Finding and following your passion

Trudging home from work with frozen fingers a few weeks ago, I stopped to check my mail before ascending to my second story apartment. I almost missed the white postcard leaning against the edge of the box. Red hand-printed pinwheels covered one side along with the name of one of my college friends, Laura. I noticed the date. What had seemed so very far in the future was now five months away. Two years or more of subdued expectation and protracted procrastination on a hand-made wedding gift had quietly, suddenly, bubbled up on the horizon, and my world view changed.

There comes a time in life, gentle reader, when you realize your friends are growing up. While the moment may be different for everyone, it inevitably comes. For me, it came when I realized that in addition to remembering friends’ birthdays, I would have to remember wedding anniversaries as well.

Laura is my only college friend to become engaged in the almost two years since graduation. Granted, I had friends from earlier periods in my life, who followed the standard Western Maryland path of birthing children early, often, and eventually marrying one of the baby-daddies. Nevertheless, I never felt any sort of competitive urges or bonds with any of them after I fought my way out of the mountains and into college. Thus when holding that thin piece of white paper in my hand, I felt a sudden compulsion to take stock: where had we all landed.

I have friends in law school or working on graduate degrees in public policy. Some are working for the government or other big businesses, making money I can only dream about. Others are living abroad, teaching or volunteering. Yet nearly all of them have reached some level of achievement. They set a socially acceptable goal and reached it. My biggest challenge this week was typing one-handed (see next week’s blog entry on why driving a scooter in a wintery mix is a bad idea). Where are the differences, the twists in our paths, that led us to such divergent places, I mused.

In college, I had unbridled competitiveness, while not necessarily with others, always with myself. Working, volunteering, studying—I slept very little during my years at St. Mary’s. I wanted to achieve, to prove myself, and St. Mary’s turned out to be the perfect place for me. My course of study was guided solely by my academic and social interests, to the constant worry of my advisor, Dr. C. She thought I might not finish as an English major (she was right). Instead I studied philosophy, religion, gender studies, and Asian studies all mixed together to form my own major. From my nature writing class often held in the grass outside the library and my theater class where we cringed at the latest in body mediation to my art history class were we hashed queer theory over Warhol and Mapplethorpe and my religious studies class were we discussed the Christian women mystics’ tendencies to chomp down scabs, I discovered whole vistas I had never imagined. The consummate undergraduate theoryhead, I managed to incorporate Foucault into everyday conversations.

During the last semester of my super-senior year, I officially changed my major and declared my intent to complete a thesis. I ate, drank, lived, and breathed my St. Mary’s Project. The outside world was a remote thought looming too far away to really worry about. I made a few plans, but it was extremely difficult to decide what to apply for since I was unsure what I wanted to do. Social change activist required start-up money, which I lacked, to live in the city close to the nonprofits. International gender theorist demanded numerous, competitive grant applications, independent wealth, or access to a private jet for free travel. I focused instead on the writing of my SMP. Over a hundred and sixty pages later, I graduated. All the hard work paid off: I graduated magna cum laude, with a GPA about halfway between my friends’.

After college, I drifted, working a string of small jobs in various careers, and eventually landed back in the mountains. While my friends had started working on their careers and settling down, my soul still drifted as my feet rooted into the Appalachian soil. Simply asking what I wanted to do when I grew up was not quite enough. First, I needed to give myself time and permission to search for the articulation of my passion. I’ve spent the past year and a half convincing myself that not choosing the same things as my friends is OK.

However, once the hurdle of feeling “less than” was conquered and the difficulty of excising my own anxiety was quelled, I am still left with the articulation. I often loudly proclaim my intentions, convincingly arguing my supposed reasons, without actually knowing what I want to do. Yet, at the end of the day, I am always left with one thing: I want to write. This simple thought becomes a dictum I cannot ignore.

So rather than going back to school for a Master’s of Education (as well as the two to four years of necessary, additional undergraduate study), I have realized these last few weeks that I am happy working part-time for now, using my spare time to develop my writing. I am happy in a way I have not been since graduating from St. Mary’s. Damn society’s definitions of dependable citizens with decent goals. My passion is the written word: I lust after ink and long for the consummation of pencil and paper.

As I grind the edges off of my essays and assemble and reassemble my poems, I experience a sense of fulfillment I would be hard-pressed to find amongst my other discarded plans. This summer, I am determined to attend not one but two writer’s conferences: Tinker Mountain Writer’s Workshop in Roanoke, VA and Nightsun Writer’s Conference in Frostburg, MD. Finances are understandably a concern, but I am banking on the universe to shake something loose. If the universe has the unlimited energy to create giant stars and silk worms, surely there should be some left over to help me fund about $1,400 in conference fees. Of course, if anyone would like to add to his or her personal account of merit, please notice the addition of a donation button to the right. Paul has already contributed, digging deep into his poor surfing pockets.

So what will I end up doing? Who knows. This week a Master’s of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Goddard, a low residency program in Vermont, is looking pretty effin’ schweet, but next week might bring something else to my attention. However, finding the right program is secondary. Until then, I will fulfill the main responsibility I have to myself: following my passion.

“Follow the fire of your passion,

for all the rest is ash

easily scattered on the road of life” ~ me

*Note: This blog is meant for edutainment purposes only, and to that end, I may occasionally use some literary license. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living, dead, or made-up is purely accidental and should in no way be presumed to be the objective Truth in a cosmic sense for the only constant is change.

Surfing the wave of poverty

I met Paul about a year ago. With a brown stocking cap pulled down over his iron-gray hair, a dirty-olive-colored coat covering his 5′ something frame, and a packed lunch box swinging from his hand, someone could easily mistake him for a hobo who has wandered away from the Union Mission downtown. A sidewalk Socrates, Paul works as a dishwasher at a fancy restaurant. He’s enrolled in the nursing program at the community college where I work, and since he is in his late 50s, hopes to graduate in time to retire.

Paul was assigned as my tutee for English 101. Often, when I tutor a student for a semester, he or she requests me again, and I have a small, loyal fan club, who sing my praises into any available ear. It is nice to feel needed. Paul seems to have called dibs on club president and often tries to convince the other members of the English department that they should hire me full-time. Every little bit helps, as the saying goes.

Paul has great stories. He tells them full of excitement, laughing and slapping his leg, leaning his head ever so slightly forward due to an old car accident injury. They are the kind of stories, upon first hearing them, you would be inclined to disbelieve every single word. Some of them are verified by the hallowed authority of Wikipedia, and others are just good to listen to. Paul is also adept at, as he calls it, surfing the wave of poverty, finding free money for school and generous food pantries. Luckily for me, he good-naturedly shares all the tips he knows and has even given me some extra cans of vegetables from time to time. Because this semester I am making little more than a third of what I did in the fall while teaching, I need to make sure my $600+ a month is stretched as far as possible.

I try to keep my monthly expenses low by living in a cheap apartment in the “rough part” of North End and keeping a tight hold on my utility usage. I also receive food stamps from my Uncle Sam—it’s not charity, it’s family. Currently, in Maryland, a single individual who makes less than $1,127 per month is probably eligible for up to $200 in food stamps per month. With skyrocketing food costs, this amount usually covers all my grocery needs; however, a junk food binge too early in the month can result in a diet of Raman noodles, Spam, and generic macaroni and cheese for weeks on end. If you’ve ever lived on a diet of “poor food,” you know that mixing hot Spam jelly and powdered cheese mix can have potentially explosive results, gastronomically speaking.

To get the most bang for my government buck, I cook often and usually pack my lunch. By avoiding the $5 a day for a pre-made sandwich, I save myself at least a hundred bucks a month. Of course, my epicurean leanings often create a continued state of compromise. Some things I refuse to give up—organic olive oil, fresh milled black pepper—I’m not a barbarian! Nonetheless, finding sales or buying in bulk can drastically slash the pinch of luxury grocery items. At a little deli downtown called Passarell’s, reusable plastic containers of everything from whole peppercorns and basil to rainbow sprinkles (what every hippie most desires) are sold for as much as half the high-end market price. Because I always have to do my marketing in small batches (scooter + bungee cords + heavy traffic + multiple bags of groceries = Disaster plus a flattened loaf of bread ), I can easily shop where the price for certain items is cheaper, making a separate trip to a different store for other things.

Once I have found the best prices, the challenge of cooking without a proper set of pots and pans can be daunting. Though my mother took pity on me and bought me a modest set of pans during the recent holiday season, I have learned to be inventive over the years.

Cooking in College: Smushed into communal housing without kitchen space for all but my final year at St. Mary’s College, I was at first completely reliant on the meal plan racket. While at the end of the semester students were allowed to donate some of our excess “blocks” to a local homeless shelter, a cap of only $10 meant that sometimes hundreds of dollars went to waste. At the beginning of my second year there, I realized swapping out the standard meal plan for a spot in the hippie-dippy veggie co-op was several hundred dollars cheaper. I applied and was accepted; however, the filth (too high to clean) and cockroaches (too humane to squash) were too much for me. I left halfway though the semester, receiving a partial refund, and quietly slipped through the mandatory meal plan cracks. My semester spent cooking in a common room taught me that two appliances are vital to contraband college cuisine: a toaster oven and a hot-pot. Nothing will win you friends faster than food in college, and producing mini pizza bagels during Adult Swim guarantees your popularity. Alex, one of my suite-mates from college, made them as her specialty. If you too are trying to go without a meal plan, making friends with first year students and having your richer friends steal you produce from the cafeteria will also smooth the provisions problem.

Grown-up Essentials: Now that I have my own kitchen, a different set of tools are required to manufacture budget fare. First, a rice maker. After living in Asia for a year, I sometimes can’t stomach American food. I miss the rice based dishes of my adopted homeland, Thailand. A rice maker will double as the perfect vegetable steamer, serving up anything from potatoes and cabbage to garlic and parsnips. A little organic olive oil Pam in the steaming basket of my Aroma brand, 12 cup rice maker will assure that carrots and yams won’t stain or stick. Next, while slow cookers have been around for as long as I can remember,  these relics of a mother’s kitchen are fantastic for making inexpensive soups, which can be frozen for later use. And last but not least, my wok is a cherished possession. It is the most versatile pan to own for all kinds of techniques from frying and sautéing to boiling and baking. Well, ok, you can’t actually bake in a wok. But you can cook just about anything in one.

Ready/need to try your hand at survival cooking? Here are a few recipe ideas to start you off. Remember, experiments are encouraged!

Alex’s Pizza Bagels

pizza sauce

shredded mozzarella cheese

mini bagels

Put sauce on half a bagel. Then pile as much mozzarella cheese on top as you can and stick it in the toaster oven until the cheese melts! Then watch anime.

Aj. Ray’s Thai Pineapple Fried Rice

safflower oil for frying

several scallions

a couple of eggs

heaps of day-old Jasmine (Thai Hom Mali) rice

a little fish sauce

several dashes of light soy sauce (not Kikkoman; quality soy sauce makes all the difference)

two handfuls of pineapple (if using fresh, soak in salt water to sweeten the bland American fruit)

red pepper flakes

Optional:

fried egg (kai tod)

Fry scallions in oil, then add egg and scramble. When egg is almost cooked add rice and stir until sizzling. Add sauces and pineapple last. Top with red pepper flakes and fried egg. Think warm, tropical thoughts.

Tiffany’s Lazy Vegetarian Chili

1 box of Fantastic Vegetarian Chili mix

2-3 cups of water (as directed on the box)

2 cans of beans, drained (I prefer black or pinto to kidney)

1 can of whole kernel corn, drained

1 can diced tomatoes (available in low sodium and with spices added)

Several dried red chillies or red pepper flakes to taste

sea salt & milled pepper to taste

garlic & onions to taste (I use lots of garlic and sweet onions)

Optional:

Assorted veggies as desired (mushrooms or carrots can be tasty)

Sour cream, chives, avocado slices, and/or shredded cheddar

Dump everything into the slow cooker on low for about 6 hours. Eat. Freeze. Eat Again.

Bon Appétit!

*Note: This blog is meant for edutainment purposes only, and to that end, I may occasionally use some literary license. With that in mind, I would like to assure everyone that Paul’s dirty-olive-colored coat is not dirty, it is just colored that way. He doesn’t even like dirty martinis.

Getting there is half the fun

It was like that motorcycle-traffic stop scene in Garden State (2004), and I was Zach Braff. No, I was not doing twice the legal speed limit, and I was wearing a helmet. But I had just run two red lights, one right after the other, and had not noticed the cop. Well, not noticed isn’t quite accurate. I couldn’t really turn my head. As I skidded onto the gravel strewn shoulder, I craned around to see that I knew the crew cut, brown jacketed guy about to tell me off.

“Hi, Cody” I muttered. He didn’t hear me. Granted it’s rather difficult to hear someone talking through a hoodie, a scarf wrapped to the nose, and a padded full-face motorcycle helmet.

“You know you just ran two red lights! Just because you’re driving one of those things, you still need to obey all traffic laws. As you went through the light, a car pulled out and could have hit you,” he shouted. I find it is best to remain apologetically humble when a cop is yelling, and try not to interrupt. “I know you. Do you even remember me?” he asked.

Community college choir, tenor–how could I forget? He was always dweebie and self-important back then, telling everyone in choir that if his EMT pager went off, he would have to leave, regardless of what we were doing. Yes, we assured him, we understood that the tri-state emergency services couldn’t possibly manage without the part-time volunteer, and civilization might crumble if we insisted he finish a mere musical number. I had made a somewhat conscious effort to forget my days as a community college student, but here was a reminder, fully employed, in a car, and warm.

I assured him I remembered and explained that I ran the lights because the 50cc scooter kept stalling because of the cold. “Sorry,” I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible.

“Alright, you can go,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. I restarted the little two-stroke, giving it some time to get going, and took off up the hill. A few bitter tears leaked from my eyes and froze to my wind burnt cheeks.

What, you may ask, was I doing driving a scooter in 18 degree weather this past week? It’s how I get around, 365 days a year, in a rural town with sketchy public transit.

Cumberland’s population is just over 20,000 people. While I grew up close to here, in the mountains of Western Maryland, it was definitely not my first choice of residence. Graduating from a liberal arts college in the post-economic meltdown has changed quite a few of my plans. This blog will be a charting of my survival: my wise decisions and my catastrophic misjudgments. For example, the time I used the last of my savings to ward off a second case of frostbite or how I almost paid $8,000 for a free bus pass. Along the way, I hope to entertain and possibly pass on tips and warnings.

This week, I was confronted, again, with the issue of getting to my minimum wage job as cheaply as possible. For me to take the bus, I have to walk 20 minutes for a 30 minute ride that costs $2.00. Alternately, I can walk for about an hour. On my scooter, (a long term loan/present from my parents) it’s about a 10 minute drive to work. As someone who feels naturally suited to a tropical environment, none of these options are thrilling, but the scooter ride is the quickest. Scooter travel is also fairly green: an average month of commuting takes me about 4 gallons of gas or about 2 hours worth of work. In a town where SUVs are de rigueur, I receive quite a bit of attention. A scooter costs about $2,000 new and can be a convenient method of independent travel. A sense of reckless adventure is also handy, and I always have a conversation starter.

Of course, according to Lanny, the guy I buy oil from, the ideal temperature for a two-stroke engine is 50 degrees Fahrenheit. So basically when the temperature dips below freezing, the scooter doesn’t want to be outside anymore than I do. For my non-mechanically inclined readers, a two-stroke engine mixes gas and oil to run on, and it takes a special oil. I use synthetic because it is more slippery and less likely to gum up in cold weather. It takes me 20 minutes to drive to Lanny’s store. He has the cheapest oil in the area.

Every time I walk through the door, he smiles and starts shaking his head. “Here’s the bravest girl I know,” he proclaims boastfully to anyone within earshot. At 29 years old, I gracefully take the implied compliment. “Are you working on a plan for a car yet,” he asks without fail.

“Soon,” I tell him as I peel off a couple of layers and loosen my scarf so I can breathe. “I need to get a few quarts of oil. I’m back working at the college this semester.”

“Was that you I saw the other day over on Willowbrook getting stopped,” he asks. “You weren’t speedin’ were you,” he laughs. He knows that in these temperatures I can only go about 25 miles per hour.

“Naw. I ran the lights and didn’t see the cop. It kept stallin’ out on me ’cause it was so damn cold, and I didn’t want to stop,” I say, laughing off the incident and reverting to a somewhat local vernacular.

“Ran ’em both did ya,” he says with a look of concern on his face. “You need to be careful,” he advices and rings up two quarts for me.

I will admit that I am not always as careful as I might be. I really do feel that stop signs and red lights are more suggestions of possible courses of action. If I can slowly coast through a stop without putting my feet down, I’m satisfied. It is more important to drive as if assuming every other driver really does want to kill you. With that in mind, a sudden stop at a yellow light (or orange as the case may be) is like asking to be turned into a permanent size flat. Dieting can be extremely hazardous to your health. Besides, during the winter, I am always in a hurry to arrive someplace warm.

This year, with Arctic blasts chilling my bones, I keep thoughts of spring close to my heart and under about six layers of clothing. Eventually, it will be warm again. So until then, I will wear my ski pants and two pairs of everything.

Live by your own rules, everyone else cheats.

*Note: This blog is meant for edutainment purposes only, and to that end, I may occasionally use some literary license. This is especially the case when I recount events involving other people who may or may not read this and come to my house to tell me just how much they disagree with my depiction of said events, particularly when aforesaid people may carry a gun for a living.