Sport's Metaphor

My parents are like a haywire pitching machine and regardless of how prepared I think I am for what they are going to throw at me next, I am always caught off guard by a surprise curve ball.
* * *
I walk into the wire cage, helmet on, metal bat at the ready. I shove the quarter in the token machine and step into the batter’s box. I bend my knees slightly and begin my Nomar Garciapparaesque batting routine. One Hail Mary followed by a shake of the butt and a twist of my left wrist and I am ready to hi—
Shwiiiing, goes a 70mph fast ball right down the plate. I saw that one coming. I had time to prepare and yet I was still taken by surprise when it went whizzing past me.
* * *
My parent’s got divorced when I was seven years old. I knew it was coming. My earliest memories are of the two of them fighting in the kitchen and me crying and screaming to make them stop. I couldn’t have been more prepared for the day my Dad moved out. I honestly thought I would end up being happier once the fateful day came. It took me one week and one night spent at my Dad’s apartment without heating for me to realize that all the preparation in the world could not have saved me from the tears and the prayers for my parent’s to reconcile.
* * *
I step out of the batter’s box, brush off my hurt ego and get my head in the game. All I need to do is focus on the ball.
I do my Nomar routine outside of the box and then step in, bat just above my shoulder, grip tight, eye on the prize.
Cliiiiink. The sweet sound of metal hitting rawhide filled the cage. Line drive right back at the machine, punishing it for the previous pitch.
Cliiiiink. Cliiiiink. Cliiiiink. Rinse and repeat. Two more line drives and then a beautiful dinger that reached the outer edge of the batting cage fence.
I’m so ready to wail another one that I am in my stance for three good minutes before I realize my quarter was up.
* * *
Tears dry up and seven year olds are easily swayed with the fact that Santa Claus now comes to two chimneys. I got in a pattern of going between two houses. Playing Yahtzee with my Dad and brother in front of a space heater. Watching Food Network with my Mom on the living room couch. It became old news that my parent’s were divorced. It still stinks when they fight, and they still do, but I just got used to it and moved on.
* * *
Next quarter goes into the slot. I adjust my batting glove, get back in the zone and expect to hit knock the rawhide off of the—
OUCH. That is going to leave a bruise in the morning. I was walking into the box and the machine fired, shooting a curve ball right into my arm. I crawl to the side of the cage to inspect the damage.
What on Earth was the machine doing? I had no time to prepare for that. There was no way I wasn’t getting hit by that pitch.
* * *
I was fifteen years old when my “step dad” walked out on my mom, brother and I. He threatened to take the house out from under our feet and to leave us high and, monetarily and emotionally, dry.
Legally, he wasn’t my step dad. He was my mom’s boyfriend of eight years who had become like a second father to me. He illegally taught me to drive, he picked me up from late night rehearsals, I talked to him about boys.
But legally, none of that mattered to him. My mom hadn’t gotten divorced from my dad in the eyes of the Massachusetts court system meaning that Brian couldn’t marry my mother. So when he couldn’t get what he wanted, after eight years, he up and left without so much as a goodbye.
I have never been so hurt in my entire life. It was the surprise that hurt more than anything. One night we were chatting over buffalo tenders at a nearby restaurant and the next he was gone, never to be seen again.
* * *
I am determined to show this machine who is boss. I stand up again, arm is throbbing with pain, dried tears cake my face but I am angry and on a mission. I step into the batters box, assume the stance and wait. It feels like hours and I am just getting angrier so I turn to the machine, chest directly over the plate, ready to scream—
Whomph. The ball flies directly into my stomach. I fly directly onto the pavement. I start writhing to catch my breath. This machine has it out for me.
* * *
My step dad left in November of my sophomore year and my dad announced his marriage the following month. He was marrying a Canadian national in Toronto in June.
First of all, worse timing in the world. Second of all, Canada. But I grinned and bared everything down to the gold heels and putrid hot pink bride’s maid dress I had to wear.
Those were the worst seven months of my life. I cried a lot when I was alone. Never told my friends what was going on because I couldn’t bear to admit the fact that it was all real.
* * *
This time I am livid. I am still crying and gasping for air. I can barely hold the bat above my shoulder but there is still a ball or two left on my quarter.
I do my Nomar routine once more but this time it is intermittent with sobs. I step into the batter’s box, ready to prove that I am stronger than the machine.
Bleary eyes on the prize, bat resting gently on my sore shoulder and then—
CLIIIIINK. A pop fly down the center field line. Its beautiful arch sends the ball flying from the bat and to the pitching machine, which it hits with a satisfying thud.

Maternal Rights vs. What Is Right For The Child

Tonight I had dinner at Bryant Park in New York City. During the summer months, there is a large movie screen set up in the park itself where movies are shown just after the sun sets. The feature presentation of the evening: Kramer vs. Kramer, a movie a favorite English teacher of mine had recommended years ago.

The movie is about the custody battle that takes place after two parents get divorced. Unfortunately, I could not see the movie too well from where I was sitting and was unable to grasp what was happening. So another movie added to my: must watch relatively soon list. But it also got me thinking about my views on custody battles.

First and foremost, I have a serious issue with the fact that a mother needs to be deemed severely unfit before the child is placed in the care of the father. The court looks at every case separately but tends to follow the guidelines of if a mother has not been arrest for prostitution or drug possession, is clean alcohol and drug wise and has not been in a mental hospital then they get to keep their child. So what happens when the mother is semi unfit to raise the kids because of one reason or another but the father has a stable income, a stable home situation and can offer the child safety that particular mother cannot? Shouldn’t decisions like the above be made in the best interest of the child and not focus solely on the mother’s role in the situation?

Here is where my argument can seem slightly hypocritical. I believe that any woman who does not want her child and gives up custody should absolutely be removed from that child’s life until the sentiment changes. And when a change does occur, the mother should not be allowed to be heavily involved in their child’s life and should certainly not be awarded custody. However, all cases should be reviewed on an individual basis and one should not set a precedent for the next.

I feel bad for unfit mother’s who really want to keep their children but I still believe that this entire system was established to ensure the safety and happiness of the child. If that means that a mother has to allow her child to live with her ex-husband for that child to have a better life then there is no question as to what she should do. That’s true parental love: sacrificing your needs for the needs of your child.

Free Thinker Turned Author

Blogging daily. Is it an exercise in writing or in thinking?

When I sit down to write about something, I do it because I have something to write about. If I sit down to write with no muse or inspiration or plea to make, I end up on facebook.

My creative writing teacher used to have us journal everyday. She told us to force ourselves to write. That writing something would lead to sparking an idea or freeing your mind of things that were cluttering it. It was a harsh exercise. Sometimes I would sit at my desk and pray that I was tired enough to fall asleep with my eyes open and my pencil moving. Other days, I would start writing immediately and only cease when my story was finished, seven periods later.

I use writing to analyze my thoughts and emotions as so many authors have done. For me, writing a meaningful play or poem or blog entry has a lot to do with the starting point and where I want it to end, I find out along the way. My best work comes when I am mid-project and entirely consumed with the dialogue and thoughts of my characters.

When I am done with the piece, I look back and find out that it has exposed my deep secrets, suppressed emotions and latent feelings. It’s as if writing is an exercise that makes you think (or in my case, flow feelings past conscious reasoning).

My name is Allie and I support forced free writing, apparently.

God is Good, Beer is Great, People are Crazy

I love country music. Ever since I was little, I was convinced that I was born in the wrong part of the country and should have been raised a blond, cow girl. That I should have exchanged Massachusetts small suburbs for the wide open acreage in Texas. Since then, I have revised my dreams and revisited the notion that I hate nature and large farm animals.

But a little part of me still holds onto that Southern Belle by listening to 102.5, the country station. Initially I loved country music because I got to imagine the cowboy boot wearing, accent possessing cow girls of my young years. But as I listened to more and more music, I found that there is another reason to love a genre from the southern part of the country.

Country songs tell a story. They start at point A, most of the time a couple and/or two people who are meant to be together and come to a close at point B, the conclusion of the relationship between the afore said. As in most musical numbers, the verses tell the story. But in country, the chorus also tells the story and shows the change that has occurred. It's very simple most of the time and tends to be very subtle but it makes all the difference because it shows that even the foundation of the song is changing with the story.

Lemme explain this through an example: your name. The way a person says your name, a constant in your life, shows how that person is feeling and can show a change in a relationship. At one point a boyfriend might coo your name in a loving manner and then three months down the road post a messy break up, he might say your name in one short, emotionless breath.

Apparently this is just a plea for country music. And a plea for a story to be told, in its entirety, even with all subtleties included.

My Life in the Mirror

Maturing is not exchanging your usual Fairly Odd Parents viewing for a MSNBC special. Nor is it drinking coffee rather than a Coolata from Dunkins. Those are both signs of aging or taste changing. Maturing is more about looking yourself in the mirror and feeling like you have become (or are on your way to becoming) the person you want to be.

Lately, I've been changing a lot of things in my life. I bought a new wardrobe. I sport a new hairdo. I put my contacts in in the morning. And most importantly, I am proud of my boyfriend and am afraid of losing him when I go off to college. These changes are all new and strange because they seem to be supporting me in my quest of becoming who I want to be.

So what? Do we all have those simple tasks that will eventually propel us into 'maturity'? Are we all destined to have a major overhaul of our closets before we can become the person we want to be? How do we find those things that make us feel like we are stepping into confidence in ourselves?

I don't think we can. I don't think anyone knows that buying a new skirt at Nordstrom's will make them feel like a new person, inside and out. I think that these milestones become what we are looking for. As you adopt these changes that are being made in your life and you see them making you happier and more complete, that is where the growth comes from.

The next time a change takes place in your life look at it through a new lense of conscious realization. Ask yourself if this change makes you feel more like you. Look at yourself in the mirror in a dressing room and if you like what you see, buy the shirt and get the smile on your face as a complimentary gift.

The Existential Conflicts of My Youth

Have you ever been in a conflict with someone and watched the words you had no intention of actually saying slip from your lips? You see them just long enough to realize that you have made a huge mistake. Those words that slipped from your lips are going to plummet to the floor and shatter your current world into a million pieces.

If you haven't, try it sometime. It feels like you are watching your own reality show. For a few seconds you are not inhabiting your body. You are not controlling what is coming out of your mouth. You are not censoring the divide between what you think and what you announce to reality. You are in an existential state. You are living beyond your body.

This state gives you the freedom to do or say whatever. You have no superego to punish your id. And for all the good it does your freedom, it destroys something in the process: to put it lightly, your life. Because in that uninhibited state you are not thinking about the ramifications what you say will have on your current situation.

Words fall and lives shatter. Blood boils and fights fly.

I suppose this type of conflict teaches us two things:

1. It is the freedom to express one's inner feelings that tends to kick us in the ass in the end.

2. Sometimes you need to get outside of your head to realize what is going on inside.

She Writes in Secrecy

Hello writing, my old friend.

I have come to realize that I hate writing in journals. I start and then life interrupts. It takes a surprising amount of energy and will power to find the book, bend the spine and scrawl down my thoughts. So I find myself returning to the computer screen. My xanga, while an archive of my eighth and ninth grade follies, has failed to mature along side me and my livejournal has a far too public flavor.

This place seems nice, inviting almost. It has my aesthetic: very simple, clean lines and a nice font. I'll see what I can do about writing in it often. I feel like I am going to need some place to explore my emotions once I get to conservatory. Something tells me that the people I am going to meet will be inspiration enough for a nightly diatribe.

So tell me writing, my old friend, will I fall for you again?