The Big Collision

Hey, I admit it:  I’m a dreamer.

I dream of my children going to college.  I imagine paying down my debts.  I envision renewing my wedding vows.

I dream of vacations on the French Riviera, where dark, swarthy Mediterranean men serve me exotic drinks with a sexy accent (heck of a leap, I know).

Sometimes, I dream of what might have been.  Frequently, I dream of what will be, and of course, there are those moments when I dream of what never was (there’s a little story to that, but I’ll save it for another day…)

And they’re glorious, my dreams!  There’s laughter in those reveries, lots of joy and much elation.  Life is very often good, even easy, and so it’s not hard to wonder why I dream.

But.

Recently, I made a completely innocuous observation that it’s a terrible thing when your dreams crash into reality. At the time, I just thought that sentence waxed poetic in my head and I actually posted it on Facebook, if for no other reason than I just like the way it rolled off my tongue.  Very wise, very profound.  (It’s because I’m so deep, you know?)

But actually, when I sat down at my computer later to do some work—after already having dedicated about an extra twenty-five hours above the forty hours that I’m actually paid for— that sentiment came back to me with a sudden kind of relevance.  I was at my computer, creating yet another lesson, planning to grade yet another assignment,  looking for yet another intriguing piece of video to bring the lesson to life (because God forbid students should be bored because your class is not entertaining enough) when I thought to myself, my god, I would so rather be writing right now.  After all, that’s my dream, is it not?  To be a writer?

I’ve got a novel going that I’m working on with a friend of mine that has been in my possession for months now and that I haven’t been able to look at (fortunately my writing partner has infinite wells of patience and doesn’t say anything—such a good guy!).  The little blog here that I write feels neglected.  It’s been months since I churned out a good short story.  And the one poem I wrote last month seemed to take forever to write, which for me, is a bit unusual.  When the writing bug hits, I can turn out a good poem in a few hours.  This one took weeks…but I digress…

All this nags at me, fills me with a sense of loss or despair.  Hopelessness.   There’s a kind of high I get when I write something, an immeasurable sense of accomplishment that picks me up and carries me away to heights beyond the heavens themselves, so when I’m unable to write—not because of lack of desire, but due to lack of opportunity—I get frustrated.  Antsy.  I feel unfulfilled.  I hear a little voice in my head that whispers that it’s time to write.  It tells me that I need to get a few words on paper, be it prose or verse or blog.  It suggests that I should dabble even if I can’t write

But time is my great enemy.  There’s never enough of it.  When I’m working, textbooks strewn about, tests stacked high on my dining room table, it steals from me precious hours and minutes that I could be using to scribble a verse or spin a tale of woe.  When I’m done, the ticking clock reminds me that my children need me and my husband misses me and so to them I go…and when finally, at long last, I think I’ve found a moment for myself, sleep (time’s evil partner if ever there was one) makes my eyes heavy in my head, my fingers slow on the keyboard, and my mind less sharp, less alert. Whatever even faint idea I may have had to write something slips from my thoughts, never to return….

The fact of the matter is that although I want to write, I have to work.  Bills must be paid, the kids have to be fed, my husband needs attention…and I’d like to enjoy a little something in the way of leisure activities.  As such, finding time to write every day is hard.

I know that there are people out there who would read this and scream out:  “Don’t make excuses! Make the time!  Find the time!  If you’re a writer, write!

I wouldn’t disagree with that at all, but finding time is hard.

During the school year, I work all the time, around the clock.  It’s a miracle to me that I still find time for kids and my husband (although my husband swears he suffers neglect at my hands, but you know, digressing and all that…)

So how do I reconcile the two?  My desire to write with my need to earn money?

I don’t know if there’s an easy answer to that.  I know that I have to take care of my family, and although I wish to no end that I could accomplish that task by writing, I have to be realistic.  I’m not famous, I’m not prolific, and when my dreams crash with my reality, there’s really no around even to hear the big bang, much less pick up the pieces of my frustration.

But I will give myself some credit. One of the beautiful things about wanting to do well is that I am becoming persistent.  I’m willing to try new little ventures when I write with the hope that every new story or poem or genre helps me wield a sharper, mightier pen, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  I sneak in tidbits of story here, lines of stanza there, and finagle a little bit of paragraph for a blog everywhere.

As a matter of fact, when I dream, the thing that I see over and over is that I don’t give up.  That I push myself and that I try.  I find moments, sometimes one after the other, sometimes far and few between, to get my words on paper.  And all the while, there’s a mantra in my head:  I will do this thing, I will make this work, and one day, I will be great.

And when these dreams crash into this reality, what is left behind is hope.

EMJ

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The Language of Writing

I am a student of language.

In my own childhood home, foreign language was very much a vital thread in the fabric of our everyday lives.  My family is Haitian, so I heard French and Creole in my house all the time when I was growing up.  As a result, I think that my family experience made me very receptive to nature of foreign languages. When you grow up in a bilingual household, it’s very easy to see the world with a larger, broader view—as well as your place in it—than if perhaps you grow up in a monolingual one, especially if that language is part of the dominant culture.

As such, when I got a little older, I decided I wanted to be an interpreter.  I was going to stand between two foreigners and unite them through the vehicle of language, telling their stories, sharing their concerns, recounting their fears or or exalting their joys. I had all these great, dreamy notions of living in New York City and working at the UN, meeting exotic people, and speaking a multitude of foreign languages, much to the amazement of my peers and the friends of my social circle.

But beyond the lofty goals I envisioned for helping others bridge their communication gaps, for me personally, I loved the idea of communicating with people from all over the world, in their respective language, and sharing a piece of their lives and their world that was so different from my own.  I imagined myself sitting in cafés in Paris, sipping on an espresso and watching les français stroll by, with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop.  Or I’d be lounging in a tapas bar in Spain, flirting with a dark-haired, dark-eyed Antonio Banderas-type (figure Antonio Banderas as he was in Desperado), secretly planning my wedding to this swarthy, sexy caballero.

I’ll be honest:  I just thought it would be pretty fucking cool.

Well, I didn’t quite realize that dream.  That’s not say that I didn’t try—I most certainly did.  When I was in college, I studied five foreign languages:  Spanish, French, German, Japanese, and Portuguese.  My studies granted me an opportunity to travel abroad and I was fortunate enough to study in France and Japan.  My travels did afford me the chance to realize part of my dream:  I did sit in those cafés in France, and while sipping on café au lait, I got to flirt with a lot of Spaniards who happened to be there learning French.

Go figure.

And in Japan, my eyes were opened to a world of wonder—there’s no other way to explain it.  The country was pristine, immaculate perfection.  The landscape of the country was manicured  flawlessness.  The careful art of bonsai really seemed to describe an entire people:  small, careful, beautiful, rich.

And through it all, the real focus of my dream manifested itself everyday, no matter where I was:  I was communicating with people from around the world, sharing bits of history and culture, food and fun, life.

I told stories of my world in the language of my hosts, and I listened to them regale me with their own stories in my language.

So it wasn’t a total loss, my dream.  If anything, I took my first steps forward.

But like with anything, sometimes life gets in the way.  I got a job, then I got married, and then I had kids.  A life abroad with three kids began to seem farther and farther out of reach, and I think I kind of let my dream go.  Not with any regret, mind you, but more out of a sense of necessity.  Interpretation is not a profession that is in high demand in this country to begin with, and living in the Deep South, it’s almost non-existent.

Such is life.

But one day, I picked up a pen and I began to write.  Not in French or in Spanish.  Not in German or Japanese or Portuguese.  But in English.  In the language that I had mastered long ago.

I wrote stories and I then I dabbled in verse.   The words seemed to pour out of me, as if I had opened floodgates that were holding back an ocean of water that I didn’t know was there.

I created worlds and characters and events and lives, and then I shared them with the world (a small world, I readily admit, but I have hopes that that world will become ever larger).  And as I wrote, I made an accidental discovery.

My dream had returned to me.

When I was younger, I aspired to communicate with the world through foreign language, but that opportunity would slip through my fingers.  But through my writing, the opportunity had re-presented itself to me.  I could still communicate with the world, only the means of delivery was different.  The stories may not be true, but they were engaging, nonetheless, and they captured a slice of life that could be given to another for their own personal inspection, whatever their perception.

I wonder sometimes why I didn’t see it before.  The language of writing is as complex as any other foreign language that I have ever studied.  Of course, there is the technical side:  the grammar, the mechanics, the study of function and form, syntax and process.  But there is also the creative side of language, where the technical aspects merge with creative thought and expression to deliver messages, ideas, or even…stories.

I can’t believe now how easy it was.  Certainly, the language was unexpected.  It never occurred to me that while using English I can still interpret, only instead I’m interpreting life events through writing, because let’s face:  much like live interpretation, storytelling is just taking an event and retelling it in a way that you see fit.  Granted, when I write, I clearly have more leeway to bend the facts as I wish them to be, but nonetheless, I still get to play with words, manipulate meanings, fool around with syntax.  As I write my stories and scribble my verses, I tweak tone and intonation, meaning and nuance.  And I love it.

I’m realizing that writing allows me to do the one thing that I always wanted to do:  experiment with language.   My dream was never really gone from me; in fact, it was always there, lurking in the recesses of my mind, just waiting for me to make this connection.  And now that I have it back, I think I’m going to do everything I can to realize my dream to its fullest potential.

Warum nicht?

EMJ