn't get out of bed, passing the time just laying there for hours, staring at the ceiling. No movement, no thought.

She started to realize she needed help.

She couldn't quite say when she realized it. But one morning she woke up, and...really woke up.

As if she'd had a dream where she'd cried uncontrollably for hours while sticking her hand in a flame to make herself feel better. A dream where she was repulsed by what she was, trying to destroy herself because she knew she was beyond redeeming. A dream where the emptiness swallowed her whole, where she simultaneously felt the lash of self-loathing and the cool relief of nothingness, as though no pain could ever touch her again.

It felt like a dream. Had she really done those things? She couldn't remember. Not really, anyway. She remembered it like a book she'd once read. The actions were there, but not the feelings. Had that really been her?

Almost in a trance she got herself up to go to the local mental health clinic.

She could talk to someone there. Maybe they could help her.

Probably not, she thought.