Sister:: Part One.

I took a memoir writing class my senior year, thinking it would be simple to write about my childhood.  In retrospect, that was stupid.  It was incredibly challenging and emotional.  Obviously.  However, it was also amazing and wonderful.  It was a dozen college kids helping one another shape their stories into something other people can read and relate to. It was pretty unique.  It was magical.  So, Shap, thanks for forcing us to bend our stories into classic story structure, and thanks for all of your truly constructive criticism. 

Here's the first part of my memoir, titled Sister. I wrote it from the perspective of a hyperactive, imaginative, precocious child who was trying to reconcile her intellectual gifts with her need to be a kid. Which is to say, I wrote as myself, at five.  Do me a favor, for my pride as a writer, note that the voice in this particular story is not the voice of Rachel C. Esteban, Bachelor of Arts. No no, it is the voice of a five year old. Or, what I was like as a five year old, properly exaggerated for dramatic effect (but less exaggerated than I'd like to admit). A lot of it, as you might expect, is about being the five year old big sister of a brave boy battling childhood leukemia.  I can tell you now, it ends happily. He lives. And so does she. Not, really, until she's 23 and finally truly on her own. But she lives.

You know what's really scary...

Victim blaming. Victim blaming is really, really scary. It makes me scared.

I've had friends and family recently say "It's not like that, nobody blames anyone for getting raped." Sure, if it's your sister, your friend, your wife, you're not going to blame her (him or her) for being assaulted. And I would sincerely doubt that most people would say things like "It was her own fault. She shouldn't have gotten herself raped." But that doesn't mean they don't do any victim blaming at all.

No power in the 'verse can stop me.

Dear Universe,

I am a highly qualified administrative professional.  I can type over one hundred words per minute, manage schedules, and effectively communicate with corporate America.  I can correct wording, spelling, and grammar, while making sure the office has fresh (tastefully arranged) flowers and food for all staff meetings.  I can edit copy.  I can do research. I can draft professional letters and widely distributed memos without any embarrassing errors. I have a B.A. in English from a US News and World Report rated Top 100 school, and references that give GLOWING recommendations.

So. Universe. I have sent dozens of my resumes out into you.  MAKE SOMEONE HIRE ME. I don't care who, as long as it is a DAY JOB that pays my bills.

Sincerely,

A very tired and overqualified waitress.

Climbin up on Mission Hill, I could see the city lights. Wind was blowing, time stood still...

September is definitely the beginning of the year.  I don't care what the calendar says, everyone knows that the year turns around in the fall.  My roommates and I are finally moved into our crazy awesome new apartment.  We have been saying "next year, when we live together" since we decided to live together back in February, and we continued to say it well into August.

"Hey, next year, lets make sure we get cable."

"Yeah, cable's good.  Do we have to call in advance?"

"For next year?"

"We move in twelve days."

"Shit."

This is next year.  We have entered the 2011/2012 school year, and have to use both numbers for no reason that I can think of.  Try and think of something, besides the date, that feels new in January. 

So for my actual New Year's Resolution?  Well, I resolve to be better with money, more responsible with my time, and never late to work.  I'm not going to resolve to lose weight or dress better, because I hardly care how I dress and I'm gonna be the size I'm gonna be.  Those are the kinds of resolutions that people make when they are, say, four months into the year and depressed about snow.  Like in December.

On a kind of related note.  My apartment is amazing. If I hadn't broken my digital camera, I would post pictures right now of the view from my back porch. It's not just that you can majorly see the city lights and the unbearably beautiful Mission Hill church steeples, but there is also a lost-boys-in-neverland (the mythical place, not the ranch) kind of network of back porches that we are a part of.  You can literally gently toss a rock onto about seventeen other back porches full of other kids in their twenties who like to hang out on porches.  Our neighbors go out there and play the banjo at night. And whoever is playin is not bad at all.  We also discovered that 1: our predecessors left a giant leather couch on our back porch, that is non-gross and totally intact, and 2: they also left a can with thick string through the bottom hanging over the railing, which they presumably used to communicate with the people downstairs.  Rufio would be proud of our setup. 

My bedroom has built-in drawers and shelves, and a big gorgeous stained glass window.  Plus four regular windows. There are so many old details about the place, it's amazing. And ENORMOUS. I'm in love. Can't wait till I have some furniture in it.

Happy New Year everyone.  As soon as we have a blender, feel free to come join me for a new year's celebration with magaritas on the porch couch on The Island (which, btw, is the name of our apartment).


If you need to find me, try heading for the second star on the right, and straight on till morning.

If only I could also watch Trail Football this season...

It's back-to-school time, everyone can feel it.  We're all stocking up on supplies, working on our figures, revamping our wardrobes and getting ready to learn new things.

Except, oh wait!, I graduated this year. Like an idiot.

The smell of freshly sharpened pencils is getting me nostalgic (not that I've used pencils in class since about 2003) and I have this crazy desire to buy a backpack with dinosaurs on it (which I never wanted as a child).  Back to school is just about the coolest most exciting part of September, and I hate to think of myself as not being a part of it.


Perhaps, then, it's not a coincidence that I'm starting my new job this week, and just *had* to get new work shoes for the occasion.  For the record, those of you in the service industry, get Dansko professional clogs...

If only you'd been an English teacher...

I am, even after four years of it, astounded by how many people say that my major was a waste of my education.  I am a proud English major, bibliophile, and appreciator of literature.  I read the words of the great people who have gone before us, and I figure out what they were trying to leave us with. 

More importantly, to me at least, I study literature to be close with my loved ones. 

Ice Fishing.

Most little girls don’t take their first ice fishing trip at age four, because most parents would never allow it.  My father, however, had no problem dragging his would-be-ballerina out onto the polar ice caps, with only snow pants and purple flowered mittens to protect me from the elements. Our three trips to rural Pennsylvania every year were a treat, but the thought having to sit out in the cold and wait for some fish to bite on a worm made me wish we had stayed home in Baltimore. The only bright side was the dusty-rose-pink fishing pole that Dad had gotten engraved with my name, “RACHEL”, in all capital letters right above the reel.   

A Pansy for Your Thoughts

A free-form poem that explores Ophelia’s madness in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, and makes some guesses as to what drove her to her downfall.  Written at Northeastern University in 2010, revised in 2011 for the Greater Boston Intercollegiate Poetry Festival. I read this at my first ever poetry reading last week :)

As the days keep turning into nights...

I miss being alone in my own space.  I don't have my own space anywhere.  I think that is why I always elect to sleep in at Richard's when he goes to work.  Because then I am alone.  I never get to be alone otherwise.  I want an afternoon or an evening alone.

I hear it's nice in the summer, some snow would be nice...

Sitting in class right now.  Creative writing. Twelve kids and only one other English major. So it goes.

I'm loving studying literature these days.  My Vonnegut course is amazing, as usual Stu Peterfreund is the highlight of my semester.  "Understanding the Bible" is going well, in the sense that I'm wild about the material.  Not the book itself necessarily, but the fascinating history and geography and people behind it.  The professor, however, is quiet and meek, and is impossible to hear from anywhere in the room.  So we're not looking at an easy A, but it's fascinating stuff.

I have a face I cannot show, I make the rules up as I go...

So much has changed since last spring.

Obvious things first, I had a breast reduction.  That's right, I have little boobs now.  I look very different, but I'm much more comfortable with myself and my back feels the best it has since I was a kid. So woo surgery!

The recovery has been kind of hard on me (and probably harder on Rich, who has had to deal with me fairly full-time).  For the past three weeks, not only have I not been myself, I have forgotten who she is.  I've been moody, and antisocial, and strange.

It was so easy, and the words so sweet. You can't remember, you try to feel the beat ...

Today, I got a letter from myself. I wrote it in a computer class that I took in the tenth grade.  It was dated December 19, 2005.  I was sixteen, I still lived with both of my parents and what was then all of my brothers, I had just fallen in love for the first time, and I was as open-hearted and warm as anyone is ever likely to be.  My friends were my whole world, my mom was my hero (some things never change), and I was so willing and so able to put my whole soul out in the open.  Some of this letter is awkward, some is embarassing, some doesn't make sense to anyone but me, and some of it is about people and things that live in my past like a beautiful scene in an old movie.  Reading this letter was like having lunch with myself at sixteen.  Though it is a little strange, I thought it was important, and I'm going to reprint it here, with as few corrections as modesty will allow :). I'd like to introduce you to Rachel Cathleen Esteban, aged 16.

Tonight: I posted this, and went right to sleep.

Today: I ate more than one meal. I woke up in the morning and did not go back to sleep. I did not take a nap. I did not text my boyfriend all day. I realized that he probably doesn’t mind when I text him all day. I asked for a break when I needed one at work. I picked up my paycheck three days late because it slipped my mind. I was off the computer just after midnight.

Pogonotrip.

So this is going to be an odd post.  I decided, at some point tonight, to write a poem about Rich's epic beard. Instead, I wrote a story inspired by the beard. Then I quickly hammered out a poem that needs a lot of work. But I was amused either way, and here they are.

Tuesday March 9th, 3:01 a.m.

I miss warm-colored walls and flowered curtains, black-and-white mountains, and the spiderwebbed branches of winter trees.  I miss the smell of wood burning in the fireplace, and mom making her Pennsylvania-German version of stroganoff.  I miss walking uphill, and downhill.  I miss hearing the repetitive slapping of the lake on the dock for the first time after the thaw.  I miss the initial sinking shock and then the rising relief of the first cannonball of the season.  I love spring in Boston, but spring is going to happen at home withoutme this year.  I can feel the melting, the growing, the waking up, from here.

For Querida, who lived longer and better than anyone expected, and surprised us even more when she died.

For five years I wondered
what song I would sing at your funeral.
For five years I waited
in grimy hospital chairs and sterile rooms,
making your terminal setlist in my head.
I could sing you ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings’,
but you would hate that. I could sing you
‘Forever Young’ but more accurate would be
‘Only young once in a while’.
I worry that you were only young when I wasn’t.
I could sing you ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and pretend
you were some kind of devout Methodist, but you
were the one I came to when I didn’t know
what to do about boys, and when Cecily got pregnant,
and when my parents were just a few years too old to handle.
You read Anne Rice novels and Harlequins and loved
Poison and Ozzy Ozbourne and, if truth be told, you
were so up in the air most days, that you
were probably pinching God’s toes black and blue.
You loved Him, and He loved you, but it’s too late to pretend piety.
I could sing ‘I Will Remember You’ but
that would only make the ladies from the church board
feel guilty that I, at nineteen, was the only one who
had any recent memories of you at all, not that even I
called you enough towards the end of things.  Because I didn't.
But I was the one who would walk your kids home from school
when you were too sick, and bring you salted watermelon,
a food preference I wouldn’t understand until you’d died,
and it would become all I could stomach, just like you.
I could sing you ‘Sweet Love’, but you and Eric
loved like burning oil and boiling water.
If I were being honest, which I guess I shouldn’t be
at your funeral, I would sing ‘I Knew This Story
Would Break My Heart’, because I did.
After five years of you, querida, I knew you didn’t intend
to stay for the whole party. And I knew I’d never
sing at your funeral. And I knew I wouldn't be
there for you at the end like I should have been.  And I knew that
drinking wine with you would turn into drinking alone, staring at the wall,
a glass dangled loosely in my hand, listening to Aimee Mann
or James Taylor breaking through drunken recordings of your
voice in my head. Just yesterday morning, they let me know
you were gone, [Rachel, the men in this town will]
put an end to you. I walked out this morning,
and drew a picture of you, you and your anchor tattoo [of baby feet that I got at
Ozzfest last year, one for Gabey and one for Mary, and one for Anthony]
That’s how I knew this story would [break your heart in two if you let them].
That’s how I knew this story would break my heart.

Love you, pup.

My dog, Ripken, was put to sleep this weekend.  He was a weird dog, to be sure.  As a puppy he was a pain in the ass and all of my friends were either scared of him or annoyed by him.  He barked too much and too loud, he was a tad aggressive, and often, even right after a bath, he smelled funny.  Mark once used a $30 bottle of mom's shampoo to wash him with, to make him smell better.  Essentially, Mark payed thirty bucks for the dog to smell halfway decent for about four minutes.  He ate my socks, chewed on the furniture, and often peed on the carpet. But he was a good dog, he was my dog, and I loved him.  He was very loyal to the family, and once even defended our home during a break-in, scaring the intruder nearly to death (and who wouldn't be scared of such a huge dog!).  He always seemed to know, in the way that a family dog does, when anyone was sad or lonely.  If he thought you were feeling low, he'd sit on your feet (if you were on the couch) or on your lap, or just curl up with you, and lie there with a look on his face that said "Oh, I know.  Trust me, I know."  And I really think he did.  That dog was there for me during some of my darkest days when people just didn't cut it.  I got in a lot of extra cuddle-time with him when I was home last, but I still wish I'd gotten to say a proper goodbye to my pup.  He's better off now, and he's no longer in pain, but still.  I'll miss him.

5 a.m. on one of the Mondays that are weeks from spring.

I think it feels almost like spring because I'm going to be alright. Because its certainly not the weather, not the sun or the trees. But still. It feels like it's almost spring.

I feel like this was a big weekend...

...but being all sick I missed a lot.

First things first.  It looks like, within the next week,  or two, I'll have two jobs instead of none.  Hopefully.  One as a babysitter and one at a restaurant, hopefully.  Neither is totally official yet.  But I think that there's a good chance that both will pan out. Which is great actually, since I don't know how to manage free time.  Best to fill my hours with things to do so that I'm forced to find time for things like homework and laundry.  Right now though, I'm glad to have the freedom to sit home with this horrible headcold and mope about my sniffles.

My mom is, as we speak, moving into her new apartment.  It's strange that my family is moving and I have just been sitting home with my tissues and will be largely unaffected until I visit them next. I may not be going down for spring break this year, what with hopefully starting to work again next week, so I'm not really sure when that will be.  I do miss them though.  I'm pretty sad that I'm not flying down yet.  And if I really don't go down, I'm sad that I won't have the chance to speed down the highway with Bridget in the shitmobile.  In fact, I may never have that chance again, as it seems the shitmobile is no more! Mom has a new (to her) car to go with her new apartment! Her sisters drove down in her mom's previous vehicle this weekend to give it to her, and stayed to help with the move.  They're the best! And so is G-ba for finding such a generous way to recycle her car.  G-ba, by the way, apparently replaced that car with a sexier model, a fire-engine-red number with all the bells and whistles.  Snaps for G-ba!

My own life has been its usual self.  A smattering of homework, some scattered naps, and a few good nights of hanging out with the gang.  Friday night was great. We got to see Marissa for the first time in a while, and that was nice.  Rich left for VT to go see his best friend Kate around ten thirty, and at eleven Ben threatened to tickle me.  This led to about ten minutes of hysterics, and I only came out of the corner when Ben pinky swore he'd never tickle me ever as long as we live.  I'm petrified of being tickled.  Completely petrified.  After that, Tim defeated a bottle of rum (which has now been given a place of honor above the stove, like a drinking trophy), and somewhere in the middle he and Max had a juggling contest. All in all, a success.  Then I woke up Saturday with a vicious and vengeful headcold.  I suspect I got it on a job interview I had on Thursday--the kids had been sick all week, and my interview to be their sitter consisted of hanging out with them and their mom for an hour.  New kids, new germs.  Ah well.  So Saturday I intended not to go out, but Bridge, Ben and Mims wouldn't hear of that, and I allowed myself to be talked into going to Lisa's, where I essentially took a nap while my friends played a board game.  Then we met DanWhite, and as the hilarity began to ensue, I went home and watched "My Fair Wedding" with Kayleigh until sleep.  Today was Superbowl Sunday, and I spent it largely hanging out listening to music in my room.  I went to the store and bought some comfort food, and I had Bridge and Anna over of course, but mostly just stayed in bed.  Then Kati and I hung out for a while.  Then, or rather now, I'm doing this. 

And now for something completely different.

Easter Eggs and Hidden Tracks.  These things make me insanely happy.  I mean really.  Little extras at the end of movies, weird quirks in computer programs, and CD tracks you are only likely to find if you first buy a real CD, then play the CD on in an actual stereo, and fall asleep for quite a while. I get really psyched about them, and when I go see a movie I'm likely to sit through the credits just for the chance to catch one.  If every director put them into his movies, they'd be less special, but I do wish a few more of them would consider how happy they make me. Harry Potter and POTC tend to be good about them :)  For a funny example, type about:mozilla into your browser.  I mean, if you have Firefox.  It does different things on other browsers.  I think Internet Explorer flat out disabled it.  But it's amusing either way.  The wikipedia page on the subject was amusing as hell.  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_book_of_mozilla)  And it makes you hate Internet Explorer and AOL just a little more than you already did. 

Now I'm going to sleep.  Maybe.  Although really three isn't late lately.  I'll likely stay up this late tomorrow too, as Stormin(g) the Castle (Rich's radio show) is on from 1:30 am to 3:30 am.  If you'd like to listen (and you should, he's good)  you can just click here

Ugh.  Okay.  Sniffles aside it is definitely time to go to bed.  It's just hard to be tired when you've done nothing but sneeze all day.  Sleep sweet, all.

<3 Rach

PS--Cousin Luudle, I love you and miss you and am thinking of you from across the universe!  You are such a magnificent person <3

I guess that's why they call it the blues...

I am a college student, and as such, I admit to spending the occasional weekend night drinking with friends.  Not generally in excess, and not in any situation that would be considered less than ideal.  Any family reading this, do not be alarmed!  Now that I've made that disclaimer..

Last night I got fairly well smashed.  I decided that I would stop worrying about everything on my mind and just try and be young, have a good time.  I suppose keeping track of how much alcohol I actually drank was one of the things I stopped worrying about.  This little experiment in adolescence led to a good half an hour of loudly exclaimed drunken wisdom, conducting conversations from a horizontal position significantly lower to the ground than my conversations generally tend to be.  My friends were wonderful sports about it (possibly because I have had conversations with many of them from similar angles when they overindulged) and they let me say my peace about every topic from the recent election in Massachusetts to the myriad reasons that Pocahontas is the most inspiring of the Disney princesses.  As I sobered, this progressed to some measure of confusion as to why I was on the floor, and complete disbelief when I was informed that, yes, I had been on the floor for twenty minutes.  And while I was on the floor, completely blocking the path to the restroom, other guests of our small party had been forced to go next door to my apartment to use mine.  All in all, an embarassing night.  My friends must be such wonderful people to deal with me.  One friend was especially splendid, and obliged when I begged "Don't leave until the room stops spinning! I can't face the spinning alone.  It's just too much."  To that friend, whose name I shall keep to myself due to the fact that I've clearly said we were drinking, thank you very much for holding my hand until the spinning stopped.  You are, as usual, my hero.

On a more pleasant and altogether less embarassing front, PianoMike seems to be on board with the idea of starting a band.  We went to the Curry Student Center today and played around with the grand piano for a while.  He played "I, Giorni", a composition by Ludovico Einaudi, so beautifully!  That song makes me cry when I play the CD, but hearing it live was much better.  He did a lovely job.  We did a little bit of Simon and Garfunkel, and decided that this week we're going to set about learning some songs.  And, eventually, find other musicians to play with.  Or perhaps that should come first?  Well, either way, we're moving forward with this idea.  I had the strangest sense of something exciting beginning today when he was playing.  Maybe devoting some time to making music will be good for both of us. I know I've missed singing fiercely.  I've also been very suddenly interested in art again.  I've been drawing on every available surface, and itching to get my paints out.  I'm not really an artist, but I do enjoy it.  It is as though every painting I haven't done, every song I haven't sung, every poem I haven't written over the past year is just clawing its way out of me.  I'm pretty excited about it.  I was once pretty creative. I think I will be again.  One night last week, I opened my window and it smelled like spring.  I think that's a good sign.

"Someday out of the blue, maybe years from now, or tomorrow night, I'll turn and I'll see you.  As if we always knew, someday we would live again, someday soon."

-Elton John, "Someday Out of the Blue"