"How Should America Balance Its Budget"

(An Essay for Political Science)

Let us meet the American family. Mom is concerned with everyone paying in to cover expenses, Dad wants to make sure that all the children are given the money they need for whatever they want, and their children are a motley assortment of ages and beliefs. Each week the members of the family to pitch in to the family funds, and each week the fights begin. The children are asking for money for lunch, gas, sleepovers, movies, medicine, and so forth. Mom very carefully listens to each child, and gives them the bare minimum they need for the purchases that she deems important. Dad very carefully listens to each child, and gives them the money they asked for, plus a little extra to make sure they get the best quality of thing they are going to purchase. When Mom and Dad sit down at the kitchen table to review the list of money they gave out, they realize that there isn’t enough left to pay their bills. After a heated yelling match the only thing the two can agree on is to go to their next door neighbor and ask for a loan. This goes on for months, each one growing more and more frustrated with their lives. The only way to fix this growing program before their utilities are cut off and they get evicted from their house is to balance their budget. They decide that their expenses need to be made less than their revenue either by decreasing expenses, increasing revenue or a combination of both.

First, Mom and Dad make a list of the things they spend money on: utilities (electrical power and water purification), security (home security system and watchdogs to protect the children), food (agricultural), transportation (gas and travel), medical (for all members of the family), education (tuition), and supporting their grandparents and pets (social security and welfare). Mom insists that some of the unnecessary items be removed or reduced. For example, the children can carpool, they can send the children to self-defense classes then retire the watchdogs, different schools can be found with a lower tuition, the pets can be given up for adoption, and the grandparents can be moved into the house to help out with the chores instead of staying in an assisted living facility. Dad does not agree. He wants to find more efficient ways of doing everything in order to keep the children happy while saving the family some money. Both Mom and Dad share their ideas with their children, who refuse to give up anything and instead insist that they be allowed to pitch in less to the family budget.

Realizing that this will not solve the issue, Mom counters, insisting that if everyone likes all the things the family owes and enjoys they would each need to pay a bit more into the family funds in order for them to continue doing it. Seeing the children beginning to grow upset, Dad offers instead for the eldest of the children, whose money pools are larger than the others, to pay a little bit more in order to keep things fair and balanced to the younger children. He has to offer more freedoms to the elder children, however, to get them to agree. While things seem to go smoothly for a week or so, Mom and Dad find themselves at a familiar cross-road. No money and a growing debt-check to the next door neighbor.

Why not try both things, the parents ask themselves? So, Mom and Dad again call a family meeting and each offer ways to both cut little bits of what they spend on and make small increases to what they are paying into the family to help even things out. Mom wants to reduce the number of pets the family has instead of getting rid of all of the pets completely. Dad wants to spend a little bit extra now to install solar panels on the roof to help cut their utility bill in the future. The children agree to some, but not all of the many suggestions Mom and Dad make as the weeks go by. However, it is still not enough to bring the family’s budget even, and with each passing week, Mom and Dad grow more and more considered that the neighbor will knock on the door and insist on payment.

This is where things stand now. The United States is a giant family, the American family, whose family-decisions are made by a majority agreement of the people living in the house, the American population, the family’s children. While the political parties, Republicans and Democrats, can continually argue over which method is best for balancing the budget, and while each party can present their best solutions for managing the country’s money, there is only one way we will ever achieve this goal. The only way America will be able to balance and then maintain a balanced budget is for the American people to band together and insist upon the types of policies that will decrease expenses, increase revenue or a combination of both.

"Birthday"

I’m sitting here, knowing that I’m supposed to be writing something entertaining from my childhood and I’m struggling. I know that entertaining doesn’t mean funny. Entertaining means riveting, gripping, something that makes you want to read and read and keep reading. The trouble is, I don’t have clear memories from my childhood that I feel passionate about; at least, passionate enough to turn into something entertaining. Besides, my life starts with a birth. Oh, not my birth; the birth of my daughter. It’s the moment that makes me feel alive, that defines me, that gives me form and substance. It’s my first Memory.

Birthday

Tuesday, January 8, 5:00 AM. Josh and I wake, still only partially moved into his mother's house. Unpacked boxes stand sentry by the door. The alarm hasn't gone off yet, but I'm awake and anxious. Today's the day I get to see my baby face to face. Today, I get to hold her in my arms. Today, I become a Mommy.

Minutes pass in oppressive silence, so I poke Josh awake, "If you want to shower, now's a good time. Don't rush. It's still very early." He rolls over, smiles at me, and snuggles closer, holding me in his arms until the alarm rings a half hour later.

He puts a gentle hand on my forehead, "I'll be right back, sweetheart. You get some more rest. You and Lori have a big day today." I couldn't help but smile, nodding in reply. Such gentle motions from so big and powerful a man leave me breathless and without words. I listen to him get out of bed and into the shower, laying on my side, and try to ready myself. Anxiety comes to me – an unpleasant sensation – when suddenly afraid of the unknown. But no sooner had I started to feel that, than the sense of another presence comes; someone else is in the room with me.

The sense of Him is warm and comforting. He’s a soldier, sent for one purpose alone: to stand guard on me and protect me from Fear, Worry, Doubt, and Pain. It feels as if He curls up behind me, as Josh had done a mere hour before. There is no heartbeat. Instead, I feel the warmth of a perfect summer’s day, when the wind is light and cool and the sunlight is gentle and warm. Relaxation flows through me, down to my very bones. In my mind's eye, I can see this Faceless One, a being made of gentle sunlight, of perfect white clouds. He takes off his breastplate. It is silver-white metal, lighter than air, thin as silk but stronger than steel. Attached are his wings; white dove-feathers radiating with the warm glow, of a night-light. He drapes it on me, and it seems to settle on my shoulders, around my ribs, and against my back. I smile, relax, and nestle down into a light sleep a touch on my shoulder wakes me. I’m refreshed, renewed, and ready for the day. Excitement and Joy are once again mine.

We dress, and finish the packing.

“How many days will we be in the hosiptal?...Bring snacks and water and a magazine for yourelf…No, you won’t be ignoring me. I know you hate waiting…I’m just saying that we don’t know how long it will take and that it could get boring and…Okay, okay!”

We step outside of the rooms we have and into the main part of the house, where I catch a glimpse of the clock: 6:00 AM. All of that, and only an hour has past.

"It's a bit early, babe. My appointment isn't until seven," I say with my eyes on the clock. There’s the faintest of blushes, a light sheepish grin.

"Well, we'll just sit down and wait a little bit," he says in an awkward tone, while he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He's anxious now too.

"We could leave now, get there early, and start the check in, if you want," is my offer. I’m trying to hide the smile as I see his eyes light up.

"Yeah, let's go," he moves for the door instantly.

"Should we wake your mother and let her know we're heading out now?" He’s working at the doorknob and doesn't answer right away.

A little 'hmph' of annoyance escapes him as he turns from the door, "Looks like we'll have to. The door is locked and I don't have the key."

On cue, out walks his mom, somewhat bleary-eyed, asking, "Key to what? You're not leaving until we pray." Her plan: successful.

Perhaps Josh was hoping to avoid this: his faith is something personal, and his mother's way is too forward, but we sit, listening to her prayers over us. I say my own – silently - thanking the Divine for the angel's armor, for the strength I'll need and the calmness I feel. Josh prays too, in his own way. His eyes close, his hand tightens on mine and his breath still for a few heartbeats while he sends his wishes and thoughts Above. At a half past six, we leave for the hospital.

I’m making a few calls to family letting them know that we're on our way, and to call Josh's number or mine - I'll be giving him my phone - for progress checks throughout the day. Arlene calls right as we are arriving to the hospital. Of course she calls. Best friends, near sisters, don’t forget the important things. I’m still getting out of the car.

We walk in, register, give the clerk all my medical orders, and then sit and wait. And wait. And wait. Kathy, Josh's mom, joins us before going into work. The clerks change their shift. Lights come on, and phones start to ring. Kathy leaves, and still we wait. I feel my first mild contraction.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to bother, I know we're waiting on a room, but if you could let them know that I think I'm having some mild contractions right now, I'd really appreciate it," I state to the clerk that's trying desperately to secure me a labor and delivery room. Twenty minutes later, she gets me into triage. Any bed is better than no bed, and there they can at least begin the monitoring and blood work, though they refused to infuse me with the induction chemical, not wanting me to go into full labor and have my baby in the ER – I guess that makes sense.

In we go. I get into the little gown and socks, pee in the cup, and get into bed. Fetal monitor gets hooked up, and they're just about to open the blood work baggie when a delivery nurse arrives with a wheelchair.

"I'm ready for Ms. Carranza now," she says, and with some doing I'm transferred to a wonderful, dimly lit, comfortably large delivery suite. My mom and Josh's Aunt Linda arrive and we begin the next phase of waiting. I glance at the clock. It's 9am.

The doctor visits me. I'm having contractions and am 2cm dilated already. Time for the booster, aka the labor inducing drug: oxytocin. They shoot me up at 10am, and for two hours nothing is really happening. The contractions are mild, and I'm pretty much talking through them, laughing with Aunts Debbie & Linda and my mom, and not really doing much of anything. Josh takes a break while Arlene joins us for her lunch break.

Arlene, this baby is your fault, and completely your fault. Not five minutes after her arrival, long enough for one Arlene-joke, the first active labor pain hits me. Labor; it's not as bad as everyone make it out to be. I recall the horror stories, that labor was the single most painful thing ever. In actuality, while I've never truly felt anything quite like labor pains, I have had menstrual cramps that hurt worse than labor pains. (When cramps land you in the ER getting pumped with pain meds, you know they're bad.) I don't think...no, I know, for a fact, that I’m handling the pain the way I am only with Josh's constant support.

First time mom here. Why couldn’t I find and enroll in a Lamaze class? I’m laying here, in labor, clueless. Thank God for my delivery nurse. A three-time mom herself, Gina is awesome at describing what I'm going to feel and how to handle it. I start off by asking Josh to talk to me. Now, I know that sounds a bit bizarre, but when he uses a certain type of voice, soft and deep and slow, all my tension just melts away. That is the voice I was asking for, and I don't much care what he says as long as it was in that Voice. But the things he starts telling me were making Aunt Linda laugh - stories about his grandfather, and fishing in Louisiana.

There is this alligator that stole one of Grampa Grant's fishing lures - his favorite lure. It gets stuck around the gator's tail, and Grampa has to cut it loose. Several months later, Grampa's out fishing on that same strip of lake, when he sees his fishing lure, sitting out on the water, in plain sight. With delight, Grampa moves his boat over and reaches out to scoop up his lure. No sooner does he close his hand around the lure, than the line - still attached to the lure - goes taunt and the very same gator Grampa had cut loose months before, comes snapping out at him from the water. Grampa’s been hooked by a gator; the very gator he'd hooked himself and the gator using his own lure against him! See, the gator, having gotten the lure stuck to his tail, must have noticed that he'd caught a fish with it. When he ate the fish off the lure, lo and behold - another fish came, and another, and so on. Grampa’s lure had given this gator the tool he needed to fish for himself. I guess that old adage about giving a man a fish over teaching a man to fish can be applied to gators too. I’m giggling too, right along with Josh’s Aunt Linda.

By 1:00 PM, I'm in full active labor, and people other than Josh are really starting to distract me from staying calm and not tensing up at each contraction.

“Okay, everyone out. Time for Momma to get to work,” Gina says softly.

It’s quiet and peaceful and I’m settling down into a steady rhythm when my mother comes back in; I can hear her talking. Tension floods into me – another contraction. I can't focus on Josh's voice with her voice there. They’re just competing for attention, and I’m the one losing the battle.

I start chanting, forgetting to breathe, "Bye, Mom. Bye. Bye. Bye, Mom. Bye. Bye. Bye!"

There is no greater sense of relief than that of Gina very calmly and very gently taking my mother by the hand and leading her toward the door.

"I'm sorry," she says; voice naught but a whisper, giving Josh the space to reclaim my focus, "Sounds like she doesn't want any more visitors right now."

But focus and control, once lost, is hard to regain. I ‘m whimpering, "I can't do this anymore. I'm tired. I can't breathe. I can't. I can't. Make it stop, just for a moment. Just so I can think. Just so I can catch my breath. I need ten minutes. Ten minutes to rest, and think. Please? Please?"

Josh's voice is full of worry, worry I can hear and feel past the brave front that had been cracking with each successive contraction, "Do you want an epidural?"

Epidural? Morphine? It’s like a smack to the back of the head – like, “duh!”

"Anything to let me catch my breath, to let me think a moment. Anything. I don't care!" I’m breathless and glad I signed the consent form.

Gina’s acknowledgement is a cool sip of water on a hot summer day, "He'll be here very soon, Claudia. In the meantime, try to stay focused on your breathing, like we'd talked about; each pain opening your hips up to make room for Baby."

Open. That's what I had to focus on, and so I ask Josh to help me focus.

"Breathe." It’s my cue; a slow, relaxed, inhale through my nose and an unhurried filling of my lungs.

"Open." It’s a slow exhale through my lips, as if I am holding a messoforte on my oboe, an unhurried opening of my mind, heart, and body in joyful and unrushed anticipation of my child. At each Open, I’m picturing a ring, the ring of my hips, stretching open into infinity.

I’m not counting. With my eyes closed, I have no concept of time. Time is sitting in the waiting room outside, nervously holding his breath along with the rest of my family, wondering when there will be news from the delivery suite that a beautiful baby girl has been born. The only thing I know is the inhale, the exhale, the calm, the inhale, the exhale, the calm, the inhale, the exhale, the calm, then a sharp metal click. It’s almost amusing, how as a door opens Josh closes, his voice growing tighter, more reserved and distant. It’s the sound of Josh hiding his emotions and warmth from the world because someone else is in the room; someone he doesn't want seeing it. The lack of it is a sharp let down, like falling from a soft cloud.

I’m losing control of the pain again, shaking and crying, "Go away. Kathy, get out. I love you, but go away. I can't. Go away! Go away!"

Where’s Gina? The nurse, where is she? Kathy has walked to my bedside and is trying to calm me down, but she’s all I can hear and not what I want to hear. But worse, I can’t feel him anymore; he's withdrawn emotionally, body and heart falling silent. I’m tensing, unable to find purchase. Where’s Gina?

“Get out. Get out. Get the fuck…Go away.” My head is thrashing side to side, my hands shoving

g at Kathy’s. She’s clawing at me, ripping at my hair and my sanity. And then she’s gone, Gina having returned to escort her out. But the damage is done. I want to push, I want to do something, I want to find my calm again, but the forever opening ring just isn’t powerful enough. I’m losing myself, and crying out. Behind my closed eyelids, in the low warm yellow-glow of the dimly lit room, the next contraction brings a soft white light. White, like the protective angel that visited me that morning, like the wings he'd given me to shelter me. As the memory radiates into my mind, I can see the breastplate on me; the wings fluttering behind me like a silken mantle.

"Open," says he, and I feel the wings open; a bird taking to wing.

The pain is gone, replaced with a stillness of calm like no other. Each cycle of what had been pain comes now as a gentle white light in my eyes. I’m flying through the Clouds of Heaven on borrowed wings, soaring ever upwards without fear or tension. All there is, holding me aloft, is my Wind, Josh's gentle voice.

Five centimeters open, Lori’s not getting into position, so Dr. Montalvo breaks my water to help coax her down. It’s not a terrible thing. I can’t even see what the doctor’s doing down there, what with Lori in the way, but it feels like I’m peeing without needing to pee. I can’t help myself, I’m laughing at it, the humor keeping me aloft even as my Wind takes a few minutes break since the Doctor is In. I last three and a half more hours, flying about the clouds with my borrowed wings, when Steve, the anesthesiologist, comes in give me my epidural. I’m no longer in pain, as I had been, but now the urge to push is so intense that I’m starting to have trouble staying aloft in my white clouds. (Josh's chant has gone from "Breathe. Open. Good girl." to "Breathe. Open. Don't push. Good girl.") I’m getting tired. Josh is getting tired. Lori, however, is fine. (Thank God!)

They sit me up so that I’m hunched over while Steve gives me the obligatory here-are-the-risks-of-this-procedure-are-you-really-sure-you-want-us-to-do-this-even-though-it’s-clear-that-you’re-not-in-your-right-mind-right-now-and-we-really-shouldn’t-try-to-get-you-to-think-clearly-about-anything-important-right-now risk speech. It’s all Greek to me, so even if I was in a right state of mind, which I’m not, I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t be able to understand it anyway. And then I have to muse, laughing through another bit of pain, that I’m not level headed enough to consent to my own health, but I’m rational enough to realize that I’m not understanding what he’s saying to me. At the moment, I frankly don't care. I just want some measure of control back, something like my own mind, because I’m losing sanity and fast.

I’m being told what they are doing, what I'm feeling. They are washing my back, taping something down. There’s a pinch then something cold.

"How do you feel," he asks me after a moment.

"I don't know," I reply. How should I know? To date, the closest thing I’ve come to anesthesia is Tylenol Codeine 3 for a broken pinky; it still aches when it’s cold or I’ve been practicing my viola too long at a sitting.

Steve stays with me as Josh helps me lay back into the pillows. It’s like being lain down on a cloud, the tension falling away from me like rain drops, leaving me light, fluffy, and lined with silver. I sigh.

"How do you feel, Ms. Carranza? Any better," Steve asks. He has to, I suppose. I’m not sure he needs to though. I’m so relaxed that I can’t even feel myself smile dreamily.

"Ah, yes," I finally get out, eyes opening for the first time in hours. "Thank you, Steve. Now, go. I waited for you. I don't want to be the reason another is waiting longer than she can take. Thank you, very much. I'm myself again. Thank you."

He’s smiling, doing a few other things that I'm not sure what they are. Has anyone ever shooed him away? Gina’s murmuring something about thoughtful, while Josh is getting my attention.

"Do you feel better?" He looks as tired as I feel, although tense where I am limp as ragweed. I nod - a smile.

"Yes, yes I’m fine," just as the doctor returns to check up on me.

She’s happy to see how far I'm progressing and how much calmer I am now with the epidural, but still worry abounds. The baby, low as she may be, is not engaging my pelvis. Lori is stuck.

"We're going to have to a c-section to get her out. She's just too big to get down the way she needs to be. Are you okay with that?" Well, there goes the birthing plan. No plan survives contact with the enemy. Is my baby the enemy? Hells to the no; labor is.

"Yes, Doctor; whatever needs to be done to have her safe and healthy." I am no longer afraid.

"There's a wait on the OR, Doctor," I hear Steve remark. I didn’t realize he’d come back in the room, but I’m glad he’s here. He’s a really nice guy. Maybe I’ll get his name and send him a Christmas card. Now, there’s an idea. "There are four other deliveries needing c-section ahead of Ms. Carranza."

There’s a frown on my doctor’s face and a complaint on her lips before she turns to me, "Can you wait for maybe an hour then? We can see if Baby engages by then. If she does, you'll have it natural. If she does not, then we'll go into surgery, okay?"

"Sure thing - I'm better now, in control, so I can wait as long as you need me to. Make sure the other babies are safe. Lori and I are okay right now."

As the medical staff move out to get things ready, Josh again turns to me, "Will you be okay here, if I go? I need a break."

"Yes, yes of course! Go. Thank you for staying with me," said all while I’m pushing Josh's hand away. "But will you send the Moms in? I think I was really rude and I need to apologize."

Josh just smiles, kissing my forehead. "They won't think any less of you for it, darling. You were in labor. I'm sure they remember, and from what I hear, my mother was psychotic during labor. You were the perfect Calm," he assures me before heading out.

A few minutes later, Kathy and Mom come in, and I’m apologizing profusely, "I'm so sorry if I was rude. I hope you aren't mad or offended. I just couldn't focus with anyone but Josh in the room, and I really needed to focus."

Kathy just smiles, "It's okay, darlin'. You were wonderful!"

While my mother quips, pretending to fight a proud smile, "I'm so offended!"

Laughing, I lean back on my pillows, a sigh of contentment drifting from me, a zephyr of relief: "Still - I'm sorry that I was rude. I could have asked nicely for you both to go.”

Alright, so even I know that’s a load of bullshit. I don't believe anyone could have politely asked to be left alone while in the middle of active labor. Clearly, the moms think that it’s bullshit too, for they just laugh while I being to doze off, resting after a long day. My family takes turns, even when anxious, and it’s my brother’s turn now to come in and see me. I giggle when I see him walk in. Mom had told me, right before she left, that he was here and wanting to see me. He walks in, steps as delicate as eggshells, hands slightly white from gripping themselves, and lips pale with worry. I’m his baby, and I’m having my baby. My smile is one of support. He needs it more than I do – I’m on the happy drugs after all. We start chatting, filling him in on the triage, the Arlene-joke, the oh-my-god-get-the-fuck-out moment, when the nurse steps into the room, her tone brisk.

"The OR is ready: C-section in ten minutes." I think Camilo and I go pale at just about the same time.

"Can you get Josh?" If he nods or murmurs a worried reply, I’m not hearing it or seeing it. My ears are filled with the nurse’s words: “c-section, ten minutes”. My eyes are blind, staring up at the ceiling, hoping to find… something.

I’m wheeled into surgery, prepped, and starting to grow frantic. “Where’s Josh? Where’s Josh? You can’t start without Josh. He can’t miss this. Where’s Josh? Can’t we wait, just a few minutes? Can I have my phone? I can call him. It’ll take just a minute. Or maybe, you can dial for me? My arms feel a bit heavy and I can’t really sit up… Why’s that?... Oh, that’s not important! Where’s…“

In he walks; my poor gentle giant. It’s three gowns, or is it four; one for his front, one for his back, another with the arms tied at a shoulder to try to cover his sides. The booties don’t fit either. I can see medical tape at his ankles, holding the how-many-did-they-use booties to his shoes. The mask is a tiny splotch of cyan at the tight of his nose, barely hiding his mouth. A second one covers his beard. He’s got a cap on too; two of them: One for the top of his head, the other for the back of it. The room seemed big at first, when I was rolling in alone, but now it’s so small that Josh seems as if he is forced to curl himself into a bundle to sit at my head. Much shuffling has me giggling again, over which I can hear the doctor telling me what they are doing.

“Okay, we’re making the incision. Here we go. You’re going to feel some tugging. I’m going to push on your stomach.”

Josh goes pale, eyes going wise, and I can see fear. I squeeze his hand, wanting to assure him that I’m not feeling anything, but nothing comes out of my mouth. My brain is in a bit of a fog and things aren’t clear until…

"Wuh. Wuh. Wuh. Waaah. Wuh, waah. Wuh, wuh, wuh." It’s a rhythmic, grunting, sort of cry, coming from a fat little face, red and upset. I reach out to touch her (red, upset, and smelling sweeter than a new car) then fall back closing my eyes, hearing a bit of a song drift across my mind, just this part, repeating over and over:

“I was never alive
Till the day I was blessed with you…”

The Question of Humanity

As we seek to resolve the question of what defines humanity, that is, what does it mean to be human, literature is used as a playground to allow our imaginations to explore and delve into the topic. Students of literature can look into various stories for ways to help them answer this question for themselves. One group of students, whom I had the pleasure of listening in on, found similarities in the treatment of this topic in the two stories they had recently read, The Cookie Lady by Philip Dick and The Monk by Matthew Lewis.

In The Cookie Lady, a kindly-faced grandmother lures a young neighborhood child into her home with delectable baked goods. Once inside her home, the young child is murdered by the elderly woman in an effort to regain her youth and beauty. In The Monk, a well respected priest succumbs to temptation and lust, murdering his mother and raping his sister. He ends the story as a man disgraced, in direct opposition to the exalted nature of his position at the start.

It is through literature that we are able to experience the thrill of going down the dark and sinister paths of the two main characters of the stories presented. As the presentations continued, the professor commented about The Cookie Lady, saying that many of the students were expecting a sweet story about a sweet lady and her sweet cookies. The unexpected turn, with the murder of an innocent, took many of the students, the presenters included, by surprise. Many of the students discussing the topic of humanity were hard pressed to give a single clear definition of humanity. They each saw something slightly different in the treatment and showing of the various facets of human nature. Only literature gives us this luxury.

"Cada Cabeza es un Mundo"

It is said that every head is a world. Each person knows only how he or she views the world around them and nothing of the views of the next person. It is only in literature that we can explore the varying view points of people as individuals. It is in literature that we be free to think outside ourselves and see the world through the eyes of another. With literature gain a better understanding of our own thoughts, our own dreams, and our own fears. In “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien, we march with a boy through his jarring shift into the responsibilities of adulthood. In “Cathedral” by Raymond Carver, we watch a man’s viewpoint change. In “I Stand Here Ironing” by Tillie Olsen, we see a mother wishing that her daughter would know that she’s not helpless, hinting that the mother had felt the same.

First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross, the main character of The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien, is madly in love with a girl named Martha. Jimmy is so in love with her that he would pretend that she loved him too, even though he knew that she really didn’t.

Mr. O’Brien further displays the depth to which the character Jimmy takes his self-delusion, writing, “He had difficulty keeping his attention on the war. On occasion he would yell at his men to spread out the column, to keep their eyes open, but then he would slip away into his daydreams…” (O’Brien, 421) This level of distraction is dangerous in any setting, but even more so in the situation Jimmy Cross finds himself, in the Vietnam War. Amid the lists of things the soldiers had to carry, O’Brien takes the briefest of moments to foreshadow Jimmy’s realization with the following two sentences:

O’Brien has Jimmy’s shift, the realization of the danger his self-made distraction, come from the death of one of the men under his command, Ted Lavender. “Lieutenant Cross felt the pain,” O’Brien wrote of Jimmy’s budding insight, and it heralded the guilt that finally carries Jimmy to his transformation. (O’Brien, 419)

Jimmy’s transformation takes him away from the child-like actions of waste and daydream toward the consequence-minded responsibility of an adult. O’Brien lets us look into the affects of Jimmy’s child-like attitude by showing us the waster of the unit as a whole as he writes, “Purely for comfort, they would throw away rations, blow their Claymores and grenades, no matter, because by nightfall the resupply choppers would arrive with more of the same…” (O’Brien, 424) There’s a marked lack of weight associated with this action. The soldiers didn’t have the maturity to carry on despite the weight of things pressing down on them. It was with the death of Ted Lavender that Jimmy sees that “He had loved Martha more than his men, and as a consequence Lavender was now dead, and this was something he would have to carry like a stone in his stomach for the rest of the war.” (O’Brien, 425)

Even as one character in my readings grows from child to adult, another is maturing in a different way. In “Cathedral” by Raymond Carver, we watch a man’s viewpoint of the world and his relation to it changes. The narrator in “Cathedral” begins the story blind, in a sense, to the grand scale and beauty of the world around hi. His eyes function, as any other person’s would, but he is wrapped up in his own small view of the world, so much so that he seems blind to everything else.

“He was no one I knew,” wrote Raymond Carver in the voice of the narrator of the story when the narrator’s wife told him of their so-to-be houseguest. (Carver, 90) It’s clear from this sentence that the narrator is uncomfortable outside his own well-defined and known world. Even when the narrator and his wife sat down to listen to one of the tapes from Robert, the blind man, the narrator was shocked to hear his own name coming from Robert’s voice on the tape. It clearly disturbed him to have a blind man whom he’d never met speak about him. When the narrator and his wife get interrupted and never manage to get back to the tape, the narrator seems uneasily relieved, in Carver’s passage, “I’d heard all I wanted to. Now this same blind man was coming to sleep in my house.” (Carver, 92) This sentiment carries on through the dinner conversation, as the narrator “waited in vain to hear [his] name on [his] sweet wife’s lips..” (Carver, 95)

The narrator’s turning point comes to him in small skips throughout their evening, as he makes small admissions to himself. “I remembered having read somewhere that the blind didn’t smoke because, …they couldn’t see the smoke they exhaled. I thought I knew that much about blind people.” (Carver, 94) “I watched with admiration as he used his knife and fork on the meat.” (Carver, 95) The narrator feels further rapport with Robert when stay up to watch TV together. On TV is a late night show about cathedrals. At first, the narrator is silent, watching the show without comment, but the way Robert is sitting unnerves him. Robert sat with his head turned to point his right ear to the TV, which angled his face toward the narrator. Compelled, the narrator finally spoke up, trying to describe what he was seeing, what a cathedral looked like.

The narrator’s epiphany is not the blinding touch of insight of Jimmy in O’Brien’s story, but rather in Carver’s ”Cathedral”, the narrator’s understand comes in the form of the hours long drawn session with Robert. Robert suggested that they draw a cathedral when he heard the frustration that was implied in the word choice of Carver’s text as the narrator gives up trying to describe a cathedral. At Robert’s suggestion and prodding, the narrator moves off to collect the needed materials and they sit together to draw. Robert holds the narrator’s hand, verbally leading him through the drawing. When the drawing is done, the narrator is left with a sense of being a part of something more than himself, and his elation can be felt in Carver’s words “My eyes were still closed. I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like I was inside anything.” (Carver, 101)

The final story, Tillie Olsen’s “I Stand Here Ironing” shows a mother wishing that her daughter would know that she’s not helpless which hints that the mother had felt the same at some point in her life. “I stand here ironing, and what you asked me moves tormented back and forth with the iron,” the mother, our story’s narrator, states at the start of the tale to an unseen audience. (Olsen, 467) She’s talking to someone, by the tone, but she’s always talking to herself as the story continues and she wonders if she’s being asked about her daughter “…because I am her mother [and] I have a key…” (Olsen, 467) However, the mother admits that she can’t see into her daughter’s life since “There is all that life that has happened outside of me, beyond me.” (Olsen, 467)

Unlike the other two stories, where we get to walk through the journey of self discovery, the mother in “I Stand Here Ironing” has already had hers and the journey is one of sadly recalling how long it took to learn what was learned. We get to see all those decisions made by an indecisive young mother, from feedings to daycare to hospitalization. We can feel the heartache in the choices she has to make at the time, and see what she sees in her daughter’s expressions and actions that were born from the lack of warmth and love she had given to her other children later in life. In the end, the mother wanted her audience, this mysterious unseen figure to “…help [my daughter] to know – help make it so there is cause for her to know – that she is more than this dress on the ironing board, helpless before the iron.” The mother, with this admission, felt helpless and crushed under all the choices she had made that didn’t allow her to spend as much time with her daughter as her daughter may have needed when she was younger.

The jarring shift that we see as Jimmy Cross in Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried” had to me, and just like the first lieutenant, I can give a specific date for mine: January 8, 2008. It was about 8 o’clock at night, after the c-section, and I’m lying in the recovery room, waiting:

I hadn’t realized that shift was so dramatic until a full year after that moment, when I was rereading some of my journal entries, of which the above is one, and writing a year in review sort of thing for a letter to my family living across the state and in other countries.

Years later, as I take time from homework to work on scholarship essays, I find myself constantly returning to my life as a mother. My viewpoint of the world has changed. I think, even three years ago, before my daughter was born, I was very concerned with myself. I was blind to the importance of thinking outside myself and my immediate surroundings. Like the narrator in Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral” it took being lead by the hand to see clearly. For the narrator in “Cathedral”, it was a blind man. For me, it was my child.

My child now means more to me than anything else. Weekly, I find myself sitting next to my husband and starting a discussion about how we should work things out to our daughter’s benefit. We discuss schools and books and movies and all sorts of things. I know that at times, I feel helpless, wishing I had known more or known better. The only thing I can do is make the best for my daughter as she grows. I am so very like the mother in “I Stand Here Ironing”, only I am blessed that I can read the story, feel what she felt, and learn to make better choices, hoping before my daughter is impacted negatively.

"Finals"

Notebooks thunder shut

Backpacks shuffle and hide

The professor arrives

Behind him, the door tolls for me

Graduation's pall-bearer approaches

Carefree days slosh about I nmy memory

j.cuervo pours another round of shots

while procrastination laughs out loud

a fat man screams failure in my head

and a little boy steals my dreams

the test page blank before me

blame points with her finger,

and I'm pointing at my reflection.

DZ-2KCZ

Distant Vietnam;

2 Kilometers of Communist Zephyrs.

Distorted Valor;

2 Kills by the Country's Zealot.

Disabled Vet;

2 Kisses and a Cubic Zirconium.

Delicious Vegetables;

2 Kitchens with Cooked Zucchini.

Dear Vitality;

2 Kids at the County Zoo.

Disabled Vet;

2 Kettles of Chamomile Zen.

Double Vision;

2 Kegs then Crash Zoom.

Dynasty Vanquished;

2 Kilns with Cremated Zombies.

"Q-Tip"

I can hear a scrapping sound as the drawer in the bathroom opens, and light pours into the drawer I’m in. My rest is jarred by a hand dipping into the clear plastic box I lay in with my relatives. I cling to a cousin, our white cotton tips intertwined for an eternal heartbeat. I feel myself stretching. Then with a jolt, I’m suddenly free. End over fluff-covered end, I fall. I bounce against the edge of the box and tumble onto the bottom of the drawer. With a heavy thud, a blue tube of deodorant lands beside me. A cloud of baby power and pears bellows out from the blue tube. Vibrations rattle through me as the drawer is slammed shut and darkness blankets everything around me. In the blackness, white letters glow.

Secret. Asian Pear & Baby Powder.

“Hello,” I call to the deodorant before me. It doesn’t answer.

Hours pass and the vibration of the drawer bring a bright light that wakes me. I see the deodorant being lifted away from me, and I call out.

“Goodbye, Asian Pear! Goodbye!” Again, it doesn’t answer. Maybe I’m just not loud enough. Hopefully, Asian Pear comes back and we can continue our conversation.

“What were we talking about,” I wonder, slightly pensive. I spot some toothpaste, and rock with joy.

“You’ll talk to me, won’t you, Colgate,” I pipe up cheerfully. The deodorant thuds next to me again, no doubt keeping Colgate from answering. Asian’s not very sweet; despite her delicate perfume. The drawer closes and snuffs out any further questions.

It repeats, the drawer scrapping open, various neighbors leaving without a word, returning the same way, and the drawer slamming shut. Each time, I try and try to get someone’s attention. Each time, I call out to Asian, to Colgate, even to the hundreds of cousins of mine still lying peaceful and ignorant in their clear plastic box. I wonder when they’ll realize that every day there remain fewer and fewer of them. I wordlessly watch their numbers dwindle, fascinated by their disappearance, curious about where they go when they leave the drawer. Perhaps those left in the box think that I too went to the Light, and that they don’t realize that I fell instead, that I’m lying here watching them disappear while I age and collect dust.

Asian leaves one day, as does Colgate, and do not return. The oddity pulls me from the relentlessly repetitive feel of my life. They had never left together before. A bright pink box blocks my view of the q-tip box. “Baby Safe Cotton Swabs,” I read silently. As the drawer rolls shut I about jump for joy.

“Baby Safe! Hi! Welcome to the Drawer! How are you,” I bubble out into the darkness. Silence is my only reply. Maybe Baby’s too scared to answer. It is very dark in the drawer at night. Mayhap I’ll just wait until the day returns, with a scrape and a bump. Unless, Asian got to Baby. Asian told Baby not to talk to me. Yes, that’s exactly what happened. Asian and Colgate are waiting just outside, telling new arrivals that I am not worth speaking to. Damn that Asian Pear! For all her sweetness, she sure is a stinky bit of deodorant.

Again I find myself unable to make sense of the days and nights, and as Baby’s silence continues, I find myself once more fascinated by the dwindling numbers of q-tips in the pink box before me. I’m only grateful for the change between day and night, light and darkness. For with it comes the vibration of the drawer that shakes off a bit of the dust that gathers on me, even if the errant strands of hair and cat fur make me unhappy.

Baby’s turn to leave comes soon enough, as glitter power brushes and little girl hair ties replace the pink box from before. No sooner do I work up the courage to say hello than the glitter and hair bows leave. Nail polish, lipstick, and perfume take their place. I sigh, and give up, just as long-nailed fingers collect me carefully and hoist me into the light.

“Ew, Mom! This q-tip’s gross,” I hear. The first words not my own that I’ve ever heard.

“Well, if you cleaned out your bathroom drawers more often…”

“Hey! It wasn’t me with the q-tips! This must’ve been one of yours.”

My heart sinks as I feel myself falling, end over dust-covered frizzy end.