In a Strange Toungue

     Thursday morning I woke up to my alarm at eight o’clock. It was difficult to get up, especially since I have no classes on Thursdays and also due to having slept late at night for “not a very good reason.” But, I knew it was worth it to slowly coax my “tired” limbs into arising from the deliciously comfortable bed. It was worth it because there was a child at Provo Peaks Elementary that needed my help. As part of a mentoring program here at BYU, I am “assigned,” for lack of a better word, a child to aid in their specific needs. And so that morning I dragged my resentful body out of bed and into the shower, knowing it would all be worth it. As I pulled my brown turtle neck over my head and slowly put one leg in and then the next into my casual black pants, I couldn’t help feel a little nervous to meet this little boy whom I would be spending some time with this semester. Would he like me? Would I be able to help him? Will we become friends? All of these questions ran through my mind as I finished brushing my very non-cooperative hair. Finally giving up on it, I put the brush down and looked in the mirror.

“Well Amy,” I whispered, “wish yourself good luck. I’m sure everything will turn out fine.”

     A few moments later, I arrived at the classroom and finally met him. Shazer, a seven year old second grader who has recently moved from Mexico with his family needs help with the universal language—English. It is not that he does not know the language, but more that he is a very shy boy afraid to speak it out loud. He is intelligent, as he proved to me while doing math exercises, but when I softly asked him a question, he simply swiftly glanced at me with his dark almond shaped eyes, looked down at his desk, and gave the tiniest nod. At first, as I continued to sit next to him and observing him, I thought, He is just really shy.

    But then, he spoke his familiar tongue and I realized, Ah-ha! Not only he shy, but he is afraid to speak this unfamiliar language. And so I couldn’t help smiling and asking him in a quiet tone,

“Do you speak Spanish, Shazer?”

     Shyly, he nodded. Then hurriedly and excitedly I exclaimed, “I speak Spanish too!” His eyes gleamed and brightened in the same familiar manner that so many others have done so when finding another “compratiota” “y otro de la raza.” I smiled even wider and raised my hand in a high five, and as our hands slapped together, Shazer gave the tiniest smile.

     For the remainder of the time until recess, I sat there, looking at Shazer—his creamy, light brown skin, his straight black hair, and his beautiful dark eyes—thinking how it must be for him surrounded by this strange new language. Even now, I am not sure how I can help him gain the confidence to speak out loud. How can I help him accomplish this when I see how his face lights up when I or his friends talk to him in the language he was first taught—in the language that is apparent he loves so much?

Feng shei

(Some names have been changed)

On Tuesday I was really concerned about Rachel babysitting the kids while I did a presentation for Carol’s creative writing class. It's not that I don't trust Rachel—I’m grateful—but she has no experience with kids. In fact, when I asked her to babysit she admitted she'd never changed a diaper before."I'll tell them to hold it until I get home." I said.

Because of the change in schedule for the day, my holy hour of nap time was desecrated. For one thing, I still had to shower, my merciless I-look-greasy-in-23-hour hair was lower in priority with some last minute homework, letting Brad go to the temple before work, and reading Fancy Nancy forty times. I also would have to rethink when my Tuesday homework would be done.

After my shower, I realized Lydia was still babbling to herself. NO! I thought to myself. Today of all days you CANNOT mess with our schedule. I checked on her. Dry diaper. Sleepy face. I hoped she'd still sleep for most of the time I was gone.

My creative writing presentation for Carol’s class went fine. She reminded me that my novel is still sounding too middle grade, but then she asked me, "Why do you feel it has to be young adult?" I didn't know what to say. I have no problem writing middle grade, but this book has so much me in it.  Maybe I think middle grade readers won't take it seriously? Food for Thought.

I changed my clothes in the bathroom into my "jogging" outfit. I know I'm starving to get back to physical activity since I've chosen the one form of exercise I HATE. I cannot jog. Even in my national-jumprope-competition days, I couldn't. There's a mental block that's bigger than the physical one. I gave it a shot, but I gave up after three blocks. I don't know what to do with my arms. I think every person I passed on my way home from campus was thinking, "What in the WORLD is she doing with her arms." So I stopped and walked.

Basement Rooms and Reusable Furniture

Since the start of this semester, I have come to this realization: having classes in building basements is the bane of my existence.  At least, I feel this way on Tuesdays and Thursdays because for some strange reason those are the days I suffer.  I enter, having been exposed to crisp temperatures moments earlier, only to enter the heat of the underworld.  I had two classes on Thursday, one at noon and the other at three and both in the basements of separate buildings.  I had prepared myself, equipped with a chilled water bottle and removable jacket.  After my first class, I left feeling feverish and convinced I had contracted an illness.  My face was flushed, my throat lethargic and I quickly escaped the fever-inducing miniature auditorium.  My three o'clock class ensued the same way except instead of guzzling my water, I held the cold plastic to my face while my professor theatrically read Longfellow.

"It was the schooner Hesperus, that sailed the wintry sea"
Forty five minutes left? Kill me now.
"And the skipper had taken his little daughter, to keep him company"
I must have a fever.  I need a thermometer.
"Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, her cheeks like the dawn of day"
If I wanted to sit in a sauna for an hour I would have paid for a gym membership instead of tuition.

The heat and humidity made my mind blur and I craved a Dr. Pepper slurpee.  My husband picked me up in our Avalon.  I quickly cranked up the cool and rolled down the windows.  I appreciate that Brennon hid his "My wife is crazy" look well.  With hot cheeks and a heat-induced headache, we began our errands with less excitement than I had earlier anticipated.  First, we would go to Michael's for Valentine decorations.  Then, we would drive down State Street to Deseret Industries to look for furniture and finally make our way to the grocery store for Super Bowl odds and ends.  It is depressing how the effects of heat can change Valentines Day into a stupid holiday, furniture into useless room additions and food into an unnecessary necessity.

Luckily, my attitude quickly changed as I entered the pick and red garnished isles of the craft store.  A feeling of domesticity came over me as I searched through heart-shaped decorative signs and festive candy dishes.  I felt proud as I unloaded my craft supplies onto the counter.  As I looked over my purchases I thought "My mom is gonna be so proud of me".

A Skateboarder's Remorse

You never start your day thinking you’ll pay your own bail by the end of it.

It all started normal enough. I am perpetually running late for things, so it isn’t all that rare to see me walking into a class five to thirty minutes behind schedule. I think it’s a trait I got from my mom, but that’s also just something I say to rest part of the blame on someone other than myself, which is undeserved, but it helps me sleep better at night.

So, in order to offset my tardiness, I always skateboard to school. Riding a skateboard on campus is the BYU equivalent of a scarlet A on your chest. It is a little like having a beard on campus without the possible justification of a beard card (although if a skateboard card existed, I can think of no candidate more in need of it than myself). But I run into a similar dilemma every day. I have a very weighty conscience; the kind of conscience that not only brings shame in the moment of disobedience, but holds to that shame long after the event has passed. So while I love skateboarding and being able to get to campus quickly, each kick to the pavement provides a simultaneous jolt to my conscience. As I weave through the crowds of watchful bystanders, I oft times contemplate my commitment to the principles of obedience and reprimand myself for giving in to my “natural man.” Probably not what most people expect a skateboarder is thinking about as they cruise by, but nonetheless, a truth in my life.

I had just turned in an essay for the David O. McKay Essay Contest (ironically, a religious essay contest), and was in a hurry to make it to my 2:00pm Calculus class. Turning to my faithful vice and friend, I jumped onto my skateboard and sped down the access street that connects the JSB to the JKB. As I rounded the corner to the JKB, I saw a figure that constitutes the embodiment of my conscience: a BYU Police Officer.

The instant I saw him, I knew my fate. I felt like a child covered in crumbs, debating between telling the complete truth or fabricating an elaborate lie about why eating the last of the cookies was not entirely my fault. I decided even before getting to him that I would tell the whole truth and be accountable for my actions. Without even motioning to me, I glided towards him, the John Proctor of skateboarding, ready to face the consequences for my speedy commute.

Me: Hello, Officer.

Officer: Hello, friend. You already know what I’m going to say, don’t you.

Me: I’m afraid so.

Officer: Do you know the rules about skateboarding?

Me: Yes.

Officer: Have you been warned before?

Me: Yes.

Officer: Do you skateboard on campus often still?

Me: Every day, sir.

Officer: Is there any reason I shouldn’t write you this ticket?

Me: Honestly, sir, not that I can justify.

I think my honesty caught him off guard. He was a kind man, and I could tell that he was conflicted about giving a ticket, the way another seasoned officer like himself probably wouldn’t be. He reluctantly started writing the ticket, making jokes and small talk in between his condemning pen strokes.

As he performed the routine background check, something changed. He whispered something in his walkie-talkie, and a minute later, just as I felt it was almost over, a police car pulled onto the sidewalk.

“Did you know there is a warrant out for your arrest for not appearing in traffic court?”

The words struck fear to my very core. It came back to me instantly, though the thought of the ticket had been erased from my memory entirely until that moment. My officer friend took me into his car and escorted me from campus to the police station to pay my bail.

Simple lesson: When you know something is wrong, don’t do it.

Being an Aunt

Today I spent a few hours at home in Layton, taking a roommate along for the ride. She wanted to get out of Provo for a little while and thought the Jamberry party my sister and I were hosting sounded fun. I was excited to introduce her to my family and be with my family, even if it was just for the evening.
We got to my house, the same house I have lived in my entire life, around 2:00. I introduced my roommate to my parents before heading to my sister's house in Syracuse to help get things set up for the party. (We were making muddy buddies and she needed some of the ingredients that my mom had picked up at the store).
However, once I got to my sister's house my focus shifted from the upcoming party and the treats I needed to make, to the little blond baby waiting for me at the gate at the top of the stairs. I never knew the power a baby held until this blue eyed boy, Mckay, entered my life nearly a year ago. He has me wrapped around his little fingers and he doesn't even know it.
As soon as I walked up the stairs I picked him up and hugged him, but not too close. He doesn't actually like to snuggle. I introduced him to my roommate and we began a game with him and the paper towel role he was playing with before we showed up. (It's amazing how interesting everyday objects suddenly become when you're entertaining a small child).
Throughout the party I turned to find Mckay, picking him up or playing with him and whatever toy had grabbed his attention. He currently has a slight cold and isn't feeling the greatest so every once in a while a small whimper would escape his lips. The sound melted my heart and whenever I heard it I couldn't help but pick him up and try to comfort him. It didn't matter what was going on with the party, my world at the moment revolved around him.
It's amazing, the connection between family members, specifically between an aunt and her nephew. I have always been told that being an aunt is the best, but I didn't understand what that meant until March 18, 2014 when Mckay entered my life. He's been a part of our family for less than a year and yet I can't picture life without him.
He loves to laugh and smile. His favorite game is peek-a-boo (with roaring sound effects as opposed to saying "peek-a-boo"). He's already walking and gets into absolutely everything he can possibly reach. Bath time is his favorite time of day and he loves to read stories and to turn the pages himself.
And no matter what my reason for going home, he somehow always makes my visit even better. My friends were right, being an aunt really is the best.

Me and Mckay (my own picture)

Working Alone

(FYI: Names have been changed. I figure I have no right to embarrass anyone besides myself in this post, ha ha. . . .)

Photo mine

I hate group projects.

The professor of our Business Writing class had told us to come on Friday with rough drafts of the “Methods” section of our proposals. Thursday night, I sent an e-mail to the other members of my group about that. No responses. So I chose one subsection and woke up early Friday morning to whip it up.

The professor never asked for the drafts, so I’d lost sleep for nothing. And I didn’t get much of an explanation from the other group members.

I like them as people. But that’s the problem with group projects: you can’t depend on people—even likable people—to be as committed as you are. It’s safer to work alone.

After class, I walked to the Wilk and picked a table. I generally go straight home, but I needed to work on my internship application, and I get more done on campus than at my apartment. I chose the Wilk because I’d heard James sometimes hangs out there at that time of day. Pathetic, I know.

My pile of work hadn’t shrunk much by the time I got home, but my patience had. So I spent the next hour curled up with Gretchen on her bed finishing her favorite webshow: “The Lizzy Bennett Diaries.” They’re a hundred short clips portraying a modern version of Pride and Prejudice.

I always forget that Gretchen is four years younger than me. She comes off as pretty mature, even with her purple-streaked pixie cut and taste for things like webshows. Maybe it’s her smile. It emits a casual wisdom: earned but taken for granted. She also scored a boyfriend last week—something I’ve never done.

Gretchen eventually headed off to meet said boyfriend somewhere, leaving me to watch the last couple episodes on my own. Of course, the resolution scene (in which Lizzy finally admits her feelings to Darcy and starts a kiss fest) was my favorite. I watched the emotion leak from their eyes and drank it. Clicked “replay” and drank the backwash, too.

When I wandered into the kitchen to grab dinner, all five of my roommates were gone. I took my food back to my room and sat on my bed.

And suddenly I was bawling. It wasn’t my usual cry, or anyone’s, really—the best comparison I can make is to the squeaky hysterics of the Spanish princess in Ever After. I heard my own jagged sobs and wanted to slap myself.  

“Why am I even crying?” I thought. “No one has hurt me.” I forced myself to stop and pinned the whole thing on the combo of sleep deprivation, a hard day, and an evocative video.

A couple roommates and friends made it back from some social event a few minutes later. Apparently I’d gotten all the mascara off, since no one asked about my eyes.

“Anyone up for a round of Nertz?” I asked, holding up one deck of cards and looking for another. You can’t play that game alone. 

Remind Me

Man, I’m super tired today. I just got home from work so I’m starving and just want to wear pajamas. I don’t care that it’s only 6:30 on a Saturday night. Sometimes you just need a night in. Especially after a long day spent wholly in a skirt. This morning I went to the temple with some people from my ward. It was so awesome to go with people again. My schedule is kind of weird and changes all the time so I usually just go by myself, which is also a really good experience, just different.

Anyways, then I had work at the MTC at one so I came home and ate and then went right back up to 9^th East. I feel like I spend a lot of time there... haha oh well. The missionaries were getting really tired by the end of class, so I think that’s partly why I feel so tired now. We did weekly planning today and it was pretty boring even as the teacher, which you know is a problem. Sometimes it’s so surreal to be back in the MTC. I find myself reminiscing everyday back to my life less than two years ago. It’s the same ‘70’s style brick walls with equally old, distasteful carpet. The same flimsy desks with “tables” that only hold half of one notebook. The same tension in the air when the teacher throws out something new in Italian and nobody gets it. It seems like the only difference is… well, me. Now I’m on the other side. I’m the “experienced” one, the one who made it all the way to the mission field and back. I’m the teacher that throws out the Italian like nobody’s business. (Well, at least I try haha. I’m still learning!) Watching these missionaries, I remember how hard it was to learn a new language. I remember how awkward it was to stop someone on the street and ask them in broken, halting Italian if they would listen to a message about Jesus. I remember thinking on Saturday nights that all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and throw the blanket over my head. I remember how the four brick walls seemed to get closer and closer together the more time I spent between them. I remember my companion scratching tick marks in the gray cement between the bricks to mark each day in our “prison.” Remembering it like that makes me wonder why I ever enjoyed those six weeks there and why on earth I would want to go back.

But then I really remember. I remember friendly smiles and encouraging words. I remember giggling over rookie mistakes. I remember the distinct smell of cheap hand soap. I remember the warm biscuits and gravy that I always craved. I remember the sound of a million voices singing together. I remember the incredible spirit that followed us everywhere.

That is why I wanted to go back. That is why I am so lucky that I can go back five times a week. Even though my role has changed, their role is the same. There is just something different there, something unique that you can’t find anywhere else. And even though I’m totally wiped out and just want to crash at the end of each day, it’s totally worth it. I just love seeing the missionaries faces light up when they realize that they are doing the Lord’s work. I can’t believe how much I just adore and love these wonderful missionaries that have decided to sacrifice this time for God. There is nothing more beautiful to me than that.

Choosing Redemption

Photo by Christ Tolworthy

Tonight we went to The Count of Monte Cristo. Spencer had managed to get tickets for $4.00, and I was very excited. When I pulled on a maxi skirt and a woolen scarf, I felt ready to watch a tragic musical. I first read The Count of Monte Cristo in High School. I didn't see the film adaptation until five years later and was shocked to find such drastically different endings. With each in mind, I still hadn't decided which version I found more moving. Was is more important to show the ruinous results of revenge, or man's miraculous capacity for redemption? I didn't know.

The De Jong was dark and the pit began to emanate orchestral music. As the actors danced around the stage and sang song after song, I grew nervous. The show was beautiful, the singing was stunning, the graphics projected behind were innovative, and the effect was great. But, as Edmond Dantes sank lower and lower, I just knew they couldn't let him stay there. It didn't matter that he had decided to hate, that he had decided to remain unmoved by his once-true-love's pleas, that he was everything his original perpetrators were, the story would force him to be redeemed. I promise I'm not morbid, unforgiving, or even a lover of sad endings, I just couldn't see how a man who had determined his choices and destiny would suddenly have a change of heart in the course of a song. (Oh wait . . . it's a musical and heart-changing songs are a blissful convention.)

Sitting in my chair, I slowly began to hunch over and mutter under my breath as the life-changing moment came. He would suddenly have an epiphany, conveniently after he'd gotten all his revenge, and still repent in time to get the girl. Spencer, watching me become more and more frustrated and my frame more and more contorted with disgust, just chuckled under his breath. But it wasn't funny! They were straight up doing it wrong!

After leaving the theater I stood off towards a side wall, waiting for Spencer to finish giving guidance to a fellow stage managing employee. I was really frustrated. The performance had been beautiful, the bows all tied. But it just didn't sit right. Why would we, as an audience, demand that a story be adapted to allow a main character sudden redemption? Why did we think it was okay to change the story just so he could have both his revenge and the love of his life? I was disturbed with myself. Did I really have such a problem letting a man repent?

I'm sad to say I still don't know the answer. I can guarantee from a literary perspective that Alexandre Dumas did not intend to have his self-ruined character suddenly redeemed by viewers or readers who couldn't take a realistic ending. What is the purpose of such characters as Anna Karenina, Edmond Dantes, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Dorian Gray, or even the Ancient Mariner from the poem, if their stories are nipped and tucked to be pleasant and devoid of consequences? When we remove consequences from our stories, we rob our stories of their power to display consequential reality. The problem is not that Edmond Dantes was redeemed; the problem is that The Count of Monte Cristo chose not to be redeemed. Themes such as the consequences of agency and the transformative effect of our choices morph into the cycle of vice, quick repentance, and a removal of responsibility.

All men may be redeemed; not all men will choose redemption. So what are we really looking for: a happy ending that highlights redemption, or fictional support that we may choose sin and still be redeemed?