Represent A. Tive, Esq.

Down 20th street to Constitution, I pass security guards at various checkpoints, though I've never taken the time to identify the specific buildings they guard. Eventually, after the stop-and-go rhythms of walk signals and traffic lights, I reach the footpaths. They are paved in concrete, in asphalt, in cobblestones, in sand. They twist and wind around each other, ordered in their disorder. Most days I choose a light concrete path and let it lead me to the white stone temple where Lincoln sits, enthroned and mildly menacing to us, poor tiny mortals gazing up at him. I've wondered, many times, what it is we worship in that temple; for we worship something, some vague American thing.

Rarely, in fact only once have a taken that first right turn onto another footpath sloping gently into disaster. On that path thick black stones rise slowly higher as I pass, first to my knees, then my shoulder until finally they tower over me, reflecting my image back to me through a haze of dead men's names. I feel strange there, guilty. It is not my war. I cannot reconcile with it, claim it, comprehend it. The other war memorials here are kinder to me. They splay out easily, telling me their tales of honor won and wrong defeated. They do not mix tragedy with victory. They do not bury me in dead men's names.

Washington's is as unambiguous as they come. I do not go too close to that memorial, of course. I am not welcome there, not really. I am American, yes, and a patriot too. But there is something uniquely unwelcoming to me, as a woman, about the towering phallic symbol.

On the way back, walking north again toward Pennsylvania Avenue, I pass Isabella Reina. She is surprisingly short, and almost crudely shaped in iron turned all shades of blue and green. Perhaps because her placard is in Spanish, perhaps because she stands just off the beaten path, or perhaps because she is a woman among so many men, I find I like her best of all.

Honor Code Rebellion....or not.

So I went to BYU. If you don't know what that is...google it. Anyway, I had this relationship of tension with the Honor code. On the one hand, I was desperate not to fit in. As a friend of mine likes to say, I needed to be different just like everybody else. On the other hand, I honestly liked the code and would have lived by it, or wanted to live by it, anyway. No boys in the bedroom? 'Kay, my bedroom is kinda messy anyway and it's nice to know I can walk into my room in nothing but a bathrobe and not find my roommate's boy-toy sitting next to my underwear drawer. (Yes, I just referenced partial nudity AND underwear in the same post. Are you freaking out? because I know I am.) No smoking? Awesome, I choose a cancer-free life whenever I can. No male visitors past midnight? Whatev' yo. I can handle a dude-free home after hours (see the above references to nudity and undies) and when I really did need some testosterone in my life past midnight no dorm-wide curfew could have stopped us. (Word to the wise for all you Zoobies out there, Rock Canyon park is not too far from DT and makes for excellent make out turf. Yes, Mom, it so happened. More than once...) Modest clothing? Great! The last thing we need is more uninhibited muffin-tops and cleavage rolling around in this country, and I've always been a fan of layers anyway. The day I discovered the cardigan, well, that my friends was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Even some of the "weirder" rules suited me just fine. Take the "clean shaven" rule for example: Have you ever tried to make out with an unshaven male? Trust me, clean shaven is the way to go.

Anyway, the point is I couldn't rebel against the Honor Code or even really be upset about it because it didn't ask me to do or not do anything I would have done or not done anyway. And the "we shouldn't have to be compelled" argument just doesn't hold water for me because when it comes bathrobes and panties I like to know my roommate is on board with the no-boys-in-the-bedroom rule. So how does one rebel against a system that neither represses nor even really annoys one?

Easy. Vote democrat.

Modern Conveniences or Why I Am a Spoiled Brat

I woke up Saturday morning to a white filled world. The snow continued to fall all day, trapping my in my own house. And of course, my internet wasn't working.

Four days later, it's finally working again. Come on, comcast, get it together! I can't survive four days without internet access.

Who do they think I am, George Washington?

Gloria McAwesomeface

80% of Americans claim they want to write a book.
5% of those get past the first chapter.
less than .01% of those get published at all.

Get this, one of those less than .01% of 5% of 80% people?

She's totally my sister.

I hereby claim awesomeness-by-association.

Brother Cooper's House

I clearly remember the hours I spent as a child, staring at the closet door from the vantage of my bed, too scared to close my eyes, wondering if it would be safe to cross to my bedroom door and make a break for my mother's room. Sure, I was young, imaginative, prone to nightmares. But there was something in that closet.

Twenty years later, I still watch for monsters in the closet. I shouldn't be afraid of the dark anymore, but these monsters find me anyway. They haunt the closets of almost any house I enter. They wait for me, fangs dripping, mangled fur pressed against my coats and shoes. They are the specters of internal fears, of threats levied against my fragile sense of belonging. They bring with them a lifetime of fear and insecurity, of never knowing when the next blow would fall, the next safety net vanish.

And so, among the other gifts you gave to me, the advice, the blessing, the bed large enough to stretch my full length upon, I've one more thing to thank you for.

I lived in your house for six full months, and there were no monsters in your closets.

How I found God in the temple of the Goddess.

I distinctly remember the worst day I had in India. I am certain I always will. For reasons I have struggled with but ultimately forgiven, on that hot day in Tamil Nadu I found myself alone, heartbroken, and lost in a city of almost two million people. On that day I had no familiar members of my own faith to turn to. For that one day I was alone, outside of anything familiar or comforting, and devastated. 

But I wasn't alone, after all. All unbidden a handful of total strangers reached out and held me up. A man on a motorcycle noticed a lost girl and helped her find her way. A business man at the temple approached a strange girl to share the blessings of his religion with her and led her into a circle of faith otherwise closed to her. A woman with problems and pains of her own spent the afternoon speaking in broken sentences and strange new gestures to a girl who, though visiting in that country, did not speak the local dialect and could not communicate with anyone else there.  

While I do not believe, as my Hindu friends have told me, that all roads lead to God. I do believe, that decency is at the heart of humanity. And maybe, just maybe, we're talking about the same thing.

Resolutionativity

The thing about New Year's Resolutions is that a year always seems like the wrong time-frame for a truly effective goal. For example, you want to be more patient and less easily provoked this year? Awesome, but why only for a year? Isn't that more of a life long goal? And if you are using this year just as a sort of measuring device for that goal, well, you can bet you'll forget if you don't break it down into more manageable bites of time. Or, let's say you want to get a gym membership. Umm...if that takes you a whole year to do, you are using the wrong gym. In general, signing up for a membership takes about half an hour or less. Now, they'll take money directly from your bank account every month for a year (at least) but that's more a goal for them than for you, isn't it? I like my goals to fit into one of three categories: weekly, monthly, and lifely (so totally a word, right?). But, if you're the type to set a New Year Resolution, well, I won't look down on you for it. (I'll laugh at you behind your back, for sure, but look down? Never.)

And for the time being, here is my resolution, which I like to think of as a lifely goal:

Eat more fresh produce.

What, you were expecting something deeper and more pensive? Vegetables are the fa-shizzle people. The fa-shizzle.