A Satisfying Spice

Dish courtesy of Sunbird Kitchen.

Tokyo turnips with xo sauce, chili oil, toasted quinoa and nasturtium flowers. It’s like stepping into a hot bath. The chili oil burns my mouth at first, but I let it linger on my tongue. I breathe and feel my sinuses clear. The juicy Tokyo turnips give respite from the spice. I sink in deeper. The Hinona Kabu turnips taste similar to radishes, and pair well with the nasturtium flowers. They add a peppery flavor, which compliments the subtle saltiness of the xo sauce––a caramelized shellfish and meat sauce. Surprisingly the xo sauce is my favorite part of the dish. After I finish eating, I wipe my mouth. My lips feel slightly numb, but I don’t try to neutralize the spice with dairy. It’s a satisfying spice.

This summer I’m lucky to be working at Sunbird, a local café in Orleans, MA that serves intentional dishes for mindful eating––carefully selected ingredients, thoughtful preparation, and considerate presentation. The kitchen sources their ingredients from local farmers–the turnips in the above dish are from Chatham Brews Inn (CBI) Farm in Brewster–and the menu changes depending on what’s in season. Above is a new dish I tried last week, after chatting extensively with one of the chefs about the turnips and the kitchen’s plan for them. Through inquiring about, tasting, and selling the food we serve I’m learning to trust what ingredients a chef pairs together. In many of my past experiences as a customer at restaurants, I've been particular about how I want my food prepared, what ingredients can be left out, and can I please substitute this ingredient for that one? Although I would not voluntarily add chili oil to the dish, my experience with the dish wouldn’t have been the same without it.

Dish courtesy of Sunbird Kitchen.
Meatballs with harissa yogurt, ricotta salata, dill, and mint. A Moroccan-inspired dish––harissa, dill, and
mint are all common in Morocco. It's not as heavy as meatballs and marinara, and the aftertaste reminds me
of spicy chorizo sausage. The dill, meatballs, and ricotta salata compliment each other well.

Through my work at Sunbird, I'm rekindling a joyous relationship with food. I respect the entire experience of a meal, from selecting the ingredients to washing the dishes after. Inspired by my work at Sunbird, I’ve been experimenting in my own kitchen a lot this summer. Here are some highlights:

1. 

   Lettuce, garden veggie burger, crumbled smoked gouda cheese,
   cucumbers, sautéed carrots and kale, hummus, Braggs dressing.  

   Melted gouda cheese on a garden veggie or portabella burger. Just trust me.
2. Mixing fresh veggies with sautéed veggies adds interesting temperature and texture to a salad.
3. Fresh mint counterbalances spicy and fishy flavors.
4. Herbs are most flavorful when kept raw. Thank you, Sunbird Kitchen.
5. Fresh mint and dill compliment each other.
6. Pickled turnips.
7. Braggs dressing, sesame ginger tofu, and sea beans. The combination of flavors reminds me of sushi.

   

   Lettuce, sesame ginger tofu, sea beans, cucumbers, egg yolk,
   hummus, parsley, Braggs dressing. 

8. Fresh parsley on hummus. It echoes the traditional tabouli and hummus combination. This is best when hummus is the main feature of the dish––otherwise the hummus can overpower the dish.
9. Fish sauce. I've had it in three different dishes this summer: the butter turnips from Sunbird, kimchi from Sunbird, and crispy brussels sprouts from The Canteen in Provincetown. It's salty, spicy, and satisfying.
10. Poached egg whites. Smoked egg yolks. Fried eggs. Omelets. Sunny side up eggs. Scrambled eggs. I've tried them all this summer.

Lettuce, cucumbers, granny smith apple,
scrambled eggs with kale, carrots, sesame ginger tofu.

My latest creation: Brown rice toast spread with fresh avocado. Topped with two fried eggs,
sautéed mushrooms and onions, salt, pepper, and fresh rosemary. I was proud of this one.


Brown rice toast. Mango and strawberries.
Omelet with goat cheese and sautéed mushrooms, onions, and rosemary. Topped with fresh rosemary.
It's photo worthy because the omelet actually stayed intact when I flipped it. 

When I take the time to cook, arrange, eat, and reflect on my food, I'm less likely to jump for the next flavor. I sit back and appreciate what I'm tasting. I’m present. I’m satisfied.

Hope in the Absence of a Happy Ending

"Where is the hope in the story?" my step-dad asked at the talk after a Tuesday night performance of Ayad Akhtar’s play, Disgraced. Unlike most popular dramas, Disgraced doesn't give us a clean lyrical moral to sticky-note on our mirrors. Instead, one of the most memorable quotes from the play is when the Muslim lawyer Amir, who rejected his religious roots to advance his career, admits he felt a sense of pride on 9/11. A black woman participating in the talk-back after the show affirmed that these conversations amongst minority groups happened after 9/11––the sense of pride that the culturally oppressed finally found a way to "punch back" at those who had tried to impose their cultural values on them. That's not a quote I would put on my mirror.

But it's honest––frighteningly honest. It's a statement that might be held only in a living room, where the entire play is set. What starts out as a celebratory dinner for Amir's white American wife, Emily, in recognition of her Islamic-inspired art (including a portrait of Amir), soon turns uncomfortably political, religious, and personal. The guest list at the dinner party is religiously and ethnically diverse, between Amir (an ex-Muslim), Emily (a white American), Amir's colleague Jory (an African-American), and her husband Isaac (a Jewish art dealer promoting Emily's work). With the help of too much booze, the realistic New York apartment setting transforms into a room of mirrors, as every character's inner prejudices, bottled resentment, and naivety is reflected before their eyes. What they find is a distorted form of the put-together individuals they try to portray.

Despite all this, the play uniquely makes no apologies for its bluntness. Shakespeare's Hamlet explains that actors must hold "a mirror up to nature" (III.ii). This often distorts how we perceive ourselves and the world around us. Disgraced rejoices in the theatre's ability to hold a "mirror up to nature."

The absence of apology and obsession with "political correctness" is the hope in this unsettling play. There's hope in the honesty of the script and the five actors who are brave enough to embody these discussions. There's hope in the talk-back sessions after the show, where audiences have a public forum to discuss the issues raised in the play. I find hope in the black woman who was brave enough at that talk-back session to affirm the reality of Amir's pride in 9/11. There's hope in the high school attendees in the back corner of the theatre. There's hope in the shared silence and stillness of the audience, and in the standing ovation at the end. I find hope in the support of and engagement in this cross-cultural discussion.

Brené Brown, a writer and research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work, writes about the importance of conversation in her book, The Gifts of Imperfection.

Most everyone reading this book knows how to eat healthy. I can tell you the Weight Watchers points for every food in the grocery store. I can recite the South Beach Phase I grocery shopping list and the glycemic index like they're the Pledge of Allegiance. We know how to eat healthy.

We also know how to make good choices with our money. We know how to take care of our emotional needs. We know all of this, yet...

We are the most obese, medicated, addicted, and in-debt Americans EVER.

Why? We have more access to information, more books, and more good science––why are we struggling like never before?

Because we don't talk about the things that get in the way of doing what we know is best for us, our children, our families, our organizations, and our communities. (36-37)

We know the only way to achieve coexistence and communicate across cultural borders is by practicing tolerance, immersing ourselves in diverse communities, and being open-minded to self-reflection and change. To quote Brown, "We know all of this, yet..." (36)

Our Congress’ parties can’t come to a consensus about gun control in the United States, even in the aftermath of the Sandy Hook and San Bernardino shootings. American citizens vote for the familiar and therefore “electable” candidate, rather than the one who presents something new. A woman like black lesbian feminist Audre Lorde writes an essay titled, Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference, explaining how “white women have such difficulty reading Black women’s work…because of their reluctance to see Black women as women and different from themselves.”

Why? "Because we don't talk about the things that get in the way" (Brown 37). We don't talk about our universal fear of a way of life different from the one we already know.

Jonathan Lear, a philosophy professor at the University of Chicago, explores this universal fear in his book, Radical Hope. Following the story of the devastation of the Crow Native American tribe through the eyes of Plenty Coups, “the last great chief of the Crow nation” (Lear 1), Lear explains how Plenty Coups was able to courageously lead his people in abandoning an old way of life to make room for a new one. Plenty Coups’s courage, Lear argues, comes from his radical hope, a hope that allows the Crow to identify their anxiety over an uncertain future.

Lear writes, “Humans are by nature cultural animals: we necessarily inhabit a way of life that is expressed in a culture. But our way of life––whatever that is––is vulnerable in various ways. And we, as participants in that way of life, thereby inherit a vulnerability. Should that way of life break down, that is our problem” (6). This universal vulnerability is perhaps why so many individuals and groups cling to their cultural ideals; they’re ways of making meaning in an inherently uncertain world.

The Crow culture is grounded on the virtue of courage. Aristotle defines virtues as states of character that, if practiced, will lead to an excellent life (Lear 108). At its core, courage is “living well with the risks that inevitably attend human existence” (Lear 121). The changing nature of human existence therefore requires courage to be flexible (Lear 83). However, most of us have what Lear calls a “thick” definition of the virtues––definitions compiled based on our culture (Lear 59). For the Crow, they defined courage based on their performance in battle. Since virtues are a conscious practice, everything in the Crow way of life revolved around preparation for battle. They lived their lives in confidence of what it meant to succeed and fail in their world. “This is what came under pressure” when the whites began to take over––the possibilities they had counted on as remaining stable (that they would either succeed or fail in battle), were no longer applicable (Lear 26). Thus, they were forced to reevaluate what was and wasn’t courageous. Referring back to Lear’s assertion that “[h]umans are by nature cultural animals,” this reevaluation essentially worked against their inherent nature as humans, thus spurring anxiety.

Lear proposes that our anxiety about this universal vulnerability is our inability to name it (7). Anxiety is inherently unnamable, because it’s grounded in what we cannot understand (Lear 76). Lear suggests that “if we could give a name to our shared sense of vulnerability, we could [perhaps] find better ways to live with it” (7). The power of radical hope is its ability to identify this anxiety, and thus redirect it toward progressive action. The radical hope manifested in a dream Plenty Coups has about a Chickadee allows him to abandon his thick definition of courage and adapt it to the new reality of the time. Courage, now, isn’t defined by the warrior who performs nobly in battle, but by the Chickadee-person who practices his ability to listen and learn from others. For the Crow, this means learning the ways of the whites.

Radical hope is important because it allows the Crow to hold onto the core foundation of their culture: courage. However, Plenty Coups has to have hope that there is a future with a different definition of courage, a future which he cannot yet see and doesn’t yet know how to navigate. Plenty Coups is courageous in his willingness to sit with the uncertainty.

Brown writes that, like most people, she “always thought of hope as an emotion––like a warm feeling of optimism and possibility.” Her research revealed “hope is not an emotion; it’s a way of thinking or a cognitive process” (65). She cites the work of C.R. Snyder, who used to research at the University of Kansas, Lawrence. “Hope is learned!” Brown exclaims.

Snyder suggests that we learn hopeful, goal-directed thinking in the context of other people. Children most often learn hope from their parents. Snyder says that to learn hopefulness, children need relationships that are characterized by boundaries, consistency, and support. I think it’s so empowering to know that I have the ability to teach my children how to hope. It’s not a crapshoot. It’s a conscious choice. (66)

Plenty Coups’ radical hope was a conscious choice to sit with uncertainty. Disgrace manifests radical hope in its candid script and unsettling ending. Perhaps what was missing from Disgraced wasn’t hope, but comfort. One woman in the talk-back session suggested that maybe Amir would go on to explore his double-consciousness and become a better person. She was writing the comforting ending she was deprived of. But Disgraced isn’t Beauty and the Beast, where Belle finds the man within the beast. As Amir confronts Emily’s portrait of him at the end of the play, the lights go out with his back turned to the audience. We don’t get even a hint at Amir’s inner feelings, or a glimmer of comfort from a possible transformation. We’re left to wrestle in the dark room of mirrors.

The standing ovation at the end of the play was another manifestation of hope in the Boston University Theatre on Tuesday night. Maybe some of them just stood to follow the crowd, but I would like to believe that many of them stood to recognize the conversation that was had onstage. Maybe some audience members were forced to go to the show, like some of the high school students. Maybe some of the heavy silence was because people were asleep. I would also like to believe, though, that most of the audience members consciously chose to spend their Tuesday night immersed in the cross-cultural discussion Disgraced brought forth, and that most of them actively engaged and listened. I would like to believe they practiced the courage of the “Chickadee-person,” and had the radical hope to look at their vulnerable selves in the room of mirrors.

“Disgraced” runs from January 8-February 7th at the BU Theatre on 264 Huntington Avenue in Boston, MA. Discount tickets are available. Go to http://www.huntingtontheatre.org/ for more information.

Going Out on a Limb

Eight months ago I sat in a tree overlooking Walden Pond with my friend Maiel. It was a day of adventures––philosophical conversations in an empty field, going off the path, throwing rocks defiantly across railroad tracks, and daring society to force us to conform to unspecified societal norms. For those of you who read my post, "...will grow and prosper wherever planted", you'll recognize this as the adventure I went on with Maiel in April, on a journey to decide where I was going to college. After an affirmative "D" drawn in the sand, I could hear my heart voice pronounce its need to go to Denison University in Granville, Ohio. Eight months later, after my first semester at Denison, I've had another soul-fulfilling adventure with Maiel that wonderfully captured my last four months at college.

Our "Adventure Trees" (Mine: Left ; Maiel's: Right)

Above is just one of the many crafts we made. The inspiration for these trees come from Windy Sunset's Creations. Windy Sunset's Creations calls them gem trees. We call them Adventure Trees, reminiscent of the monumental adventure we had back in April. For me, that adventure marked the liberating risk of choosing an uncertain future. Granted, the future is inherently uncertain, but as I reflected in my April blog post, Denison was more uncertain than St. Olaf. I chose Denison because I knew there were parts of myself aside from English and Theatre that I had yet to discover. As I wrote in my April post, "I will bring my sweaters and stuffed animals and love of theatre to Denison, but I will also be given the space to grow in an environment where I'm not surrounded by my familiar tastes. I would bring my solid foundation to the unfamiliar soil, and allow new branches to grow. The result was much like my "Adventure Tree:" very unstable. 

I liken our trees to Banyan Trees. The Collins Dictionary of Biology defines a Banyan tree (Ficus benghalensis) as, "an Indian tree best known for the production of large aerial roots that are let down from its larger branches and, in effect, form secondary trunks which give extra support and allow the tree to spread." Maiel's tree is the main trunk of the Banyan tree. With its well-balanced branches and neat, evenly spaced out roots, it reflects 18 years of a developed foundation: strong relationships with teachers and peers, invested in her high school's drama program, and a developing romance. I could be describing her foundation or mine (they're similar in these three areas), although it's not for me to describe her emotional attachment to it. I can say that my own emotional attachment to my main trunk was strong––stronger than I realized. 

I didn't realize how comfortable I was with my tight knit drama group and established relationships until I started branching out. I brought my stuffed animals and sweaters and love of theatre to Denison. However, despite my initial romanticization of spending every free moment in the theatre and late night walks up the hill from rehearsal, I opted out of the first show for fear of overcommitting myself like I did in high school. Without a cast or a character to immerse myself in, and without my familiar teachers, friends, and environment, I felt like I was dangling in the tree. Unlike the main trunk, the roots growing from the branches aren't neat and orderly, like Maiel's tree. They're like mine––tangled and desperate to cling to something familiar. (I think this is why my first friend was someone who carried a briefcase––he reminded me of my friend Alex.) 

What I sometimes forgot was that this new limb was part of an already built foundation. It's the line I drew between "pre-Denison Megan" and "Denison Megan" that left me feeling so disconnected. It felt like I was starting my life over. When I finally realized that this new limb was attached to my main trunk, and would ultimately strengthen my total foundation, I was able to relish in the uncertainty of the ungrounded roots. I can objectively say now that not diving into theatre was the best decision I could've made for myself this semester. If I had gotten right in with a cast, I likely would've followed one group of people, and lost out on the opportunity to let my roots explore new territory. It's through dangling that I found myself in the Communications department so often, and engaging in interfaith dialogue at the house for spiritual and religious life. I'm clarifying what it is I love about English and Theatre––how they help people communicate. Most importantly, recognizing that my "two selves" don't need to be as separate as I thought opened up the possibility of a multi-dimensional self––a Megan Lovely larger than the theatre-enthusiastic, academic-driven, and self-controlled individual, including parts I don't like. 

As I realized sitting in that tree at Walden Pond eight months ago, going out on a limb is liberating. What's most significant about the Banyan Tree is that it's the trunks that grow from these limbs that strengthen the core foundation of the tree, and allow it to spread. Before going to college, I was in the habit of saying, "I can't make a decision." The growth I experienced during my first semester at Denison–a school I chose–assures me that I can make decisions. It's affirmative of the power of not just choosing, but embracing uncertainty. These last four months have given me the confidence and strength to keep going out on a limb, and spreading out to unexplored soil.

"...will grow and prosper wherever planted"

I’m going to college! After nearly a month of stressing about where I’m going to go next year, I am excited to announce that I am officially a member of Denison University Class of 2019. I think I knew where I wanted to go these past few weeks, but I had to come to the decision on my own terms in my own way––with thorough contemplation, heavy analysis, and lots of symbolism.

My college mascots: Clifford the Big Red Dog (Denison's mascot is "Big Red") with the ever-faithful Olaf the Snowman, donning a new Denison pin. The two of them remind me of Snoopy and Woodstock. 

Up until yesterday afternoon, I was torn between Denison University in Ohio and St. Olaf College in Minnesota. I had several moments when I nearly decided on Denison, but then I panicked at the thought of actually committing to one place. 

I always imagined myself at a place like St. Olaf. St. Olaf is me in a college––group conversations about favorite soup flavors, warm sweaters, cozy spots by the fireplace, an Olaf stuffed animal, homestyle meals, a dry campus, heavy on the arts, and not so big on sports. Looking on the Facebook page, nearly every student was into the arts in some way, and that was enticing and comforting.

I never imagined myself at a place like Denison. I only applied because I attended the Reynolds Writing Workshop there the summer before my junior year and it’s my stepdad’s family school. I figured if my other colleges didn’t work out, I could see myself being satisfied at Denison. Denison is opposite of who I’ve always defined myself to be––more into sports, the more “typical” college experience (I certainly didn’t have the “typical” high school experience going to a small, project-based charter school), Greek life, and more outward with their accomplishments (as evidenced by their active outreach and promotion). 

I recognized myself at St. Olaf. I didn’t recognize myself at Denison, and that was scary. By going to St. Olaf, I was more sure of what I was going to get, of who I would be. I couldn’t see that so clearly at Denison. From what I gathered, Denison was more diverse in student interests, and while I knew I would find some of "my people" (people into the arts) eventually, it wouldn't be as easy. By going to Denison, I feared that perhaps I was trying to be someone I wasn’t, trying to fit into a more university-style campus (although it has just over 2100 undergraduate students and is by no means a large school). 

Yet there was something exciting about Denison. Before I visited three weeks ago, I was really excited to go on the trip, and I couldn’t understand why. While there, I didn’t find “my people” right away and I was worried about being able to find my place. Yet I liked walking around campus. It was more sprawled out than St. Olaf was. I felt free. It felt like college. I remember feeling somewhat out of body at Denison, as if I was watching myself from afar. I sought out help at the IT office to fix my water-logged computer. I sang karaoke at the coffee house with a Denison student. I talked for almost two hours to another prospective student on the plane ride home, and didn’t even know his name until an hour and a half into the conversation. 

If you’re getting lost in my yo-yoing pros of St. Olaf versus Denison, then you understand a taste of what’s been spinning in my mind these past few weeks. Ultimately, I knew that I could be happy at either school, but that each school would offer me something slightly different. I was trying to figure out what I wanted. 

So let’s backtrack to Sunday, the first major step in my college decision. I woke up feeling deflated and helpless. My inability to make a decision was clouding my focus and making it difficult for me to be present or accomplish anything. I was anxious to get out of the house and get a change of scenery. I messaged my friend Maiel, who is always ready for an adventure, and asked her along for the journey. 

We originally planned on hiking Mt. Monadnock, but as the morning slipped away, that plan got downgraded to Mt. Wachusett and eventually Walden Pond in Concord, MA. We both still had our full hiking gear, complete with backpacks, plenty of water, a day’s worth of snacks, first aid supplies, sunscreen, bug spray, and hiking boots. We were both eager to get away from civilization, which was harder at Walden than if we were climbing to the top of a mountain. We ventured deep into the woods though, eventually finding a stream and following it into an open field by another pond. We sprinted across it, feeling full of life and also slightly rebellious. Ignoring the “No trespassing” sign, we wandered around the pond, and eventually just lay in the field debriefing about life, which naturally for me, involved talking about college.

“The way you’re talking sounds like you want to go to Denison,” Maiel said. 

“I don’t know, I can’t make a decision,” I said, and we soon started our trek back home. On our way, we came across railroad tracks.

Maiel, who also enjoys symbolism, took a poetic approach to them. “You know, railroad tracks are kind of romantic,” she said. “They represent the confinements of society. Society tells you to stay within their rigid path.” 

Continuing with my rebellious feeling, I plopped myself down in the middle of them. (I recognize that to most, my “rebellious” actions of the day may sound pathetic, but they were freeing for me.) Maiel sat down next to me, and we started throwing rocks at the tracks, first one by one, seeing if we could bounce them off the track, and then by the handful, letting them fall where they fell, every rock another decision that we weren’t going to give a damn about and just let happen. 

“Alright, now what you’re going to do is take this big rock, and throw it up into the air,” Maiel said, drawing a line with her foot in the tracks. “This side is Denison, and this side is St. Olaf. Wherever the rock lands, is where you’re going to go to college.” She hid behind the fence a good ten feet away so I wouldn’t impale her with the symbolism, and I threw the rock.

But the story doesn’t end here, because the rock fell on the St. Olaf side. (Besides, while I may have been feeling freer than usual, I’m not someone who can just let what could be a coincidence make my decision.) 

“How do you feel?” Maiel asked.

“I don’t know!” I exclaimed. “I could be happy at either place!” 

And I ran off the tracks and we continued our journey home, venturing off the trails some more, climbing trees, and trying to get as much outside ourselves as possible.

As we started making our way back to the car, I plopped myself down in the sand by the pond. “I don’t want to go home until I make a decision,” I said. “At home, there’s too much external influence. My mind is too cluttered.” 

I was absent-mindedly playing in the sand for awhile when–"Stop!" Maiel shouted.

“What?”

“You just made a D in the sand,” she said.

“Really?”

“You were starting to make an O, and I was about to say, 'I wish D’s and O’s didn’t look so similar,' but then the O went away and you started to make a line and then you made the D.”

A slightly more defined version of what I drew. 

“I think it’s Denison,” I said, suddenly feeling sure.

“Really?”

“Yes. But I can’t go home, because I know I’ll start second-guessing myself. I need to stay out of my house.” 

We went back to her house and made dinner, and characteristic of me, over the course of the next few hours I started questioning my decision. It was 10:30 at night, and I was once again feeling stuck. 

“I’m not leaving your house until I can call my mom with a decision about where I’m going to college next year,” I said. 

“Do you need some wine? Do you need to get drunk to clear your head?” Maiel joked.

“No. I need fresh air,” I said. We went outside on her porch and I leaned over the railing, trying to imagine myself at each school and seeing how I felt, like what Mom used to make me do when I couldn’t figure out which stuffed animal I wanted to buy in the store.

“What’s your soul telling you?” Maiel asked after a few minutes.

“It’s telling me that St. Olaf is comfortable and is warm sweaters and my cousin Rachel and an Olaf stuffed animal. And Denison is scary and new and exciting.”

“And what do you want?” she prompted.

“Denison.”

“Really?” 

“Yes.” 

I left as quick as I could after that, anxious to call my mom before the doubt kicked back in. I called her in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot, not wanting to risk the doubt that might sink in when I got home. I told her my decision, my tone scared, confident and excited.

That night, I felt the lightest I’d felt in a long time. I found my Clifford the Big Red Dog stuffed animal in the attic (Denison’s mascot is “Big Red”), and threw on my Denison sweatshirt. I danced, skipped, and ran around my neighborhood twice, smiling so much it hurt and crying because it was the first time I could really see my future. I laid on the grass for awhile, looking at the stars, and slept a sound 10 hours that night.

And then I woke up in the morning, panicked. All day Monday I was mopey and unsure. I started reconsidering St. Olaf and was leaning more towards there, even though we had a “Denison celebratory dinner” with burgers (Ohio has lots of farms and therefore good, grass-fed beef) and fries and chocolate shakes. On Tuesday, I went for a run with my childhood friend Coltin around Walden Pond and then out to breakfast, and I talked both of our heads in circles about which school I wanted to go to. We went back to his dad’s house and he was fixing his car. There was part of me that said I should get back home to work on memorizing songs for the musical Rent, but there was part of me that just wanted to stay and watch him work on his car, because that was new and exciting. There wasn’t much for me to do though, so I ended up leaving.

On my way back, I passed a flower stand and decided I really wanted flowers. What I originally wanted was magnolia flowers, a la the line in Carrie Underwood’s song “Crazy Dreamer,” “Hello you wild magnolias, just waiting to bloom.” But magnolias grow on trees, and even if I had the space to plant a new tree, the flower stand didn’t have any magnolia seedlings. I realized what I really wanted to do was plant something, so I went to O’Connor’s Hardware Store and bought a packet of wildflower seeds.

It’s then I made my decision. I would go to Denison, where I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to get. I chose this particular packet of wildflower seeds for two reasons: one, because it didn’t specify the types of flowers that even could grow, and two, because of the line on the back of the packet,

"The large selection insures that many varieties will grow and prosper wherever planted and reseed themselves each year." 

I, too, will grow and prosper wherever I’m planted, and I like the idea that I’m not sure what I’ll look like in full bloom.

I bought the seeds and drove home blaring Taylor Swift’s song “22." Luckily no one was home. I ran upstairs to my room, grabbed my checkbook and Denison acceptance packet, looked up how to write a check, and got out of the house as fast as I could to drive to the post office to mail my $300 deposit before anyone could get home and see what I was doing.

When I got to the post office, I slowed down my brain enough to fully recognize what I was doing and accept that. I didn’t want to make a rash decision, although I was purposefully keeping myself moving forward to stop myself from going into another circle of indecision. I asked a nice man at the post office to look over my deposit check and make sure I signed it correctly, and he told me to add the two 0’s over the 100 after the words "Three hundred" to indicate that it was $300 even. After quadruple-checking the check and enrollment card, I sealed the envelope, and dropped it in the blue mailbox where I couldn’t reach in and change my mind.

Turning around, I saw a girl I used to sing in the choir with that I hadn’t seen in years. 

“I just mailed my deposit into college!” I said, eager to tell someone.

“Where are you going?” she asked. 

“Denison University!” I exclaimed. She was the first person I told.

“Congratulations! My friend’s a junior and he was just touring there today,” she said.

I drove to Bedford Farms ice cream to get sugar cones because we had chocolate coconut-milk ice cream and chocolate Jimmies at home, and I wanted a celebratory ice cream cone. The girl behind the counter gave me six cones for free, because she couldn’t find a button for “just cones” in the register. I gave her a nice tip, and then turned back at the door to say, “I just enrolled to college!” 

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Denison University!” 

“My friend will be a freshman there this fall and will be playing baseball!” she said. I was ecstatic––two people within a half hour who knew someone either attending or looking to attend Denison.

I wanted to share the joy. I drove back past my house to Market Basket to get a gallon of chocolate ice cream, and then finally drove home. I nonchalantly put the ice cream and cones away, and asked my stepdad where I could plant some wildflowers. I planted my seeds, digging my hands in the dirt and getting it under my fingernails, usually not one to enjoy dirty hands but loving the fresh earth scent. When my mom finished with her client, I gathered my family in the living room and announced my decision, and we all had ice cream cones. Shortly after I went for a walk and called my dad to tell him, and as I was finishing my walk I passed my childhood friend Bella’s house. Eager to tell someone else, I knocked on her door but didn’t wait for her to let me in.

“I’m going to college!” I shouted. I stayed for dinner and we hung out for almost two hours, which we haven’t done in a long time.

I’m writing all of this today, the day after, because I needed the time to process it all for myself. I didn’t post my college decision on Facebook yesterday, or tell all my friends and family. I didn’t wear my Denison sweatshirt to bed or drink out of my Denison mug. It would’ve been too overwhelming. I actually avoided packing a lot of red for my New York trip this week. I had my initial excitement, and now I need to process it. It reminds me of how I felt after my first date freshman year. I had my initial giddy excitement when I was first asked on the date, and then afterwards I was more quiet but feeling very content and fulfilled. That’s how I feel now.

I had another moment of self-doubt last night, questioning whether I'm trying to be someone I’m not by going to Denison. I don’t know what I’m going to get at Denison, like I don’t know what’s going to grow in my wildflower garden. And I feel okay. I will bring my sweaters and stuffed animals and love of theatre to Denison, but I will also be given the space to grow in an environment where I'm not surrounded by my familiar tastes. 

I usually like being in control and knowing what's next, but I also like what happens when I’m out of control. I let myself be free and let what happens, happen. It’s how I fell in love this year with a boy two years my junior. It’s in those out of control moments that I surprise myself. I venture outside of who I’ve defined myself to be, and I grow. 

21 Pages of Peter Pan

My Wendy costume.

Last night, my fellow castmates and I took flight one final time to Neverland in our high school's production of Peter Pan: The Official British Musical. I specify that it was The Official British Musical because it is so much richer than the Disney version. More true to the book, it primarily tells the remarkable coming of age story of Wendy Darling.

I didn't fully realize until last night at IHOP that we have been working on Peter Pan for the last six months. In June I was cast as Wendy, the twelve-year-old girl struggling to balance her desire to grow up with the temptation to stay a child alongside the whimsical Peter Pan––the perpetual little boy. Since then, I have invested myself in the story, like I do for every play.

This story was unique in that I had an entire book and several movie adaptations to construct my own interpretation of Peter Pan, and more specifically, Wendy Darling. I was also fortunate to have castmates who shared my love for analyzing the play––in particular, my friend Emily, who played my mother (Mrs. Darling), and my friend Joe, who played Peter Pan. I scrolled through all our Peter Pan e-mail exchanges and Facebook messages and copy and pasted them into a document. That document is 21 pages long. There's so much I want to talk about, so I think the best way to address them is to break this post up into sub-divisions.

Wendy, Peter and Mrs. Darling

Mrs. Darling and Peter are the embodiment of Wendy's coming of age struggle. In Mrs. Darling, Wendy sees her adult self. J.M. Barrie's book implies remarkable similarities between Wendy and Mrs. Darling. It is because of Mrs. Darling that Wendy realizes she needs to grow up someday. The book begins:

One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.

To say "she must grow up" has a tone of negativity, yet there is part of Wendy that is excited about growing up. She loves taking care of her brothers. She loves to play house. In picturing herself grown up, I imagine that Wendy thinks of Mrs. Darling. To Wendy, growing up is inevitable. She doesn't question it.

Until Peter. Peter flies into her window and enchants Wendy. He talks about flying and mermaids and fairies; about the Neverland, a world filled with fun and games and make-believe. Peter has somehow managed to beat the system and not grow up. In meeting Peter, growing up is no longer inevitable. Wendy has a choice, and her decision about whether or not to grow up is one of her many coming of age moments in the play.

The book says Wendy "grows up of her own accord," so eventually Wendy grows up because she wants to, not because it’s inevitable.

Wendy and Peter

Throughout the play, I was obsessed with figuring out Peter and Wendy's relationship––in particular, Peter's feelings for Wendy. How appropriate, considering in the script Wendy asks Peter, "What are your exact feelings for me?" It was a line that got laughs every performance, which made me defensive of Wendy. "She really wants to know!" I thought. "This is really hard for her!" But then again, it is a very adult line for a twelve-year-old girl.

Joe and I talked about this a lot, each proposing our own theories. Below are two of our many theories.

My Theory: I definitely get the sense that Wendy loves Peter, and she wants Peter to love her too, but love is too grown up of an emotion for Peter. What I can't understand (and maybe you have some insight/ideas?) is where Peter stands. When Wendy asks how Peter feels about her, he says that he feels like a "devoted son." Do you think that's all he feels? I know he enjoys Wendy's company, but the book doesn't seem to show any adolescent romantic interest (that's the weirdest way to word that) on Peter's side. There's no kiss on the cheek at the end, or sweet song. Peter forgets to get Wendy for spring cleaning the second year, and forgets a lot of their adventures. But, although he doesn't come back for almost 30 years, he does come back eventually, so I guess he still remembers Wendy, which, I don't know, is maybe significant because Peter forgets so much (including Tinkerbell and Hook)?

Wendy desperately wants Peter to love her and to grow old with her. I think Peter does love Wendy to some degree, but he doesn't know it's love because it's too adult of an emotion for him. I think Peter is sad Wendy isn't staying with him, which is another new emotion. But ultimately, he sacrifices Wendy because he loves being a child more. So why does he kiss her? I don't know.

Joe's Theory: Well...maybe he can't admit he does love her so instead of admitting it he just kisses her instead. Oh I've got it. Peter does love her. And he does want to grow up but his ego is too big and he won't admit it... I could probably keep coming up with weird things to answer your question but I really don't think I know either.

The kiss at the end of the play was hard for us to figure out, because it shows a remarkable amount of character development for Peter. It was important to us that this kiss contrasted the kiss at the beginning of the play. For the first kiss, our director instructed Joe to make a surprised look after I kissed him–like "What is this?"–immediately followed by a, "I like this" look. At that moment, the kiss is just, “This is cool.” The kiss doesn't have the same emotional attachment for Peter as the kiss at the end does, when he kisses Wendy. But where does that emotional attachment come from? And how much emotional attachment is there?  

Here I am talking about Peter even though I played Wendy, but I can't help trying to analyze him, because Wendy spends the whole play trying to analyze him and her relationship to him.

Wendy and Me

I still don't think Joe or I have the entire relationship figured out, because I don't think we're supposed to. A few weeks ago, Joe and I watched an acting video of the renowned German American actress and acting teacher, Uta Hagen, with a group of friends. In it, she warns her students to not think about what they're feeling onstage––the words “think” and “feel” themselves are contradictory.  

“I do that to you all the time,” I said to Joe. “I’m always asking you, ‘What are you feeling?’ ‘What are you thinking?’ ‘I’m going to do this here because of this.’”

In this way, I realize I am more like Wendy than I thought I was: the desire to always put a label on my emotions, rather than just feeling them; wanting to have it all figured out; wanting to know rather than feel, or rather, know how I feel, because knowing is so much more concrete. But the more time I spend trying to know how I feel, the less I feel. I understand this when I’m onstage. My best performances are the ones when I’m in the moment, not thinking about, “What is my character feeling at this moment?” but just being that character in that moment.

This show comes at a very apropos time for me. It’s my senior year, and as I prepare to wrap up this chapter in my life, I’m torn between the desire to grow up and the longing to stay a child. Like Wendy, who grew up of her own accord, I am leaving home of my own accord next year. No one’s telling me I have to go to college or that I need to go far away. I’m optimistic and nostalgic; excited and scared. I’m taking ownership of my life, which scares me because if I’m wrong, there’s no one to blame but myself.

Last night was my friend Connor’s last performance ever on our high school stage. Three Novembers ago, we were performing together onstage in Romeo and Juliet, our first high school play. As I watched him bow, I couldn’t stop crying, thinking about the time when I will need to say goodbye to him and my other senior friends. We’ve been through so much together. I have so many emotions about it all and I’m not always sure what I’m feeling or how I’m feeling, and somehow I want to find a name for it. But there I go again, thinking instead of just feeling.

My favorite part of Peter Pan was the final number, when Joe and I slow danced while he sang “Don’t Say Goodbye.” I believe that is Wendy’s freest moment of the play, because she is not thinking, just feeling. And in my performance, I too was not thinking, just feeling. Nothing made me feel freer than when Joe would spin me in my blue nightgown, and I could feel the fabric swishing around me and the wooden stage beneath my slippers.  

"Don't think of when we meet again, if it will be the same. Don't cry too hard, just smile, be happy now, be strong,” sang Joe as Peter, urging me not to worry about the future. "Don't wonder how we came to now, don't wonder why,” he sang, telling me not to think about the past. Just think about the present. Because if you read the book, you know that Peter forgets to come back for Wendy most years. He’s too preoccupied with his own adventures. But in the moment, Wendy believes with all her heart that Peter will come back for her, and that’s all that matters.