A Lone Native American Among Pilgrams

Well, Thanksgiving is here, my favorite holiday next to Leif Erikson day, and I feel obligated to speak on what I’m thankful for, mostly because I complain so God damn much and I really do have a great life. 

As is tradition, Thanksgiving has always been our holiday, held at my parents house, now my dad’s house, though my maternal grandparents still join us. Every year, we "go around" the table, per Grandmom’s sentimental demand (and to my dad and his sister’s consternation, though we participate annually—the Clarhauts are not typically the most “feeling” oriented family.) 

As I spoke to my Grandmom a few days ago about what she should bring to the gathering (I don’t know why she asks me, I’m not cooking,) she reminded me of the custom as if I've forgotten what’s happened on this holiday for the past 12 or so years they’ve been in attendance.

“I told Pop Pop to try to think of something different this year, something he doesn’t usually say.”

Which, is hilarious, since if you’ve ever met Pop Pop, you’ve probably heard the 1950-something Neshaminy H.S. football team stories, or about the electricians union, all amplified, upon each greeting. He probably has no recollection of what he’s said he’s thankful for in the years past, as he probably doesn’t even remember what exactly he said 5 minutes ago, let alone what he should be thankful for in general.

“So try to think of something new… We have so much to thank God for, and that’s why we celebrate Thanksgiving,” Grandmom continued, as if I were confused about the purpose for which we eat turkey on the last Thursday of every November for the past 22 years. Which my celebrity doppelgänger Christina Ricci put so eloquently as Wednesday in the 1993 Addams Family Values’:

“You have taken the land which is rightfully ours. Years from now my people will be forced to live in mobile homes on reservations. Your people will wear cardigans, and drink highballs. We will sell our bracelets by the road sides, you will play golf, and enjoy hot hors d'oeuvres. My people will have pain and degradation. Your people will have stick shifts. The gods of my tribe have spoken. They have said, 'Do not trust the Pilgrims, especially Sarah Miller.'”

So Grandmom isn’t necessarily Sarah Miller, but she might be missing the point a little, along with the rest of obese America that uses this holiday as representation of something it’s not; an excuse to pig-out and express “thanks” for things we take for granted, that we forget we received from someone else’s suffering.

Anyway, Grandmom said this same spiel last year, and I really put thought into it. I sat patiently waiting my turn to share, “I’m thankful for the fact that I was born into this time period, where women have the freedom to get a proper education, have a career and vote, without being confined to the life of a housewife, independent from men if they so choose to be.”

The response? Crickets, stares, then mocking. My dad laughed, everyone rolled their eyes, and I slunk back down in my chair, recoiling in embarrassment for an educated, well thought-out answer. I’m the only one in this little gathering this year with a degree, though my brother is enrolled in college, but I feel like maybe I should go simpler for fear of rejection. Here are some options for what I’ll say at dinner on Thursday;

• I’m thankful that I’m not pregnant (at least that I know of.)

• I’m thankful that I can date a black guy without societal oppression, regardless of judgment (a.k.a. the horrible racist labels like n*lover and snow bunny.) 

• I’m thankful that my seriously pushy, overwhelming grandparents could make it to this forced event.

• I’m thankful my parents are divorced so I only have to deal with one drunk parent on this dreadful day.

• I’m thankful that I was born into a low-income household yet still retain high-brow cultural appreciation (as I scoff, laughing, and quoting someone like Dobšinský, who I've never actually read, to my knowledge.)

• While I'm at it, I'm thankful that I'm almost $40,000 in debt to have a terrifically sexist position at an auto body shop, which I am highly over-qualified for, while working extra hours at a minimum wage job that has brought me misery for the last five God-forsaken years of my life.

These answers won't be appreciated by my family, though my brothers might get a kick out of it. I'll probably go back to a generic crowd-pleaser, like "I'm thankful for my loving family," though really, I'm more grateful for my friends, but that wouldn't appeal to anyone at the table and would offend. I'll probably just say that I'm thankful for my father, who has taught me that money isn't everything while providing for me in every aspect of life through hard work, and that nice things are a privilege to be valued, not expected. Whatever I settle upon, if it's genuine, it's bound to leave someone feeling embarrassed, and I don't mind. I'm thankful that I can share my thoughts and someone somewhere will listen.

Thank you for reading, it means more to me than you'll ever comprehend. May many blessings come your way this holiday season.


With love,

CLC

A constant struggle deciding between trendsetting and something for which the world may not be ready

You’re driving, leaving some location where you fulfilled some obligation, the only obligation you may have, when you feel the dread take over. You need gas… But no, that’s not it… You just filled your tank. You have something to do, but you always could be doing something. You could look into those appointments you need to make, or the bills you need to pay, but it seems better to drive around, even though this gas has to last you until Friday, and the smarter thing to do would be to just go home and throw in a load of laundry.

But to go home, where those responsibilities lie, the piles of clothes and paperwork, the emails requesting prompt payment for accounts overdue, the lists of tasks to complete before you can actually move the hell out of your “home," that dread takes hold tighter than the original gloom you felt leaving your obligation. You’d only end up laying in bed for the night watching Netflix, feeling sorry for yourself, wishing someone would come over and drag your ass to your desk or elsewhere, so that maybe today wouldn’t be a total waste. 

You’d get out of the car and take a walk, to clear your head, but it’s so cold; you’re always cold anymore, so cold sometimes your face feels like you got a Novocain shot right in your cheek. So you light up, let it drift, and unfortunately remember those plans you have for dinner. Maybe. You never specified if you’d make it when you replied, “I’ll let you know.” 

You should go: not spend money on food, not waste another hour driving around, fulfill the visit so you’re off the hook for another week or so. But the company is daunting and you’re disconcerted. If you just go get it over with, maybe next time won’t be so bad. But you feel it, the overwhelm, now a noun, like a wave, and you’re pulled back out to the ocean, except you can’t fight the current anymore. Now you’re exhausted, and decide “tomorrow," though you’ll be deeper at sea. Then just seems like you'll be able to fight it. The day's half over anyway, and that means it is over, if you round up.

Tomorrow, every day, it’s always tomorrow. 

"Escape," as written in Feb. 2014

The first of three creative non-fiction essays, written spring semester 2014. Presented at Shippensburg University's Annual Student Research Conference. Rejected by Brevity Magazine for online publication. Still the only thing of any worth I've ever written, and though half of my blog audience has probably read and edited this particular piece 10 times over each, it's still the only work for which I have pride. A year later, I drink my coffee black and eat dinner once a week with my mom and her husband, but I still feel the same. Enjoy.

I drank my Wawa coffee everyday over break. I’m addicted to caffeine; I need it to avoid a throbbing headache and awful attitude. Since I paid for it, I went all out; splash of non-fat French vanilla creamer, a packet of Sweet and Low, a quarter of the cup low-fat French vanilla steamer, the rest split French vanilla and regular coffee.

I work 40 hours a week at home. Money goes to car insurance and gas; heat, electric and cable/internet at school; a long list of fines for a very big mistake I cannot share here; my recreational activities—like stoges and beers and Wawa coffee.

My dad works 60 hours a week all the time. Money goes to everything. Food, water, heat, the joint rent for my brother and I, his own mortgage, even my mother; he pays it.

Homemade coffee is more my speed. Heat steams upward out of the mug and moistens my face, the strong aroma wafts up my nose, whereas store-bought cups’ lids cap in condensation and perky balm. I hate to spend money on something I can easily do myself; splash of skim, one packet of all-natural calorie-free plant derived sweetener, 8 oz. of strong, bitter coffee. When my mother left, I took the sweetener to school, and when I came home for break, I left it there.

My dad does not use sweetener, his coffee is doused with light cream. When I first got home from break, I asked him to pick up some, if he could, from the store, if he went. I forget what he said, it was something like, “get a list together for me, I’m gonna go food shopping soon.”

I never got a list together; I rarely ate at home. When my mother left, we stopped eating dinner together as often. My dad works 60 hours a week, I work 40.

My dad gets upset with me; I go out a lot after work, my nights often spent drinking at my friend’s apartment. My dad comes home after work often to an empty house, (my brothers are out, too,) his nights often spent drinking alone. When my mother left, us kids stopped sleeping home as much.

When I come home nightly before I make swift exit, the conversation is always the same.

“How was work?” I inquire, trying to stomach my nerves for the reaction I know is to come. 

Dad replies, “eh, work,” blowing out a solid, half optimistic sigh as he releases the words like a tire quickly losing air.

“I know, we’ve gotta start that business, man.” I lack consolation here, what else can I say? It irks him when I say ‘man,’ but dad doesn’t feel right anymore.

“Or, you get really rich and take care of your pops,” he retorts jokingly, using the other disliked name I call him. Regularly making light of the heavy; a quality I’ve adapted. 

I laugh, then break the news; “alright, well I’m going to Sabs’,” referring to my friend’s apartment, and almost colliding with my last syllable—“Oh, SHOCKER,” dad snarks.

I mock. “Aw, shocker.” Once again, nothing to respond. I’d say sorry, but the words don’t take form. We have trouble admitting our wrongs, though I less-so than him, another quality I’ve adapted. 

On the next hung-over mornings leaving the apartment, Wawa is my first stop, either on my rush to work, or on my rush home to grab my uniform before work. I wouldn’t have time to make coffee at the house. Plus, we don’t have any sweetener. 

Some mornings, when I was home, I’d go to get my coffee just to get out, just to smoke a cigarette.

I didn’t want to come home for break. My job is exhausting, mentally and physically, and being at home is similar. I often fled to my friend’s apartment. She didn’t have sweetener either, but Wawa is closer to her place.

I could have gone to the store and bought sweetener. I made excuses; I was too busy, it wasn’t my responsibility. I could have asked my dad again, or made a list, but I didn’t want to put more on his proverbial plate, already piled high with inadequate feelings about fatherhood and his failed marriage. 

If I spent more time with my dad, I wouldn’t feel the guilt run so deep, like a creek frozen-over, rush propelling under the translucent, placid façade of solidity. When my mother left, so did my dad’s former self, leaving the shell of a man, only a damaged, child-like soul remained.   

A few mornings, my guilt brought him coffee from Wawa. “How do you like it?” I’d ask over the phone. 

“French vanilla, three-quarters of the cup, half of the remaining space regular, the rest, cream,” he explained slowly, so I’d understand and wouldn’t mess it up.

My dad’s pride almost kept me from getting him Wawa coffee once when we went Christmas shopping together. When my mother left, all the responsibility fell on him. 

I bought the cup anyway; “I’m an adult, I understand, I’m here for you,” I often said, about more than just coffee.

Back at school, I don’t have to escape my house nightly just to retain sanity; neither do I feel guilty for abandoning my father. I have to go to school, it’s my responsibility.

I made coffee at home this morning; splash of skim, one packet of all-natural calorie-free plant derived sweetener, 8 oz. of strong, bitter coffee. Yet to my dismay, I am running very low on sweetener, with no list to write my dad, no dad here to get it, and no Wawa to run to. 

When my mother left, she left her three children and their dad to pull life back together, to take on all the responsibility at once. Thus left my ambition to grow up and here I am, without any sweetener.

Correspondence by Definition

Thank God (or more likely, curse Satan,) I'm a writer or else I'd probably not remember much of any of this time in my life.

I left work with the fuel meter covering the orange "E" line, a hair from resting on the illuminated peg. So I headed on to job number two with 45 minutes to spare, when I contemplated crossing the bridge to get gas. Yet the problem with this plan, I kept forgetting as I continued east, was that I really didn't know how to get to Jersey from there. And with a serious need for gasoline, I risked running out and getting stuck, with 30 minutes before my shift. 

If I did run out of gas, I mulled over, well then I'd just have to call Taylor. No--class. Dad? Work... My boss, Nina, that'd work. But how funny, first I chose my friend. Most 22-year-olds would probably dial mom, but me? If I got into a rut, like a car accident, (God forbid, and as long as I didn't need hospitalization,) I'd call Tay, Coady, Sabs and Ash in that order most days, the varying schedules taken into account, but general accountability, common sense and usual availability and proximity the prime discerning factors (no offense to anyone, this is not the order of how much I like you-- in that case my brother would come in last. And we all have our strengths and weaknesses.)

My thoughts return to the immediate issue; the fumes my tank's emitting, sputtering the engine, barely inching me to the gas station down Big Oak Road, let alone some cockamamie idea that I'll even make it across the Delaware. 

I'll call my boss. So I don't seem so dependent... On... my friends? Because I don't really ask too, too much of my parents. Not since the divorce, and not in these kinds of situations anyway. At the same time, I am a needy friend, and there's only two reasons I can attribute this to-- I don't trust my parents, and and my parents encouraged me (more negative though,) to become this independent ideal, yet I still crave some sort of validation, or something needs to be filled. That's probably Freudian or whatever any of those great psycho-what-have-yous would say.

It's not that I don't believe my parents love me, or would be willing to help me, I just have too many childhood memories of being the last kid picked up from soccer practice, long after the lights shut down. In the sixth grade, my mom was supposed to pick me up from a birthday party at Core Creek Park in time to go to Sesame After-Dark with my friend Leah, but she couldn't seem to locate the particular pavilion at which we were, and eventually, my dad on his way home from work came to my rescue.

And I hate to bother him, the busy worker bee that slaved on for hours of overtime so we could move to a proper, more pristine hive in the cul-du-sac, only for the queen to abandon him. 

He never (though sometimes there were exceptions,) picked me up from youth group or practices; we mostly found our own way home, Coady and I. My dad only made it to one or two games a season. I'm not bitter or upset, it's just something I accepted: just was what it was. And truth be told, I preferred not to have them there. From dad, too much pressure. "Good game, but man, you coulda had that pop-up!" Mom, too much the opposite; "Your team doesn't really do much at all to help you out, do they... Oh well, there's always next time!" 

I pulled up to the gas station on the corner where Tay once told me to turn to get to work and wished she had just given me back the book which we use for correspondence, so I could write this all down. But I'm glad I couldn't, so I was forced to be less candid about my real feelings surrounding the people in my life, though they all might hate me for it like David Sedaris' family, for exposing them as he saw. If you're not sure that what I'm saying is true, or have definitively decided it is not accurate, let me tell you, it's not. Truth is relative, and my character and situational portrayal is defended by literary license.

I pleaded with the universe that no one would pull up to the Gulf or whatever the damn brand petroleum was I poured into the tank and that read on the sign, for I only put 5 dollars on my card. And thank God I made it, I'd later find out my boss was off that day and I couldn't have called her. I'd head to Burlington after work and fill up, but right now I am busy and I don't need to fill my tank, just enough to get me by and across the river. 

The Old Colossus, Anew

This isn't a personal affront, though someone's bound to take it personally. It's personal for me, and that is all, so probably not what you're interested in, not universal enough, perhaps. It's just settling with the truth, that I am what I'll always be, what I've always been, who I've lost touch with as of late. I am the rock, the constant. I am stability and strength, the support to be pulled in every direction, that holds itself up and takes the strain and the hits. I forgot that my purpose is not to exist for me, it's for the rest of you that need something to knock down, not negatively, but in place of you, I'll take the rough swells. I exist as something on which to inflict the impact of your fears and your nightmares and your problems and it all. 

I'm the statue-- give me your tired, your poor and the huddled masses yearning to be free. Send to me and on and on and I'll be here, I'll take it, that's fine. I forgot that's what I do, but I'm back, and I'm getting just as cold as the oxidized copper raised high in New York's harbor.

You haven't even the slightest idea, do you? What I value, what haunts me, what I think about myself, or you, or anything, everything; it's all something you might think you have figured out based upon what's said and what's observed. If you even care enough to think you have it figured out, that is. But you don't ask, not about the real shit anyway. And when I try to delve into the real shit, far deeper than the foam that grazes the shore, you shove me back out to sea, and I'm again alone in my own lifeboat. Back to France, belittled.

I only know what you tell me, but I ask, I prod, I try. I'll say everything... Or try to, but usually you don't care to hear it. And the worst part is, well, I want to hear your shit, what makes you satisfied or upset or just generally content, and I know you don't care to hear mine, but I try to get it out, relieve my skull from the pressure anyway. Because I'm sad. Sad-pathetic. And I'm going to explode.

And I know you're like Pandora's box, but it's me, and I just wish you would just unleash each of the "terrifying" you have kept locked away. But maybe you don't know that me, I am here for that purpose. I'll take all the shit, I always have. Yet the same façade over and over. I mean I get it, but it's just almost heartbreaking.

Like I'm telling you all this now, for what? 'Cause now I can't vent to anyone, not ever; oh loyal me, abstaining from every opportunity that will leave me feeling anything but guiltless. 'Cause I'm fucking shit. And I'll take your shit, the homeless, tempest-tossed. My lamp is raised and you, you can no longer get up to my crown, it's closed indefinitely for renovations.

Heard, Yet Not Listened to

Standing in Auntie Anne's Pretzel Asylum, my five-year (thus far,) food court living hell of a job, I roll my eyes at someone, anyone--everyone, at least once.

"What?" Or, "Huh?" Or, "I didn't hear you..." 

"Well I'm not fucking repeating myself so too bad," as if what I said was even slightly important or worth even my own remembering.

This is a memory from years ago, because now I don't say as much, and without prevarication, I couldn't give a shit about that job any longer than I already have.

Outside of work, where one has no choice but to communicate with friends and enemies and/or other, I hate going out with more than 3 or 4 people, unless one of them only knows me and I have an alliance--a partner--someone who will listen to and acknowledge me. Otherwise, I usually can't get a word in, or I get cut-off. I used to do that thing where I'd instantly crescendo my voice to near-full volume, competing with the other person that interrupted me like televisions blaring in neighboring rooms. Occasionally if I'm feeling so boldly confident that my words will be received well enough, I'll revert to this tactic, but screw it otherwise. If you can't take the time to listen to what I have to say, never mind. And if what you have to say is so God damn important that you can't humor me enough to listen to my 1-minute, "one time, in college..." parable, then you're a dick. I hear your stories and listen. I read your words and comprehend. I try to remember.

But alas, there's this blog. The blog is terrific for me, because I can get out exactly what I want to say without interruption. And you can read and stop to ask your friend what stupid color stupid lipstick she's wearing tonight without interupting me; pick back up your phone and keep reading if you do so please. If I'm so dreadfully boring or miserable enough that you begin to wish I'd put you out of your misery, you can quit reading. 

I see the Google analytics, you know. People do click the links I tweet, though I wonder if they do so, then close it out and come back later, skewing my numbers, giving me some false hope that someone gives a shit. In any regard, the view counts are "HA" to say the least, but I wonder, of those views on my posts, how many of you have ever even read this many 'graphs down? I doubt many make it this far, caught up in my blubbering attempts to sound prolific yet relatable all the while questioning my mental stability. I don't read the posts of my fellow writer peers, the concert reviews and interviews with performers, or when I do start to read, I get bored, so I can't be mad that you do this to me.

Know something; to those who will never read these words because they were bored at the first paragraph, or even if you've made it this far, none of this is for you. This is not to entertain you, nor make you feel better about you not-nearly-as-dismal-as-my-life situation; this is for me. For reading, I thank you, because if you've made it this far, you've given me a purpose; I want to be heard. But this is not for the audience, the audience is for me.

I wonder if I'd feel so disregarded still if I never knew the greek-be-damned origin of my name. Though now at least I feel like my words hold the weight of a goddess's, a gift, disbelieved or ignored, cursed to a meaning internal, and that's just fine for my conviction.

Like Myspace and Top 8s and 'Falling' for Boys

Earthy, erring on the side of punk rock. Do you call that a hipster? If you say so... All my college friends thought so, in little bumble fuck Pennsylvania. Is that what I wanted? Am I who I wanted to be, nay, want to be? 

"We were meant to live for so much more; have we lost ourselves?"

It's playing through the shop right now, and I remember the album on repeat in middle school. Oh, the sad days, when I tried to scratch my wrists with plastic knives because I was so, so invariably sad and the world was horrible and everyone, EVERYONE, was doing it. I couldn't cut through the skin, blood freaks me out. I'm not upset about this failure, for today, none of my scars were intentional.

Pick up maybe 6 years later. November 30, 2011, I write: 

"When it does that

I look up, sparkles in vision

Like a film rolling before my eyes

The clouds shield cornea from crisp

And perfection in a Devine moment 

Reveals a Glorious peace of mind that I continually forget exists." 

Ooooh Cass, you're so fucking deep. How articulate, what imagry. So much passion! So spiritual. If you say so...

I had just lost something very important to me then, stolen with my iPod that waltzed right off its speaker port while my roommate was gone and I'd lost my key in some stupid boy's car. He said he looked, but didn't, and I had to leave my front door open for a weekend until he decided to check the floor of the passenger's side. It was my fault, the iPod, and the real loss. I gave-in too easy. If you say so...

I used to be so good with creating metaphors. Now it's funny how it just appears, the iPod stolen with everything I had to give, gave because I had it, not because I was forced, but because I was able to give and knew no better. The music: gone, the Switchfoot album in MP3 form lost forever, but floating through the office windows from the shop this morning, as if I hear it not in actuality, but from a distant memory, on a CD walkman through headphones encased with light black foam ear protectors.

The defiance, the piercings and tattoos, not for looks: for feel, for pain and healing, for knowing these things take time. So call me a hipster, or emo, like middle school, or what-fucking-have you. If you say so, it is so, because what am I without you, but just a bunch of letters arranged to form a name I was given 23 years ago?

Another Rational and Cognative Nervous Disintegration

Cold black coffee sits in the cup holder in my car next to the window, where cigarette smoke dissipates into the clouds. I think I spend too much of my own time invested in everyone else's lives; what are they tweeting about? What the hell was that snap chat story? 

I smack my head into the steering wheel a few times, and now I wanna smack my head into a wall. It'd be cool to be in a coma; I think I'd find myself in there. There are just so many things to know and try to understand and remember in the universe, too many to know where to start.  

Everyone's talking all around me and I'm not listening to it, I don't care to hear. I go into the kitchen to fill my water bottle and lean my back against the counter. I think about slinking down and keeping my feet in place, letting my ass rest on the cold linoleum, but that'd be anti-social and viewed as attention seeking. 

And we pray to God when we leave the room that our friends aren't talking shit about us. And we also pray that we remember what we wanted to write down, to live by.

I'm dramatic these days, but it's not for attention, but then again it is I guess. Can you be dramatic without seeking attention anyway? Don't the both go hand-in-hand? I don't want attention, I want someone to relate with me, to tell me that they feel just as inconsequential, inadequate, in vain as I do. I want to be told I'm not bat-shit, that I'm not the only one to feel alone. I want the reaffirmation that I'm fine and it'll all be fine; I just want someone to hold my hand and identify. The point is this has started to physically consume me; the headaches, the random shakes, the cravings for everything and nothing at the same time. Everything is nothing anymore. So dramatic, ha.

We pray that our efforts are not futile, like the societies before us-- the Romans and the Greek and such. We pray that we don't go down in history for failure.

There are happy things to write about; I'd just like to live through them instead of taking the time to write them down, because I don't need help with the happy things. I need help with the nothingness that surrounds them, when I'm driving in my car and I gulp down the rest of that cold black coffee, that won't quench my thirst, but will cool the burn from the cigarettes for now.