EatPrayLoveLive: December 2012

Below is a snippet from the upcoming 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo I did this past November 2012.

Enjoy!

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Times I Fell in Love
And Other Horror Stories

For spring break, my husband had been invited on a road trip. Normally I wouldn't mind him spending time with his friends, especially when I understood how much those relationships meant to Lloyd. He had moved a lot as a child growing up in a military family so when he was finally able to lay down roots in San Antonio, he wanted to hold fast to the friends he made. Earlier in our relationship, he even flat out stated to me that if he ever had to pick or choose between his friends, and myself he would unequivocally choose them so I should not bother to put him in that situation. At the time, I was grateful to have the love he offered to me and thought his philosophy completely fine. I have certainly learned to know and demand/require/expect better from the men I love.

This road trip, however, was not a group of his bros celebrating his brief return to San Antonio. He had instead been asked to accompany Jen on a trip to west Texas to visit her parents. The trip was to be four days - and just the two of them. I was not asked if I wanted to go, or even if it was okay with me. I wonder if Lloyd would have even told me at all if he could have helped it.

Now, this is a perfect example of neither of us being ready for the demands and maturity of marriage. I expressed that I didn't feel comfortable with it, but that if he really wanted to go, that he should go on ahead and do so. He, hearing past my concerns to my permission to go, only exacerbated my concerns by going.

Of course, when my mother and sisters found out, the incredulity was palpable over the phone. I insisted I could handle the situation and feebly defended my husband, his actions, and his alleged platonic relationship with this other woman.

Before he was due to leave for his trip adventure excursion he took me out to the fanciest date of our entire marriage, and up to that point in my life. I wore the beautiful evening gown I had purchased for our anniversary and he showed up clad in a suit looking rather daper. I had only ever seen him dressed so formally on our wedding day. One of his friends worked at a tuxedo shop at North Star Mall so he loaned him the outfit for the evening. The other surprise for the date night was a rental car that he showed up in which was ours to enjoy but exclusively for the night. He went on to regret spending all of his money on a last minute car rental, but for a brief and glorious evening, we were together, young, and in love.

I had originally wanted to go to the Melting Pot that is a fancy fondue restaurant in San Antonio since I had my heart set on an anniversary meal there. Instead, he took me to see a movie and we picked up groceries at the local Wal-Mart before heading to his rents' house (where we had the place to ourselves for the evening and where we were lodged during spring break) for dinner and…dessert.

With a wonderful date behind us, I was in a better mood about his little trip but that feeling waned so quickly as to leave not even a trace of it behind to soothe what would become my raw heart. He left the Monday after our Saturday night date. I did not hear from him the entire time he was gone, even thought both of us had cell phones so there was absolutely no reason for him not to have returned my multitudinous calls and text messages. I even think I tried to email him and sent out a carrier pigeon. When Tuesday came and went without word, I was nervous. By the time Wednesday ended, I was concerned. On Thursday, I started calling his friends and praying that he wasn't dead or lying somewhere in a hospital. [Unfortunately for him] he wasn't.

Before he left Sunday night, I stood at the driver's side of the girl's car and attempted to be civil. I spoke with the girl explaining why I would have appreciated the courtesy of being included in the planning for her trip with my husband. She nodded, curtly, most likely already living the next few days with my man in her mind. As Lloyd remained AWOL longer and longer, my concern was met, matched, and exceeded by my mother's anger. She simply could not believe I had let him go in the first place and wanted to coach me on what to do whenever he did finally bother to show up. Had I allowed her to, I'm sure hot grits would have been involved. I couldn’t entertain her anger and emotions because I had to maintain my delusions. He wasn't dead. He wasn't cheating. He did love and respect me. I had made the right choice and everything would be just fine.

When I had gone through my too short list of all his friends whose number I had in my phone and arrived to the last number, I was on the brink of desperation. The only reason he could have not to reach out to me was that he was not able to physically. Whether that was due to the loss of his mortal coil or because he was balls deep in another woman, I didn't know. I did know that I was hoping for the former. Not that I wanted him dead, but I did not want to acknowledge that he would cheat on me. I saw my mother go through that and did not want to be another victim.

I phone Thomas, a friend who later characterized me as a bitch- a fact that Lloyd divulged during couples therapy a few months later back at Stanford. Thomas and Jen shared an apartment. If he didn’t know where they were, I may have hung up the phone with him to call the police. As calmly as I could muster, I asked for what seemed to me like the millionth time if he had heard from Lloyd. It was Thursday afternoon and I didn't have a shred of evidence that he was alive since I saw him off Sunday night. "Oh Lloyd, he came home last night. He spent the night here after we all went out to Jim's for dinner when he and Jen got back into town. You wanna talk to him?"

11/14

I looked down at my hands to make sure I didn't see blood. I was so furious; I could have sworn that my blood would have broiled through my pores somehow. My relief at learning he was okay was far outweighed and overshadowed by rushes of betrayal, rage, and how-dare-he-ary. All the comments my mom and sisters had made throughout the week flooded my mind's eye with a tidal wave of crushing "we told you so"s and I nearly blacked out from the sheer shock of it all. I pulled myself together somehow enough to respond with a statement that would start him sitting in the hot seat, "No, that's alright. I just hadn't heard from him and wanted to know that he was okay. Would you mind please having him give me a call whenever he gets the chance?"

I imagine how the scene may have looked on the other side of the phone conversation. Thomas may not have had my number saved so he picked up not realizing I, Lloyd's wife, would be on the other end to shatter the love nests' bubble. Or, he may have had my number saved and did realize that I had been kept out of the loop. Where they in the room when I called? Was he? Was she? Were there frantic attempts at sign language in the background desperately trying to convey the need to abort or lie? I don't have his side of the story accounting that moment precisely, but when he did finally show up (hours later) to my mother's house where I was staying, I did not get the story then either. She dropped him off and drove away, no doubt pleased at the vacation she had just enjoyed with my husband. He sat quietly next to me on the couch with his head hung and tail between his legs. His feeble and lackluster apology only further incriminated him.

In my mind, I prayed incessantly, "Be angry but do not sin," while I sat next to this man. This man I married out of love, fear, anxiety, and insecurity. Love was not, sad to say, all we needed. I did my best impersonation of a calm person as I asked him what happened and tried to ascertain why it was he hadn't been able to call or text me back once during his trip. His response was so uninspired and halfhearted; I am not able to even repeat it now. The words he used to attempt to half explain but mostly justify himself have not stood the test of time and remain floating between us on my mother's couch six years ago. What I do remember is getting a "Sorry" first and "nothing happened" only after my questioning much like a prosecutor had begun.

Instead of leading with a confident and firm assurance that nothing had happened folded warmly and coated thickly with a sincere and heartfelt apology, I was met with a young man who exuded a cadence of knowing he had been caught. He was simply awaiting his verdict punishment retribution. I flat out forbade him from going anywhere or doing anything without me for the rest of our spring break (all three days of it left). Like a mother reprimanding a disobedient child, I painstakingly took him through my neuroses from the past four days in an effort to elicit empathy on his part for his inconsiderate and unacceptable behavior. I should not have been surprised, then, when the next night he rebelled and banded together with the same friends he had enjoyed dinner with earlier in the week when he got back into town (without me of course) to protest my unfair treatment.

That night and the next day, he had to have texted or emailed his friends when I was in a room with him since I kept asking him who he was on the phone with. My suspicions were only flamed since he would drop the volume of his voice and use a stilted or guarded discourse when I entered a space he had previously occupied alone. We had left my mother's house and were back at his parent's house. Neither of us had a car so I intended on staying there until we left, punishing myself in the process, in order to reprimand him. The night after I laid down the law, he was on the phone almost constantly and I finally insisted outright to know what was going on. He had been checking the window periodically until suddenly he jumped up and made his way to the garage. In hot pursuit, I followed close on his heels. What I found waiting in my in-laws driveway is the only thing to this day that he enraged me anywhere near how much I had been just one day before upon discovering that my husband had returned from an extended trip with another woman without me, had dinner with her and all their friends, then crashed at her apartment while also leaving me to discover all this the next day from one of said friends.

These same friends that had joined him for dinner earlier that week were standing in the driveway at ten o'clock at night to join my husband in a protest against me. Yes dear reader, a group of white people were protesting their perceived injustice against me, the victim no less, a black woman. Once I realized what they were there for and saw Lloyd stand over with them, my vision went hot white (pun intended) and I just started walking.

The spring had been cool so the streets held little heat from the day. I knew this from my bare feet slapping defiantly against the concrete sidewalk before I crossed into the paved road. Before I decided to leave, I had asked Lloyd if he was going to agree with his friends about me being unfair and he folded his arms and puffed out his chest, no doubt aided with the breeze of confidence the turnout of his friends had produced, and stated with an air of cockiness and condensation, "Yea, I do think you're being unfair." As folks from my part of the country have been known to say, I could have spit, I was so mad. Being a pacifist, I didn't have a healthy way to channel the violent energy my internal reaction was threatening to unleash. Someone was going to leave and it was going to be them or me. I looked at my husband standing with his group of friends (thankfully for everyone involved she was not there with them) and knew if I didn't leave that I would make them or kill somebody trying. Not knowing where to go and with my cell phone (gratefully) in my pocket, I headed south down Farm Market 78 unshod and screaming at the top of my soul. Like the person who barely survives being hit by a drunk driver who ironically has to pay for the damages and medial bills accrued for the inebriated driver, I felt absolutely screwed and defeated by the sheer audacity of irony I had somehow found myself a part of.

After walking without any kind of destination for about half an hour, I remembered the one friend I still had who was living currently in San Antonio. A guy I had known since high school and once considered my hands down best male friend. He lived in an apartment complex near where I was traveling and usually kept random hours. I called him to see if he was up to talk and by the time I had regaled him with the whole sordid tale up to my impromptu night stroll without shoes, he had given me his address and invited me to commiserate with him. The offer could not have been better. Ambulating without purpose at night is not as calming when your brain and heart are vibrating nearly out of their respective body cavities with thoughts and feelings buzzing non stop. My feet were getting down right cold and uncomfortable and I was too far from my starting point to want to turn back. I also appreciated how his offer to go to his place allowed me a reprieve from the conversation that was sure to come from my mother had I chosen to walk 20 minutes down the road to her place.

It wouldn't just be "I told you so" over tea and cookies. My mama 'nem may be nice and proper when you meet them but we all have a little hood left in us though we made it out. Like the plastic that you break in case of an emergency, our proper veneers are quickly and easily shattered when pressed even remotely too firmly. I'm sure she, my siblings, and a few random cousins and Uncles would have loaded up on belts and weapons before rolling out to teach my husband whom he was really dealing with.

I didn't want any of that, but more specifically, I just didn't feel that I possessed the wherewithal to retell the story again anytime soon. I've already mentioned that all this occurred six years ago but even now I had to breathe deep and pace myself while writing this story now in response to residual and deeply held feelings that remain to this day. I forwent the conversation with my mother and family and instead opted to see one of my best friends. Tyrone let me into his apartment and started with a (very platonic) hug that held my fragile psyche and me for a moment of respite the moment I stepped into his door. I went into his Spartan apartment and the first words out of my mouth were, "So, what do you have to drink around here?" There are so many reasons why it is fitting that I would drink with Tyrone. Will, actually, come to think of it really there is only one. But to better explain that, allow me to pull you further back into my life, back to my childhood, to share with you my relationship with and to alcohol.

Cue the story of the booze and why Shamika don't play that. My mother and siblings' father were young parents. Their friends and family shared similar life compositions. So naturally, everyone would get together and unwind like any other early 20 something year old: with drugs and alcohol. As far as I know, the only drugs my mom allowed in her house and around her kids was marijuana, and even then it wasn't often that I would complain of the funny smell coming from the garage. I couldn't help that my room was right next to the sequestered smokers' impromptu smoking lounge. The adults would all come over and bring food, cards, drinks, and their kids at least once a month for years when I was in late elementary school. "Y'all kids go in the room” was the tried and true method for dealing with the up to ten youngsters ranging from toddlers to pre-teens. Every once in a while, my mother's cousin would have to be called on to enforce the protocol. Like the boogeyman, the adults would invoke her name to get us back in the room. I can still hear crystal clear voices from various family members yelling her name, "Byrrrrddd! Byrdddd!! I'ma get Byrd on y'all if y'all don't getcha *sses back in that room! Where's Byrd at?!" A belt was never too far away and enough incidents, though isolated as they were, of a kid getting disciplined either in my mom's room or worse in front of everybody was a vivid enough shared experience to keep us kids in line. While the adults played cards and dominoes or talked, us kids wrote songs, made up games, and talked ourselves. I never minded the fun with my cousins, but the one part that stuck with me was always the morning after.

The next morning, I would take it upon myself to get up early before everyone else and clean up. I would collect and throw away cup after red Solo cup filled to various quantities with sundry drinks and mixtures. The smell was pretty bad but the worst was coming across a cup that my Uncle Namon or anyone else who snuffed had used the night before - just plain gross! I would pick up and throw away all the cigarette butts and ashes. I would wash the dishes and wipe down all the surfaces like the kitchen counters that still had half filled bottles of hard liquor and our dining room table that was littered with beer bottles and wine coolers. You do that for a few years and partying that hard just did not seem appealing to me. It also didn't help when a party turned south and drunken mouths spoke sober minds to a less than receptive audience. The arguments only rarely made it to blows, but just like the isolated incidents with kids who got a woopen, the fist fights happened enough to keep us kids all scared whenever a conversation even sounded like it might take a violent turn.

My siblings were always trying to sneak alcohol but I struggled to maintain the mantra from D.A.R.E. right in my own household. The program prepares you for dealing with peer pressure coming from your friends, but what about when it comes from your own mother? Now, to be fair, my siblings' father was the actual drunk of the relationship, but on a random car ride once it was my mother who offered me a sip of her wine cooler. At this point in the ride, my siblings had worn my mother down with their begging and succeeded in acquiring a precious "nip." When all had been offered, though I hadn't asked, my mother turned to me. I was reading happily in my corner of the car, most likely Goosebumps or Baby Sitter's Club, and politely declined my mother's offer. "Gone and try it Shamika!" "Yea, it taste jest like Kool-aid." "You know she ain't gon' do it, she too proper." My siblings’ voices still ring in my mind but I again insisted that I was okay and tried once again to return to the safe haven I had come to know and love from my reading. My mother then said firmly, "Shamika, Go head and just try it. It ain't gon' hurt you to have a little sip." Not knowing how to simultaneously honor my mother while still saying no and keeping my D.A.R.E. pledge, my biblical moors won out and for my long days on earth, I succumbed and took the bottle. After only letting the liquid just barely touch my lips, I quickly returned the bottle as though prolonged possession would turn me instantly and irreversibly into a drunk. It did, however, taste a little bit like Kool-aid.

I continued to eschew alcohol at home and around my friends growing up. Though I obviously didn't need it, my mother managed to further deepen my resistance to spirits and the like a few years later. Having matured as a mother, my mom had shifted gears in her life by the time I was in high school. The house parties grew fewer and further in between until eventually we only saw family once or twice a year. I was still as goodie a two shoe as ever, but my freshman year in high school, I had a chance to step out of my comfort zone and into the more popular limelight.

During gym, someone passed out flyers inviting us to her girl/boy party at the Live Oak Pool. I didn't know her well, but a few people I did know seemed to be excited about going. To help plead my case for going, my god sister who was already spending the night with me that weekend asked my mother along with me to combine her cajoling with my own. She even promised to look out for me since she was two years older than I was. I had never been to anyone's party who was not related to me or whose mother had not intimately known my own mother. This was a very big deal.

I asked my mom right when I got home. Maybe your parents pulled this trick, but my mom had this way of saying, "Let me think about it," then not respond for hours until it seemed like you would miss the event you were asking to go to simply because she didn't get back to you in time to grant permission to go! My god sister and I tried to wait as patiently as we could, but when it was half an hour before the party was due to begin, I had to finally speak up and ask my mother for her decision. Perturbed, seemingly that I had remembered to ask, my mother begrudgingly agreed to let me go. But, before my god sister and I left, my mother shared with me an admonition whose potency remains strong even to this day.

She cautioned me not to accept any drinks from people, even my friends but especially guys, because they could put stuff in them that might be drugs. The advice was sound in and of itself to share with a young lady and I have shared it myself in a less "all drinks are evil" connotation. The issue was, this was my first legit party and I had no idea what to expect. Her warning scared me so bad that when I got to the party, I barely said hi to anybody and stood in a corner for ten minutes before calling my mom to pick me up. For all I knew, the punch was spiked, the chips were dusted, and the candy was laced!

I had an awful time and even in college I only went to two or three parties but still stayed far away from any drinks that I didn't bring or pour myself. The only times I ever sought out a drink were at Tyrone's house that night during spring break, two isolated incident years later while I was married (see the Bunny Tale about the boyfriend who got away and became my brother-in-law and the other about my own personal Independence Day), and one night four months later - my 21st birthday. The first and last of those times, Tyrone was there to help get me my drink.

11/15

Tyrone let me into his apartment and, after confirming that his straight shooting friend of many years did in fact want a drink, he presented me with his liquor cabinet. I don't remember the different kinds of alcohol he had, but I know there weren't any wine coolers. Not a hard lemonade in the bunch. Everything was hard liquor and I wanted to get smashed. "Give me the strongest thing you've got,” I growled excitedly. I had never been an advocate of self-medicating, but I was at the end of myself and needed a release of the hot bubbling turmoil of emotions coursing through me. Tyrone pulled down the shot glasses and set me up with a double shot of something heavy duty indeed. I grabbed the glass and psyched myself up to take it. Just as I inhaled (for the second time and after the third introspective psyche myself up "okay"), he suggested I have a chaser. I didn't even know what that was having only heard of it in movies or on TV shows in passing. But in that moment, the definition became suddenly clear and quite obvious. My answer was a resounding, "Hell yes!"

I was also a light weight when it came to expletives and either made up my own (such as crack monkeys in a bag eating Chiquita bananas on a Sunday morning saying hello to the chimpanzees. This was a jewel from junior high and the beauty of it was that the further I got into the phrase, the more emphatic I got and most likely the more upset I was but since the entire thing was so nonsensical and humorous I was able to usually lighten up by the end of the rant). Or, I would use curses from children's television shows like Spongebob (such as "tartar sauce", "whale bubbles" and "barnacles").

He set me up with a glass of orange juice straight from his rather bare fridge and I was ready. I gritted my teeth and in my mind's eye relived the past week and slammed the empty glass down without ever remembering bringing it to my lips. The immediate harsh burn and terrible taste brought me back to the present moment and I gratefully chugged the orange juice. My voice ragged and pulse quickened. I felt bad. But in a Michael Jackson late eighties "I'm bad" kind of way. And it felt good. I suddenly saw all those years of house parties from a different perspective.

The parents were all young and most had several kids close in age. Those that were single, childless, or empty nesters and all surely had their own life problems to drown in a red Solo cup. My high and mighty attitude, though subtle and intentional, was rooted in thinking myself better for not turning to drugs or alcohol to cope. Yes, I made conscientious efforts not to drink or turn to substances to deal with my problems, but I had only just begun to live. My mother would have had three kids by the time she was my age then and all of us were under four. I couldn't' imagine the stress and pressure she and the other adults were dealing with at that time. I understood them a little better and felt a lot less high and mighty.

Tyron and I spent the night talking and watching stuff online. He dropped me off at my mother's house the next day. I was no closer to having solved my problem or even dealing with the searing pain I had just endured, but I was ever so slightly less unhinged. The war had only begun between Lloyd and myself and his troops had secured his first victory in battle. I, however, was not going down without a fight and knew he would not have them to stand next to when we returned to Stanford.

Before I went back for spring quarter of my junior year, I went to several adults in my life who I looked up to and valued their opinion. My mother and the Deacon from my church were at the top of this list. The only problem was that neither had truly wanted me to get married when I did and to whom I did. Their advice was biased to say the least. In all fairness, though, I know they only wanted to best for me and saw me going into a half-done relationship with neither party mature enough to handle the level of commitment we found ourselves in. As I mentioned before, many others had tried to convince me to either wait or flat out disagreed with my choice. But now there was hardcore proof that Lloyd and I was in over our heads and might not be able to recover from the rift that his actions caused. The Deacon from my church had actually suggested divorce, so I know this must have been dire.

Back in California, on campus at Stanford, our falling out in spring break was only lessoned by the busyness of our schedules. Still thinking myself an Econ major, I signed up for the classes I needed that quarter not realizing that I would never again do so with the Econ department. Lloyd went back to work as an Assistant Manager for Ricker Dining Hall on campus. We had no clue on how to start fixing our relationship, so we turned to the free couples therapy provided through my excellent student health insurance. Though the service (almost) succeeded in saving our marriage, a few months later the Pastor from my home church - the very same one whose life and marital testimony had inspired me to marry Lloyd in the first place - would belittle traditional and contemporary couples therapy during a session he had offered to us!

We sat across from him rather dumbfounded as he refuted the very real and personal results we exhibited in our own relationship. I suppose as far as my former Pastor was concerned, if it hadn't came out of his mouth, it couldn't have been nearly as beneficial. We even gave him a second chance at counseling us sine he offered free marriage counseling to nay couple he joined in holy matrimony for the duration of the marriage.

The second session was wasted as we sat, mostly mute after giving up trying to get a word in edgewise, as he preached at us for a half an hour. He didn't ask us what our goals were for the sessions, if there were questions we wanted to explore, or even how could he help us. Thankfully, our experience on campus had been much more productive and fulfilling otherwise I do believe that both of us would have never bothered with therapy as an option again.

After ten sessions once a week, our therapist had provided a bridge across the treacherous chasm and rift that spring break had left in its wake. Though our relationship had taken a small step back from the precipice of divorce we were far from okay. I had ended up withdrawing from all my classes that quarter and oscillated constantly between considering freedom in divorcé and risking the scarlet letter of divorcee on my reputation or sticking out the relationship. The fragile ground gained from therapy was supposed to be expounded upon and increased that fall were we simply able to make it through the summer. We did, but due to the outstanding housing bill (refer to the "How I got Stanford to ask me for money Bunny Trail), we suddenly found ourselves on a side road with little support and less confidence in our futures.

My leave of absence began officially in September of 2006. I had been on track to graduate that spring 2007. I was going to have been a senior and was eagerly awaiting the moment after graduation when I could tell my mother proudly that I made it all the way through school without getting pregnant (an honor not every woman in my family held). I would then envision someone asking, "So Shamika! Wow, you've just graduated from Leland Stanford Jr. University! Now, what are you going to do?" So I could reply with a guilt free grin and unashamed excitement, "I'm gonna go make a baby with my husband!"

Since my mother got pregnant with me when she was in the 11th grade and walked the stage carrying my sister Clinshay in her womb, she constantly warned her girls to "Stay away from them boys" and not make the same mista-er-wonderful blessings she did. Though I took that advice to heart, as hard as it was seeing as how I was grown and married, my sisters were not so diligent. Let the record show it was not always because I was diligent either, God just blessed me to not be as fertile the few times I threw caution to the wind. I will hand it to the older of my younger sisters, Clinshay. She did graduate from high school, thanks to the hard work she did during a summer school course, before she got pregnant a few months later with my beautiful niece Trashanna.

Yes, you read that correctly - TRASH-anna. When my sister first told me about the name she was considering for her unborn daughter, I thought it was beautiful because she pronounced it TRIshahna. Then, I saw it written a few weeks later on my new niece's anklet while nurses were facilitating her transition into the world. I was so disappointed at my sister and concerned for my infant niece who faced possible nicknames like Trashy and garbage girl. My other sister Jasmine avoided my mother's concerns all together and left high school completely. So technically, when she had my nephew Demarcion (whose name I still am not 100% sure how to spell properly but know it is pronounced DeMARceeahn), she was literally "out" of school.

11/16

Max from Math Camp and his advice about my impending marriage:

When I was in the sixth grade, I got an OK Kids Parents Magazine back in San Antonio. The issue was replete with summer camps and activities around the city for kids of all ages. Earlier that school year, my math class had done one of those assignments that give you a taste of the real world. You got to pick from a hat a slip of paper that contained your knew personae complete with your level of education, current occupation, and life status (single, married, kids, or not). Every week for six weeks, we would pull a life event from the hat and spend the first few minutes of class dealing with the repercussions For example, you might win the lottery or get sick. You or your wife might have a baby. You could get a raise or the factory could very well close. At the beginning of the assignment we had to make a report of our budget, a blurb about our profession, and the kind of living space and transportation we had. All this would get arranged on a poster and presented to the class. Like most any kid, I was wildly fanatic about class projects and presentations. Especially if there was any explicit instructions or implicit room for any sort of crafty elements. I started looking for Apartment for Rent magazines whenever I went to the grocery store (H.E.B which stands for Henry Edward Butt and amused me to no end as a child) or any kind of store or restaurant that provided its patrons with publications.

Though I couldn't tell you much about my imaginary life, besides the fact that I insisted on biking or taking the bus to reduce car pollution, the notion of which delighted and amused my family for years, one thing did stick after the assignment. I developed, or perhaps heightened, a desire to seek out and collect free publishings. H.E.B. always had McCormick recipes in the spice aisle. After years of collecting them, I think my family only ever made one dish. But the prowl for print materials was strong that school year so when I came across the parents magazine offering free and cheap summer camps and activities, I felt like I hit some sort of children's jackpot.

I got home and immediately started meticulously savoring each page and entry. Like one would enjoy a delicious cup of coffee or tea, I drank in all the articles and let the possibilities warm my spirit. The magazine featured a special summer guide. Entry by entry, I went through and crossed out any that cost any money. The ones that were left, I then went through circling any interesting programs and crossing off duds. Six years later, I would use the same method for going through Stanford University's Academic Bulletin as I tried each and every possible major and degree on my mind for future fit. The magazine allowed me an ideal medium to cut my teeth on dreaming through catalogues.

Besides school, I was not involved in any extra curricular activities but desperately wanted to be. Dance, choir, drama, and Girl Scouts were all activities that attracted me but usually cost money and prevented me from participating since I understood our utter lack of money as a family. The summer guide offered a few promising possibilities, but the winner hands down was a summer program about math and science which was free and offered each student a free t-shirt upon completion of the program: PREP.

PREP stands for the Pre-fReshman Engineering Program. The entire duration for the summer program was two months for three years and the location changed every summer offering various community colleges in the Alamo Community College District System. Families could choose to send their students to the closest of a number of possible locations each summer except for the third and final summer during which all participants attended PREP on campus at St. Mary's University. Scholarships and credits from local universities like St. Mary's and Incarnate Word were offered to participants who completed the program.

Speakers from math, science, and engineering fields came regularly to open our minds to professions and courses of study. We had egg drops, bridge challenges, water bottle rockets, and computer programmed soda machines. Two speakers at the free summer program strongly affected the trajectory of my academic life. One was a stuffy Ph. D. in the biosciences who told the auditorium of low income majority minority students that getting a Ph. D. was generally hard and was even more difficult for minorities. The crazy thing was he himself was a minority and went on about how few there were of him in his field. Most of us had never even heard of a Ph. D. degree before so when he said that not many that aspired to achieve a Ph. D. got one, it was all the more disconcerting.

Even after the camp director discreetly encouraged the speaker to rectify his disparaging remarks, the damage may have been done for most of us. For others, like myself, I simply resolved myself to prove him wrong. For years, I kept his handout which contained his contact information and I waited for the day I could mail him a copy of my Ph. D.. Sadly, it was lost with the rest of my paraphernalia but the sentiment always remains.

EatPrayLoveLive

Saturday, December 29, 2012

a quickie

Friday, December 28, 2012

NaNoWriMo Sneak Peak

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

The Woman Who Turned to Salt

Saturday, December 1, 2012

December 2012: Rock on!

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