Harriet Watson's "Name Game"

I bobbed around in the pool, scanning the sunburned or tanned faces, those with a paste of zinc oxide, and the ones with the fancy rubbery flowers stuck to the close fitting rubber caps. I had a hard time locating my new best seven-year-old friend. Suddenly I felt hands on my peeling shoulders and turned to face her. "Lisa!" I exclaimed with relief. She looked at me with puzzlement. "I've been calling and calling to you Jean. Didn't you hear me?" Actually, I hadn't, because I was using a pseudonym, a name I had never answered to in my life. Jean wasn't my name but I had told Lisa it was. Why? Maybe it was easier than trying to shout my unusual, uncool name over the cacophony of splashes from belly flops, the shrill whistle of the lifeguard, and the reprimands of mothers to their numerous unruly offspring. I looked at Lisa's peeling nose and puzzled face and regretted my choice to pretend to be someone I wasn't. Better to be me.

I have not regretted my name since. If one is not cool enough to appreciate it, it isn't my problem. Oh, I had my moments of envy in elementary and high school. Oh, for a name that could not be made fun of! (does such really exist?). Or to have a name so common that an initial would have to be added. In my classes, there were Michael N. and Michael J., Mary Jane and Mary Ann, Catherine with a C, Katherine with a K, and all the Mary's, Theresa's, and John's--and then there was me.

I had a boyfriend in college who was not meant to last. It was obvious by the way he avoided calling me by name. "Don't you have a nickname?" he whined and pleaded. I flatly stated, "No." (But I did have several.) I realized his penchant for pet names was a cover for his reluctance to speak my name. Unable to name me as I was, I was unable to put up with him.

My best friend had a daughter and gave her my name as a middle name. At the christening, my friend's mother said, "We're a little upset with the name." My father replied "So are we. Why doesn't she reverse those names?" My friend's mother was not amused. The little daughter has carried my name proudly (mostly) for over a dozen years.

I actually got my name from my father, and I appreciate that fact. I know my brother, who was born before me, is also grateful I got the name instead of him. I wanted to name my second child after my dad. He has a great name, and so, I think, do I. My father was very nervous. Perhaps mortified would not be too strong a word for his reaction. "Oh, no. Uh, how about ---" (He suggested several others). No, even my husband was happy with our choice. My older child liked the idea of her new sibling sharing her grandpa's name, and announced to all available ears “If our baby is a boy, we're naming him Bumpa!" (not my dad's given name, not the one we were considering, but a relief to him, considering his view of the alternative).

Halfway through my life, I finally got to have an initial after my name! I worked with a woman who shared my name. Did she like her name as much I like mine? Being born a few decades before me, she may have found the name considered less of a curiosity as she was growing up. I hope she enjoyed sharing our name as much as I did.

Last week I went to the thrift store and bought a bowling shirt that had "Myrna" embroidered on it. Why this should tickle me, I don't know. My own name would have been just as swell. The clerk looked at my check and read my name. "Oh, you don't see that name much anymore, or my name either." I couldn't resist asking, "What is your name?" "Florine." `That's beautiful!" I said, meaning it. It's a name I can appreciate.

To all the others who wear names from a bygone era, ones that make a lot of us think of Far Side cartoon characters with beehives or beer bellies, who sport these names with pride and panache, I salute you!

Maureen Taylor's "Childless by Choice"

“Gee, Mo, I hope you and Bruce aren’t sorry later on in life, when you don’t have children around to visit you. It is always so special having you kids around.” Following up with a sigh, my mother then shakes her head slowly, as if to add, “Tsk, tsk.”

I continue washing the dishes, holding my tongue. We have been visiting my parents for less than 24 hours. I have endured such comments for years now, though to my mom’s credit she manages to alter the approach with every attempt to get us to change out minds.

You don’t have children? Really? I would have thought . . . But you would be such great parents!” A woman we have just met at a barbecue considers us perfectly qualified to bring a child into the world and to raise him or her (or both!) responsibly.

I shrug and smile politely. It appears that we have been complimented, but I wonder.

And then there’s my sister: “Look, Maureen, I appreciate your effort, but it’s much easier if I just do it myself.” She walks off in a huff to make her twins’ peanut butter and jelly sandwiches “the right way.” I don’t have as much control over my tongue with her, and have gotten myself into teary exchanges on more than one occasion. What I secretly think is that my sister is envious that I have made a choice to not take on what she has chosen.

The idea that I even had life-altering choices to make crystallized for me one night when I was 24 years old. The music blared, glasses and bottles clinked in the background, and the place was packed. Bruce leaned over and yelled in my ear, “I don’t want to have kids!” What? I thought. Is he dumping me? Why was he saying this now, when we haven’t even discussed marriage? And after I calmed down a bit, I considered what my future husband had said. At that moment I realized that I do have a choice to have children.

When it became clear to me that I did have choices in my life, such as having or not having children, I felt a sense of relief. I felt more control over my own life than I ever had. Where I grew up, everyone followed the same basic steps in life: After finishing college and starting a career, you got married, bought a nice house in the suburbs, and started a family. Period. Nobody questioned it. Everyone expected it. Could there be any other way?

Apparently so. Before my husband Bruce and I got married, we discussed the issue of having children. (He had to bring it up, since I had honestly never even thought about it before.) Although the whole concept of choice was new to me, I didn’t really agonize over whether we would or would not have kids. By the time we were discussing marriage and children, many of our friends were already married and had one or two offspring. I began to recognize that I had never felt any of those pangs for a baby that I had always heard about from my friends and my sister (who had wanted babies for as long as I could remember). It wasn’t like I didn’t try to feel the want; I did try. I still try. I go to the baby showers and visit the new mothers in my life, and I see a lot of babies. But to this day, a round, soft newborn infant or a wobbly, gurgling toddler does not really appeal to me, not nearly as much as a bounding puffball of puppy. (I love puppy breath, too, but diapers and projectile vomit?)

Bruce and I have always owned dogs together, and they are our kids. WE adopted our present “baby,” Maggie, who talks to us, plays with us, listens to us, and loves us. We indulge her every whim, and she is the classic spoiled child. We are a family.

There are so many more reasons that we have decided to remain childfree. I am a teacher, so I think all that “maternal need to nurture” must already be fulfilled for me. And because I was a shy child, one who preferred tree climbing, daydreaming, and generally playing alone to spending time with my friends (who frankly weren’t terribly friendly) I don’t want to make someone else go through that. We are also concerned about overpopulation, not to mention the general ugliness in the world we hear and read about daily. Maybe it’s because we are selfish, as we have been accused, for not wanting to change our lifestyle to accommodate a dependent life.

This supposed selfishness is the favorite argument against us childless-by-choice folks. Me mother has tried this angle to persuade us. And although she says she has accepted our decision, she still will never be happy that we have chosen to remain childless. Her dissatisfaction with our choice lies not in the fact that she will have only two grandchildren (and one granddog), but rather in the fact that she had always wanted lots and lots of children of her own, and unfortunately was unable to do so. It is difficult to accept that what we want is not always what everyone else wants; we have our baby Maggie, and I have my students. These are our children.

And even though I have worked with adolescents for ten years now, my sister, mother of two-year-old twins, insists that I know nothing about raising children and that I certainly cannot understand the frustrations of spending an entire day with them, day in and day out. Not that I do know everything or that she has it easy. Spending time with my sister and the twins is actually the most effective form of birth control I know!

I believe that being a parent is the most difficult and important job there is, In fact I’m not sure I could even live up to the expectations I have set for proper parenting. Selfish? Perhaps. But before I understood that I had a choice to become a parent, I never would have identified those expectations. Bruce and I have discussed, we have weighed, and we have made a choice, the appropriate choice for us.

Nancy Schafer's "Wandering Nomad"

When I entered the gym that sunny afternoon, it was obvious that very few students had shown up to watch the game that was already in progress. Junior varsity basketball never did attract too much of a crowd, just a sprinkling of parents, cheerleaders, and band. At least our side looked more crowded than the other team’s.

From the doorway, I scanned the bleachers in hopes of finding the only girls I knew. I had hesitated about coming to the game since I knew hardly anyone after two weeks in this school. However, my parents had begun to meet people in the neighborhood and had managed to get me introduced to Vicky who lived two doors down from our new house. Thus, for my first week, which fell in the middle of the semester for everyone else, Vicky had been my tour guide. She had shown me to my classes and introduced me to all of her friends. I really appreciated her help in getting me started because she seemed to know everyone.

When I spotted her friends sitting on our side near the middle of the basketball court, I climbed up the three bleachers with my books weighing me down to sit next to them. The circle included Jan, Carrie, Mimi, and Ann--all varsity pompom girls.

“Hey, Jan, have you seen Vicky?” I asked as I plopped down.

“What are you? Her puppy dog or something?” She sharply retorted and turned back to the cluster of friends. As the other three snuck sneers at me in turns, I wanted to shrivel into the wooden seat. Obviously, even Vicky must have felt this way as she begrudgingly took me around the school. A recognizable wall began to form around the circle, one I had seen before in other places at other times. I was the unwelcome outsider, the intruder to this in-group.

It never occurred to me that my new relationship with Vicky had been so one-sided. Until I felt the sting of those words, I did not realize that I was considered a hanger-on to this circle. I fumbled around for a while in disbelief and embarrassment before I escaped the gym to walk home. Once again I was facing the same struggle -- the nomad trying to make friends with the homesteaders, those kids who had lived in the same town all their lives. Unfortunately, I faced this move with a different dilemma. I was stuck here because this time, with my Dad’s retirement from the Navy, our family was planning to stay. I either had to make connections with the homesteaders, or I had to come up with some other solution. On my walk home that day I determined never to talk to Vicky again. I was not going to be labeled anyone’s puppy dog.

This move to California in 1966 brought out the best and the worst of my nomadic life. To add to the culture shock of moving from the East Coast to the West, I faced my sophomore year enrolled in three different schools. Thus, in one year I left friends I had come to know well, only to start making new friends within two months in one school and then transfer to another. It was at the last school that I met and forgot Vicky.

As a nomad, I was accustomed to moving often. Within twelve grades, I had attended nine schools. My family did not take summer vacations like everyone else. If we were not packing for the next move, we were travelling across country to visit relatives in Arizona. Summers meant a family of five being crowded in a car with no air-conditioning. Unlike the desert nomads who traveled by camel, we caravaned across the states in a maroon Chevrolet station wagon, accompanied by our assortment of denizen including parakeets, chameleons, dogs, turtles, or fish, depending upon our latest interests. Every move was a new adventure –lost in New York City, car sick in the Rocky Mountains, and driving all night through New Mexico.

We usually moved during the summer so that my brothers and I could get to know people in the neighborhood and experience the newness of schools and classes along with the rest of the students. Since we never lived anywhere longer than two years, we traveled light, developed independence, and made friends quickly. My brothers and I had learned to make adjustments as nomads and rarely envied the homesteaders. Some years and locations were really good, and some were bad; but we always knew that we would have a new start soon. Thus, it didn’t matter if I spent a lot of time playing by myself in Rhode Island because in Virginia I might move into a neighborhood of friends who managed to pull off some incredible memories.

When I was younger, I could always spot another new kid within the first few days of classes. We were the ones sitting alone at lunch or playing by ourselves during recess or after school. Fortunately, since my parents usually chose to live near the naval base, I was rarely the only new kid in class. We military kids would cluster together until we could infiltrate the ranks of the permanent resident kids, the homesteaders. Early on, I developed a keen sense for scoping out any new territory for friendly foreigners. Over the years, I learned to bide my time in making new friends in order to avoid making hasty friendships I would regret. And I learned to hold friendship lightly, for the time would come all too quickly for us to pull out the packing boxes once again.

The kids who could say they knew each other from kindergarten or who had been born and raised in the same town, sometimes even in the same house, always surprised me. My life has been a veritable sea of faces and memories that have faded in and out of my consciousness. I can still look at a vaguely familiar face and wonder where I have seen that person before -- Arizona, Florida, Rhode Island, or the Bay Area? Smells can evoke fleeting scenes from the edges of my mind, but I have trouble recalling just where and when that moment occurred. My memory has not been able to process all of the people, places and events into any cogent filing system. I cannot recite the names of very many of my schools, much less the names of teachers, good or bad.
Since friendships never lingered more than a letter or two beyond any move, I cannot recall many of those girls I would have considered to be best friends. My memory is a decoupage of snips and pieces of ragged scenes, scents, and sounds that come to the front only when triggered by serious concentration.

Moving was always an adventure and provided for great escapes and even greater expectations. I never had to deal with my past history such as “Weren’t you the one who threw the water balloon through the cafeteria window?” or that of my brothers – “I hope you won’t cause as much trouble as your brother Doug did!” With each new school my brothers and I started with a clean slate. In fact, Jeff could be a scholastic success even though he repeated third grade. Since none of his following friends ever knew, he was never stigmatized by his early failure. Doug, on the other hand, could try out for four football teams before finally making the cut. I went from ballet to Girl Scouts to horses. We were never limited or hampered by our pasts, and we could explore new opportunities with each new move.

If anything, moving taught me to be independent. Although this independence had to be tempered at times, I was not afraid to venture out into each new locale. As early as four years of age, I was escaping into the neighborhood while my mother napped. Before I knew how to ride a bike properly, I would sit myself down upon the back fender of my brother’s bike, stretching out my arms to steer the handlebars, and walk my vehicle around the streets looking for friends to play with. At least two of our moves brought us to homes backed up to delicious forests which provided for hours of make-believe play with our family dog in tow. By the time I was outgrowing make believe, I was filling my time with books, art, and music. I find I still need my alone time, that uninterrupted time to enjoy the quiet.

Because of the frequent moves, we lived and traveled light. My mother never kept momentos from our school projects or even our report cards. Unlike the kitchens of many of our friends, our refrigerator door stood barren of artwork or photos. Because of this, my memories of early school years are vague at best – fleeting images of crayons, desks, and recess games. I can recall my favorite dress from second grade with the subtle brown and black stripes and dainty white lace collar, but I have no idea what I wore in some of my other elementary years. The Navy had a built-in network designed to help those who must limit the number and weight of packing boxes. As soon as we outgrew toys or clothes, Mom would collect them into bags for Navy Relief, the military’s version of the Salvation Army. I still live light today. If I begin to feel clutter gathering in closets or drawers, I get antsy to dump things.

The one solid thread of memories of our childhood years was stored in the box loaded with slides. At least once a year, we kids would beg mom and dad to have a slide show. I don’t know whether we needed the laughter and closeness as a family or whether we wanted to know that we too had a history. We too had an identity that connected us with other people and other places. Although we were nomads, we knew we had a heritage in Arizona, and our slide shows were filled with images of our summer trips – Stoneman Lake, cattle, chipmunks, Ponderosa pines, horses and mules, and of course, lots of family. On those evenings, we could also re-travel through the years, recalling the adventures and good times of all the places where we had lived.

My nomadic beginnings have left their mark on me. For one thing, I am permanently unsettled. I have rarely held a job for more than three years at a time. Even my hobbies change from year to year. My life seems to cycle through interests as if I were moving constantly. I also have this obsession to clean out the entire house each summer. While other people do spring cleaning, I do summer rearranging. If I can’t pack boxes to move into a new home, I must at least redecorate and move furniture in the present one. When I really get restless for a nomadic experience, I can rely on my nightly dreams to fill with adventures of moving into new homes. I awaken feeling the ongoing urge to move somewhere, anywhere.

I still handle friendships lightly. Although I can now say that I have known some people for years, I have to make a conscious effort to keep those friendships going. It does not bother me to lose contact with a friend for months at a time. In fact, I can almost get shy when I think about calling someone I have not seen recently. At times I do not even know how to carry on a good conversation because I spend so much time within myself. My independence has become a comfortable companion that keeps me from hungering for too much society.

I am content to be a nomad, even if it is only a state of mind now. My nomadic life has been rich; I would be delighted to move again any time.

Pamela Ritter's "Yielding Scissors"

I gave my first haircut to myself when I was three. I remember noticing that my paper dolls’ hair seemed remarkably one-dimensional. In a gesture I always felt was overlooked for its resourceful merits, I decided to share some of my hair by cutting it off and gluing it onto the paper doll heads. I wanted the dolls to have long hair, and sacrificed quite a bit of my own. When I went in the kitchen to get some glue, Grandpa, who had been entertaining himself with his whiskey, shifted his focus to me. He started laughing, swung me up to his shoulders and paraded me into my grandma’s room at the end of the house. Both my mother and grandmother where aghast.

At four, I had cut the hair off my first Barbie doll. My mother, a doll collector, was devastated. My next Barbie had painted on hair and three wigs.

In an effort to provide me with more versatility, my mom bought a Chrissy doll when I was about six. She came with long, auburn hair that would roll up into her head like a rolling window shade if you pushed a button on her back. I resisted cutting her hair for a long time.

For my eighth birthday, I received one of those doll heads attached to a tray with hairbrushes and curlers. I noticed there were no scissors.

These experiences diminished my self-perception of being a capable hair cutter and soured me on dolls in general. For the remainder of my public school years, I became conservative and cautious with my own haircuts. I ceased all attempts to cut my own hair. However, I developed a formula of directives for my hairdresser, “A bi-cut please, just above the shoulders. Blunt, no layers. Cut the bangs so they touch my eyebrows and curve at the edges to the tips of my ears.” I may not have been cutting, but I believed I was in control of the outcome. Maybe those thwarted attempts at self expression when I was young contributed toward my impulse for control. One time I sat with my eyebrows raised to the middle of my forehead. I remember this haircut particularly, because it is memorialized in the school photos for my freshman year at high school. The next time I was at the hairdresser, I made sure my expression was very relaxed.

When I went to college, I became the dorm hair cutter, perhaps because I had a steady hand, and could cut a straight line. I did many free trims, and despite the fact that my trims usually were very simple, I reacquired the perception that I had skill in hair design.

Upon my return home after my first year of college, I was confident that I was the solution to my only brother’s hair problem. He was twelve at the time, and in a stand of adolescent rebellion was refusing to let my Dad use his electric shears to do his traditional cut. Garrett wanted just a trim. “Garrett,” I said convincingly. “I’ve been trimming my friends’ hair all year. I have lots of practice. I can do it for you.” Poor Garrett. His hair ended up looking remarkable similar to the cut I did to myself when I was three. Each time I cut on one side, I had to balance out the other … Garrett wore a ski cap for weeks that summer and didn’t trust me for years.

Motherhood added a new dimension to my hair experiences. Many mothers I’ve spoken to agree it can be difficult to cut the hair of young children, for both the mother and the child. My two year-old, Hawken, agreed. Indeed, when I took him to have his hair cut, he reacted with such a high level of pained resistance that we started to call him Sampson. Humbled by the dramatics at my hairdresser’s, I began cutting his hair at home—very, very carefully. I was conservative—a bowl cut, smooth on top, so silky and fine. At four, he informed me that he wanted to go get his hair cut at the place where his friend Ryan went—a barber. With a sense of relief and trepidation, I said, “Sure!”

Since then, I’ve struggled to learn “barber talk.” I took my little guy in with the intention of receiving a “trim”. I liked the bowl cut style. I asked the barber to trim the back, but to keep the top evenly long—a bowl cut. “So, you want a little boy cut?” the barber said.

"If that’s what I described, yes.” I replied uncertainly. What we got horrified me. My baby’s beautiful, silky hair was shorn—short, all over, layered and coarse looking. My boy was delighted.

Six months later, we were ready to try again. I had restored the bowl cut, but Hawken wanted the barber. I went to a different shop. This time I tried a new method of inquiry, “What do you call a bowl cut that is short on the sides and in the back?”

“A little boy cut,” the barber answered.

“Well, then, that’s what we want, but I really want the top to be all one length.”

"No problem."

The cut is a disappointing version of the first shearing. Again, Hawken is delighted.

I am proud to say that I did not reveal my personal opinion to my happy boy. In fact, the next time we went in, I just said, “He would like a little boy cut.”

Sophia Pelafigue's "Gone Solo"

“This is going to be an experience of a lifetime,” my third grade teacher, Mrs. Martin, assured me. “You will learn more during six months of living in Mexico than an entire year in the third grade.”

“I know,” I replied softly, “but why can’t I just be like a normal third grader?” I couldn’t understand why I would have to miss the crazy adventures of Mrs. Martin’s classroom, just to drive alone with my dad an innumerable amount of miles to a place where the people did not speak English, eat t.v. dinners, or even shop in a supermarket. Even though I didn’t mind missing the countless spelling tests, book reports and cursive writing practices, what could Mexico possibly have to offer a third grader?

Living in a small fishing village on the Pacific Coast of southern Mexico helped shape the kind of person I become. While there, I learned to communicate in another language, appreciate unfamiliar foods and experience a culture completely different than that in which I grew up. In the small town of Zihuatanejo (ee-wo-tan-a-ho), I discovered the value of forming relationships with a variety of different people, accomplished daily tasks independently, and found ways to ensure that traveling became an important part of my life. While not always easy, traveling has germinated a quest for knowledge that has flourished in every aspect of my life.

While my dad spent his days fishing and diving, I spent mine with the Mexican women who were selling shells and silver under a palapa on Playa Principal. I learned to speak Spanish as we talked to each villager who passed by on his or her way to and from work during the day. I became an expert at introducing myself: “Hola, mi nombre es Sofia,” as well as saying where I was from, “Soy de los Estados Unidos.” These kind people would smile broadly at my attempts and encouraged me to say more. While I was given every opportunity to practice, no one corrected anything I tried to say or made me feel silly for my efforts. My dad would look on in amazement when we would pass by my new friends on the street and I was able to carry on a conversation (especially after his efforts to teach me the Spanish alphabet failed miserably and disintegrated into huge arguments). Those days at the shell shop allowed me to spend quality time with interesting people who had rich experiences to share.

After seeing my quick progress with learning to speak Spanish from the women at the shell shop, Dad made sure I had plenty of opportunities to practice. Each Friday he would give me the shopping list to take down the hill to el mercado to get all the food we would need that week. The sights, smells and sounds of the Mexican culture captured my full attention. Bright red, orange and purple flores (flowers), carefully stacked bowls of frijoles, enormous bags of dried chilies and heaps of colorful verduras (vegetables) were crowded under tarps in a huge courtyard of a church. Farmers, both men and women, served crowds of people who had come from faraway pueblos to buy and trade their weekly supply of goods.

The vendors seemed to make sure I knew how to choose the choicest papaya and taught me to barter the fairest price for a bunch of flowers. Once I finished shopping, my dad came to help carry the load of goods home, up the steep hill that led to our small casita overlooking the bay. By speaking the local language, walking to and from where I needed to go and buying the locally grown food, I became part of the community. Who would have thought that the challenge of going to the market every Friday would help give me the confidence and motivation I needed to seek out opportunities to travel on my own?

By the time I left Zihautanejo and returned to California, I no longer took for granted the luxuries of having fresh running water, a hot shower or even a washing machine. Although I enjoyed the cockroach-free bathrooms and the ability to communicate without having to think through everything I wanted to say, there was a sense of disappointment when I realized how different life was for me at home. I remember being frustrated that I had to get into a car whenever I needed to go anywhere. Because we drove everywhere, we didn’t have the chance to stop and talk with someone like Francisca about her family, or chat with Juana about how the weather had been or compare with Silvia how many people were in town. I felt like a prisoner of the car; at the mercy of my mom’s schedule.

Fortunately when I was 16 and old enough to travel by myself, my dad arranged for me to study Spanish in Cuernavaca, Mexico. For six weeks I lived with a family who knew very little English but always made sure I felt at home and learned all I could about the City of Eternal Springtime. Cuernavaca’s people lived with a strong sense of culture and community. Most evenings we walked to the zocalo (town square) and saw performances of every variety. While waves of music filled the air, my host family would sit and visit with friends and family. Most conversations that included me began, “Don’t you miss your family and your land?” Most of the people had never traveled more than 20-30 kilometers outside their villages, so the thought of a woman traveling on her own was something unfamiliar to them.

“Yes,” I would reply cautiously,” but I appreciate the chance to step away from my life to experience what you have to share.” While I really did miss my family and friends, I had always felt the need to push beyond my comfort level. During my second year in college, I participated in a Humboldt State University language immersion program in Oaxaca, Mexico. After four months of living with an Oaxacan family and finishing my courses, I completed a field research project on the use of plant dyes in the ancient tradition of weaving rugs in the small village of Teotitlan del Valle. I lived with an indigenous family who taught me about collecting plants, mosses and animals from which to make dyes, as well as the value of learning from your elders. They expressed their commitment to teach their children not only to live from the earth as their ancestors have done since time began, but also to learn from other people so that their own people can survive in an ever-changing world.

After my project was completed, I went traveling alone through Chiapas and into Guatemala. While on my own, I was able to immerse myself in experiences I probably would have never attempted if I had to negotiate the situation with another traveler. Never did I imagine that these indigenous people lived much the same as they had done for thousands of years. As I got to know and spend time with some of the women around Lake Atitlan, I was invited to participate in ceremonies for weddings, funerals, and various other rites of passage. The entire village usually got involved in some way, so I was never made to feel as though I didn’t belong or that I was intruding. I left Guatemala feeling as if I had had some insight into what the world would have been like if I had lived 200-300 years ago in a tribe of people who lived close to the earth and to each other.

When I had completed my undergraduate degree, I wanted some experience teaching in an alternative school setting. Through my first efforts with the Internet, I made contact with the El Centro de Educacion Creativa (The Creative Learning Center--an environmental education school) located in the cloud forest of Monteverde, Costa Rica. While living with a Tico (Costa Rican family), I arranged to volunteer at the school in the morning and work as a tour guide at the local butterfly garden in the afternoons. In addition to learning about the symbiotic relationships of butterflies and the cloud forest, I also experienced living in a community of people who valued educating others in order to preserve their natural surroundings for future generations. Everyone from tropical field biologists to small Tico school children took the time to explain the important relationships of plants and animals of the forest and the responsibility people have to protect them. Even though there is so much to see and do in other parts of Costa Rica, I appreciated the chance to stay in one place, get to know the community and give something back in return for all the rich experiences I gained.

While the opportunity to travel with a good friend or family member is a rewarding experience, my life has flourished from those times when I have had the chance to travel on my own. Taking risks as a traveler has given me the opportunity to experience aspects of different culture that are not always obvious to the average tourist who is looking to check off points of interest in his or her Lonely Planet guidebook. Even though my upbringing contributed to my independent nature, my third grade trip to Zihautanejo helped create a strong foundation of self-confidence. I suppose I was right when I worried about being a “normal third grader,” because living in such a different culture for six months had the impact of forever changing my perception of what was normal.

John Myers' Song "Fifty-One Steps"

Fifty-one little steps to my baby’s house

Fifty-one little steps to my baby’s house

If I don’t quit all of my talking, I just won’t get around to walking

Those fifty-one little steps to my baby’s house

We first met it was love at first sight

But the kids didn’t want us loving every night

So I got me a house in the neighborhood, then things started to work out good

But I need my shoes every time I want to feel right

Fifty-one little steps to my baby’s house

Sometimes at night I just want to cry out loud

I call her on the phone she’s always talking, but even if she lived across town I’d walk 'em

Those fifty-one big steps to my baby’s house

Fifty-one short steps to my baby’s house

Fifty-one short steps to my baby’s house

Well if I don’t quit my talking, I just won’t get around to walking

Those fifty-one short steps to my baby’s house

Every now and then we cuddle for days on end

My kids with their momma, hers to their daddy sent

Pull the shades on the windows turn the lights down low, put the cat out the back let the old hound snore

Maybe it’s time we consolidate the rent

Friend came by to give me some free advice

What he had to say left me cold as ice:

Fall in love, sign the paper, tear it up sweet Jesus, oughtta think twice ‘bout running to the preacher

Better keep your round trip ticket to paradise

Fifty-one little steps to my baby’s house

Fifty-one little steps to my baby’s house

We say we want to be together forever, but in the same house it might be never

Fifty-one little steps to my baby’s house

Fifty-one little steps to my baby’s house

Gonna walk those fifty-one paces to paradise.

Wendy Lorch's "Growing Haole in the Melting Pot"

"You're okay because you're not like other haoles." People meant to compliment me when they said that I fit in because I wasn't like other Caucasian people. The compliment sank in only as far as my skin. I grew up in Hawaii as a fair-skinned, freckled, red-headed girl.

I made a practice of watching the few other Caucasians at Honokaa High School. I felt embarrassed to see their struggles to fit in. Perhaps I was actually looking at a mirror of my own. Without exception, all of them raised their hands too eagerly to give answers in class. When someone offered them food, they said, "Yes, please" right away. They didn't respond with local politeness by saying, "No thank you" at first and then finally giving in after much encouragement by the host. They didn't seem to realize that they were making large social errors. They spoke and laughed too loudly. They acted as if they were knowledgeable and had information to share. All of these excesses were quietly frowned upon by my Japanese, Okinawan, and Philippino friends.

Hawaii is a land of diversity. In one afternoon a person can visit a tropical rainforest, a snow-capped mountain peak, and a desert boasting cactus and recent lava flows. In that same period of time one can meet people who have ancestors from Polynesia, Japan, Scotland, China, The Philippines, and other far-off places. This diversity brings rich variety to food, music, and every-day life. However, Hawaii is not the melting pot it's made out to be. As a Caucasian I was invisible when I wanted to be visible. I was glaringly visible when I wanted to be invisible. I needed to prove myself before anyone would like me.

I remember the first dance I went to in high school. It was the main event during the slumber party my girlfriends and I were attending. We were staying at Joy's and Gay's house, just up the hill from the school. We all sat in a circle on the living room floor to get ready. Make-up, barrettes, eyelash curlers, and fingernail polish were spread out between us. We took turns applying eye shadow to each other's eyes and adding barrettes to each other's hair. One of my friends spent 20 minutes straightening my wavy hair with a brush and a blow drier.

Finally we were dressed and ready for the dance. I looked around at my girlfriends, beautiful every one. They all had shiny black hair and golden skin, but inside, at that wistful and idealistic age, I felt we were much the same. We all played tennis. We were in the band and 4-H. We loved The Commodores, The Bay City Rollers, and Robbie Benson.

These similarities were no help to me at the dance. Many boys came over to our group. They couldn't see how much the same we were. They only saw my girlfriends' shiny black hair and golden skin. In fact, none of them even looked at me at all. Needless to say, I stood there the entire night. I remember the warmth and sympathy in my friends' eyes, but at that time and place it was not okay for girls to dance with girls. There was not much they could do.

In Hawaii, the discrimination I felt was rarely overt. I had lots of friends and was involved in many activities. By the time I was a junior, more and more people had decided I was okay, despite my fair skin. That year I decided to join the Junior Young Buddhists Association because quite a few friends were members. Perhaps doing more of the same activities as my friends would make me more similar to them. We attended services at the Hongwanji, danced traditional Japanese dances around taiko drummers during the O'Bon Festival every August, and went to JYBA dances in other Big Island towns. The culminating event that year was a trip to Kauai.

By the time we left on our trip, some of my hopes of becoming similar by doing the same activities as my friends had begun to wear off. When we arrived on the island, we marveled at the stretches of beach dyed pink by the volcanic red dirt that washed off the hillsides. In the morning we packed our bento lunches in coolers. Each one was a delectable treasure of steamed white rice with tiny portions of chicken katsu or teriyaki beef, yellow daikon radish, and hot pink fish cake called kamaboku. A pair of break-apart wooden chopsticks went with every lunch. We boarded the bus and headed out to see all of the Hongwanjis on the island.

At each temple, we gazed at the golden altar of Buddha surrounded by a tapestry in sculpture of leaves, flowers, temples, and people. Then we each took a turn to light a stick of incense, bow to Buddha, and place our incense into an urn filled with ashes of the prayers that came before us. Reverently, we walked out and got back on the bus.

My friends didn't point me out as being different during the Hongwanji visits. Of course, they didn't need to because my differences were evident despite the fact that we all loved The Bay City Rollers. During every bow to Buddha I remember wondering what I should be thinking about. I saw and appreciated the same beauty that my friends were seeing, but I really didn't know the context behind it. I was an outsider even when my "not being like other haoles" allowed me to fit in.

My friend Jeff waited until lunch to tease me about my differences. On this day, I happened to get a teriyaki beef bento. The beef was cut paper-thin and was riddled with fat. At that age I was moderately proficient at squeezing chopsticks together to pick up all sorts of morsels. Unfortunately, eating meat requires a very different approach. With one hand, a polite person gracefully touches the meat with chopsticks together and then pries them away from each other to break the meat apart. Never once should fingers come into contact with the meat. As I tried this, the tender part of the meat broke apart nicely, but the fat wouldn't let go. If no one had been looking I would have used my fingers; I wasn't so lucky. I looked up and there was Jeff laughing until tears ran down his cheeks. My struggle with chopsticks wasn’t as private as I wished it to be. Logically, I knew that he wasn't being malicious. Rather, he was enjoying my differences. So, I laughed and tried to keep the twinkle in my eyes. Inside, however, I knew it was just another example of how different our backgrounds were.

My laughter, twinkling eyes, and hyper-sensitivity to social rules allowed me to fit in. I made a science out of watching the haoles for their "mistakes" and watching my Japanese, Okinawan, and Philippino friends for the "correct" way to act. I became quite good at ignoring what I might want in favor of what everyone else seemed to want. When a group of us was deciding what to do, I chose to keep quiet or say, "I don't know." But underneath that facade lurked the knowledge that I really did know what I wanted. It was simple: I wanted to be accepted as a part of my culture, not in spite of it.

I’ve spent most of my adult life perched on the western edge of the Continental U.S. I am not ready to move back to Hawaii because I have grown too accustomed to fitting in on the mainland without having to prove myself. However, I still have days when I yearn for my life in the subtropics. I miss hearing slack-key guitar music and smelling keawe trees in the sunshine. I miss boogie boarding and snorkeling at Hapuna Beach. I miss wearing plumeria leis and muu-muus. Perhaps most of all, I miss the people: my friends, family, and the rich variety of cultures I was exposed to every day. I carry these images lovingly in my heart. Perhaps I also carry something much deeper: a compassion and empathy for all people. I understand what it’s like to be different.

Daniel Zev Levinson's "Mad Jew-Poet"

It all began when I was seven years old in Israel. My father, a cantor, professor of American-Jewish history, and community leader, took the entire family on a six-month sabbatical from California to the Holy Land. Suddenly I was immersed in a foreign culture. Although I had some understanding of it, having been raised with a knowledge of Israel’s history and dominant religion, I found the Moslem-Arab culture to be new and fascinating. And Jerusalem, where we took up residence, is so much more than a mere dichotomy between two ways of life: the old city itself is divided into four quarters: Jewish, Moslem, Christian, and Armenian, each having its own stratification. And still, the nation’s diversity endlessly unfolds beyond this, a crystal whose spectrum can never be seen all at once, but only from different angles, in different lights. Here began my initiation into the cult of the traveler, an unshakable awareness that I would be forever a Jew, and the watering of the seed of the poet within. I have remained a wandering Jew, even during those years I didn't travel, even after I stopped participating in Jewish ceremonies. The poet within has been able to reconcile these paradoxes.

As a child, I did not consciously recognize that I was facing the Other here. I wandered the streets of the suk, taking in the myriad languages of local merchants, tourists, beggars; the alternately pleasing and offensive odors of spices, incense, cooking, urine, sweat; the visual array of a thousand items for sale, from carved camels to hookahs to enticingly mysterious confections—and I experienced openly. I literally took it all in. It did not seem bizarre, as it might to an adult, to stroll into the church where Christ is said to be buried, or to touch the rock upon which Abraham intended to sacrifice Isaac.

Without our knowing it, this temporary emigration introduced the “travel bug” into my brothers’ and my nature. We now cannot keep from traveling, which is both a blessing and a curse. A primary reason for traveling is simply to see new places, maybe meet new people, and taste different foods—in other words, to have experiences. This can result in banal quests, as those of the “overlanders,” made fun of by certain travel writers such as Pico Iyer. The overlanders are hip bohemian types who just cannot stay still, but are always in pursuit of “the next thing,” always comparing notes in the lounges of their guest houses over pipes of hashish mixed with tobacco, lamenting how this exotic place has been spoiled by tourists, that ten years ago there was hardly a foreigner to be seen here, and for a dollar a day one could live like a king. Of course, there is more to traveling than this. It is hard to be satisfied with one's own culture when one intrinsically knows about other realities. I seem to be on an endless quest for the Other, for people and places radically different from what I know. By embracing foreign cultures, I learn about the whole world. By being with people—whom I can easily relate to, merely because they are people—I grow to understand their systems of belief. I plan carefully for each trip, researching some of the topics mentioned above, and practicing some of the languages I will be encountering. Not only, then, is travel an endless education; but in search of the Other, one finds that the boundaries dissolve and Other becomes Same. This transmutes into a quest for the self.

Judaism is inextricably tied into this growth as a traveler. The members of this religion and culture are stereotypically intellectual, and not surprisingly, both of my parents were college educated. My mother is what I think of as a "social Jew," one who finds her place and identity in society through common practices and gatherings. My father, however, while also similarly finding his place through religion, actually found God in Judaism, which I think is rare. That is, in America, and probably around the world, most people simply go along with their family's religion as a way of fitting in. How many people find their truth, their answer, through such established religions as Judaism and Christianity?

There is a strong oral and written tradition in Judaism, with an emphasis on memorization. Between this and learning to translate Hebrew to English and vice versa, I was establishing a foundation for what would become my poetry. I went on to study Latin, always wanting to be able to take apart my native language. That Jews are recognized travelers, sometimes historically forced into diasporas, must have provided me (and my brothers) with a model of restlessness, of seeking.

When I was fourteen, my father was involved in a car accident that put him into a four-month coma. His immune system being weak during this period, he caught a cold and died. Needless to say, this was hard to face, but I did face it, and a lifelong pattern was established. I quickly came to realize that we all die no matter what, at any time. I began to regard our human drama as rather ridiculous, and in some ways unimportant, or insignificant. I still believe this. At the same time, however, I have learned to value the moment in which we live. Sometimes I am hyperaware of, but not completely participatory, in the moment. That is, I watch for its potentiality and therefore end up observing more than being. While this distances me from direct experience, such observation is perhaps one of the most necessary facets for being able to write poetry, especially poetry that might transcend one's own era.

In an unlikely way, then, my father's life and death precipitated my entrance into the dual cultures of travelers and poets. (I do not attempt to define the culture of poets because, beyond their writing poetry, poets are of every class and race.) Within a few months of his passing, my mother took my younger brother and me to Israel for six weeks, a journey that included stops in Egypt, England, and France. Two years later, I went with my Jewish youth group to Israel for another six weeks. Strange to say, I often consider the time shortly following my father's death as the best time in my life. Not that I was happy about this loss; but it was a period of blossoming, a transition into early adulthood in which I felt I was seeing the world for the first time. In fact, in some respects I was more in touch with God, or with the creative power of life, than I have been since. Sometimes I desire to throw my observations to the winds, and to simply be again. This is one good reason to travel. So, every three years I try to take a trip to new lands.

A year ago, my friend Matt (also raised Jewish) and I ventured throughout Southeast Asia for nine weeks. This was his first trip abroad, and I facilitated his going in large part. In his e-mail letters sent to friends back home, he referred to me as the "mad Jew-poet." Certainly he must have been seeing a side of me that is not apparent in our hometown, where most situations are predictable. From a lifetime of travel I am comfortable interacting with locals in their environments, whereas Matt seemed to be more of a cautious spectator. Throughout our trip, he watched from the sidelines as I connected with strangers, eagerly trying out my fledging Thai and other languages in the marketplace and at restaurants. Even near the end of our journey, in northern Laos, this difference remained apparent.

One evening after dinner as we walked beside the Mekong River, we came upon a group of ten or so youths sitting on a low wall, their backs to the river just down the bank, singing to the accompaniment of one sadly tuned guitar. Most guitars here, it seemed, quickly lost their purity of sound, as the omnipresent moisture rusted the strings and warped the bodies. Still, the song was strong, the young men and women happy to be making this music. Matt and I stood off to one side listening; I withdrew a pennywhistle from my backpack. I did not get all the notes right, but came close enough to share in the song, and the group seemed to appreciate my contribution. I wanted to stay, get to know these amiable people, but I sensed that Matt wanted to get going. At the end of the song, we continued on our way.

In this same town I got to know some of the locals quite intimately, even ending up at their homes and being shown the area by them. It was such a small town that, one day as a newfound Lao friend and I were strolling down the main street, we passed Matt going the opposite direction on the other side. We waved to one another but continued on our separate errands, partly because we had agreed to give each other some freedom from the obligation of always teaming up. At that moment I could tell that Matt regarded me as strange, and was perhaps jealous, wondering how I had acquired the key to this other world.

My "madness" is a sort of ecstasy, a pure exhilaration to be drinking in the lore and the spirits of heretofore alien cultures. On the surface, perhaps, my intensely Jewish upbringing has fallen by the wayside; yet it made me what I am, and Matt must have been able to see me in a clear light, exposed, all the way down to my roots. Sometimes the traveler and the poet within me meet on a common ground, and I can experience life while recognizing that the moment is precious. More often, however, the two walk different paths, perhaps inevitably. It may be that they are meant to inhabit different worlds, disparate realms of the mind. Maybe there is no conflict, then, but room enough for both the traveler and the poet within, neither one dominating, neither one needing to be king.

Pearla Lawson's "Omar"

"Omar. My soulmate. My true love forever. I've found you!"

My heartbeat reverberated in panicky, arrhythmic banter. I could feel little, tiny blood bubbles gurgle through my veins as I returned his 'just-being-polite’ greeting of "Hello, I'm Omar from Philly," with this burst of sheer, unabashed ardor... silently to myself. My alter ego, hidden from public view, is far more bold and spontaneous.

"Hi. I'm Linda. Nice to meet you," I voice in wonderment, responding to his introduction with the reasonableness of any single female looking for rescue.

He was as exotic as his name...tall and lean, with beautiful, sleek, black skin and deep, mysteriously childlike eyes. Short, soft hair crowned his quietness. Omar was one of seven or so African American males attending nearby Dickinson Laws College. All of them were intelligent, handsome and available.

The three of us were the only African-American women on a college campus of two thousand white students. We were not getting our accustomed share of male attention. What came as part of a regular day in a high school population that offered male choices like Baskin-Robbins's 41 flavors, was absolutely absent in my first four college years.

No flirtatious grins to foretell of flattering eyes that would follow my every step. I missed that. I missed pretending to be so intent upon getting to my destination that I did not notice the casual tilt of an anonymous admirer's head. I could time the moment his amber honeyed musculature would lean in close enough for me to feel the humidity in his words, whispered as I walked by, "Hey, baby. Why don't you let me walk you home?"

The lines of color were painfully drawn as no men and few women welcomed us to college life. Even our roommates kept conversation to a minimum, prompted only by necessity.

My decision to go to this God forsaken place was fueled by the talk of community folk I trusted.
“If you go to a black college, your degree won't be worth anything. All they do is party." This said with so much certainty to a shy teenager, never far from home, helped to convince my choice. I made my decision as my nerdy, always goofy brother had before me, to choose a college with scholarly pursuit in mind.

Shippensburg State University, housed in a small rural, namesake town, knew nothing of skin colors and sentiments which reflect the warm tones of Africa. Well, gee, thanks oh leaders of the flock. You forgot to mention this more special degree would come at the great price of seldom getting to "party". I was surrounded by sea of faceless forms that gave no indication of seeing me or hearing me.

We could not complain to African American people who had known the southern hospitality of "Jim Crow" intimately. No, they wouldn't have thought to warn us. It was too close to them. To them going to an all white college without a police escort was proof that their suffering had been vindicated. How dare we even think of complaining to them. We knew better. It would be selfish, sacrilegious...like wimping out on our ancestral strengths.

So there we sat on Saturday nights, knowing we could turn a young man's head with the best of them, huddled together in dreary misery, unbelieving of what we had done to ourselves. We met, week after week, in Cynthia's oak paneled room, too dark for laughter, staring at the shiny, hardwood floor that mirrored the reality of our sacrifice. It, too, was special but you couldn't be comfortable on it. Its beauty would be tarnished by the irreverence of playful scuff marks and strewn clothing or last night's wine glasses, still wet and scented. Our more reputable degrees cost us the messy, fun part of living at college.

When my two snobbish upper class friends and I learned of the seven or so men, we abandoned all sense of the modesty drilled into us by our mother's patterned protestations against our bellies swelling before their time and headed for our "oasis of love" at Dickinson Law College, only thirty minutes away.

A dorm room, home to two of the men, one of them Omar, became the designated safe hangout. We wanted to be together, all of us, just to feel what it was like to see brown skin wherever we looked.

Omar was like no other person I had ever known. He seemed a totally complete package, a gift assembled, maintenance free and wrapped with meticulous elegance. The rest of us were hungry for conversation. He said almost nothing. We all wanted someone to latch onto. He preferred the company of himself. He was happy to observe, contemplate and read. His stillness stood out as gallant among our restless faces. I want to know him. I wanted to him to love him. I wanted him to love me. He loved more the words in his books. He seemed at peace when reading them. They gave his life what I was sure he could give me.

He was entranced with something beyond my awareness. It seemed to insulate him from my need to nest. At least, that is what I imagined. What could I do to myself to catch his glance finding me irresistible? How would I let him know that he was missing a wonderful, loving, person? Me. We could return to our classes wearing each other’s smiles, strengthened by our mutual reflections. Omar did glance my way, and yet past me, to daydream in peace into the camouflage of nature just outside an opened window behind me.

A silent knowing rested nearby when I chanced to see Omar. He seemed to be captivated by a lover more dependable, more expansive than I. Yet, I was determined. I took up the fight to win him admirably, on his own terms. I searched the libraries for the same books he held like newly purchased gemstones, marvelous and priceless. Krishnamurti-Indian philosopher. How humbling new paradigms can be. Some of the things I read I understood. But, no, most of it, I did not. What the hell was this man trying to say? How could I ever converse with Omar? I didn't even understand most of what he read.

My attempts at conversation with him grew weaker as the sparks I ignited flew to faintness and disappeared in front of us. He never gave signs of wanting to know me better. I returned to SSU alone but with the memory of the ever present serene aura framing Omar still in my vision. If I couldn't have him, perhaps I could have that sense of something solid, something true for all times that seemed to give him such sweet solace.

The particulars of each succeeding partnership began to fade in importance. I had become aware of a pattern with all of them. Love is here, Hallelujah! Hello, soulmate. Love is gone. Why am I alone? Soulmate, where are you? In the midst of a partnership of volatile passions that seemed to go nowhere I began to long for what is true and always there when the lover is not. I suspected I was missing the better part of love somehow.

It would be four years later, after SSU and into teaching, fresh from the wounds of a forbidden love that my heart heard its Beloved call. " Would you like to go to Satsang with me?" asked a friend, a new convert to a Hinduism spin-off.

What is Satsang?" I knew better, but I asked anyway, not really interested.

"Well, lots of us go and listen to mathamas tell stories that teach lessons about life and love," she eagerly responded, taking the opportunity to open wider the door of invitation.

I could think of no reason why I would want to do that. I thought of the best "nice girl" way to say “No, thank you. Maybe some other time. Like some other lifetime.” My mouth opened and my heart answered. Out came, "Okay, where are the meetings held."

Now the mathatma, bald and obviously free of the worldly burdens we carried, reminded me of someone I had witnessed earlier. He possessed a definite sense that he was tied to something inside that gave him a deep sense of calm. This very slight man of no degrees or possessions or muscled manhood emanated a sense of power that filled the room.

"Love is within you,” he'd say with sweet contentment, as each story ended. Why yes, I could plainly see it was within him. How do I get to it without all the mess of romance? Easy to say. Hard to do.

I watched a seed of realization plant itself and take root in my heart. It grew with my questions. Does my search for true love have more to do with me than my "dream" man? Will I even want my dream man if I find true love in myself? Because I still want my dream man. If it means one over the other, well, I have to think that over...a lot. I am not that strong.

My quest to return to the place where love always is continues. Its certainty is assured by a summer night's dream in which many of us danced angelic in luminous, flitting forms. Like hungry hummingbirds we paused, pairing in flight, to exchange an invisible, precious elixir. We surrendered in willing service to this dance of no partners, for our communion was as necessary to us as breath. It did not matter whom we loved. It mattered that we loved. We bowed into and out of each other as Grace and Dignity watched. Then away we waltzed in midair to touch yet another form ...to connect once again.

Waking remembrance gave me no frame of reference in my life to assign to this dream. A bunch of people exchanging partners for love. Hmmm... now that sounded too much like loaded hippies at Woodstock . I chose carefully who heard this dream. What stuck with me was the fact that love was much more accessible that I had known before. There was honor in this dance. It moved us from within. We could feel love by giving it.

This dream changed the quality of my interactions with people. I used to wait to see if a person smiled at me before I smiled. I used to wait to show that I cared about someone. It was safer. Now, I realize that in giving I immediately start the flow of love, which is what I really want to feel anyway.

Relationships are easier now. And fewer. I can tell with one question if I want it to begin.

"So what is your goal in life, " I probe a potential partner. An innocent enough inquiry usually delivered with obvious screening intent. Omar's smile beams from my face when I hear anything suggesting the answer I want.

"To be content with life" or "To know myself,” he might say.

I say, casually, while somersaulting inside, "Oh, that's cool." He too has been searching.

It no longer destroys me if words that brought us together in relationshiop together tear us apart. If eyes that sought me seek another. I still hurt. I still cry, but not as long or as deeply because only a memory away is the dream, my placental guide to love that is steadfast and unceasing.