August: Osage County

(In case it's not obvious, there will be spoilers ahead.)

"Suffering is the fire that melts the glass of the person you must leave behind."-Umhair Haque

When friends told me that the movie August: Osage County was dark and I read reviews that it was depressing, I was drawn to it still. I drift on the melancholy side, after all. Leaving the theater, though, I felt more like I'd seen an alternate version of my childhood play out. My mother wasn't a pill addict, and my father wasn't a pensive alcoholic. But I know how abuse wrecks a person and a family. I know how the hurt is often poured, like the wine, at each meal and sits in the corner like a watchful friend.

The sisters in August: Osage County could be crudely described, if you didn't look too deeply. Barb is tough and shades of that toughness reflect her mother. Ivy is quiet and unassuming, almost broken by the torment of being her mother's physically closest child. Karen is removed, seemingly delusional about the reality of her family but happy about it. If I got to choose, I'd choose tough every time. Then again, maybe we don't get the choice.

Barb, like her mother before her, was the guardian. She took control when her parents did not. When you see the scene at the table where all hell breaks lose, you see a child acting as the mother and a mother acting as the child. I know that scene. My sister does; my friends do. When Barbara screams that she's in charge, her bravery created a rush of adrenaline in me. Others saw a lunatic, but I saw a hero.

It might stun you when you realize the person you had to become in order to survive.  

Who can predict what a tumultuous childhood will produce? Living the hell caused by my mother's marriage to an alcoholic man, who perpetuated a cycle of abuse she'd known for her entire lifetime, has made me who I am. When you are raised by imperfect people, and we all are, it's likely to shape and mold you beyond your control. Even still, when you are raised by someone who has themselves been the victim of abuse, their influence may turn you into someone you don't recognize. I realize there is still the possibility of happiness, if you come from a broken home. There is still joy to be had and love to be made. My love, though, may be quite different than yours. How I experience life has changed.

Broken people often do break other people; I've been guilty with my words and my carelessness. I'm not excusing abusers who have themselves been abused, but I am being honest about how we carry physical, mental, and emotional abuse into our future. Maybe, in truth, I do excuse the anger and bitterness you feel emanating from so many of the characters who've suffered. The very visceral and ugly things that happened to my mother hurt her so deeply that they are in my bones. Before I knew the words and before she told me, I knew them. I came from her, so I carry them.

You tell yourself to be strong enough until you're not, until you can't be. We break. We bruise. What you see in August: Osage County are variations of how abuse distorts each member of the family, but in different ways. We don't see Barb be physically or verbally abusive to her family, except once in a moment of stunned anger when she slaps her daughter. However, she is stunted by the abuse she suffered. She's hardened by the life she lived. When she confirms with her husband that he's never coming back after they've separated, she tells him, "I'll never know why, will I?" He agrees. This ignorance of self is something I understand. I may never know all the ways that living with abuse has shaped me. Mental health care, as I've discovered in the past year, is necessary but it will not give me all the answers or cure my past. To be bold, I can never go back to who I would have been without the abuse. I can't hate who I am; becoming this person is what helped me to survive. That is part of processing trauma. The bubble has burst, and you are left to clean up the mess.

Suffering from abuse is not the life I'd choose for you, or God help me, for the children who will come to be mine, born to other parents. However, bearing witness to my own abuse has allowed me to better understand a community of people who, like me, are hurt. My sister knows my past in the way that only Barb can know the pain Ivy and Karen feel. Truthfully, the fact that Ivy connects with Little Charles in such a deep way is not so shocking to me given that they are both one of a few witnesses to their traumatic, shared childhood. Ivy understands the bullying that has made Little Charles timid and almost paralyzed with doubt, but she also understands that he is more than the abuse he suffered. I believe that, beyond what it seems Little Charles can understand, he sees the same for Ivy. She is more than the shadow of her mother and sisters. Despite convention, I was convinced to let them have each other. In fact, at the end of the movie, I wasn't worried about where Barb was headed. I knew she'd be okay. I wasn't worried about Violet in her haze of drugs and abandonment. She had Johnna. Even Karen had the handsome pedophile with a nice car. Ivy was the sister I wanted to follow. She wasn't tough; she felt every blow, and it showed.
 
One thing the filmmakers highlighted in images and dialogue is how the roads go on forever in the Plains. You can't see what's at the end.

We try to be tough, until we can't be. And when we break and bruise, we wait to see how the bone sets. In healing, we begin to see --and maybe even start to forgive-- the person we'll become.

Unstuck

My fear was being stuck. When I had lost the weight, I gained some perspective, I gained confidence. Make no mistake, I had those companions before, but they were magnified now. For me, the gain I needed most necessitated that loss. When I had seen these beautiful, strong parts of me amplified, I could imagine being the girl who wore sleeveless shirts, the girl who expected to be noticed in a good way, the girl who could be considered…sexy! That girl, re-imagined, could have another life than the straight line I had drawn in front of me.

She deserved it.
She craved it.

Even after the gain of weight in the past year that I’d kicked ass at losing over 18 months, I knew there was no going back to that old girl. I had dreamed of college in New York once. Did you know? I did. I dreamed of writing my own words to share with the world. So, maybe the re-imagined was only reclaimed.

My fear was believing the lies the world told about me. I had briefly believed the lies boys stamped onto me, the lies some in the church stamped onto me; they stained my skin. God forbid I not follow their straight line. If I kept believing their lies, it was easier to get stuck. If I paired with some lover who didn’t love every inch of my brain, every centimeter of my skin, who would prop me up and remind me of my own strength? Who would help me stand when the world went dark?

For my grandmother who worked after high school in the 1950’s, before scholarships and loans, planning her journey into college, I couldn’t get stuck.

For my mother who is smarter than me, I figure, but never had someone to push her off the straight line of doing for others at her own great expense, I couldn’t get stuck.

For reclaimed me and my grandmother and my mother and everyone else who dreamed they could have a different life, for YOU, I couldn’t get stuck.

So, I moved off the straight line. That required significant change for me; maybe it won’t for you. I moved to a city where I never dreamed of living. Honestly, I sometimes think the ways of this city are the exact opposite of my intentions in moving here. Many are racing to blend in while I am fighting my instincts to step out of my comfort zone.

Oh, well.
I moved.
I’m still moving.

And maybe, that lover who sees in me what I am clawing to reclaim for myself won’t be here. Maybe the line will veer somewhere else, sooner or later.

But that girl --the one who imagined that in any mental, physical and emotional shape, she was worth a damn-- that girl lives here.

I'm New Here

You'll be happy to know that I made it to L.A. in one piece, minus a lamp and laundry basket! Good riddance, movers. If you ever want to move across the country, I recommend you hiring a coordinator for that type of thing. I will not be applying.

In lieu of anything of real substance, here are a few of my observations that I feel you should know about L.A.:

If the weather here is as good as you think (it is), the traffic is as bad. Yes, we had great weather this week, just like last week (sorry, Arkansas!). This is spring, I think, but I don't even wear a sweater most days. It's sunny and bright until 7 or later, but there have been some random foggy and hazy days. No major temperature changes, though, which is really nice!

Traffic is a mess. My first weekend, it took me 2 hours and 45 minutes to get six miles from work, to a gas station with a free pump, to a grocery store where I could park about 3 miles away and back home. Now, it takes about an hour give or take to get the six miles to work. SIX MILES. I basically zig-zag across town on the half dozen street names I recognize.

One of the sayings I've heard about L.A. is that it takes "about 20 minutes to get anywhere, give or take an hour." I've also heard that a red light means turn left. Tell me about it! This is the city of left turns. I'm pretty sure one of those red light cams flashed at me the other day. Oops! This is also the city that hates pedestrians. Being that I have to walk across a very busy four-lane road, I get it, I really do. You have to cross the street. But pedestrians are everywhere. Now, I used to be a pedestrian downtown, perusing about the culture and stuff. Now that I live in such a high-traffic tourist area, I have really started to despise people in crosswalks.

If you add up all the time I've spent figuring out parking in the past month, it would equal an entire day, I bet. I circle around a store or restaurant for half an hour trying to get the hang of it. Just last Sunday, I wanted Mexican, but I could not find a parking lot I liked so I just cruised forever. A lot of restaurants, even small ones, valet because it's so difficult to find street parking. Even if you find a spot on the street, there are approximately three rules on every parking sign to follow. Depending on the day and time, you can get a ticket or towed (see picture below). Remember when we used to complain about parking in the RiverMarket and dammit if you had to pay?! Well, you have to pay to go to Target in L.A. Or Trader Joe's. Or Walgreens. For instance, I recently had the joy of getting my parking validated to drive through a McDonald's. Did not park, at all. I miss drive-thru, man. It's tough around my neighborhood to find one. And none of the Starbucks are drive-thru. What's up, friends?!

 

(Figure that out, please.)

Prime time TV starts at 8 p.m., which is a problem, but cable comes with the apartment so that will be nice for the time being.

Plastic bags are out around here. You'll pay for paper. Take notice. 

Just like you'd expect in such an art center, the visual advertisements are everywhere. Huge, colorful billboards on every major corner and every building's side is a new ad. The houses and buildings themselves are so visually stunning. Forget about the hills; the regular everyday stuff is pretty nice to look at.

Speaking of, everyone here is in the business or connected to the business. It's a city of beautiful people and I mostly feel white and unfashionable. HOWEVER, it is also a city of such beautiful diversity. On weekends, I hear no less than three or four languages when I go out. There are huge sections of the city with different communities such as traditional Jewish neighborhoods, Latino neighborhoods and gay neighborhoods. The amount of rainbow flags is awesome, even on churches. I used to think I'd want my kids to grow up in a small town, because it's so warm. But what if we all grew up with various types of people around us? Would we realize more quickly that maybe we are more alike than different and maybe no one is "right?"

And all of those communities are full of workaholics. People work. A lot. My usual day is not much longer than in Arkansas (9 a.m. - 6 p.m.) but my coworkers usually work 8 - 4:30 p.m. I stay longer because a) I require a one-hour lunch to de-stress and b) work is a beast! Fridays we do close early, and they were super flexible with my moving, so I'm not too worried about becoming that "L.A." with the work hours. At work, there is no end in sight of things to do, but the positive is that I know how to do the job. I rather think I do it kind of well! I'm optimistic about the potential of the program, and the volunteers are great. They are really eager and take initiative on projects.

You can't run errands or go out at lunch, because it takes so long to get your car from the garage and then get around town (see "traffic" above). There are a lot of places within walking distance, but I've yet to venture out on my own for fear I'll get lost and have to use my GPS like a goober. There is a Starbucks in the building, which I, surprisingly, haven't abused too much and a cafeteria. The cafeteria seems really efficient, until you try the food and realize it is, after all, a cafeteria. No gourmet.

I haven't ventured out into the city much on my own, to be honest, but I am volunteering at the literary festival in April. I'm also helping with a fundraising walk in May.

Note to self: Must. Meet. People.

I've already gotten real mail from friends (thank you!). And bills. I've switched all my addresses. I unpacked my real silverware and ran my first load of dishes.

I think I'm home.

My Things

I'm not sure how he did it, but Tyler Perry's version of "For Colored Girls" was heartbreaking, staggering and beautiful all at the same time. I'm developing more words, but for now:

"It was a lover I made too much room for, almost ran away with all my stuff.
And the one running with it, don’t know he got it.
I am shouting, 'This is mine!' And he don’t even know he got it.
My stuff is the anonymous ripped off treasure of the year.
Did you know that somebody almost ran off with me?
Me, in a plastic bag under his arm.
Somebody, almost ran away with all my stuff…"

-Adapted from Ntozake Shange's original choreopoem