Cousins

I didn’t have older siblings. No one to haze me or torture me.  But also no one to look up to or trust with my secrets. However, I did have older cousins. My father had two older sisters that both lived around the corner and had children of their own. It was his sister Irene who was blessed with four girls. The youngest daughter, Jill, was five years older than me so I followed her around the most hoping she’d want to be my friend or at least let me tag along. The second oldest, Carmen, was our main babysitter.  Since my younger brother was severely autistic, we couldn’t just have anyone watch us. It’s a task best left to family and Carmen was amazing at it. My younger brother, Crispin, and I spent many nights at the my cousin’s house, like when mom had choir practice. If I was lucky, Jill would be home and we would play kick ball, or pickle in the middle. I remember we’d ride bikes in the driveway and Jill would ride hers out into the street. Then I’d follow her and my aunt would yell, “Heather Su, are you supposed to ride in the road?”  No, of course not.  So I’d sheepishly ride back to the driveway.

My cousin Carmen spent an enormous amount of time with us. She’d bring her homework with her when she babysat and I’d look at how her paper bag covered books were decorated.  Her folders were bands like Air Supply and Journey. Her bedroom wall had a half naked Prince hanging from it.  Pretty racy for a small town girl to fan girl over a half naked Puerto Rican. She loved the University of Michigan and taught me it was clearly the superior school. I may not have had older sisters, but I had older cousins and they filled a huge void in my life.

They took us in when my parents had to drop us off and rush to the hospital. Mom had given birth prematurely in the bathroom on Easter. My dad had to talk on a corded phone with the hospital on the other end and learn how to clean up his still born daughter in the bathroom as his wife cried beside him on the toilet. I rode in the van on the way to Aunt Irene’s house staring at that paper bag knowing what was in it. I was dropped off at my cousins.  They were there for me.

It was Junior Prom and we needed a place to party.  Carmen had just bought a house in the suburbs and Jill was going to be house sitting that weekend.  I asked her if she’d buy me alcohol, and let me have some friends over after Prom. Being the awesome older cousin she was, she said yes and YES!  So my Junior Prom night became unforgettable watching my friend Julie get thrown off the top of someone’s car and me throwing up my Blue Maui and Mountain Dew. Again, my cousins were there for me.

I grew up. I moved away. I know they had kids but we were at different stages of life as they were a generation ahead of me. Social media became the only thin thread of connection I had.  But then my parents died. The unthinkable happened and my brother ten years my junior and I were left with a hoarder house and a mountain of uncertainty. As we tackled the overly packed house of memories, my high school friends came through and were there to work. My teacher friends from my past teacher life came through and not only lifted piles of garbage, but lifted me up when I couldn’t lift myself.  And then came Jill and Carmen. My cousins that watched me grow up, made me dinner, dressed me into pjs, my cousins were there hours on end sifting, sorting and comforting. We laughed, we cried, never judging the house or my parents. They were family and time and time again, they were there.

I went to the Toto - Journey concert last night. I debated on paying that much, concert tickets are ridiculous. But I knew it’d be a night of classics, bangers as the kids say now.  And, I had to go see Journey because my cousin Carmen loved them. Every song reminded me of being young, of riding my tricycle down the hall, of asking Carmen to leave the hall light on when I went to bed. She loved Journey and I loved her. I’ve never realized how much my cousins meant to me until now. But listening to those songs brought me back and reminded me how lucky I was to have older cousins who where always there and always will be. 

Another School Shooting

I remember I was walking down the hall and Jodi the janitor was sweeping the floor. Jodi was my favorite type of woman. Quick, to the point, a woman who doesn’t mince words. She’d bark at the students in the hall, but saved all the pencils swept up at the end of the day for those who didn’t have any. There were only about 375 students in that whole high school. Everyone knew everyone, whether they wanted to or not. 

I was walking to my class when she removed her headphones and grabbed my arm.
“Hey!” she grunted, “there’s been a shooting.”
“A what?” I replied.
“A shooting, some kid shot up his high school in Colorado!”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this news. I’m sure we bantered for a bit and then went on to my class since Lord of the Flies wasn’t going to teach itself.  What I didn’t realize was how this moment, in that hallway, would become a pivotal moment in my life, one that would happen over, and over and over again.

Fast forward to two days ago, the day before Valentine’s day. I looked down at my phone and read there was an active shooter at Michigan State University, the school I received my Master’s degree from, where I joined the Red Cedar Writing Project. The school where many of my friend’s children call home. At 9:00pm students were running and ducking around campus, hiding in corners, shutting off lights, texting loved ones. An entire campus was frozen in fear as an active shooter went from building to building shooting indiscriminately creating “wrong place at the wrong time” moments. By the end of the horror, three young students lost their lives and a shooter died from a self-inflicted gunshot. A community came together, again, held a vigil, again and every Spartan alumni felt collective grief and despair. Parents hugged their children a little tighter that night while teachers reviewed their active shooter response plans. This is our America now.

What started in 1999 has run rampant across the country with no school too large or small, no child too young or too old, exempt from this new existence. Since Columbine there has been a total of 304 fatal school shootings and counting. We’ve grown accustomed to the routine, the aftermath and the realization that nothing will change. We are a country that loves its guns and freedom more than the lives lost. We would rather debate issues, then solve issues - pray for comfort, then fight for action. 

I texted my own daughter the next day and reminded her when she goes to class, don’t sit by the door. Make sure you know where the exits are. Find places you would run and duck if needed.  By this time, it’s a numbers game and all she can do is try to decrease her odds of being in danger. For the rest of the week the media will debate the shooter, how he got a gun, and his mental stability. Schools will revisit their action plans and teachers will be told they should arm themselves or become human shields. Some students at MSU that night had already survived the Oxford High School shooting of November 2021 and had to relive the nightmare again. My hope is that now that we’ve created a generation of traumatized students, they will grow up to become policy makers and changers. Maybe they can do what we could not. Until then, we will rely on the teachers, the counselors, and the Jodi the janitors of the world to hold us together, push us forward and remind us how beautiful life can be. As Mr Rogers told us, look for the helpers in moments of crisis. And if they aren’t there, we must step up and become them. 

Character Writing

She sat in the back of the car and watched the rain drops slide down the window. There was no way she was going back in that tent. Besides the fact that duh, it was raining, the guys had come to visit and decided to spend the night as well.  No thanks, she thought.

The hiss of the cassette signaled the end of side one. She didn’t hesitate to push eject, flip it over, and click play to keep the melodic beat going. She was in love with this band called Nine Inch Nails. Every industrial beat and angered lyric spoke to her soul. She was obsessed with this new sound. It seemed to reflect how she felt inside, give voice to the anger and confusion brought on by adolescence. Every generation finds its voice in music. Who knew Trent Reznor would become the perfect anthem for Generation X. 

She was trying to write down her feelings. She had spent the weekend avoiding flippant experiences and vapid people. The shallow conversations and teenage fraternizing with the locals left her empty and frustrated. For some time she kept waiting for the fun. She thought there was something wrong with her, that she was missing something. But this weekend she realized she was fine, it was the world that was fucked up. She was stuck in a series of existences that offered mediocrity at best. This weekend she discovered people out there who didn’t eat meat and read Ayn Rand and Hunter S Thompson. There were boys who wanted to sit by a fire and play gin rummy, not tool around on jet skis and drink Bud Light. There was a dark, creative side growing in her and she was going to do everything she could to nurture this discovery.