The Adventures of P' Bobbie

“Update,” she said with enough authority to get their attention.

“The basil has died.”  The authority was gone, and the words dribbled out of her mouth with a dash of shame.

She shifted her eyes from one to the other, just quickly enough to gauge their reactions without having to lock gazes.  Then, back to the floor.  

She couldn’t really tell how they felt, though.  Their eyes didn’t give away any real emotion at this revelation.  This might have been because they were cats, but she figured it was because she was a little too quick with her gazing darts.  

“I thought it was supposed to be easy,” she tried to plead with them, “but it wasn’t.”  

She moved her hands upwards in convincing motions.  She expanded and contracted her fingers to convey importance.

Oh, all the dishes she’s planned!  Pasta with pesto, of course, but that was an easy one.  Cool summer drinks with cucumber and basil, ones where she had to use a mortar and pestle.  Frittatas with her fresh basil that she could serve to friends while she wore sundresses and threw back her head in laughter as she carefully, yet carelessly cascaded through life.

Her audience seemed unconvinced.  One of them had already left for the fly buzzing in the corner.  The other appeared to have fallen asleep.

She let her arms fall limp against her side.  Dejected, she spun around and picked up the near lifeless brown stem in the plastic potter and proceeded, step by lonely step, to the trash.

Everyone called you aunt, but you were just too young at heart for me to call you anything other than sister. I burst into tears when I found out you had died.  It surprised me, to be honest.  I hadn’t seen you in years, and I don’t know if I would have considering us close.

But, you made an impression on me.  You were part of such a transitional period of my life, a period that shook me up and left me broken for a little while. That experience rocked me to my core and showed me places that needed growth.  You were part of the good that came from that year.  You were one of the lights.

You saved me during that first trip to Laos.  When I had no idea I was supposed to get a visa and all my bags were on the bus.  You were quick enough to grab them and wait for me.  Oh, we fumbled trying to figure out how much to pay and where to go.   You were the one who ended up helping us to find the hotel.  It was the hotel that I met Powan at, and my first memories of him are wrapped up with you and that trip.  I so enjoyed getting to spend that one on one time with you, wandering the streets of Vientiane and reading Lao signs.  It was so great to tell all the students about the things we saw. I was always amazed at how much you knew how to do.  Your knowledge of culture was phenomenal.  I remember that evening you taught us how to make laab.  I remember you teaching us all the little intricacies of polite Thai behavior.  You showed us the chilis in your garden.  Watermelon carving, Thai dance, sewing, and all the other crafty things you knew how to do never ceased to impress me. You had so much knowledge to give, and so much experience to share.  You knew how to make everything educational, which was something I was so impressed with.  Walking down the street, you taught about plants and trees.  Everything was an opportunity to learn, and you did what you could to make sure your student’s minds were engaged.  It wasn’t easy, but you tried.  And there were times were I could see older styles of teaching come through, but you were hungry for change.  You were hungry to improve the way you taught and, in effect, the lives of your students. You said you had a “hot heart,” but it’s what gave you your passion.  You could see it in everything you did.  You cared.  You loved your students.  Your energy was infectious.  That smile, so big!  You had such a presence.  You were a beautiful human.

You cried when I left, and it was difficult to say good-bye.

I am thankful to have been able to have worked with you.  I am thankful to have known you.  I am thankful to have learned from you. I am not mourning the loss of you in my everyday life, because you’ve been too far removed from it for that to happen.  Instead, I mourn the chance to see you again some day in the future.  But mostly, I mourn the loss of you in the world.   I mourn the loss for others to know you.

You brought more into the world than you took.  You will leave a mark.  I can tell you, you’ve left one on me.

I’m so glad to get to see you laugh, and hear your inspiring words once again:

It's been over two years since I've seen him, and nearly a year since we broke up.

But, people don't just leave your life when relationships dissolve.  

I was so incredibly proud of him for building that house.  He gave so much of himself to raise that money, and he did it!  They no longer lived in a shack because of him.  

It was difficult for me to hold back the tears when he was telling me they might lose the land.  That his sister came to him crying because their father hadn't told them how bad it had gotten, and there was only a little bit of time for them to get the money.  Because I was so proud of him and the thought of them losing that land and that house crushed me.

As emotionally difficult as yesterday was for me, to hear all of this, I can only imagine what he's been through lately.

He told me yesterday he hasn't slept for three days.  How it's even more difficult since there's no one to talk to.  His father is too depressed and sits in silence.

Of course I have to help.  Because, if the tables were turned, they would help without a second thought.

It had already started to melt.  The juice running down her fingers.  It was sticky.  She loved the feeling of the stickiness as it clawed it’s way down her hand.

 It represented something to her.  It represented something in the way of life.  Something in the way of the messes we make.

 They don’t always have to be bad.

 She didn’t mind that the juice ran all the way down to her toes.  Like she was covered in a mess of her own making.  She didn’t stop it.  She didn’t need to.  There was nothing wrong with it.

 “Stop resisting,” the juice sang as it formed a puddle around her feet, “we are here.”

 She wasn’t resisting, though.  She stood there, and she basked in the glory of it all.  In the fact that she wasn’t trying to run.  That she let her feet stick, that she didn’t fight it.

 “Run down the street and cover the landscape,” she thought.  “Sing your story to the masses,” she whispered.

 She didn’t want to fight because there’s no use in it.  Because the sticky is powerful and it’s unavoidable and you’re going to get dirty so buckle up. 

 Without the messes, where would the sponges be?

 The juice was climbing trees and light posts.  It was soaking into lawns.  It covered shopping carts. 

 “We are here.”

 The notes grew in numbers.  Now, there was a harmony.  A crescendo.  The song was reaching it’s climax as we all sat on the edge of our seats.  Was that an obo she heard?  Was there even a triangle?

 She let the juice run down her fingers before she licked it up.  She liked the mess. 

It was the summer that my mother worked and we went to the YMCA.  I was about 8-years-old.  I didn't fit in, and I didn't have many friends.  There was one girl I liked, and one counselor I liked, but it was a new session and they were gone. 

We went on a field trip and it happened to be on my birthday.  I prayed that no one would find out.

My mother left me a note in my lunch box, and the girl who liked me but with whom I couldn't relate found it.  She told everyone.

It's coming,  I think.  Things feel crisp.

A child looks at me with knowing in his eyes.  It's a smile.  It's concern.

A car is backing out of the driveway.  They stop and I swerve, slowly and with grace, out of the way.  And forward.  I smile.

I was awoken with a buzz.

 A  bug flew into my ear.  I was as if I could feel the sound of it’s wings flapping around.  Panic stricken, I did the only sensible thing one does when woken up by a bug in your ear and I stuck my finger in.  Upon withdraw, there was half of a bug’s body on my finger tip.

Unsure of the next steps, I quickly turned to the internet for some sound medical advice.  Apparently, the least sensible thing one can do when woken up by a bug in your eye is stick your finger in.  Too late.

I tried to ignore it, but the only thing I could feel was the inside of my ear.  It had to still be in there!  I would forever be known as the girl with the half of a bug in her ear.  And so, despite the fact that my previous experiences at the Thai clinic down the street from my apartment had left me unimpressed, I had no other choice.

A few small rooms attached to an open air hallway was all that made up the clinic.  I sat on the blue plastic chairs that seemed to be in every official office in Thailand and waited. 

The doctor called me in.  She asked me the obligatory “where are you from” question that I seem to answer at least twice a day while living in Thailand.  There was more small talk.  She looked it my ear.

“Well, there’s something in there, I think.  Let me go get another tool.”

“Okay.”

 Fifteen minutes later she returned, empty-handed.

“Well, it appears that we don’t have that tool.  It looks like you’ll have to go to the main hospital down the road.”

“Okay.”

I’d never been to the hospital in Thailand, an especially scary task considering I was alone.  When I arrived, there was another open air waiting area, same blue chairs.  There was a long row of open windows, and so I picked one.

”Excuse me, I have this from another doctor,” I said as I handed them a note, "I have something in my ear.  I don’t know what to do.”

“Go upstairs to the second floor, all the way down to section K.”

Second floor, section K.  I hoped that I understood correctly.  I had no idea where I was going, or what I was doing.  So often living in Thailand, I felt like a lost child, just searching around and hoping to catch a glimpse of someone familiar.  For the most part, I had no such luck.

Hundreds and hundreds of blue chairs on the second floor.  Row after row full of sick people waiting for their number to be called.  And when I went all the way down, there was section K.  I had found it. 

Of course, what I was supposed to do next was completely unclear.  I’d learned early on to stand back and watch as a way of survival.  Observation was paramount, and so I walked slowly towards the desk in order to give me time.  It seemed like going to the desk was the next step.  I handed them my papers, and the nurse told me to wait.

Everyone else was getting sent to sit in the blue chairs, but I was told to sit next to the desk.  Maybe it was because I was a new patient, or maybe it was because I was white.  As a general rule, I seemed to get treated differently than every one else and have tried my best to accept it.

I finally got sent to the blue chairs.  I sat down next to a woman with a baby.  She looked at me like I was the strangest thing she’d ever seen.  Another thing I was trying my best to accept.  People were getting called quickly into a little room, one by one.  I sat in my blue chair and uncomfortably shifted around.  New situations were never things I liked.

They called my name and I entered the room.  The hospital in general had a sad feel to it, but this room was special.  The dim yellow lighting, the singular chair in the middle of the room, the blank white walls, the nurses in their white uniforms.  The doctor was a woman and she talked to me as she looked in my ear.  I couldn’t understand most of what she said except when she said that I had ears like a Thai person.  I still don’t know what that means.

She told me to leave, and so I walked out the room, completely unaware of what to do next.  A nurse sitting at a desk called me over.  I tried to ask her what was wrong, but all I got was that my ear was red.  I got the feeling that they didn’t think there was anything wrong, but I still got a prescription slip.

And this one is not starting off incredibly great, either.

But, I am able to deal with it better.  I remember that, relatively, it's not that bad.  

Even when my life is not going well, it's still great.

And this is where I'm able to recognize my maturity.  Because, even just 3 years ago, I would have retreated into a dark place, allowed myself to wallow in all that sadness and hopelessness.  

Now, I'm allowing myself to feel the sadness, recognize the hopelessness, validate those feelings, and letting them go.  A few years ago, I knew that that was the end goal, that was what I was supposed to have been doing all along, but never thought I could.

So, today, I sigh.  I take a deep breath, shed a tear, feel the panic in my stomach, and let it all out.

I sit here and I’m bombarded with thoughts. They’re all just zooming through my brain without rhyme or reason. But one thing sticks out. One thought, one word. Why. It’s as simple and complex as that; why. And once I say it, I can’t help but repeat it. I just can’t help but wonder why. I need to know why.

“When a man died, there had to be blame…You could blame the war. You could blame the idiots who made the war…You could blame the rain. You could blame the river. You could blame the field, the mud, the climate. You could blame the enemy. You could blame the mortar rounds. You could blame people who were too lazy to read a newspaper, who were bored by the daily body counts, who switched channels at the mention of politics. You could blame God. You could blame the munitions makers or Karl Marx or a trick of fate or an old man in Omaha who forgot to vote.”

That was written before there was any mention of George W. Bush. It was long before Iraq. Tim O’Brien didn’t know anything about “Vote or die” when he wrote this. Believe it or not folks, this is about Vietnam. Scary, isn’t it, the similarities? 

Twice we’ve found ourselves in the situation of a war without reason. A war that three-fourths of the country doesn’t know why we’re fighting, let alone the people who are doing the actual fighting. And that’s the reason I’m stuck here in my comfortable, warm home next to my cup of coffee and Japanese camera repeating the word “why.”

I’m just lost, and confused, and unsure, and I need answers. I shouldn’t have to research why there are young men and woman (whatever their race may be) dying. I should just know. These kids are loosing there identity; there better be a damn good reason. And that reason needs to be clear. You look at the Civil War and WWII and you understand. There is no why on the part of Americans. It’s not good, but it’s understandable. There was some sort of reason and everyone knew it. You look at Vietnam, you look at today and are just left with questions. Questions that make you question even more.

And I’m frustrated because I feel like I’ve got all these ideas and opinions and nothing to do about it. Part of me says “What can you do? You’re a 17 year old girl. You’re nothing.” But then this other part of me screams back, “You could do a hell of a lot if you tried.” And so I’m stuck between these two views, fighting each other and I wonder who’s going to win. Or if either of them will. It all just sucks.

But then I think, at least I’m having this internal battle. At least I care enough to cry. I read this book and have to bring it closer so that the words won’t be blurry and I can see through my tears. It’s too hard to think about the emotional damage. And it’s too hard to know that there’s no reason. 

The Things They Carried just hits too close to home. I read it and wonder if O’Brien hopped a ride in a time machine. It sounds too much like today. That scares me. It’s scary to know it’s happened twice because it means it can happen again. Like we didn’t learn anything from the hippie protests and veteran day parades. 

Thinking about it just makes me question everything. Why should I have American pride? Why should it matter that I was born in America? Why does that make me better than the little Middle Eastern children we’re killing? Why should I have to say “we’re killing?” I really try and understand this whole American pride thing, but I can’t. It just doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. I really can’t even fathom the reasons. Because, the fact is, when you get down to it, I’m no different that anyone else in the world. As corny as it sounds, I bleed just like anyone else does. 

So what that I speak a different language and my skin might be a different color? My leader is different and so is my form of government. I don’t have to sleep on the floor or die of starvation. Why should I be happy about this? I’m glad that I live in American, but I’m not proud. There’s no reason to be proud. It’s a waste of time. In my opinion it just creates barriers and hate. It makes you forget about the people who do have to sleep on the floor and who do die of starvation. It makes me sick. I’m tired of not being able to understand. I feel like there is this huge hole that’s been shot out of me by the people who wave flags and forget that someone is dying this very second for a cause they really don’t understand. I’m tired of having “why” stick out in my jumbled mind. And I’m tried of worrying about if humanity is ever going to be saved. I shouldn’t have to.

He'd always hated the word loin.  Loin, so primative.  Loin, like a lion hunting it's prey.  Loin, like the hunk of meat on his plate during an anniversary dinner.  Loin, loin, loin.  

He was sophisitated.  He held his stance firm, yet graceful.  His posture carried both elogance and strength.  There should be no talk of his loin.

And yet, how it burned!  The flames were strong for her.  He was reduced to a piddling mess whenever she was in even a distant radius.  She should wear an invisible sign around her neck warning humans like him.

Oh, how he wanted her like that loin on his dinner plate.  A roll that he could butter up and devour.  He was beginning to understand when mother's spoke of eating their babies up.

But, this wasn't him!  He was no Eros.  He knew how dangerous this love, lust, fire was.  It built you up as if you were 100 feet tall, only to shock and surprise you when you're defeated by the littliest of mice.  No, this was not for him.