Colleen Conrad

 

My fabulous school librarian, Christy, recently referred me to a book on the 2009-2010 Lone Star list. 

“I still can’t get it out of my head,” she said, holding up a copy of North of Beautiful by Justina Chen Headley. 

Now, I thoroughly respect my librarian friend and her opinions, but I hesitated to pick up the novel right away.  I appreciate good Chick Lit, but in all honesty I’m not typically drawn to that genre.  I worried that Christy’s recommendation would fall firmly into that category. 

And so I was happily surprised when I did—finally—open the book.

North of Beautiful centers around high school senior Terra, who has spent her entire life covering up the dramatic birthmark on her cheek and cowering in the wake of her verbally abusive father.  As she sets out to escape from her father’s control and find a means to negotiate society’s concept of beauty, Terra finds far more than she ever knew she was looking for. 

Headley explores the literal and figurative themes of navigation, lost and found, “True Beauty” and “True North” with grace and authority.  Though the frequent mapping metaphors may be a bit heavy-handed, they did serve to connect the many struggles in Terra’s life.  I found myself frustrated with Terra’s decisions; isn’t that, after all, the mark of a well-developed character?  Headley remains committed to Terra’s motivations and influences, forcing the reader to care about her even as we disagree with her missteps.  By the last page, our protagonist’s emotional journey is tangible, and marked by a moving, refreshing epiphany.

Thanks to Christy for gently nudging me toward North of Beautiful.  What a great navigator she is!

Every year at this time I run a unit with my students on the theme of “humanity.”  We read A Christmas Carol and discuss charity, human compassion, and selflessness.  It’s always a successful unit, largely because we put on a small-scale production of the play in each of my five language arts classes.  Ideally, the play works to each student’s strengths, and increases their overall comprehension of the text.  Most importantly, the kids commit themselves to it with enthusiasm, and the activity leaves a lasting impression in their memories.

This week, right after I’d announced casting and we began our first read-through, one of my students raised her hand. 

“Ms. Conrad,” she said.  “Since we’re talking about humanity and everything, maybe we can put a box in your classroom for a food drive or something.”

This will be my sixth year teaching this unit, and this is the first time that someone has made this type of suggestion.  I suppose I could be disappointed in my past students, or in myself, for that matter, for neglecting to think of it before.  But I’d rather focus on the double-joy of a student connecting our over-arching literary theme to her life, and the character that it shows in her. 

I have roughly 150 students.  Developmentally, twelve-year-olds are inherently selfish.  It’s difficult for them to see outside of themselves and think of others’ needs and feelings.  But it would be a very simple thing to ask my students to contribute canned goods over the next three weeks, in the interest of helping people less fortunate than ourselves.  And I’d like to think that it, too, would be something that they’d remember. 

And so, on this day after Thanksgiving, I’m thankful to know an adolescent who reminds me of the things that we can do for others; a pre-teen who thinks of other people first, and shares that consideration with her peers.  She taught me a lesson about humanity this year, and I imagine she did the same for other kids in the class.  What’s more, I know that she’s not the only one.  I have—and have had—so many students who show a tremendous level of caring and kindness. 

I’m thankful for all of them.

It’s probably a bit overly ambitious, given my erratic schedule and many obligations.  But I’ve decided that I need to set deadlines and goals for myself and my writing life, so my new plan is to writing something specifically for my blog—anything, as long as I can feel good about it—every Sunday.  Unrealistic?  Probably.  Bound to fall through the cracks now and then?  Absolutely.  But it’s a goal, and as goals go, I think it’s a decent one.

So here’s my first installment, which really falls into the category of “Gratitude Journal,” as well (something I’ve let slide, but think about all the time).  As we careen into Thanksgiving, and with it the inevitable holiday season, I always feel a tremendous sense of gratitude and joy.  I know that many find the holidays to be a stressful, even lonely time, and my heart goes out to those individuals.  Do I occasionally find it stressful and time-consuming?  Of course.  But for me, the tasks, the gift-buying, the parties, and the extraordinarily indulgent barrage of food, are all part of a warm and beautiful time.  My husband jokes that he loves the holidays, too, because of my constant good mood and upbeat cheer.  (So unlike the rest of the year, when I’m a giant bitch.  JK!)

I’m well aware that my love of the holiday season can be attributed in large part to the family and friends who’ve always made it special for me.  So here are the people, the things, and the places that I’m thankful for during this Thanksgiving holiday…and throughout the year.

My Parents:  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  I have parents who love me—and each other—and who’ve always made their home a wonderful place to be.  I still feel homesick all the time, because I’ve always known that where they are is home.  Their unconditional love and support gave me the confidence and the skills (or, at least, the confidence to fake the skills) to get through the tough times in life.  Pretty wholesome, I know.  But wonderful all the same.

My Brothers:  One brother with the charisma and charm to woo girls right out of their Jimmy Choos, and another with, well, the same charisma and charm from a wheelchair.  Three Thanksgivings ago my husband postponed his dinnertime proposal when Timmy (then 26 years old) put mashed potatoes in Brendan’s ear (who was 23 at the time), and began serenading him with a little ditty we now call “Potatoes in Your Ear.”  My brothers are fabulous, funny, and they bring life to any party…Including family gatherings.  I wish I could be with them this week, but I’ll have to settle for Christmas instead.

My In-Laws:  Crazy, right?  But my in-laws accepted me instantly, without question, and they’ve welcomed me into their family with open arms.  I’ve started to feel nostalgic for their Wisconsin home, which tells me that they have done much what my parents did in Massachusetts; they grew a family based on love and trust and generosity, and that’s the same spirit that they extend to new family members as well.  I think it goes without saying that not all wives are so lucky.

My Colleagues:  When the going gets rough, I go to my teammates.  My academic teammates, that is.  The people I teach with have integrity, intelligence, creativity, and spunk.  I know how lucky I am to work in that kind of environment, and to call them not only peers, but good friends.  I can call them at night, crying about a particularly rough parent phone call, or drink with them in my pajamas on Saturday evenings (as I did with a few just last night).  On the mornings when I don’t want to go to work, the thought of them drags me out of my bed.

My Body:  We all spend so much time looking at ourselves critically, that we sometimes forget to be thankful for the gift of life.  Sure, I sometimes gripe about my ever-growing thighs, and wish I had better skin or hair (or both), and I wish that I could run as fast as I used to or that my bad knee didn’t swell occasionally.  But here’s the thing—my body has done a lot for me.  It’s given me the opportunity to enjoy two separate athletic careers, in both field hockey and ultimate.  It’s relatively healthy and capable, and not horrible to look at.  And on top of all that, I live in a country where women are generally encouraged to exercise and compete in sports…Activities my body makes possible.  So I’m thankful for my body—big thighs, aging joints, flat hair and all.

Austin:  The city that I now call home is a true gem.  The culture is “hippie cowboy,” as I like to say, which means that cowboy boots are as welcome as peasant dresses.  Barbecue is as hip as tofu, and the dress code is universally “come as you are.”  I love going to shows at the Bass Concert Hall on campus, sitting in the Bier Garden at the bar down the street, and wearing flip-flops in November.  Do I miss the change of seasons?  The friends and family I have in Massachusetts?  The culture of the northeast?  Sure.  But when I had the chance to leave five years ago, I decided to stay and savor the things that this city offers…For at least a while longer. 

Amherst:  Of course, I feel compelled to thank my hometown for the gifts that it has given me.  People, like my dear friends Mike and Sarah, who consistently nag me to move back; places, like Judie’s, which is possibly my favorite restaurant of all time; the universities, the well-meaning political correctness, the chill in the air in the fall.  I grew up in a haven, where I could go to plays on the weekends at UMass and not be an outsider.  Where I could play sports and sing in the choir, without being a total contradiction.  When I got back to Amherst, something settles inside me, like my heart knows that it’s come home.   

My Bridesmaids…Plus Two:  My husband and I celebrated our second anniversary this week, and when watching our wedding video (as is our annual celebration), we commented on how eclectic and special my bridesmaids were.  Nazish and Tessa, both Ultimate teammates and loyal friends.  Dallas and Lifon, who I played field hockey with in college, and whose distance way on the east coast (Pennsylvania and New York, respectively) hasn’t changed our closeness at all.  Rounding out the sextet were Sarah and Claire, who I’ve known since preschool and who, perhaps, accept me most for who I am of anyone I know.  Lastly, I had two friends help with my wedding who, for all intents and purposes, should have been in it.  Megan and Allison, two Austin-based friends, couldn’t be more trustworthy, more fun, or more comforting.  I adore them, and Austin wouldn’t be the same without them.

My Husband:  I consider myself one of the lucky ones.  How can I begin to say how supportive Jason is?  More than anything else, he wants me to be happy, and he does everything he can to make that possible.  He’s selfless and hard-working and, above all, has a level of integrity and character that is truly humbling.  I got him a shirt for our anniversary that reads, “I’m the Snuggler,” because he wants to curl up in bed and be close to me all the time.  (I suppose the fact that I’m the “Hug-and-Roller” means that I’m heartless…But what can I say?  I like my space!)  Jason is a Good Man.  And we all know how rare they are. 

New Friends:  This summer I attended a talk by an Austin author at my local library branch.  As luck would have it, I made a connection there with another aspiring writer.  She and I have since critiqued each others’ work, shared ideas, and committed time to writing together.  She’s genuine, approachable, and extremely kind.  Right now, I’m especially grateful for these types of new friends.  The people who approach friendship with an open heart, and remind me how many amazing people there are in the world.

This is by no means a comprehensive list.  How could I possibly name all of the blessings in my life?  There’s no way.  But there are always more Gratitude Journals and Something Sundays, offering the chance to expound…

I captained a women’s Ultimate team this past season, and it was a bit of a rollercoaster to say the very least.  Ultimate is challenging in so many ways, but one thing that sets it apart from other sports is the fact that it’s player-driven and player-led.  Captains often act as coaches, organizers, trainers, and even “life coaches” (as one of my own players called me recently).  And in the midst of all of that, captains are players themselves, participating on a team with a group of their peers and, in most cases, friends.  Needless to say, captains have to balance a breadth of needs, opinions, tasks, and expectations.  Not to mention their own performance on the field.

At one point this summer, I was struggling with this role.  I was feeling anxious that all of our hard work wasn’t paying off.  That people might not enjoy the season; that we wouldn’t have the numbers we needed; that this little experiment would flop.  And yes, that I wouldn’t be comfortable or happy with the results. 

In one of our many conversations in which I expressed this concern, my co-captain told me, “That’s commitment.  It’s risky.”  And I realized that she couldn’t have been more right. 

While her response wasn’t much of a comfort, it did put things into stark perspective.  You don’t see any success without taking some risks.  I’m notorious for letting my happiness hinge on my expectations, and for allowing those expectations to rest on things that I can’t always control—like wins and losses, or placement in a tournament, or who attends what.  I took some serious risks this season, and in some ways I let expectations creep in where they didn’t belong. 

But now I’m putting on my rose-colored glasses to reflect on a season that meant something, and that I believe to have been important.  A season that changed me for the better.

Part One:  Spring

A year ago I was in a bad place.  I was coming off of a difficult season, feeling alienated from my team and many of my friends.  I wasn’t sure what the future held for me with regard to the sport…And the city that I called home, for that matter.  I wanted to keep playing, but I didn’t know where I fit into the Austin ultimate community anymore.  After several months of agonizing, I received an email from someone that I knew mostly in passing.

Jenny* played for the same college team that I started out with, though we’d never played together.  She’s younger, and began playing after I’d graduated.  Her email asked me if I’d be interested in starting a women’s team with her.  My husband asked me if she was a strong player, and I remembered when, in a scrimmage, she’d gotten a layout-D against me in the end zone.  “Yeah,” I told him.  “She is.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to head up a team, but Jenny’s email did one very important thing for me:  It opened up my eyes to the greater community, and it made me feel wanted when my confidence was at its lowest.  After years of playing elite-level, high-commitment, expensive frisbee, I was hoping for a change.  I liked the idea of focusing on giving back to the sport with a more developmental team.  And it felt good to know that someone else thought I would be a valuable part of that type of program.  So we began to talk about what we’d each be looking for in a team, and rounded up players from college up to “retired” vets. 

It quickly became clear that the interest was out there.  Our first practice was almost comical, though, and I forced myself to focus on the positive:  We had numbers.  There was a decent turnout on that first night, but halfway through our first drill massive thunderclouds rolled in.  The wind picked up to an embarrassing degree; the sky was black; thunder and lightning started up.  Within minutes, the fields closed due to thunderstorms. 

“If this is a sign,” I thought, “it’s not a good one.”

And after that first practice, if you can call it that, I headed out of town for several weeks.  I left the team in its infancy with Jenny and her very capable leadership, hoping that we’d put enough in place to swim rather than sink like a stone.  Even if we were only dog-paddling.

Part Two:  Summer

When I got back from my time away, it was clear that people were hungry for more.  Our initial plans were for low-key weekly throwing sessions, with the possibility of scrimmaging if numbers allowed.  By mid-summer, our players wanted structure.  They were showing up, cleats in hand, ready for drills, plays, and formal warm-ups.  I was pleasantly surprised, and Jenny and I happily planned out practices.

We began to pick up new Austinites who were eager to have a team—five of them in all.  We combined experienced players who didn’t want too intense of a commitment with younger women still finishing out their college eligibility.  Former league and pick-up players approached us, anxious to build on their ultimate repertoire.  It was a motley crew.  Slowly but surely, we got to know each other and how everyone played.  At one Saturday afternoon practice, players asked for shorter breaks and more challenging drills.  I was, again, pleasantly surprised.  We were new, we were raw, but we were hungry to grow.  We played a scrimmage against another women’s team in the state, winning comfortably, and rode that confidence into our first tournaments. 

Those tournaments brought some challenges, but they also showed our true colors:  We were scrappy.  I’ve been a part of amazingly talented teams who had no fight.  Teams who, when down, folded like a house of cards.  We were not one of those teams.  Sure, we were light on handlers (a.k.a. experienced throwers), and yes, we weren’t all on the same page strategically.  But we knew how to come back from a deficit, and we didn’t give up easily.  We didn’t go undefeated in those tournaments, by any means, but we showed determination.  Even when short on numbers, we rarely had to coax people on to the field (if ever).  We piled ourselves into the houses where we stayed, snuggling into close quarters together and bonding in ways that we hadn’t been able to up until that point.  Things were coming together.

I was already pleased with the success that we’d had.  We were showing character that I hadn’t anticipated, and I was enjoying every bit of it.  Most of all, I felt relationships growing.  Aside from minor frustrations here and there, people were getting along and supporting each other.  There was no ego, no dissention, no jealousy in the way.  When months ago I’d felt alone, I was feeling like a part of a team again.  Like I was finding a new sweet spot in this sport and in this city. 

Part Three:  Fall

After a successful pre-season, I was excited to see how we’d perform in the competitive series.  But if my expectations frequently dictate my happiness, I was in for a major blow.  

Sectionals got rained out, and we lost a large part of our team who couldn’t make the rain date…including several key throwers.  Our numbers dropped substantially, and I realized that we were going to be even more challenged than anticipated. 

Still, we came out of the gates strong in our first game, establishing an early lead against the team seeded just below us.  That is, until our two strongest handlers got season-ending injuries.  First, my best friend Nina injured her already-ACL-less knee.  An eerie quiet settled on the field as we all realized what this meant:  Nina would probably need surgery, and we were short yet another handler.  Jenny came on the field as her substitute, and within minutes tore a muscle in her core and crawled from the field in agony.  Morale plummeted in the already short-staffed team, and I watched my hopes for success crumble before my eyes.  If I had it to do over again, I would have called a time-out to re-group.  But I was on the field, and my head was spinning with anxiety.  The other team seized the opportunity and the momentum, beating us by one in the end.  We were almost too downtrodden to even process the loss. 

We managed to re-group after that game with a brief pep talk, though, recognizing the obstacles now facing us head-on.  Over the course of the rest of the day, I watched newer players step up and take control on the field in ways that I hadn’t seen them do before.  I struggled, no question, to keep my composure and remain encouraging toward my team.  As I told some friends from another team at one point, “I’m keeping it together for my team, but I need to actually feel what I’m feeling.” 

Regionals reflected sectionals to a certain degree; we had moments of greatness, and won most of the games that we “should have” won, though we probably could have won more had we been full-force.  We continued to be fighters, and continued to support each other through some frustrating moments, but I struggled to hide the sadness I felt for the disappointing end of our season. 

In talking to my mother about it, she helped me put things in perspective.  “Things changed,” she said.  “Your expectations needed to change with them.” 

And I remembered what Jenny said to me all of those months ago:  “That’s commitment.  It’s risky.”  I’d started out with low expectations, been pleasantly surprised, and then disappointed by the things that I couldn’t control.  I’d put a tremendous amount of time, energy, and love into a team, in the hopes that it would be a success. 

So was it a success? 

I could control how I treated my teammates; how I planned practices; how I played.  And for the most part I felt good about those things.  If I measure the team’s success by wins and losses, I could argue that it was not successful in comparison to other seasons that I’ve had.  But I knew going into this season that this would be a different team, and in all honestly I wanted a different one.  I was hungry for a different kind of experience.  I finished the season with new friends and renewed confidence in myself.  I felt that I’d risen to the challenge and come out better for it.

So my rose-colored glasses are working pretty well for me right now.  The season may have been a rollercoaster, but as it happens I really really like thrill rides.  Especially when I know that I’ll get off in one piece with my friends at the end.

9/27/10

When I moved to Texas, everyone warned me about the hot summers.  They cautioned me to wear sunscreen; not to exercise outdoors in the afternoons; to plan ahead for the over-air-conditioned buildings.  I thought I was going to die of heat exhaustion and get sun poisoning.

But the truth is that I don’t mind the summers that much.

The season that hurts my heart—if you can call it a legitimate season here in ATX—is the fall.

I grew up with autumns marked by crisp days when I’d wrap myself in sweaters and break out the apple cider.  I’d be sure to bring layers for field hockey practice, and get distracted by the oranges and reds blossoming on the trees around me.  Wood stoves would fire up in houses, filling the air with the crackle and smoke that signaled the start of the new season.

The fall in Austin is nothing more than an extended summer.  Aside from the glamour of football season, there’s little to distinguish it from the stifling-hot summer and the warm-rainy winter. 

But, ah, today…Today I saw my breath billow in the air when I took out my dog in the morning.  Today there was just a hint of that fall-leaf smell, though I knew that it didn’t mean the colors would change.  Today, though I didn’t need a jacket, felt chilly and refreshing.

My somber mood mixed with nostalgia and homesickness.  I ordered a pumpkin spice latte at Starbuck’s, and felt a little bit like a phony.  Because even though it smelled and felt as close to fall as we get in Austin, I knew that it wasn’t here for real. 

I’ll embrace it as much as I can, perhaps even going overboard.  With highs of only 80 during the day and nights as low as 40 degrees, I’ll make hot soup with crusty bread to curl up with on the couch.  I’ll throw an extra blanket on the bed even as I open all of the windows.  I’ll burn candles with scents like “Autumn Leaves” and “Macintosh Apple,” because hell—those smells aren’t around here naturally!  If I had a wood stove, I’d warm it up and sit down with a good book and my dog.  If fall won’t come to me, I’ll just have to fabricate it.

10/11/10

And then there’s the good stuff.  The real stuff.

I made my third annual trip home for the fall this weekend.  The first time, it was for my Boston bachelorette party/bridal shower.  After five years without the fall, I was reminded just how much I missed it.  (Of course, the blue skies, comfortably-cool temperatures, and ridiculously bright foliage didn’t hurt.)  So I decided to go again…and again.

Maybe I’ve been bringing the nice Texas weather with me, because every visit has been gorgeous.  Sunny, bright, cool enough for long sleeves but warm enough to enjoy a walk on the Robert Frost trail, shrouded in fiery leaves.  In some ways, I’m forgetting how rainy (and, at times, miserable) the fall can be in New England.  This time around, I packed my trip full of quintessential fall-in-western-mass activities like cider doughnuts, pumpkin patches, and the Yankee Candle Company.  And, of course, ample time with family.

Something settles in me when I can sense a change of season, like my internal clock is slowing and righting itself.  Like I’ve stepped off the hamster wheel to take stock of the beauty around me.

People tease me when I say that I lose track of the time of year in Texas.  (And I suppose that they’re justified in doing so, considering the fact that I write the date on the chalkboard in my classroom every day and all.)  But I do sincerely miss the marked changes every few months in more variable climates. 

I never thought that I was the kind of author who writes about nature, yet here I am doing just that.  One of my current manuscripts takes place in Massachusetts, and many a reader has told me that I have a well-developed sense of place.  Some have even said that my description of the setting occasionally interrupts the flow of the narrative.  So I suppose that even if nature isn’t my central subject, it is frequently my inspiration.  And there’s no hiding the fact that I dearly miss the kind of nature that I grew up with.

Yesterday a Future Children’s Librarian friend and I went to see Easy A, a movie that follows the trials and tribulations of self-proclaimed “invisible” adolescent Olive.  When the high-tech teenage rumor-mill turns her into the school slut, Olive navigates the line between embracing the role and rejecting it. 

FCL and I laughed our way through the film, and firmly agreed that we adored it.  Here are just five of the reasons why:

1.  Smart, Funny Girls

Alas, we don’t always see strong comedies firmly rooted in female characters.  When we do, they are often in the slap-stick, “oh, look at her teetering around on those ridiculous heels” kinds of ways.  But this film’s witty dialogue makes Olive (played by Emma Stone) hilarious, relatable—albeit slightly more intellectually advanced than your typical teen—and watchable from start to finish.  Replete with eye-rolling and zingers, Olive is the girl that I wanted to befriend in high school.  Or be, for that matter.

I’d like to add that it was a refreshing change not to see any cheerleaders (sorry, Fortune Cookie Junkie!).  While I acknowledge that today’s cheerleaders may be able to claim a spot in third-wave feminism, I did not miss the antagonistic cheerleader-rival character.  Sure, Amanda Bynes’s Christian-bitch Marianne fills that role, but it was a relief not to see any pom-poms or tumbling… except in a few select pep-rally scenes featuring Penn Badgley as the school mascot, “Woodchuck Todd.”  (Totally worth it.)

2.  Social Commentary

What kind of an English major/women’s studies minor/feminist would I be if I didn’t see a Deeper Meaning in the movies that I enjoy? 

In one memorable scene, Olive emerges from a bedroom at a party following a fake sexual tryst with a gay pal.  The boys waiting outside the door eagerly high-five her friend and pointedly step away from her.  The message is clear:  promiscuous boys are praised, while sexually active girls are shunned.  This movie makes a point about gender stereotypes, double-standards, and high school gossip, and I appreciate that.  There is a romance, but that plotline is entirely secondary to Olive’s coming-of-age story.  Ultimately, our heroine flips the script, holding a mirror up to her peers so that they can see the hypocrisy and sheer meanness in their high school world. 

And what better way to do it than to sew a scarlet “A” to your breast?  Sure, most other high schoolers won’t understand the reference.  But I loved it!  And that brings me to my next point…

3.  Literary References

The reader/writer in me relished the Hester Prynne parallel throughout the film.  I mean, how many teen movies actually give a synopsis of a classic piece of literature in the first thirty minutes of screen time?  Olive blasts the bastardized Demi Moore film version of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter; one of her classmates vilifies Hester Prynne for her actions during a discussion in English class; Olive herself embraces her Prynne-esque alter-ego.  Ah, how art imitates life imitating art.  Or something. 

Now, I know that this may be a stretch, but the movie also had me at “John Hughes.”  Arguing that John Hughes films are literary exaggerates the boundaries of the medium as well as the classical definition of the word, but come on—people thought J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye was a flash in the pan too, once, didn’t they? 

Hughes has a special place in my heart.  I know all of the words to The Breakfast Club, and I watched Sixteen Candles this morning over coffee.  I’m hardly objective.  But I think that Hughes was a visionary.  He had a knack for portraying the adolescent experience in ways that resonated with his audience…Even into their forties.  So when Olive yearns to kiss Jake Ryan over her birthday cake, or to have a big musical number like Ferris Bueller, I wanted those things right along with her.  Hell, I still want those things!

4.  Voice

The writers were smart to include a scene in which a peer tells Olive that she talks like a grown-up.  Because she does.  I’ve written before about how I’m occasionally given the critique that my characters use vocabulary too advanced for teenagers.  And that may be true; it’s something I’m working on.  But Olive’s banter is reminiscent of Dawson’s Creek, Veronica Mars, Gilmore Girls and my personal fave, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  She’s quick-witted, well-read, and worldly.  And sure, that may be unrealistic.  But it makes for outstanding one-liners piled on top of each other like layers in an indulgent dessert.  I ate them all up, without complaint, knowing the whole time that very few kids actually speak that way. 

But then, it makes sense for this character.  Olive comes from a family where her parents speak to her like she’s already an adult.  They are equally funny, grounded, and intelligent.  Which is a perfect segue to my last, self-indulgent point…

5.  Grown-ups Who Don’t Suck

Yes, I know.  Being a grown-up myself, it’s a bit selfish for me to make this one of my criteria.  Shouldn’t kids get a chance to have their movies, where the adults around them are irritating, out-of-touch and slightly abusive?  Probably so.  But I’m the one writing this review.

I really enjoyed seeing parents (played by Stanley Tucci and Patricia Clarkson) who are supportive without being stifling, and laid-back without being neglectful.  Parents who are happy, wise, youthful and kind.  I kept thinking, “This is the kind of parent I want to be…if I ever have kids, that is.”

And then there is the teacher, Mr. Griffith, played by Thomas Hayden Church, who is attentive in his own sardonic, dead-pan kind of way.  It’s always a relief to see realistic teachers.  Educators who are clearly educated.  Who care about their students, behave like human beings, and who are actually good at what they do.  Crazy concept, I know, but those teachers do exist.  All over the place, actually.  They’re funny, they’re intelligent, they’re dedicated.  And aside from my own personal biases in this area, Mr. Griffith was just fun to watch.  His character was laced with the same thoughtful voice as Olive, garnering respect from his students…and his audience.

Now, my FCL friend and I are both addicted to young adult literature, and I’ll openly admit that Teen Movie may aptly describe my film genre of preference.  Easy A fit a niche for us both.  But I argue that it’s more than your typical adolescent flick, a la She’s All That (which I watched recently and found entirely disappointing the second time around).  Easy A is well-made, well-written, and chock-full-o pleasing teenage characters.  It may even have inspired me to pick up The Scarlet Letter again.  Or at least rent the Demi Moore version of the movie…

            Last weekend I visited a newly-unemployed lawyer-writer friend in Illinois.  As one of my husband’s best friends from college, he stood up in our wedding.  Every time I see him I’m reminded why he means so much to my hubby.  He’s hilariously witty, and completely down-to-earth.  So when my team was travelling to his town to play in a tournament, I immediately asked him if we could crash at his house.  Of course, he said yes.  (Why turn down a visit from 15 wildly attractive women?)

            I flew in early and spent the day with The Groomsman and his two adorable beagles.  At one point, before his mischievous dog escaped from his backyard and we had to enact Operation-Ryno-Retrieval, we were talking about the writing process…and its inevitable frustrations.  Groomsman has a blog that I quite enjoy, www.hirejimessian.com, and he’s been doing some local freelance work. 

            “Now that I’m not working, I have no idea how I ever wrote a thing before,” he said of the time required to really commit to writing.  I couldn’t agree more.

            Sure, having a few equally-motivated critique partners helps.  And making a schedule also aids in my efforts.  Then there’s the fact that I don’t have any kids.  (How do parents ever find the time?!)  But if the last month has taught me anything, it’s that I’m easily distracted.

            I left the SCBWI L.A. conference in August feeling inspired and motivated.  But no sooner had I returned home than I flew off for a family vacation.  Upon returning to Austin, I promptly began the school year.  I’ve been swamped!  Now it’s been almost a month, and I’ve barely eeked out any time for My Writing.  Where does the time go?

            In my case, it goes in a million different directions.  Teaching, captaining a team, practicing ultimate, working out, watching TV (yeah, I’ll admit it), spending time with friends, attempting to make time for my husband, sleeping in (when I can), making dinner, eating dinner…Am I willing to give up any of these activities?  How many choices do I have to make in order to carve out some precious time for writing?

            It’s been far too long. 

            Before leaving for a conference and then a cruise with family (yikes!) over the last month, I met up with a new writer friend who told me about her blog, www.theresolutionrevolution.wordpress.com.  She and I agreed to regularly share work, drink wine, and pump each other up about writing when we need it.  Since that first meeting, I’ve been following her blog and find it fun, thoughtful, and approachable.  Much like the author herself, actually.

            Given the fact that I’ve just begun a new academic year, and introduced myself to 180 new middle schoolers and their parents, I thought I’d take a page out of my friend’s book (so to speak) and write up a few of my own New School Year’s Resolutions.  There are way too many, and some of them are entirely too unrealistic, but I figure — aim high.  Go big or go home.  Or something.  So here we go…

• Be present.  I have a terrible habit of trying to do one thing while my mind is focused on twelve others.  That makes for sub-standard teaching and a lot of stress.  I want to be more in-the-moment for my classes.  It’s better for me and for them.  In other words, no more multi-tasking.  One thing at a time, Colleen.  One.  Thing.  At a time.
• Read aloud.  They may be twelve and thirteen years old, but they love it.  And I love it, too.  I’m an actress at heart, really.
• Take my classes outside more.  I live in Austin, where the weather is warm year-round.  I teach at a school with a lush, spacious courtyard.  The kids have a blast when we take field trips to the picnic tables for lessons.  And we all need a little Vitamin D now and then.  (Another bonus is that this also helps minimize the multi-tasking and encourages the reading aloud…)
• Take care of my body.  Eat well, get enough sleep, and exercise.  Sure, there is a vanity aspect of this resolution.  But maybe I can see that as a little perk rather than a necessity.  The real benefit is the simple fact that I will feel better if I follow these guidelines.
• Take care of my mind.  I’m a happier person when I write, when I practice yoga, when I give myself the space to reflect and focus on the good things.  When I take the time to think and breath. 
• Celebrate Austin.  Do all of those things that I love about this city.
• Resist the urge to over-plan and/or plan too far ahead.  (See above, “be present.”)
• Publicize BookPeople events and speakers to my students.  I love that place and what they do, and I know that many of my students would fall in love with it like I have — www.bookpeople.com
• Do the best I can with what I’m given.  There are things that I can change, and things that I cannot.  The materials offered to me, the students in my classroom, and the tests required by my state/district fall into the latter category.  I need to be grateful for what I have and make the most of it.  I’ll be a better (read:  happier) teacher if I understand my students, appreciate them, meet them where they are, and push them to be the best versions of themselves.  I can only control my classroom; I need to make that the best environment that I can.
• Teach units and texts that I’m truly excited about.
• Be disciplined and efficient with my time.
• Say no.  Odd that I should resolve to be a “no” person, but generally I’m one of those people who takes on too much.  Inevitably, then, I feel overwhelmed with responsibility and can’t do anything as well as I’d like.  I will be so much happier if I learn to set boundaries for myself and let go sometimes.

 

So there you have it.  I’ve thrown a whole bunch of stuff at the wall.  Let’s see what sticks.  Oh, and don’t forget to check out my girl’s blog.  We could all use a little resolve each month, in happy bite-size portions.  (Unlike what I’ve done above, of course!)

 

If I could just come in I swear I’ll leave

Won’t take nothing but a memory from the house that built me

 

–Miranda Lambert, The House That Built Me

 

I began my summer with a trip home. 

I spent almost two weeks soaking in the warmth of family and old friends who welcome me with open arms every time I return.  I sat in small-town coffee shops and read.  I slept in and snuggled with the dog we got when I was sixteen.  I went running in my parents’ neighborhood, waving at people I’ve known since I was a kid.  I watched my mom coach softball and celebrated my birthday at my favorite restaurant.  I saw a movie with my parents and my brother.  We all cried at the same scene, then laughed at our tears, and wiped at them with popcorn-stained napkins.  I had coffee with a friend I’ve known since we were babies, and went to a barbecue filled with people I worshipped in high school.  I had drinks with my senior year boyfriend and breakfast with my maid of honor. 

This trip set the tone for the rest of my summer.  After a very stressful, emotional academic year, going home grounded me.  It put me in the mindset I needed to enjoy the rest of my time off and make the most of it.

One morning, I ran into the mother of an elementary school friend at my favorite bakery in town.  Much to my surprise, she asked me if I was still writing. 

“I always thought you were very talented,” she told me, and the words made tears spring to my eyes. 

Here was this person I hadn’t seen for probably a decade and a half, maybe more, and she cut right to the heart of the person that I want to be.  It was like I was in fifth grade again. 

She reminded me that I was writing at nine, ten, and eleven years old.  She made me remember who I was back then, when the world hadn’t gotten in the way.  Before I allowed all of the distractions, the trappings, the expectations of adulthood to manipulate who I am. 

In some ways I believe that I’m a better person now than I was as a kid.  I certainly want to be a better person, anyway.  But there are also parts of myself that I’ve lost; parts that I would very much like to have back.  I don’t know if it’s true that you can’t go home again, but if going home means remembering who I really am and holding on to that person, maybe it’s worth a try.

My amazing Austin friend Adrienne* recently took me to see the Indigo Girls play at La Zona Rosa.  Remembering how their music defined my teen years, I was sure it would be an emotional night for me. 

Lately I’ve been thinking about how good it would feel to move back to my hometown; to retreat out of the stress of adult life and pretend that I’m a kid again.  I know that part of my impulse in moving home is just a desire to revert rather than deal with being a grown-up.  And I’m aware that this is like putting a band-aid on a head wound.  That it wouldn’t really fix anything. 

Before the Girls came out last night, I told Adrienne, “You can go back to the place, but you can’t go back to the experience.”  In other words, I could visit my happy little hometown, but I wouldn’t ever be able to recapture the emotional place that I was in as an adolescent.  Not without becoming a complete joke, anyway, like Matthew McConaughey’s character in Failure to Launch.  (A movie I wouldn’t recommend to my worst enemy, by the way.)   

Well, Amy and Emily proved me wrong last night.  Their music marked my teen years, and hearing it performed again brought me back to all of the trials and tribulations therein.  I’m sure that I misinterpreted any number of their poetry, adapting them for the time and the place in my life, but they spoke to me nonetheless.  I had a moment, a memory, for every song.

“And now I’m serving time for mistakes

Made by another in another lifetime.”

 

As I finished junior high, I was often privy to older teammates belting out Galileo in the locker room.  The words would echo around the tiled walls, and I’d listen to the girls in mild admiration.  Being cool seemed so easy for some of those girls; why wasn’t it a simple thing for me?  I’ve often thought that I was paying my dues for past lives; for the people that I’ve been before.  Maybe my old selves were haunting the present-day me.  As a teenager, I did already feel like an old soul.  And not in a good way, either.  Not in the mature-for-my-age, wise-beyond-my-years sense.  Just somehow plagued by indecision and indulgent introspection.  Maybe I needed to call on Galileo for some answers, after all. 

 

“What makes me think I could start clean slated?

The hardest to learn was the least complicated.”

Ah, the summer of 1994.  Least Complicated got me through those endless, hot months, when I’d just gone through a messy break-up with my first real love. 

Nick and I dated for almost a year—an eternity in teenage time—and the whole thing fell apart when we both developed wandering eyes.  (Me for a geeky theater kid, he for one of my own softball teammates).  I sobbed over him for weeks, in the semi-privacy of my bright-yellow room, until I realized that Emily Saliers was right.  It seemed complicated, but it was really so simple:  We’d worked for a while, and we seemed like a great match on the outside.  But he was a high school relationship that was bound to fade.  To a certain degree, at least, we went out because it was expected, and because it seemed like the thing to do.  We made sense.  In the end, it was all so basic, so clear:  We weren’t meant to be together long-term.  It felt complicated, but it really wasn’t at all.  And we took forever (or at least what seemed like forever) to figure it out. 

 

“And the best thing you’ve ever done for me

Is to help me take my life less seriously; it’s only life after all.”

 

At the end of sophomore year, two of my friends and I sang Closer to Fine for a choir final, and I don’t think I realized at the time why this song resonated with me so much.  Sure, it’s one of Emily’s best songwriting ventures and possibly the most popular IG tune of all time.  It’s feel-good and upbeat; positive and insightful.  In retrospect, I realize that I should have paid better attention to the lessons that the Girls were teaching me.  Stop worrying so much; forget about searching for meaning in every mundane detail; quit your angst; live and be happy. 

I suppose I could start taking that to heart now.  Because if I’d started heeding their advice at sixteen, maybe I’d be a happier adult today.

 

 

“Because I burn up in your presence and I know now how it feels

To be weakened like Achilles, with you always at my heels.”

 

Of course, just like I had the predictable, good boyfriend in Nick, I also turned to someone unattainable and dangerous in Aaron.  We had a fiery, head-over-heels, exciting relationship…until it burned out, as these relationships do, like cheap fireworks on the 4th of July.  I remember falling so terribly hard for him, but knowing that he would never really be mine, and that he would always be just out of emotional reach.  I would play Ghost on my walkman (yes, walkman) as I walked to diving practice, sighing over Aaron and his terminal emotional distance.  Every time I gained some independence and began to move on, he’d show up again.  He did, indeed, haunt my teen years like a ghost. 

 

“I’m harboring a fugitive, a defector of a kind

And she lives in my soul, drinks of my wine

And I’d give my last breath to keep us alive…”

 

I sang Fugitive in my high school talent show with two of my friends, who were both sophomores at the time.  I was a senior, about to leave home for college, and I didn’t really know who I was yet.  And I knew that I didn’t know.  There was this girl hiding inside, waiting to come out…But she wasn’t ready yet.  And, as one of my new friends pointed out during freshman year of undergrad, I had a way of hiding her away even from myself.  Sometimes I wonder if I’m still digging her out from the cave that she lives in now. 

I’ve seen the Indigo Girls play at least half a dozen times, including once at a huge outdoor amphitheater just following my high school graduation.  They have since recorded several albums, most of which I’ve only listened to a little bit.  But that didn’t matter when I was swaying back and forth the other night at La Zona Rosa, arm-in-arm with my friend, two adult women riding high on nostalgia and girl-love.  Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was being wrapped around Adrienne (who’d have a few too many and needed me to hold her up), or maybe it was just the soulful lyrics that always seem to speak right to me. 

I cried twice.  Yes, cried.  In the middle of the dirty, sweaty, alcohol-slick floor. 

I sang as loud as I could during the songs I already knew.  I listened hard to the lyrics that were unfamiliar. 

The bright lights made my grown-up troubles seem so damn small, and my teenage years so bloody fresh in my mind.  I suppose that, while I can’t stay in that emotional place, I can at least visit.  Because I will always be the teenage girl who played her Indigo Girls CDs until they were scratched and worn-out. 

Or, at the very least, a somewhat older, slightly wiser version of her.