Never Walked In High Heels

When I woke up in the North Carolina humidity, the only thing more confused than my brain was, of course, my body. The cool shadows of the afternoon did nothing to stop the fact that I was sticking to the sheets, or that I was suffering from severe jet lag as I had just flown back to the States for a week to visit friends. It was two in the morning for me and my friend had just shaken me awake and murmured something about dinner. I placed my unsteady feet on the floor and made my way into the next room in hopes of getting my bearings a bit better. There, on the wall, was a map of the world and my eye flicked straight to where I had just come from: London, UK.

In that second I knew something in my life had changed.

Ever since I could remember, whenever I saw a map my mind would automatically look for Chicago, Illinois. This was where I spent the first twenty some odd years of my life calling ‘home.’ This could very well be attributed to the fact that Chicago has Lake Michigan acting as a large blue finger pointing to it for the rest of the world to notice. When I had completed college, spending all four years in the state of North Carolina, my eye would still jump to Chicago every time I looked at a map. I simply assumed, like so many other habits acquired in childhood, seeing Chicago first would be something I always did.

I stared at my friend’s map for quite some time attempting to almost drag my focus back to where it normally settles. Focusing my gaze there just felt uncomfortable and like a magnet I kept being drug across the ocean back to London. I went to help my friends cook dinner.

“Hey, when you guys look at a map, where is the first place you look?”

“Russia,” one friend said without thinking.

“Chechnya” blurted out another.

“Medellin, Colombia,” spilled from a third.

All of these places, random as they seem on paper, were not just places they had been to. Over the past seven years I had known them to go everywhere for months at a time as all three of them were desirous to pursue human aide as their professions. Rather, the specific places they mentioned were the areas they determined as where they wanted to serve for the rest of their lives. Here was where they had written me letters saying that they had fallen in love with the people who occupied the area. Here were the places that, when mentioned on the news, caused their hearts to skip a beat and then cry out in anguish. The places they named without stopping for a moment to think, were where they hoped to raise their families, live their lives, and invest in their professions…because they already knew that place would be home.

It was then it dawned on me for the first time, that England had somehow become my home.

I went back to the cool dark room which held the map after supper to rummage through my bags and find some toiletries. My eyes kept floating back up and finding the outline of England. I tried to think of possible explanations for this phenomenon but could find none. I hadn’t spent the last years looking at maps trying to figure out where I was as I did growing up. Outside of coming to America, I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a world map. I had spent the same amount of time away at university as I had in the UK and my eyes never searched for North Carolina. There was no habit I could think of to justify the new reflex.

By weeks end I was still searching out England before anything else. My best friend took me to the airport and although I was sorry to leave her, I couldn’t help but talk about the plans I had for the upcoming weekend in London. I didn’t want to stay with her, I wanted my friend to come with me. The flight attendant came to help me board the plane as I gave my friend a last hug. Although I looked back after being taken from her, I smiled, thinking about all the people and wonderful things that were waiting for me when I got off the plane. These details were what made the little island mine.

“Are you heading home now,” the flight attendant asked me while supporting my arm and helping me walk to my seat.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.”

Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit our best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all …

and a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2008, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make America great, (not to imply that America is necessarily greater than any other country or is the only “AMERICA” in the western hemisphere), and without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform, or sexual preference of the wishee.

- DISCLAIMER OF WARRANTABILITY -

(By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms. This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for her/himself or others, and is void where prohibited by law, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.)

Author Unknown

After a challenging two months, Never Walked in High Heels will be up and running once again on June 30, 2010. Check back here this week for more sass, humor, and unabashed opinions!

Athena will be back April 12, 2010 with tales from her very own wonderland. Until then…xristos anesti!

“Progress is not made by the actions of those who are sitting in their leather armchairs, it is made by those of us who fight for things that never should have to be a fight in the first place. We have no homeland, but the endurance  we have ensures that things will change and we will gain the rights that should have always been ours.” –Athena Stevens

Last night I became engrossed in a debate with a fellow American about whether or not it was appropriate for us to bow when meeting the Queen of England… should we ever do so. Her argument was that it is British custom bow and “when in Rome…” The problem is, there is a difference between following cultural custom because you are a guest and completing an act of submission, which is what the bow symbolized originally.

I’m not going to talk about the point of the American Revolution and the preamble of the Constitution ensuring that Americans bow to no one. Such an argument is quickly, even if irrationally, dismissed in a postmodern world. But I do want to challenge the argument that people give: Americans should bow to the Queen as a sign of respect?.

Respect for what exactly?

If it’s respect for the culture, this is a shaky argument to say the least. I’ve never walked down Tottenham Court Road and seen one man bow to another. Unlike the Japanese, Brits are not normally the bowing type these days contrary to what you may read in fairy tales. That’s why businessmen bow when they are over in the Tokyo office. This is not a bow I have a problem with.

So then, why do British people bow to the Queen? Simply put, because she is their queen. They do not bow to their prime minister or any other member of their government. They bow to no other foreign regent but their own; British people don’t bow to the king of Saudi Arabia because he is not their sovereign. And likewise, Queen Elizabeth is not ours.

You will now no doubt say, “you should respect a world leader.” I will never disagree with this. But since when does showing respect to people mean bowing to them simply because they wear a crown on their heads. For that matter, what makes her a world leader? She was born into a regal position, this is very true, and so were many world leaders. One might even very well argue the same about a wealthy man born into his privileged position. But by being a leader it is inherent the one leads. According to most of my friends here in the UK, the only leadership activity she undertakes is putting on the crown.

I bow to no one except to God. The American Constitution and my own faith are far too engrained in me to even consider doing otherwise. Some might call it fanaticism, others can call it arrogance. But I personally think no one should be obliged to bow down to another person, ever. If we are all made of the same stuff, if we are all equal as people and as cultures, why should a title be acknowledged at all, let alone with an act which historically signifies acquiescence. You are still fearfully and wonderfully made, even in a place as sophisticated as Rome.

When I decided to trek through the mud in order to throw my acorn branch into the fire, I was also agreeing to make both my wheelchair and my ankle length coat saturated with grey mud. So through the three inch deep muck I went, all in the name of increasing my cultural awareness. The tradition goes that if you throw the branch of an oak tree into a bonfire on Twelfth Night, you will be blessed all year. It was more than superstition. The elders would approach the flames tenuously, trying to keep their footing, throw their branches in and cross themselves while muttering a prayer.

This is when I have to admit that I wasn’t going through this just for my own cultural edification. It’s a good cover, but deep down there was a part of me that was hoping that good luck would come as a result.

What is it in us that still believes that if we do X, avoid Y, and call upon Z good things will be bestowed upon us? Are we waiting for someone else to make our life brighter by not acknowledging that we ourselves only have the power to propel us towards our dreams? Or perhaps we know that some things are out of our control and these are the attempts to nudge things in the directions we think they ought to go. And although most of us know deep down that these attempts are feeble, we do them anyway… even in the rain and mud.

I forget its source, but somewhere I heard that psychics get asked questions which mainly fall into three categories: love, money, and health. When I was younger I somehow thought that these concerns were silly. I don’t know why I couldn’t wrap my head around the notion that everyone would be concerned about these three issues, but now that I’m older I can see them popping into my worries. And after a few frustrating but predicted years, I found myself taking somewhat extreme measures to ensure that this year would go, if anything, more smoothly.

Deep down, I think we are all willing to take extreme measures to ensure things go our way. Some of the most horrific events in history can be attributed to this. If luck and blessings won’t serve us, then we will do it ourselves and all of a sudden a muddy coat looks like child’s play in front of what we are willing to destroy or deny so we can have what we want.

Its been just over a month since Twelfth Night, and I’m just flaking the last bit of mud off my coat. I remember throwing my branch in and being almost surprised at what I found myself wishing for and the long lasting dreams I suddenly forgot. Perhaps I am fooled as to what the desires of my heart actually are.

Several people have enquired about my mud caked coat over the past month. They all get excited when I tell them about a bonfire next to a mystical church that’s in the middle of nowhere. The mud and rain adds to the story’s appeal. And I realize that after barely a month, it’s already been a great year.

Reprinted with permission from A Jar Full of Fireflies, by Ashley Brown.

Dave is teaching high-schoolers in Virginia. Charles is finishing up his first year of medical school. Carter and Will are married almost a year now and talking a language I don’t understand. Lucy joined an artist co-op and is painting in her own studio now. Laurie is waiting tables in the North Davidson District.
Some of my friends chose to stay. To Teach. Work. Drink. Commit themselves to graduate school or the World Cup. Some of my friends chose to go away. To Travel. Relearn languages. Ride in trains. I sporadically read their postings about protests in Dublin and humanitarian aid in South Africa.
I measure my life by these people.
I am turning twenty something. Deferring my college loans. Learning to cook. Refusing to live at home. Paying bills by myself. Planting a garden. Finding unfamiliar communities and new friends. Julie calls and tells me she got a job working at Bank of America. I call Laurie and tell her it’s not really about the boyfriends or the benjamins. This backfires because I, as it turns out, am not humorous or entitled to this joke, and because it has everything to do with both. I am writing new songs and spending time in a newfound, bohemian coffeehouse. I’m wondering if I lost weight since last year and about the new changes my parents made to the house.
Strange, scattered feeling when you realize your home is made of people. Vulnerable feeling… and that these particular people, come and visit, but that they are visiting. Awkwardly asking where the bathroom is instead of stealing your leftovers.
This realization makes your home smaller. Because maps full of pen marks and scotch tape still fit in your pocket. (You shouldn’t have to use these kind of things to find your home.) And it makes your home bigger. This too. You stretch out your index finger and point in the direction you last saw them go. (But they’ve gone farther than your borderline fingertips or vanishing point, primary school perspective.)
“Learn how to use a compass,” I tell myself, “and hope map keys lie about all that distance in-between and make the decision to believe that, maybe, the latitude line mathematics and geological dots we call home will turn into people soon, and we will hold each other by unfolding our maps.”

The water flows over a body

Regardless of what the plans were

With the stubborn humility of glass

And so they waited

Watching what they had

And wondering if they lost it all

Would Lady Dignity too soon pass

In the darkness, she sang of treasures

Which were placed somewhere else

Cradling her own head when no one held her

She told the others

Of times of courage and pain

The loss of a loved son

Never quite known

And the times of startling joy which came again

If someone told you the water brought destruction

What would you thirst for then

And if they told you it brought redemption,

Could you help yourself dive in

As the water rose past the walls,

Man made and cold in every way,

A life known but quickly forgotten

Began to restlessly wash away

And the muddied water was to rebuild her

Where imperfections astounded men

And when they told her not to come closer

She had to take off her fears again

The lies of tomorrow seduce what could be

Into a thing small, tepid, and tame

We look on the horizon for Forever

She holds fast with the watchmen
Waiting for the night to be reclaimed

A god who sometimes can’t be found

Will wipe our tears away

Yet she no longer questioned his survival

While standing in waters waist high

The sacrifice of strength through submission

Comes with the submergence in grace

And the pain that is only useful after it becomes familiar