Alive Magazine Fall 2007

black lace bra:

original poetry

spring in her step: interview with kim bahmer, professional trampolinist

making the political personal:

an experience in honduras

stories abroad: thanksgiving in spain

good for nothing: tales of a traveling piano man

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

A

year ago, everyone was telling me “Oh, you’ll just love going abroad - it will change your life!” I got so used to hearing it that I didn’t question it... because, obviously, how could I come home from three months in Europe the same as when I left? Well, of course I changed. And of course, the essential parts of my character stayed somehow the same - only, better, I think, from my experiences.

The challenge in coming back to “real life” was not that I missed the places I had been (although I did miss them dearly), but that I missed the constant change of travel.

I was, in fact, addicted to change.

I suddenly could not imagine a life in which I did not get on a train and go to a new, exciting city every three or four days.

But I should never have worried about not finding enough “changes” in my life back home. Every day that I walk into the Alive office or open my email, something has happened to change our plans - for better or for worse.

With our feet in both the worlds of non-profit organizations and publishing and design, there are challenges and rewards that Jen and I could never imagine. The scenery isn’t quite the same as it is from a train speeding across Switzerland, but the excitement now is in never knowing my destination.

We are so excited about the ways Alive has grown this year, and we hope you love the new changes as much as we do.

Lauren Melcher Managing Editor

www.alivemagazine.org

C

hange. The inevitable growing pains of adolescence turning to adulthood, seasons blending and changing before you are ready for them, and inner tensions spilling out into personality. Sometimes change is outside of your control, and other times it comes as a result of that horrid little word--you know, the one that keeps me staring at menus until the last possible moment and standing at crossroads until I’m about to get rear-ended by a truck-that despicable and wonderful little word, choice.

I’ve never been good at making decisions.

Choice, in my mind, means possibility. Choice means challenge. Choice, to most people, requires saying yes to something and no to the rest, but in my stubborn, idealistic world, the definition has never seemed so concrete.

Choice means juggle.

I’ve been enamored by these resonant little words lately, change & choice, as they segment our lives into memories and bookend our chapters with transitions. In the years following college I spent time working for a major technology corporation and volunteering for Alive on a part time basis.

In the past several months I’ve had the opportunity to go full time with Alive and, while the decision was easy enough to follow my passions into leadership of this growing publication, the choice came with its own share of challenges.

As a young adult, it is overwhelming to realize that my priorities now (including choices in career, lifestyle, and how I spend my time) will form the habits and patterns that will carry with me throughout my life. But in all my growing pains, I am coming to understand change to be my most trusted constant, and to approach every choice as an opportunity, not a burden.

Jennifer Dotson Creative Director

14 13 10 08 07 02

THINK

a word from our editors

BELIEVE finding god in unexpected places

GIVE

stories of service & voluneering

MISTER

life from his perspective

WONDER

answers to life’s hard-toask questions

AIM

Comfortably Uncomfortable by jen dotson & lauren melcher

After a summer of excitement, Alive’s team shares a glimpse of the metamorphosis that brings you the new look, layout, and medium you are about to enjoy.

Serenity Now!

Letting Stress Make a Fool Out of Me by erika grace There was little denying that by the time I had found myself sitting in an icy pool of crawfish invested water. I had reached my breaking point.

Making the Political Personal by miriam samuelson

I slid under the mosquito net of my bed and closed my eyes for a moment. The heat and humidity of rural Honduras in the summer had drained me...

Good For Nothing by pete shmidt

I own a piano and van. And that’s pretty much it.

Pride or Patience? by caroline kennefick

I just got in a big fight with one of my best friends because she got mad at me about something I didn’t do. I feel like she’s stressed about school and her parents, but taking it out on me instead.

Touching the Sky

curious ambitions, Interview with Kim Bahmer, Trampolinist by jennifer dotson odd successes, and unusual Tucked away in the backside of a warehouse on the outachievements skirts of Minneapolis exists a world where people fly, the walls are made of cushions, and naturally, laughter abounds.

<< BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

table of contents

drawing by josie arrowsmith

FULL SCREEN

taff&contributor

www.alivemagazine.org

Jen Dotson, creative director, loves to barter voice lessons with her friends for things like banana bread and lindie-hop lessons, enjoys connecting friends who ought also be friends, and particularly appreciates miscellaneous joys in life including carwashes, spring cleaning, cloth napkins, saunas, and--whenever possible--cooking over campfires.

Lauren Melcher, managing editor, is a senior at St. Olaf College and an expert at packing suitcases and navigating public transportation. She enjoys singing a cappella, spending weekends at the lake and international mischief-making. She dreams of one day starting her own publishing company, where no book will ever go out of print.

Julia Butcher, office manager, is a southern belle lost in the great midwest. With a BA in church music, she is now beginning coursework in Western Clinical Herbalism.

When she’s not making tea or writing hymns, she can be found birding crocheting, contra-dancing, and yes, playing around with databases.

Erika Grace, writer & artist, grew up in the great woods of northern Minnesota, and now lives in the Twin Cities with her husband, a yellow lab who loves to lick toes, a spotted-striped fat cat, and far too many books. She dreams of someday being an author, or a fairy princess, or a professional doodler--but mostly enjoys the journey of becoming herself.

Lindsay Faye (left) and Britney Haapanen (right), artists, are both seniors at Davis Senior High School in Davis, California. Both girls are 17 years old and enjoy spending time with friends, dancing, art, reading and singing duets to Moulin Rouge. They bonded during zoology/botany class when Lindsay was forced to do all the dissections, due to Britney’s refusal to participate. They have been close ever since.

Miriam Samuelson, writer, is from Atlanta, GA and is currently a senior at St. Olaf College in Northfield, MN. She has a penchant for international travel, feminist theory, and slightly obsessive list-making.

Kim Bahmer, writer & athlete, is a receptionist by day and a bouncer by night. She is a 2004 graduate of the University of Minnesota, where majored in music and was a diver on the swim team. Living with three friends near downtown Minneapolis, she writes & performs music, loves shape-note singing and old-time music, and spending time with her darling sisters.

Pete Schmidt, writer & musician, travels the country with a piano in a van and visits others who give what they have to change the world, too. He loves to play music, make friends, inspire each other, and share life with the people he meets. When he’s not playing piano, he loves playing soccer, physics, psychology, spirituality, and chopin.

Laurie Richardson Johnson, writer & artist, works as an artist and teacher out of Blue River Studio in Dinkytown near the University of Minnesota. She lives with her husband and two of her three children in the Twin Cities area.

Caroline Kennefick, writer, is currently an Economics and Spanish double major and beginning her senior year at Saint Olaf College. This past summer she worked at Target rearranging the grocery aisles with precise color coding and plans to return to Target after graduation. She likes China (and travel in general), the color blue and monkeys -- specifically chimpanzees.

Taylor Tinkham, poet & photographer, is a 17-year old from St. Louis Park, MN. When she’s not designing for the school paper she is busy playing volleyball, football, dancing, knitting. She has a fond appreciation of henna, caffine, orange tic-tacs, rain, and singing in the car.

Josie Arrowsmith, artist, is a modern and folk dancer, ESL teacher, lab assistant, tour guide and craft guru. She speaks Swedish fluently, loves hiking, camping, biking, reading, knitting, sewing, and talking to turtles and other small creatures. She recently proposed to her fiancé, a massage therapist, having met him three weeks prior!

Kelin Loe, writer, is a senior English major at St. Olaf College. Kelin lives in a world made entirely of imagination. She reads, writes and pictures what it might be like to live in times past and what it would be like to marry rich. More practically, she analyzes poetry in Chinese and English, 20th century American novels and GRE prep books.

27 26 23 20 18 16

favorite dorm recipes & easy snack ideas

BELIEVE

x

In the Raw

No-cook cooking by lauren melcher No oven? Too tired to clean all the saucepans piled in your kitchen sink? With just a blender and a freezer, you can make all of these refreshing, healthful treats.

God of the Messy

finding god in unexpected places

by kim bahmer

EXPLORE

Ambitious Ambassadors

tales of travel and adventure

My explosion was full of contradictions and it smelled like alcohol and Jamaican weed. My life’s pendulum swung violently from caring too much about mildly important things to not caring about much at all.

by lauren melcher

When I was in high school, I dreamed of being the U.S. Ambassador to another nation. How exotic and exciting it would be to live in another country and represent America...

MISCHIEF The Frog Princess nonsense, devilry, and shenanigans

by kelin loe

MUSE

Black Lace Bra

original poetry and fresh lyrics

LISTEN

In every freshman class there can only be one person like me. Any more, and the campus would implode. I was the confidently-terrified, sexually-awkward, never-admittinglynaive, never-been-kissed...

by taylor tinkham

When a black lace bra Bridges the gap Between kindness and salvation In your local kwik trip station

Love, Laurie

by laurie richardson johnson life wisdom from someone I am writing to you, myself, the “me” of my teenage years. older and wiser I know you are not long gone, but rather deep inside of me, traveling with me each day.

drawing by josie arrowsmith back cover collage by josie arrowsmith

<< BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

table of contents

TASTE

FULL SCREEN

ission&visio

magazine Alive is a non-profit publication with a passion to help young people discover and share their unique gifts. We do so by asking, “What makes you come alive?” and encouraging them to share their stories--the God-given experiences that make them unique. Recognizing that change must begin with youth, our aim is to give young people a voice, and in the process, allow the conversations that result to shape the communities in which they take part.

Alive seeks to transform the very tool which binds us--the media--into a tool which frees us. In a culture ridden with derogatory messages aimed at young people, we find solutions more valuable than complaints, and respond by creating the media we wish to see.

Using the vehicle of a magazine, we invite thoughtful young women to share their experience of life through a story, a poem, a piece of artwork, or a photograph. All aspects of Alive Magazine, from editing to marketing to graphic design, are directed and produced by young women 25 and under.

• Alive believes that advertising & media can be used as a positive tool for social change.

• Alive sees creativity as a means for sharing & developing one’s identity.

• Alive fosters vocation exploration for young women.

• Alive believes in the economic value of young women’s work.

• Alive promotes a lifestyle of authenticity, as modeled by Jesus Christ.

“DON’T ASK WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS, ASK WHAT MAKES YOU COME ALIVE AND GO DO THAT... WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS IS PEOPLE WHO HAVE COME ALIVE.” -HOWARD THURMAN

• Alive values beauty as a virtue of character, not an assessment of worth.

• Alive supports businesses that operate with a local awareness and global consciousness, with respect for economic sustainability and human life.

www.alivemagazine.org

Alive Arts Media 1313 5th St. SE Minneapolis, MN 55414 (952) 913-6091 info@alivemagazine.org www.alivemagazine.org

story & artwork by erika grace There was little denying that by the time I had found myself sitting in an icy pool of crawfish invested water. I had reached my breaking point. Water gently lapped against my thighs. It would have been quite tranquil, if I had not just fallen off of the rock immediately behind me. It seemed like the whole landscape was laughing at me. The trees, the rocks, the crawfish pinching my backside, all getting a good laugh at my expense. None laughed louder than the junior high kids I was in charge of. They, of course, saw the whole thing. Stress had absolutely won. I had to concede my failure to the pressure and gracefully bow down. Unfortunately, chaos had been my enemy all week. I had tried time and again to rein in the free-nature spirit of this camp week. By the time I was sitting in the lake, the chaos had won out. The jokes, and the water, were most definitely on me.

This chaotic week was a part of a chaotic job, which I actually loved. When I was in college, I spent my summers in Northern Minnesota as a camp counselor. I was good at it, and there has never been a job I have held since that I have enjoyed three-quarters as much.

And every week was something completely different. There were weeks I relished where my campers were amazing. They were helpful, they were fun to be around, they were up to the adventure of being a part of camp. And there were weeks I detested. The week before this particular one, I was in charge of a day camp and my days were marked by the dueling tantrums of four-year old twins— whom, of course, were both in my care. My mental state going into what I expected to be a relaxing week, was a little frazzled.

This week belonged to eight junior high kids, a large northern lake, and a floating studio apartment of the smallest variety, a houseboat. And these kids were weird. The two girls were frightened of absolutely anything nature-related invading our small space onboard. I had the sneaking suspicion they were puffing away at contraband cigarettes when my back was turned. Also, there were a handful of relatively well-behaved sixth-grade boys who kept their noses clean and helped with dishes. The problem arose whenever they had actually caught something while fishing and were too sissy to remove their own fish from the hooks. Lovely. There was the token ninth grader for whom absolutely everything “sux”. And then there was Trevor. Trevor cheated at Uno. Not because he wanted to win, or compete, or participate. It was only because he wanted to see what would happen if he systematically took all the yellows out of play and sat on them instead.

My motley camper crew and me spent the days with a very fluid schedule. We would eat when we were hungry (but I was in charge of cooking). We would have Bible study when we felt like it. Worship often happened on the fly. The week was free and unstructured for the kids—and they liked it that way. I was in charge of the structure.

By the fourth day, I needed a break. Badly. I had conned the driver of the boat to watch the kids for twenty minutes while I shimmied ashore for a respite. I was going to be quiet. I was going to be still. I was going to keep my anger/patience/blood pressure in check.

Above all, I was going to repeat these things to myself until my mindset changed. Stress was pressing in, and I was retreating.

I found a friendly rock just around the bend from where the boat was tied up for the night. The sun was out, the water was cool, the fish and other crawlies were safely at bay, and I had left my stress ten feet behind me on the shore.

My mantra began: I am silent. I am serene. I am calm. I am silent. I am serene. I am calm. I am silent. After three minutes, I nearly believed it.

“Erika! Can we go swimming?!”

I am silent. I am serene. I am calm.

“There’s nothing to do, Erika!”

I am still, though slightly agitated. I am calm, though mildly restless.

“Come be our lifeguard, Erika! We want to go swimming.”

I am… getting up. My moment had passed and it was time to pick up my stress again. I was up, and then with a slip and a splash, I was down. I was down, embarrassed, and I was soaked. Now, Northern Minnesota lakes are known for, in order, their size, great fishing, and finally, that they are freaking freezing. I surveyed the damages. I really hadn’t fallen that far. I fell into a puddle so that I was just sitting in, quite ridiculously, about four inches of water. My right foot found the rock in front of me, I applied pressure, and the supporting rock gave way. I fell again and this time and was swimming instead of sitting.

I had hit my backside on the rock on the way down, which I took to be a less than subtle kick in the pants. It was as if the rock was telling me I could be of better use doing something other than sitting on a rock. As I swam back to the boat, I reflected on the two things that had just transpired: I had let stress kick me in the pants, and had experienced the most embarrassing moment of my quasi-professional life so far.

I may have been soaked, but my stress stayed on the shore. My need for stillness had evaporated in a fit of giggles. After all, there is a time and place for everything under the sun, to paraphrase Ecclesiastes. There is a time to be still and let the world fall away. And there is a time for action, to summon all courage and be bold in success or failure. And then there is that great time to laugh. The juxtaposition of all times is the courage, action, and serendipity it takes to laugh at your own expense.

<< BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

Making the Political Personal by miriam samuelson

I slid under the mosquito net of my bed and closed my eyes for a moment. The heat and humidity of rural Honduras in the summer had drained me; a morning full of tag and duck-duck-goose with thirty children added to the exhaustion. But playing with children and enduring the heat were only part of my learning experience in Honduras. Along with five other college students and two trip leaders, I traveled to Honduras to study service organizations. The Lily Foundation funds trips related to service and vocation, so the seven of us set out to explore different models of international service while volunteering at various organizations.

We saw everything from women’s rights NGOs to strictly religious children’s homes, and we learned to approach each place with a critical perspective but an open mind. We read books about theology, social change and vocation, and we asked ourselves questions about the ethics of service: Is there a right way to serve? How do we contend with all the inequalities of our globalized society? What cultural implications do volunteers from the United States carry with them when they serve in other countries? What impact do my choices at home have on people abroad?

These questions and more spun through my head as I lay in the hot room with the window open, trying to dry off the

www.alivemagazine.org

sweat beads on my forehead, my neck, my arms. I could hear our host, Maria, moving around the living room and the outdoor kitchen to prepare lunch. I peered outside at this remarkable woman: dressed in a bright red skirt and simple white shirt to contend with the heat, Maria led a seemingly simple but industrious rural life. On this hot day in rural Honduras, she toiled in her kitchen to prepare a delicious traditional meal for us while her young grandchildren played games and giggled on her porch. She gently called us all to lunch, and set steaming plates of food before us. After we devoured her beans, fresh avocados, and homemade cheese with warm corn tortillas, Maria sat down to rest and talk with us. It was then that I discovered the hidden strength and true spirit of service that this woman embodied.

Maria’s children had all moved to the United States, and she cared for their children back at home in Honduras.

She lived in a community full of poverty, and she involved herself in it deeply. She belonged to a women’s group at the church down the road from her house, and the women worked to empower themselves financially by holding festivals and making food to sell at them. With the exception of this moment, I had never seen Maria sit still; she worked

spend at the food bank, we count the number of letters we send to congress or smugly note how guilty we feel for having the privileges we do. And some of these things are important; indeed we are fortunate to live in a country where citizens have the voice and voting power that we do. It is important for us to take advantage of the opportunities we have been given.

But in our hyper-efficient, constantly going, and tirelessly working society, we sometimes forget to integrate our desire for change into our personal lives, into our relationships with those directly surrounding us. This concept is something Maria modeled profoundly. To her, service took place in her relationships with her family and her friends.

The Christian theologian Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz talks about service as taking place through the practice of solidarity with our neighbors. She defines solidarity as an action rather than just a notion; people must work together on equal footing to create change. They must walk alongside one another, share stories and struggles, and come to a profound understanding of each others’ realities in order to truly work together.

day in and day out to feed her grandchildren, to provide for her guests, to run her household and keep things together in the neighborhood.

It occurred to me as we talked with Maria that she would never have the luxury of contemplating the ethics of service or other philosophical quandaries that we young students had set out to solve—she literally worked day in and day out. And yet she was the very model of service and hospitality that I strive to emulate in my life. She gave generously of all that she had. She shared her time and her life with us, showing us how to make cheese, how to do the dishes, and letting us attempt to fold tamales. She fed us mangoes from trees in her backyard, she gave us beds in which to sleep. She gave us hospitality we could never even hope to repay.

In our hyper-efficient lifestyles in the United States, we tend to commodify things. We ask how much this will cost, or how much time that will take, or whether or not a given activity will be worth our time and energy. We even commodify the concept of service in our culture—we tally up the economic differences and judge the social change we make by the money we give or the number of hours we

As an ardent social activist, I found these ideas inspiring.

But despite Isasi-Diaz’s call to action, I felt a little bewildered as to how to actually integrate these concepts into my own life. Did I have to join a civic organization and wait until I knew the people well enough to create change?

What actual steps must be taken to live in solidarity and create change in the world? And what kind of change did I want to make in the world anyway?

Then it occurred to me that Maria’s involvement in her community and tireless work were not the only things that exemplified her ideas of service. A sense of solidarity and gratitude in her everyday activities—the passion and life she put into each sweep of the floor and every cup of coffee—was the basis for her service to others. As one woman from our trip noted, service is not separate from life; service is life. Our daily interactions, even with strangers, can be their own acts of service. When signing letters or lobbying for political change are practical but distant ways to make change, the solidarity we feel with the people around us is always present. If we value the lives of everyone around me as equally precious, if we see each person’s soul as full of the love and pain and struggle of human existence, then we can cultivate a sense of continuity between large-scale social change and our personal lives. We can integrate service into our daily actions. In doing so, we will serve everyone more effectively. << BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

story & photography provided by pete shmidt

I own a piano and van.

And that’s pretty much it.

Nine months ago I sold most of my belongings, gave away the rest, and set out with a 1989 Chevy conversion van and a 1954 Jensen upright piano.

For the first couple of months I played music on the streets of Denver and Boulder, Colorado. I had moved to Denver seven years prior to “prove myself” and get famous for something. I didn’t even care what it was, as long as it made me a big deal. This was what my 19-year-old mind believed -- that I was supposed to be a star. Seven years later, after moving up the ranks from janitor to barista to receptionist to intern and eventually to self-employed in a business with (ahem) no clients. I was no closer to my goal. But I had come to know a lot of people in the area, so at least I had a lot of couches to sleep on when I started living out of a van.

Performing for passersby on the pedestrian streets would surely get noticed by somebody important, or so I thought.

Come on, I have a piano! I don’t see anybody else trying to push a 500-pound upright across the street before the signal starts blinking DON’T WALK. And I guess a few people did notice, a few people stopped to talk, and a few people dropped some coins in my tip-hat. But I wasn’t getting famous very quickly, so I decided to move my efforts to Chicago.

I grew up about an hour outside of the Windy City. I like to pretend I’m one of those tough guys who grew up in rugged urban life, risking residual gang violence whenever I walked to the park to play soccer with poor, homeless immigrant children who don’t speak English. But really I lived in one of those suburbs with respected schools, covenant communities, and a booming mega-church with a playground the size of Disneyland. (To be fair, I lived in the older part of town where we would hang out by the railroad tracks for fun instead of watching our 40-foot projection TV’s, but it was still far from life-threatening).

In Chicago, I tried my hand at the open-mic scene. Playing in bars was a safe place to try out new music and meet some very energetic people.

And nobody complained about musical quality as long as they could sing along with Pianoman or Song for the Dumped. But my music career still wasn’t taking off. I did get mentioned in an article in the Chicago Tribune covering the “hobbyist musicians” who played open-mic nights, but they pointed out my “rail-thin” physique and failed to mention that everybody should visit my website. When would the rest of humanity find out how great I am?

In the midst of frustration and dreams of grandeur, and maybe a little buzzed on Dr. Pepper, I took up an invitation to visit St. Paul, Minnesota.

To be honest (and sometimes being honest about reality is difficult), I did not think much of Minnesota. I guess I just figured that famous people come from big cities like New York or Los Angeles, and I couldn’t think of 10

www.alivemagazine.org

anybody on T.V. who talks funny like Minnesotans do, so a trip north was probably going to be a waste of time. But, seeing as my expedition to Chicago wasn’t receiving the national attention it deserved, I packed up the van and headed for the Twin Cities.

That’s where it happened. And by “it,” I mean utter failure.

I spent most of my time in the Great North on the campus of Bethel University. (That’s where my buddy Wes was; he is theeven guy beg whopeople invited to mecome to visit). I quickly became friends with his roommates and several other people on campus. I I can’t played some music in the dorm to a free show at a coffee shop lounge, in the campus cafe, and on the outdoor patio where students pretend to study before taking sun-naps. I was even invited to play at an open-mic night for students. (They said it was okay that I didn’t actually go to school there, seeing as the whole piano-in-a-van thing was pretty unique). Things were looking up! So I set up a couple gigs at off-campus coffee shops so all my new Bethel friends could see me in all my splendor and, more importantly, the rest of St. Paul could see how many fans I have.

I can’t even beg people to come to a free show at a coffee shop

The first place I performed was quite a lively java house. It featured a gift shop, cyber cafe, and lots of locals to fall in love with my music. At 7:00pm, my performance began. Almost every seat in the house was full. (They hadn’t all come to see me, but they were about to be wonderfully impressed). As I played and sang, I watched my Bethel friends chat with each other and wave at me in between songs. I scoured over everybody else to find the ones who were most likely to become my next die-hard fans. Nobody was looking at me with any particular interest yet, so I kept playing. And playing. And playing. I toiled at the keys for two hours, playing my entire set twice through (and my favorite songs three or four times). The evening ended with little excitement. The baristas didn’t seem to mind when I left, nor did they seem to have even noticed that I had been there. As far as I could tell, all my effort and energy and creativity -- all of me -- was invisible.

The second night was even worse.

I arrived at the little hole-inthe-wall coffee shop where I was scheduled to play to find it entirely empty. One guy wandered in from the back room, tattoos all over his arms.

He asked if I wanted anything to drink and his nonchalant tone reflected the laid-back look in his eyes. (No wonder this place was empty -- the staff doesn’t care if you even buy anything). I explained that I was supposed to be performing tonight, but he had not been informed of such news.

“Go ahead and play, though,” he offered, “No biggie.”

The problem here, you see, is that this is a biggie! This is the biggie! This is everything my scattered life has been building up to! If this doesn’t work -- if I can’t even beg people to come to a free show at a coffee shop -- then I’ll be convinced that I have absolutely no clue what my life is all about! And even worse, I might have to get a real job!

Refusing to admit defeat (yet), I unloaded Arlene from the van and rolled her in. Eventually, after an hour of playing, I had four listeners: tattoo-guy (whose name I finally learned was Dustin), two Bethel-friends, and one random acquaintance from Minneapolis. They had all managed to meet each other and politely clapped in between << BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

11

songs to include me, but mostly they just talked to each other. Once tattoo-guy even brought over an all-natural juice for me, insisting that I try it because it was his favorite trendy beverage. (This was very nice and made me feel a little better). After another hour, the four of them were still occupying themselves, pretty much waiting until I was satisfied with my show, so I decided to call it a night and pack up.

After rolling Arlene out to the van and going through her hefty loading procedure, I wandered back into the shop to salvage the night with some conversation and a few friends. But when I walked back in, the place was empty again. Erg. I was quite confused, really, but when tattoo-guy emerged from the bathroom, he directed me to a back room.

“They’re in there,” he said, “You have nice friends.”

I walked to the doorway near the back of the shop and found my friends inside... washing dishes. They had bigger smiles on their faces than I have ever seen. While tattoo-guy finished cleaning the bathroom, the floor, and the espresso counter, the rest of us laughed and played with the water-sprayer until all the dishes were clean. Then we sat around and talked some more. And in these moments, after I was done being a big-shot rock star that I have always wanted to be, I met Dustin.

Dustin had been in a motorcycle accident in which half of his skull had been crushed. After miraculously surviving, he spent the better part of a year learning to function normally again. He described to me how the nurses had been encouraging, patient, and loving during his recovery. He glowed as he bragged on his caretakers, noting how helpless he was and how gentle they were. And he explained that this is why he is studying to become a nurse himself and working evenings at a neighborhood coffee shop to care for people in his neighborhood in the meantime.

“That,” he added, “is why you get the tips from the entire day. I’m not here for the money.”

I am still traveling with Arlene, but the journey to fame has long since ended. Now it’s a journey to become smaller instead of bigger, to know others instead of being known, and to see people glow when they talk about being loved.

Follow Pete & Arlene’s journey online at www.peteandarlene.com

12

www.alivemagazine.org

ld change pete the world arlene

&

Prideor Patience? by caroline kennefick

Q: A:

I just got in a big fight with one of my best friends because she got mad at me about something I didn’t do. I feel like she’s stressed about school and her parents, but taking it out on me instead. Should I confront her and stand up for myself or just be quiet and be a good friend until things get better?

This is a valid concern - it’s hard when you know that friends are stressed, and you want to help them but at the same time not let them take advantage of you. This is also something that is important to learn how to deal with, because friends will always be stressed! You’ll need to start by figuring out if the stress in her life is something she is imposing on herself (like picking fights with her parents or not studying for classes like she should) versus major life challenges (like if her parents are going through a divorce). Knowing her situation will help you determine your best response.

Scenario #1: When She Is Causing Her Own Stress and Taking It Out On You In this situation, it is helpful for you to realize if your friend is doing things to cause her own stress, but you might not want to tell her that right away. Also, be careful about talking to her if you are also overly stressed or upset - this will probably only lead to a bigger fight. But, calmly confronting your friend might help her realize that her stress is affecting people around her - if she is really absorbed in her problems, she might not have noticed this at all! When you talk to her, make sure that you use “I” statements instead of blaming her directly. Try something like “I think it is important to put it out there that I didn’t do XYZ that you think I did.” This way you are standing up for yourself, but in a way that will hopefully not make her react defensively. Next, address her concerns. You can say “I understand why you might have thought this because of XYZ, but you haven’t heard my perspective.” Then, listen carefully to her feedback and acknowledge the things she says. If you realize the argument was due to a miscommunication, apologize - it is easy to say “I’m sorry that was your understanding of things... I wish that I had known, I would have acted differently.”

people are bound to take If your friend still seems upset, express your concerns about what is going on in her out stress on life. “You seem really stressed out,” you might say, “Is everything okay?” Offer her your those they help and make sure she knows that you care about her. If she still doesn’t respond, reare closest mind her how important she is to you and that you are committed to fixing any problems between yourselves. Tell her “your friendship means a lot to me, and I hope we can to because it move past this - if you need time to be mad, I can give you that time. I just wanted to tell is safe... even you my side of things. I’m always here if you want to talk, and give me a call when you want to hang out!” though it isn’t Scenario #2: When Her Stress Isn’t Her Fault right.

If the stress your friend is feeling is due to situations out of her control, it is more important that you reach out to your friend instead of confronting her about your argument. Tell yourself how hard it would be to be in her shoes, recognize that anyone is bound to take that out on people they are closest to because it is safe... even though it isn’t right. You can let the little things go for a while, but eventually you’ll need to draw the line if her anger is unjustified and continually hurtful. You can say, “I am here as your friend and I will do whatever I can to help you cope with these stresses, but it is not fair to me to always have to take the fall when it is not my fault. I hope that together we can talk about what is going on in your life and figure out some ways to make you feel better, because I really miss you!”

Most likely, your friend will appreciate your concern and respond in kind. But if she continues to take advantage of you, talk to another friend and think about finding a way to distance yourself from her because sometimes even best friends can’t help... and you won’t be any use to her if her stress is only bringing you down as well!

<< BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

13

story & photography by jennifer dotson Tucked away in the backside of a warehouse on the outskirts of Minneapolis exists a world where people fly, the walls are made of cushions, and naturally, laughter abounds. It is the Minnesota Twisters, a trampoline training facility where Kim Bahmer spends dozens of hours each week. As I enter the room, a tribal drum beat comes on over the sound system and I overhear a comment, “This makes me want to do something fun.”

gymnastics to help me lose my belly--and it turned out I was good at it!”

Kim astounded parents, coach, and judges alike, proceeding to place 22nd at Worlds at age seven and win the national championship for trampoline at the age of nine. But after only a few more years competing, Kim’s parents pulled her out of the sport in hopes her talent would transfer to all-around gymnastics. “The trampoline “It is almost impossible to come here and not jump,” Kim scene is really centered in Europe, so to continue to comremarks as her twelve-year old teammate Yasmine begins pete would have meant a lot of travel, which my family to jump, despite the sling on her arm that cradles a re- couldn’t afford. My coach actually cried when I quit.” cently fractured elbow.

In high school Kim began diving, and conIsn’t bouncing on a trampoline something tinued to compete at the college level 8-year olds in leotards do for fun in the for the University of Minnesota while she backyard and inevitably grow out of? you completed her degree in music educaask. Not so, it seems. tion. Teaching, however, wasn’t all she anticipated it would be. After a difficult first Kim, a vibrant 26-year old has recently reyear and a nasty bout with depression, Kim discovered her childhood pastime with moved home to live with her parents and new professional goals in mind. The goal: sought reprieve working at a local coffee to perform among the elite gymnasts of shop. Disillusioned and lacking a sense of Cirque du Soleil, the acrobatic sensation purpose, she decided to call up coach Pat that brings together trapeze artists, musicians, actors, whom she had trained with in her youth. “I started coachswimmers, strongmen, contortionists, trampoline artists, ing in exchange for training, just to get back in shape.” skipping rope fiends, and hoola-hoop marvels. This fall she will audition with the world’s top athletes & acrobats Her coffee-shop budget, however, didn’t afford her many for her chance to join this touring entourage in a perma- luxuries and with the steadily climbing gas prices, she nent capacity. reached a day last winter when she felt her luck had run out. “I called up Coach to tell her I wouldn’t be able to At the early age of four, Kim began taking trampoline make it to practice--I couldn’t afford the gas to get there.” and tumbling from Pat Henderson. “Really I was just an But having seen Kim walk away from her talent once beextremely shy, chubby kid, so my parents started me in fore, Coach wasn’t about to let her quit a second time..

Cirque & Social Action The rationale and values behind Cirque’s social action are grounded in this history where youth, risk, dreams and marginality come together for a better world. Now that Cirque du Soleil has the international reach to forge alliances the world over, it has chosen to commit itself to helping youth in difficulty, especially street kids. We focus on helping these young people by allocating 1% of revenues each year to outreach programs targeting youth in difficulty.

Today we still dream of enriching the lives of all those who cross our path through our actions and our creativity.

We also dream of imbuing our new projects with the energy and inspiration that are the essence of our shows. And we want to help young people express their dreams … and make them come true.

14

www.alivemagazine.org

“She didn’t even acknowledge the problem; she moved right on and told me she thought I should train for Cirque du Soleil. I was stunned.”

Needless to say, Kim made it to practice the next day.

A year later, training for Cirque has become a regular part of her daily routine, devoting between 2-3 hours a day, five days a week to training-not to mention working a full work week at her new job. As for her sense of purpose, it seems Kim’s spirit soars even higher than her body when she hits the trampoline. “Training has brought a lot of healing for me--it’s like therapy. I never dreamed I would be doing something that brings me so much joy. It’s not at all what I would have chosen for myself--but it’s way more fun!”

— Nous souhaiton s que la contribution du Cirque When asked what has du brought on soit this apparent Soleil un levier r change pou in mentality she explained, “I just feel like kid l obtention de anouvelle s again. I don’t

mandate it!”

“Just because you teach a person every technical aspect of a sport doesn’t mean they’ll become a high level athlete. It’s a mindset you develop as you go.

If you’re lucky, you click with them, they click with you, and they click with themselves,” Coach Henderson explained. “As an athlete it is important to be doing something for other people, so your world doesn’t begin to revolve around ‘me, me, me’.

Some athletes think they’ve done it themselves. I treat my coaching like a partnership. If the athletes don’t have input, they don’t own it. You will become a champion with someone else one way or another - because of a coach or in spite of a coach. I always hope it will be with the coach!”

If she weren’t training, Kim says she would probably be funneling more of her ambition into developing her musical career performing. “I want to give something of my life away. I love the opportunity to do something inspiring for audiences.”

like the idea of growing up, finding one career, taking life so en are appui saux easy jeune Cirque du Soleil will offer her just that. It combines many seriously. I don’t wantet to matérielles be cynical. There enough elements of the arts that have enamored Kim for years, from things to be cynical about.” world music, to theatre, to gymnastics. “It was like I had to Her newfound freedom has carried over to other elements give up pursuing them of her life as well, from social pressures to daily nuisances all on my own before Recent Developments: that used to weigh her down. “We carry way too much crap it just showed up in Cirque or Olympics? around with us. When you jump, all that stress just sort of... my life in the perfect bounces right out of you.” And she may be on to some- combination.”

With added exposure from recent thing--perhaps the success at the national meet in beginnings of a “I laugh, because I Memphis, Kim is now wrestling with new management gave up teaching to Kim’s favorite weird human tricks: a decision - to continue her training strategy. “I think join the circus. God for Cirque du Soleil for admittance Crash Dive- flying through the air in everyone should gives us all different next year, or to switch gears, seek a slow-motion swan dive, but then get a trampoline talents. For some reaa sponsor, and train competitively landing on your back at the very last and jump for ten son he gave me this full time for the US Olympic team, minute. It feels like you’re flying! minutes a day. Ev- silly little ability to sights now set on the 2012 Olympic ery business should bounce.”

Wall Climbing- ‘running’ up the wall Games in London? after a good bounce on your back.

Then repeat. << BACK NEXT >> CONTENTS FULL SCREEN 15

No oven? Too tired to clean all the saucepans piled in your kitchen sink? With just a blender and a freezer, you can make all of these refreshing, healthful treats - perfect for afternoon study sessions or weekend gab fests.

Power Orange Smoothie This recipe makes enough for two large smoothies, and will bring back memories of Creamsicle pops and orange cream Lifesavers!

2 cups milk 1 6-ounce can frozen orange juice concentrate 1/2 cup sifted powdered sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 6 to 8 large ice cubes Combine everything except the ice cubes in a blender; when smooth, add ice cubes one at a time until frothy and chilled.

Scarlett’s Hummus Your friends will love this with pita wedges, raw bell peppers, olives, or tomatoes... and you’ll love that you made it yourself!

2 cans chickpeas (garbanzo beans), drained 4 medium garlic cloves, diced 2 teaspoons salt 1 teaspoon Tamari sauce (soy sauce will work in a pinch) juice of 2 lemons and 2 limes 1 1/4 cups tahini (sesame seed butter) 1 cup minced parsley 1 teaspoon black pepper 1/2 small onion, minced 1/2 cup water 1/4 cup olive oil Combine all in a food processer or blender, and adjust ingredients as desired for taste. Keep chilled.

16

www.alivemagazine.org

Florentine Summer Salad This salad is a tasty change when you’re tired of iceberg lettuce with creamy dressings. In Italy, it is served as the house salad in most restaurants during spring and summer. This recipe serves four.

1 head butter lettuce, torn into bite-size pieces 1 can Italian butter beans 1 can corn kernels 1 can tuna (packed in water) 1 large tomato, diced, or 2 cups cherry tomatoes 1 cup fresh mozzarella balls 1 cup Parmesan cheese olive oil salt Toss everything in a large bowl, and drizzle with olive oil, salt, and Parmesan cheese for dressing.

Grasshopper Pie When you just need a fun, refreshing dessert, this pie is perfect. Make a few hours ahead so you can freeze it before eating. Serves six to eight.

24 Oreo cookies 1/4 cup melted butter 1/4 cup milk 2 drops peppermint extract 7 drops green food coloring 1 jar marshmallow cream 8 ounces Cool Whip® Coarsely crush Oreos in a large Ziploc bag. Combine cookie crumbs with melted butter, and press into a 9-inch pie pan. In a bowl, gradually add milk and peppermint to the marshmallow cream, mixing thoroughly with a wire whip until smooth. Fold in Cool Whip®. Stir in food coloring so it has a marbled effect. Pour mixture into cookie crumb crust and freeze for at least three hours. Serve directly from the freezer!

<< BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

17

written by kim bahmer images by jen dotson

My explosion was full of contradictions and it smelled like alcohol and Jamaican weed. My life’s pendulum swung violently from caring too much about mildly important things to not caring about much at all. Life had no meaning or meaning was relative, nothing was certain, consequences weren’t that big a deal, and nothing mattered except that you do what you want allowing others to do the same. And you ought to be unselfish and do something good for people along the way. As I look back on my life, I see how the perceptions I had of the world as a child subconsciously followed me into adulthood. It’s no wonder I’ve been stumbling about like a little kid in a grown up body.

When I was a child I used to look up at the sky and imagine how God existed somewhere above it all. He was powerful and distant- magnificent and out of reach. He was a grandfather figure that came to visit only a few times a year. You could sense his wisdom, but you were afraid to ask him for it. As I got older my fear of God only grew until one day the trials of the world got so big I couldn’t even wrap my mind around them, and bewildered, I gave up. I was plagued by messy questions like, “How could so much evil exist in the world if there is a good God behind it all?” and “How could there be so much chaos and confusion in everything if there was an all-powerful, all-knowing God in charge?” “If we all view life from our own perspectives, individually influenced by family, culture, and experience, how dare we claim to know anything with certainty?”

I was like one of the three little pigs trying to build the house of my existence out of straw. It was destined to blow over. I had no sturdy bricks to work with- no solid foundation to build a life on. What I couldn’t see at the time was not just some reasonable answers to those

18

www.alivemagazine.org

perplexing questions, but the truth that God was actually much closer than I knew. I’ve since learned that sometimes we have to give up our view of the world when we’re clinging too tightly to ideas that aren’t working. We just might be looking through a worn out, dusty old lens. Sometimes you can just wipe the lens clean, but other times you’ve got to throw it out completely and get a new one. So my view of God wasn’t sufficient and I had given up on Him, but he somehow had never given up on me. I learned that he was right there with me as a child and he was with me through the mess of growing up. When I eventually recognized the historical validity of Jesus’ resurrection and came to terms with God, my whole world changed. The God I discovered was not much like the God of my childhood. I learned that this God is the God of the messy, of the brokenhearted, the lost, and confused. He’s the God of the people who keep on screwing up who often shows up when people’s lives are exploding. The events leading to mine were probably a result of early experiences and my interpretations of them coupled with the normal struggles of growing up.

I suppose as a child I expected that perfection meant getting things right, according to some fabricated human standard. Being an oldest child, I thought I could earn love by doing what was expected of me. As long as I continued on doing the “right” things like cleaning up my room, being nice to my friends, and getting good grades I would be loved. Surely, God, too, would approve of me if I did all the “right” things. I never gave myself permission to screw up, so when I did, it was pretty devastating. I remember the time I messed up my routine at a gymnastics competition. I was not used to messing up and, although I still finished in fourth place, I felt like I had failed completely. As I grew up, perfectionism followed me and right behind it was the need “to do” things to get approval from others -- and myself, I suppose. My identity and self worth were directly tied to my ability to do the “right” things and to do them well. But, one can be driven by perfectionism for only so long before the bubble you’ve built around yourself isn’t large enough to hold the pressure of the air you’re blowing into it. Eventually, well--you’ll explode.

My explosion looked something like a modern day hippie proclaiming “Freedom, love, peace!” -- with a cigarette punctuating my wild gestures, only to be followed by a rant expressing my deep cynicism, frustration, intellectual superiority, and social annoyance. This girl was proclaiming that all was meaningless except for freedom and equality, and my right to choose to live my life how I see fit. The err in my ironclad philosophy was that, if all was in fact meaningless, there was no real reason to proclaim anything. I was believing God didn’t exist, yet at the same time was furious at him for not existing. But for whatever reason, perhaps a divine one, a stranger came without warning into my life and began to challenge my view of the world. Our friendship involved many heated arguments until I was unable to get around the historical resurrection of Christ and I committed my life to Him. (I was kicking and screaming the whole time mind you!) God sent just what I needed when I needed it most.

As far as those messy questions... well, they’re still a bit messy, but I’ve begun to try and answer them. I still see God in my own image, limited by my tainted perspective. Nearly every moment I think I’ve grasped some concept and just opened a door to some new revelation, my new perspective offers me a better view of how little I really know. Although I peer through a dusty lens, the knowledge and pursuit of His truth keeps me looking beyond myself. It was a cataclysmic moment when it occurred to me that God loves us in the dirty, awkward, and bewildered moments of our lives. He is alive and he can work with our messes if we let Him - he can transform them into something beautiful. Each time I find myself with the reaction of a child who just knocked over several buckets of paint across a wood floor. At the sight of it he bursts into tears, cringing with fear of his inevitable punishment. But his tears subside when his father walks into the room with a giant paint brush and transforms the colorful disaster into a brilliant masterpiece – a room he could never have envisioned. With a big hug he whispers a promise that all his messes will be cleaned up someday – they are just here to teach him not to rely on himself to do the dirty work. The God of the Messy loves us just where we are, in whatever mess we find ourselves in, disillusioned and exhausted, still smelling of the night before, and ready to get to work starting over. As many times as it takes.

<< BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

19

x

Ambitious Ambassadors story & photography provided by lauren melcher

When I was in high school, I dreamed of being the U.S. Ambassador to another nation. How exotic and exciting it would be to live in another country and represent America – I would be the last one out in case of an international crisis, and the first to welcome new leaders. I knew that working as an ambassador would require incredible commitment to service and to my education because I would be expected to live in a culture where I had not been raised. I would need to become fluent in another language, study political science, and pass a State Department service exam—the list of achievements just to be eligible for ambassadorship was long and daunting, and I was sure I could be the next eligible candidate to astound my country.

When I changed my mind and decided to study English in college, at first I felt like my dream had vanished – but I think it had simply been misplaced.

Fast-forward to my sophomore year. One day while driving to Minneapolis for work on a snowy evening in November, I was catching up with my friend Bethany from high school. She was telling me about a program she wanted to attend in Siena, Italy for the summer and how she and our friend Alissa were thinking of living in Italy for the fall quarter as well. “Lauren, you should come with us!” she said. “That’s ridiculous,” I thought... but the words that came out of my mouth sounded more like “That sounds amazing!” Only six months later, I boarded the plane from Sacramento to Rome. I had a two-month unlimited Eurail pass in my hands and a backpack full of books (and only a few clothes) to tide me over until December.

20

www.alivemagazine.org

September 3, 2006 It is a week into our trip, and already our itinerary has changed. We are supposed to be in Zurich, Switzerland, but all the hostels there are full because of a big bike race. So instead we hopped on a train that took us to Basel, a small town within walking distance of the borders of Germany and France.

We couldn’t really hang out in our room tonight because someone was sleeping, so we ended up talking to these two young guys – a German and an Austrian – who are visiting for a conference. We had this fabulous, five-hour discussion over a pint downstairs on the patio, and it was such a riot. Of course we talked about politics right away… it was not much new from their perspective, just the typical “We think your government is ridiculous” but then they said something really interesting. “You girls aren’t what we expected Americans to be,” said Hans, the German. Apparently, they thought we would be closedminded and snobbish, and especially that we would know nothing about European history; they shared enough stories to make us understand. Once, a guy from Pennsylvania had asked Hans what it was like living under Hitler. (Crisis!) And then there were the girls who had asked him “do you drive cars in Germany?” Oh man…

Well, the guys were really easy to talk to, and we just kept sharing jokes and stories and questions – about science, and ethnic tensions in Europe and eventually the conversation turned to religion. It was a wonderfully eerie moment when Hans asked us what the Bible says about sex before marriage, because we had just talked about this a few days ago and Alissa had a really thoughtful answer for him. And they didn’t challenge it – they just listened and told us that they respected us for telling them what we really thought and not making up something we thought they would want to hear. It was a conversation that reminded me how important it is to not only talk about tough issues with friends, but that we also devote our hearts completely to talking to random people sometimes. I wouldn’t have expected to make an impact on them, but they told us that we’d changed their minds about how Americans look, think and act. I have never felt so honored to share my faith before. And I don’t think I will ever forget that they thought we couldn’t be Americans because we weren’t fat and we weren’t stupid.

September 9, 2006 From Basel, we caught a train to Paris to meet up with friends of Bethany’s from the University California at Davis (also our hometown). Siblings Julie and Jeff just finished summer mission trips in Germany and Romania, and Alex and Laura are here to travel with them for two weeks before school starts.

We met up with them in the cheesiest place we could think of… the base of the Eiffel Tower. Bethany and Alissa and I had already been there a while, and by chattering away in Italian we had done a pretty good job of convincing the nearby gypsies that we didn’t speak English. Here, the gypsies flock to tourists with cards and signs in English begging for money, with crying babies on their hips, and then return to their buses to move on to the next city. So when Jeff, Julie, Alex and Laura got there, it was hilarious to see them get picked up by the gypsies in under two seconds. They went right on talking loudly in English, and didn’t understand exactly why we pulled them away… and we got dirty looks from the gypsies because they realized we really could speak English.

This was when we realized that our traveling style was really different from that of our friends – we preferred to stay under the radar as much as possible, and make friends with people by talking to them in their own language (in Italy, at least), while they had an attitude of “we are here on vacation.” It was hard to explain to them how much better we were treated when we spoke Italian or French rather than English in stores and restaurants. Their idea of being “ambassadors” was different – they spent an afternoon passing out baguettes to homeless people around the bridges, which was a great idea in a lot of ways. But they didn’t spend time talking to waiters and bus drivers and learning about what it is really like to live in Paris. Instead, they tried to come in and help people without knowing what was acceptable in that culture. In the end, we had a hard time traveling them because we felt uncomfortable with the level of attention they brought to themselves.

We want our trip to be more than just seeing the sights. We want to feel like we talked to people and changed their minds about Americans. I don’t know if we will succeed, but now I feel more strongly about it than ever.

<< BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

21

November 24, 2007 It is November, and Bethany has already gone back to California… Alissa and I are in Madrid, visiting our friend Alicia who is studying here. She is staying with an older couple and their 25-year-old granddaughter. They live in a beautiful apartment and have a maid to clean the house and cook all of the meals. Alicia asked if she could use the kitchen to make Thanksgiving dinner for the family, and learned that it would be their first Thanksgiving in 30 years of hosting American students. It sounded like a big deal that we were allowed to use the kitchen, but she bought the turkey for us and our friend Dave brought boxed stuffing, canned pumpkin, and American measuring cups so we could make our feast.

The Señora came into the kitchen every twenty minutes, like clockwork. She would point frantically at the turkey, which was cooking inside a big Glad plastic oven bag, and say “claro, are you sure you know what you are doing?!” in Spanish. The maid would look at us and smile and Alicia would say “sí, sí, yes, we know – it is okay, I promise.” Although the Señora never cooks in her own kitchen, we realized what a big deal it was for her to pass it over to the young Americans. We thought she would pull the turkey right out of the oven with her bare hands! But after a few hours, she got used to seeing a plastic bag in her oven and stopped coming in as often.

We went to about a hundred stores to get everything we needed for our feast, which ended up being mashed potatoes, stuffing, two pumpkin pies, fruit salad, asparagus and mushrooms, Spanish wine, and Alicia’s family’s gravy recipe. Despite our assurance to Señora that we knew what we were doing, none of us had ever actually cooked a Thanksgiving dinner on our own before. So there we were, mashing potatoes by hand and making whipped cream with cream out of a box and an ancient set of hand-held beaters. The kitchen was in disarray as we made up recipes and hurried to finish cooking before the dinner at 2 pm.

When we sat down at the table, I couldn’t believe we had actually pulled everything off! The family just stared at their dining room table, now covered in foods they had never seen before. They pointed at dish after dish, asking Alicia for Spanish translations. “Those don’t look like potatoes!” the grandfather said. They had never seen a pie before either, or homemade whipped cream – and they were especially confused about the stuffing. For the first time since I left home, I didn’t feel like an outsider. Even though we were imposing on their home and routine, they were gracious and receptive. They tried everything we had prepared, and told us over and over how much they loved it. After three months of absorbing so many other cultures, it was almost overwhelming to share something truly American with this family.

Every dish on the table had a story behind it, and it wasn’t easy to explain the turkey stuffing in our broken Spanish! But when the dinner was over and we were sitting around the table, I felt so fulfilled. I am truly thankful that I was able to give back, just a little, for everything that we have taken the last three months. I think I just might be ready to go home.

22

www.alivemagazine.org

by kelin loe In every freshman class there can only be one person like me. Any more, and the campus would implode. I was the confidently-terrified, sexually-awkward, never-admittingly-naive, never-beenkissed, clumsy, chunky, paranoid nightmare of a power-hungry freshman girl. That girl.

My school sits on a hilltop, surrounded by miles of corn. No need to drive into the condescendingly cute “college town” across the river, we operate like a new age Norwegian nunnery. Room, board, classes, library, gym, chapel, anything you’d possibly need, in just a seven-minute walk. Anything but the Anti-Awkward pills.

On September 5th, this curly-headed, dimple-dented cherub dragged her hundred-pound trunk up four flights of stairs, to the top of Harrison Hall. I unpacked, imagining what my lack-of-experience-in high-school points bought me in the college round. Perhaps smooth, suave elegance? No one explained that after high school, boys turn into “guys.” Unfortunately, the “guy” appears to be a man, but is just a step short of the real thing.

I felt my new world was overrun with them. Guys left, guys right, lots of guys up and a few down. Unfortunately, their baseball hats blocked the sun to their wilting minds. Anything past “What’s your major?” didn’t compute. This left me to pounce from lily pad to lily pad in Little Testosterone Pond. I hopped till my quads burned, and finally landed on one hopeless case. I decided to squat. And promptly sank.

Love blinds? Not true. Hope does.

Benjamin had a girlfriend in Washington State. She was three years younger than me. He never mentioned her. Instead he wrapped me in these incredible hugs, the kind that left me gasping into his shoulder.

Hug #87: I was on my way out the door, he on his way in. He wore the climbing-wall t-shirt he wore almost every Tuesday. His stare grabbed me by the belly button, and before he passed the threshold he had scooped my hand in his. His emerald eyes still holding, I lead him from the doorway.

Paperback feelings of longing and attachment beset my brain. I pulled back and found his eyes, ignoring the nose hair which always crept out a bit, “I’m late.”

I pulled away. He kept my fingers, playing with the tips. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmured, drawing me against him once more.

I sighed into the place where I could feel four valves pumping against my cheek, and pulled away again. He let me go inch by inch. << BACK

I waved, popping him some dimple—my newfound power tool—then walked off in dewy disgust.

And I got three of these a day.

On top of everything, Benjamin was the hero on the front cover of the romance novel. The one with nipples showing, holding the girl tastefully attired in the mainsail of the ship they sailed.

I sank. And set a goal. He was leaving for the month of January, and he was going to write to me. Later I learned why monogamy in lily pads only leads to scuba drivers with big flashlights.

As another unavoidable freshmanyear experience, I joined the line of student cafeteria workers. I donned the beige polo shirt, the black apron, the black baseball cap. Hats. Curly hair’s nemesis. Unfortunately for my appearance, my hair always seemed to win.

I had to cart around 40 lb. bags of milk for the Beverages Station. I’d lift them about five feet to wedge them into the serving refrigerator. Ha. Right.

With a lot grunting I shoved the big white blob into its place. The job I did wasn’t a quiet one, and about a zillion Caf workers came zooming towards me.

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

23

beans on burners. Then I heard someone swearing harshly. Scott?

I waited for him to come and throw something in my trash. When I gently asked him what had happened, he answered with a passion I had only ever heard in my own voice.

“This preppy guy kicked a spoon at me. He saw me and kicked it right at me. I hate people like him. Just because I have to pay for my own education and he gets a free ride from his daddy…”

He went on to talk about the Beverage worker before his shift, who never gets enough done and how if we were in the D.C. they would fire his ass, but we weren’t.

“You can’t work the Beverage station. Sorry.”

Was he from the District?

I fought him on it, but ultimately followed my su- Yes, and his dad was a professor at Georgetown. pervisor over to the social vacuum of the Grains Why didn’t he go there then?

Line, defeated.

Wanted something different.

“Hey, Scott.”

Like me.

Scott. The quiet, too-cool-for-the-situation guy with the shoulders of Zeus himself. The dark antagonist in the background of the cover, glaring Scott started eating his mismatched lunches next to my trashcan that knowing, sex-driven glare. He leaned with while I cleaned. Then he would help me carry the still burning-hot his arms on the counter, acknowledging us withburner to the Dish Room. We wit-slung about the Midwest, men and out looking. women, his Honors class vs. mine, and what I’d heard about him from “Can you switch with this girl? She can’t lift the other girls. Drunk. Womanizer. That pretentious jerk. milk.”

Frustrated by my sinking situation, I felt I could ask him.

The both of us laughed and rolled our eyes. Me because I figured all respect from these people Why does it seem women are more emotionally attached to men than was lost and gone forever, and him, he was laugh- men to women? ing at me.

Seriously?

“Okay. It’s boring over here anyway.”

“It’s like this. A lot of guys don’t like girls. They like what girls have.

“I guess I’m about to find out. Good luck with And usually those guys aren’t good enough for those girls anyway.

For me, when I just want to hook-up with someone, I’m seriously only the milk.” looking for that. But when it comes to girlfriends, it’s the puzzle piece He didn’t look at me once. stuff.” I hadn’t expected him to say “girlfriend.” He didn’t seem the type.

They left me to familiarize myself with the draught and monotony of the vegan buffet. And watch him go off to lift heavy things.

Singing in the Christmas concert meant five more hours of rehearsal a week. To stare at Benjamin. And get him to walk me home? Carry me? In the falling snow? To my room where he’d lay me down and rip Wednesday, Grains barrier, recording and comoff his choir robe to reveal nothing, nothing at all? paring the explosion rates of different kinds of I tried to hide my obsession from Gabby, on my left. I really wanted Gabby to like me.

I squashed that. When we practiced filing into the auditorium, the Men, as manly as possible in their royal blue robes, stood waiting for us. Instead of focusing forward, my eyes scanned the exhibition-inblue for my one true love.

I walked smack into Gabby’s back and got a face full of white surplice and maroon frock.

But I did make eyes with my angel! He had waited for me, and we laughed. He rolled up his program and found me through it. We laughed more, and he sent me this private, smoldering expression. My pulse raced off with out my heart.

The January interim brought me back to the Caf. Every shift I began, I looked for Scott. The first four shifts brought a solitude I hadn’t thought to look for first semester. I hadn’t realized the thought capacity I’d rendered Benjamin—how it was more than I’d rendered myself.

24

www.alivemagazine.org

Terrified, I looked to the surface of my pond.

Ten minutes into the fifth shift, before I finished my sigh of disappointment, he appeared, his shoulders stretching that shirt just the way I remembered.

backed away. Which made him scream louder, swinging gestures of death at my feet Scott appeared and crossed his arms. “Is there a problem here?” he asked me. Loudly.

We caught up as we yanked up fish-shaped guck from the drains.

The chef pointed to my ankles.

Then we manned our stations alone. I leaned on my own counter, staring at the noodles, thinking about how to not think about Benjamin.

Just as I reached to grab plate, a peach plate landed in my palm. I looked over my shoulder, and there was Scott, smiling with his eyes more than his mouth.

Socks.

On the last day of Interim, I checked my mailbox for something I hadn’t forgotten. I pulled out a postcard from Costa Rica. But the girl reading Benjamin’s tiny writing wasn’t the one who’d asked for it.

His eyes, sightless, rapidly searched the kitchen.

I wasn’t wearing socks! It was Inspection Day. God—would I be sent home?

Eyebrows bunched, I turned to Scott: “I don’t have any socks!!!”

“I have socks.”

Monsoons of relief.

This semester Scott and I purposefully signed up for the same cafeteria shift. And I set a new goal. Scott would tell me he loved me.

“Great! In the locker-room?”

“No…” “Where then?”

After Interim Break, Benjamin found me. He knocked on my door, and before my hand left the doorknob he’d pressed his body to mine, the whole thing mmming. As we swayed, his cheek to my forehead, my hand to his upper-arm, he whispered to my eyebrows.

“On my feet.”

“You want to give me the socks off your feet?”

That snapped us back.

I broke up with her.

For you.

On Reading Day my a cappella group had our first concert. I’d invited Scott—letting myself hope he’d come. And he did.

I dropped my arms.

It didn’t take long. I hadn’t expected him to actually say it. I’d have taken a grunted agreement as success.

“Hey, Scott. Can you run and grab that little white towel from Grains?

You love me, right?” My delivery made Blanche DuBois jealous.

Yes, I love you.

But get your own towel.

Drunk. To see his friend in the group performing after us.

Depression tugged on my throat. In the audience, after our set, I watched for him. He looked at me. Taken off-guard I accidentally sent him a pain-sunken expression. Somehow I’d sunk again.

I’d tied the hope anchor to my ankle. Unintentionally. Again.

I clumsily lead Benjamin on for a week, nervous about letting him get any closer. Terrified of the warmth I felt between our bodies, now that it had the possibility to burn.

He looked startled and turned away.

I didn’t see him again until fall.

How could things burn underwater?

I gave up, and let him down.

He wasn’t hard to get over. He’d cut his beautiful wisps of hair close to this head. That helped. Probably too much.

I did not displace the Benjamin feelings on Scott. He wasn’t someone I could handle. And I carried the disappointment that he didn’t want me around with the little white towels. But—sometimes he surprised me.

On a fresh spring day near the end of the year, I couldn’t stand to wear that booger-colored polo. In retaliation, I wore cute shoes and rolled up my jeans capri-style to display them and my toasted-marshmallow tan. As I washed my hands in the kitchen, waiting for Scott to wander in, the chef with one fake eye (I had no idea which one) and an inaudible lisp, started screaming sounds at me and waving at my feet. I << BACK

Hope never found me a happy ending—but it did bring me hugs, a postcard, a break-up in my honor, a declaration of love, and socks.

I’ve always wanted to not expect, romantically.

Be a person so smooth and secure that it happens without either of us realizing until the next morning.

Funny how that never happened.

And funny how I don’t really want that.

I want socks.

Now I’m a sophomore, and still an awkward lilypad hopper. Not sure if I’m supposed to kiss another frog or be kissed myself.

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

25

poem & photography When a black lace bra by taylor tinkham Bridges the gap Between kindness and salvation In your local kwik trip station You know you’ve found the nation That loves and supports Its next female generation A neon sign Screams “vacancy!”

It describes that one girl In the car Then In the motel Then In the bed It’s the secret of a country An imperfection left unsaid That the girl in the black lace bra Has a vacancy in her head

26

www.alivemagazine.org

Love, Laurie Dear Laurie, I am writing to you, myself, the “me” of my teenage years. I know you are not long gone, but rather deep inside of me, traveling with me each day. If I were a tree, you would be the inner rings in that sacred center space. I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner to inquire as to your well-being and to tell you how much I appreciate you, to thank you for making it through those years of struggle, adventure, questioning (wow, the questions!), disappointments, incredible growth, fun and screwing up. I know it is all mixed up together and informs me each day now, many years later as I work on my present “outer rings.” I haven’t forgotten you.

Just so you know, I am still drawing and painting. I thank you for all the fun we had painting in seventh and eighth grade (you were good), for the drawings of Fred the janitor and of the horses in second grade and for the marvelous sidewalk soap drawings you made on your way to kindergarten (even though you got into trouble for being late to school). I remember the landscapes you painted for the boy you liked and later a rendering of the Honda motorcycle, and after the move to Arizona–the desert landscapes.

You always did love the land (and I still do).

The reason I am writing this letter is to thank you, especially, for enduring the painful assaults on your passion when you were 19. I want you to know that it’s okay now, that I am listening to and honoring what you endured. I salute you for carrying on and not quitting your love of drawing and painting, even though you felt so discouraged so many times and came close to giving it all up. What you didn’t know then, as I do now, is that occasionally we encounter people in life whose business it is to tear down rather than build up. You weren’t ready for a tear-down. It hit you broad side and sent you spinning for years. It sent waves of self-doubt through your whole being. The worst part of it is the fear that creeps in and starts to sabotage your every attempt: you aren’t any good; who do you think you are trying to do this? give it up–you’re just wasting paper, the inner critic mocked.

Fear is the opposite of faith. Fear is the opposite of joy. Fear is an enemy that keeps us from being ourselves. Fear is the opposite of freedom. Fear keeps forgiveness at bay (of self and others). Fear is the opposite of what God intends for our lives. Faith, joy, freedom, forgiveness—and courage—are gifts to help make and keep us healthy and whole.

Our true voices are our true loves. Listen. Feel. Move forward. Forgive. Give thanks. Thank you for holding on by such a thin thread. It held.

Can you believe it? Today I have a small working studio near the University. I can’t tell you the joy I feel when I walk into my space filled with light and color, charcoal and paper, brushes and canvas. It is a sacred space for me (for us) and fills me with life. I am grateful. I still have episodes of doubt, but I remember and honor you, and your strength and courage as a teenager, fueling me (us) with much hope, love and purpose. Shafts of light open up for all of us and we can dance, paint, sing, write, run, teach, scuba dive, run for office—whatever it is our true inner voice is whispering to us.

Just like a tree, I am still growing and working on my outer rings. It’s still difficult. But those inner, core rings are in my very heart and being and I thank you, young Laurie, for living your days as you did, for not giving up, for keeping your inner light burning bright in spite of confusion, disappointment and doubt.

I am filled with awe and wonder each day. And I am glad. Let’s keep in close touch.

Love always,

Laurie << BACK

NEXT >>

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN

27

www.alivemagazine.org

<< BACK

CONTENTS

FULL SCREEN