The F-Line

Let me set the scene:

It's a Saturday evening in San Francisco, CA. I am heading back to the East Bay after dinner with my girlfriend and her Aunt at a family-managed restaurant on Pier 39.
My girlfriend and I split ways, she jumps into a Lyft to work in the Mission, I walk to the pavilion to wait for the F-line along the Embarcadero back to BART.  We weren't planning to split so early but she was late for work, so I didn't have my iPod or my headphones--things I usually take everywhere when I travel alone. The F-line rolls up, and as per usual is stuffed full. As soon as the doors opened, people on the trolley started telling everyone waiting to board that "it was too full" and they "couldn't take any more passengers." I, being one, fairly small, bagless individual squish myself on anyway, much to the dismay of the passengers aboard (I remind myself "you are just as special as these people!") in order to balance myself, I have to hold a bar right in front of an older man standing in the front-left of me. I say, "thank you.." and he replies softly after a slight hesitation, "you're welcome."

The train jolts forward. There are a lot of tourists on the train, especially apparent were a large non-English speaking group that is spread throughout the trolley--including two members of the group (a boy and a girl who are obviously together) that are standing directly in front of me--occasionally yelling to each other in a Spanish-sounding language and then erupting in laughter. While I am taking this all in, occasionally worried that they are making fun of me for standing so close to this foreign woman in front of me, I feel the person behind me start to sort of bounce. This person is standing very close to me (as would be expected in a trolley this crowded) and now are moving so quickly in their movements I can only describe it as jiggling. I didn't turn around, nervous to embarrass the person behind me who I feel must be very uncomfortable and panicky in a traincar so full, or must have an uncontrollable tremor. Eventually (say 1 minute) I turn around because the bouncing is basically occurring against my body. Behind me a very short Asian man wearing glasses glances at me, and immediately I understand what was just happening. I look at him in disgust, don't say a word, but reposition my body in a way that makes it clear that I know what he was doing, and makes it hard for him to continue his behavior. He moves away from me.

My repositioning is only slight, but it makes the foreign woman slightly to my right, and the older guy I spoke to after first entering the trolley slightly to the left. After only a few moments I realize that the older man has an erection. And I think to myself, "I think that dude has a boner." And then after that realization, I see him move closer to this woman. This woman who I previously established was with this larger group, and even more obviously, with her boyfriend that is standing in front of her. The older man starts to move up and down, starts to rub himself on her. I am standing face to face with him, and he is rubbing his body on this woman. Almost without thought I say, "Excuse me but do you know her?" He looks at me, and without hesitation puts his hand on her waist, and says, "yes." This reaction almost, almost gives me pause. I reply, "You're with all these people?" and gesture around me. He replies, "yeah, I am." And I ask, "Oh really? where are they from?" and he hesitates, "...sounds like South America." At this point, the woman had moved away from him, and turned so he couldn't put his hand on her waist any longer. I give him a look that says, I see you, asshole. The trolley stops at my stop and all I feel is deep disgust as I exit. He exits as well, and no one from the group leaves with him.

This happened three days ago now, and I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop thinking about how he felt so secure in his actions, he put his hands on this woman that he doesn't know. He put his hands on her in a way that says, "I own you" after rubbing his penis on her. I felt mad. I felt mad at him, and I felt mad at her for not doing anything. But my anger at her is unprecedented. This is anger that is projected, anger that I have at myself for simply moving my body and not saying anything to the man that was doing the same thing to me, just seconds before. Anger at society at large, anger at men who think they can do whatever they want to woman's bodies. Anger at this system we exist in where woman sacrifice themselves, their very bodies to take care of others' feelings, not willing to create conflict. I won't. I won't take care of any of you any longer. I will take care of me, and I will take care of my sisters, in an effort to create a community of social responsibility, where men take care of women, men take care of men, women take care of women, and women take care of men, where people take care of other people.

I think this experience is especially shocking to me because I have always prided myself on my empathic approach to the world, to look deeper than surface level to understand what is happening in any given circumstance. I was reminded that my empathy, while many times built upon true-to-life experience, is also very much founded in the abstract. In considering how I would treat another individual in certain circumstances. This is the first time that I have experienced myself in the middle of one of those circumstances, and what I felt was little to no empathy for these human beings.

I've told this story so many times now, and I often apologize afterwards for "bringing down the conversation." But that blame doesn't belong to me. That blames belongs to the men on the F-line who brought down and broke my moral and physical boundaries of the world that I live in. That made it a little scarier to exist as a woman. That made me look behind myself every few seconds after leaving the trolley to make sure I was safe, because I called out a man and his disgusting, sexist acts towards another. In any regards, I feel the need to spread this story. To let people know that they can do something, and they should do something. This woman now exists in a world where men are allowed to touch her body, (touch it sexually) without her consent (she has always existed here, but now she is aware of it). I now exist in this world, and because of this, we all do.

To the Intended: Never Received

Originally composed on November 20th, 2014:

I don’t know who I am anymore, I started much too young

Presumptuous, egotistical, my lifetime story sung

I stop and start, question and feel completely valid

It’s confusing and exhilarating, terrifying, pallid.

I devote my days to strangers and my evenings to friends

The night hours are for lovers, to warm from chill winds

We choose solitary partners, then fret and worry over our choice

Will they love me now or then? Is it enough? The endless whir of the inner voice

We go to bed chatting, arguing over needs

One will always win, frustration and tension breed

It’s unfair to say “monogamy!” and then wait for your partner to comply

Sexually are needs differ, and the attention will always be vied.

I automatically have to want less in order to be with you

Or you have to give in to more—which isn’t fair or true

We woke up to rain, but choose to get wet indoors

Covering ourselves from nature’s shower, the skies we beg/implore

The train clanks by and I watch the cars stuffed

With moisture and bodies, faces pulled rough.

So very many people, train after train

I am the only one who wishes to live on a simpler plane?

A group of marauding rovers exchanging love and devotion

Rarely we come across others, mostly enjoy the company of the ocean

The choices are simple, cut out, not even really a thought

Parsing out needs/wants of two people is hard, but worth a shot. 

Cloud Theory

I have this idea that souls are fragmented, made out of a lot of other souls. They exist in a cloud. When someone is born, a bunch of soul fragments rush together into their body to create the soul that will become that person, and when they die the soul is released back into the cloud in many parts and bits, each section having learned something from their experience within that body, each section bringing part of that experience into the new body that they will then inhabit. So in a sense, while we are all unique, we each carry experience from hundreds of lives before us. We are a conglomeration of struggle, passion, love, loss. And in some sense, when we die, we continue on as a glimmer of presence of hundreds of other individuals that have yet to be born.
In this sense, if one soul was meant for another, it was meant for a myriad, and while it can love one wholly and truly, it has the ability to love many. One soul is meant for another in a moment, in a location, in a lifetime.

Souls can sense one another. In that second that you meet someone, your soul reads theirs--and perhaps they share fragments, or their bits are complimentary, or perhaps they aren't--but both can distinguish that. Sometimes one is better at observing/reading/noticing than another, but when both souls see each other for what they are, recognize their familiarity and bond in a past life, or a possibility for a future together in this life or the next, (and the bodies that house them allow those souls touch), that is love.

We don't choose who we love. Hundreds of soul bits and fragments that have experienced life and love many times choose that for us.  Trust your soul.

The American Dream

Isn't it weird when you just know that someone is talking to you?
Even when you are asleep, just a voice guided in your direction (not even your name) is enough to pull you from your slumber.
I was napping in my front yard, sun glaring down on my already burnt body, when I heard a call: "excuse me. Excuse me. EXCUSE ME." even as the first words had barely left her mouth I knew that she was talking to me, the second the sound hit my ears my brain (and I say brain here and not mind with utter confidence) began to rouse me.
"My brother threw the ball over the fence, can you get it for us?"
I rolled over, and stood up, my hair between wet and dry, my bangs sticking up in all directions. As I walked towards the side yard, I pulled the hair together with my hands and twisted it on top of my head.
I opened the side gate, making sure that I propped a rock in front of it to keep it open. I looked back at the gaggle of black children just beyond my white picket fence, "the big pink one?"
"Yeah".
I carefully placed my un-shoed feet on the grass that I knew to be teeming with glass and other fun bits, and rolled the ball into my hands, big enough that I needed both to keep it in place. I picked my way back to the front of the house and tossed the ball into the arms of the girl who had woken me.
"Thanks!"
"Of course." I fell back onto the blanket that I had deserted as the children began to walk away, in the direction of the park.
"You tryin' to get a tan?" the leader asked.
"Tryin'." I said.

Thoughts on Graduate School

It has come to my attention (once again)

That I haven't been writing enough my friends

Creativity used to flow

"I've GOT to blog this!" and to the computer I'd go

But recently, within the past few years

I've lost my passions and replaced them with fears

School this, school that, and start your dissertation this summer!

I'll I want to do is lay in the sun, and slumber

I want to think, share my ideas, and dream

I want to love and laugh, cook with cream

But all is lost in the therapy room

I take on others' emotions, and mine turn to doom

What if I quit, just stopped one day

What would I do to replace my time, my bills, who would pay?

There's got to be a way to marry the two

To feel like I am doing something for me, not you

I love people! That's why I got here at all

I didn't know I'd feel lost, questioning the long haul

I should be doing something else, more of an entertainer

But it's true, I am confused. God, I'm such a complainer

Untitled

Tango music has been playing in my mind all day

Its haunting rhythms burning poise and allure into my step

I can't shake the sounds and no one else can feel it. 

Laundry Service

I was at a friend's house recently, and he was dreading doing laundry. He confided to me that he just hates folding laundry, and I was entreated for my help. I was promised a back rub, at least I think that's how it went (in actuality my eyes were darting around the room looking for anything I could do to get a good rub) and the deal was sealed.  I stood up from my reclining position on the floor where I had lain, watching him unpack his bags from a ski trip that weekend, and stretched a good long stretch, then traipsed over to the pile of clothes on the bed. I reached for the first twisted shirt, pulled it towards me deftly turning it right side out and quickly folding it into a perfect square.  I commented, "I never fold laundry, I hang most of my things. I actually haven't folded laundry in a really long time..."

We weren't allowed any TV-watching during the week, but there was one little exception--if you were helping to fold laundry.  There were so many kids in the Harrison household that the laundry itself was quite a sight to behold.  We had an extremely organized system (hashtag: military family) that included blue and green square plastic buckets, their corners white where the plastic had slowly stretched over time.  The buckets would be filled with clothing in the master bedroom, then delivered to each child's room in turn.  We were expected to put the clothes away within a day or so, and then deposit the buckets back into the master bedroom, alongside the tall dresser by the door.  They stacked perfectly.
My mother would sort the clothes into darks, lights, and whites, and the warm articles of cloth would cascade onto the foot-end of the water bed in the master bedroom directly from the dryer, the weight causing ripples to erupt across the bed as well as the buckets on the head-end of the bed to knock into one another with a dull, plastic-y sound.  The buckets were lined up in an orderly fashion, sides touching sides, creating a big square of squares.  Mother and child would stand next to one another, the mother: folding, whistling, watching; the child: clutching a piece of clothing in their limp arms, staring at the TV, slack-jawed.  The whistling was constantly interrupted with a, "keep folding!" and the child's hands would search out a new piece of clothing to fold ever so slowly, all the while eyes glued to the precious shapes of light emitted from the television.

I prattled on for some time, and then my mind was deposited into a scene from many years ago:

My mother is in the master bedroom standing along side the bed, facing a TV that sits on a tall wooden dresser, flowers carved on its cupboards and drawers, across from her.  It's nighttime, but the windows are open, and the cool desert air softly floats into the room, the sound of crickets on its waves. My mother is whistling and watching Law & Order, she smiles as I enter, "want to help fold?"

Philosophy and Psychology

When everything means nothing and nothing means a lot

We find ourselves discussing, contemplating, analyzing "ought"

When seasons don't change and each days starts off bright

Happiness is expected, but we keep wishing for night

The water goes in and the salt is flushed out

Craving becomes habit and indulgence becomes route

Everything affects you, it's all bad, it's all wrong

Your brain is always changing, your lifetime is not long

Spike

His name is "Spike" the hardware-man said as he rang me up on his till
He had speared his friend, a fellow succulent only that morning as well

Spike was a cactus I saw on the street while I contemplated buying shoes
I knew he was mine when my eyes laid on him, I knew together we'd never lose

And so I carried him on the bus, from Haight to downtown SF
From there I took him into a coffee shop, and hid him under the desk

From the shop to the bathroom, and then to the Court, and even into a bar
He patiently waited while I played pool (I won by a fluke, it was gnar)

Finally it was time to take him home, to flourish next to his soon-to-be-friend plants
But as we descended into the gloom, Montgomery station proved stuffed as a fat man's pants

We nervously chuckled and waited for BART to alleviate the obscured tunnel
And as the next train rolled to a stop, we smooshed through doorways that acted as funnels

As the car packed fuller, full to the brim, the more and more panicked I got
I held Spike closer, and whispered to him, "this was a bad idea that we wrought"

As patrons of transit squished towards us, I cringed as bodies grew near
I said more than once, "I'm holding a cactus!" and people's faces turned in fear

Stop after stop (and even the tube) I sweated, vowing to impale myself first should need be
Finally MacArthur loomed towards us, and in a breath of fresh air we were free.

All the Foreign Colors

I was meeting a friend in the city for dinner, and as per usual, I was early.  After spending time Instragramming a beautiful (and original) sunset, I made my way to the burrito shop.  After peering through the windows and determining that the members of my party had yet to arrive, I posted up across the way, learning against a graffitied wall to read my book.
When I read, I get lost in the material, and it wasn't until I sensed something, well, amiss did I look up from my activity. A man, long hair pulled back in a low pony under a small, brimless hat, holding a six pack of beer (and this may be my fanciful imagination, but I could swear he was also wearing a trench-coat) was standing next to me, and just unashamedly gazing at me.  Upon making eye contact he simply stated, "You look foreign."
I giggled, "Um, I'm not."
He continued, "It must be the haircut, you have the foreign haircut.  It also may be the colors you are wearing."
I laughed outright and gestured towards my outfit (blue skirt, grey nylons with knee high grey socks, goldenrod sweater all pulled together with a creamy white belt and boots) "I am wearing all the foreign colors?"
He briefly smiled, "Where do you live?"
I answered, "I live in Oakland"
"What brings you to San Francisco?" he asked.
"I am meeting some friends for dinner" I replied awkwardly.
"And what are you reading?"
"Oh, just the Bell Jar", I offered him the cover.
He smiled even more widely, "I thought you looked gentle, so I decided to say hello."
Again I laughed, "Well thanking you for saying hello!"
He started to move on, "Many blessings to you this night."
"And you as well!"I shook my head and continued with my reading.
I have a feeling that the Bay will suit me just fine.

I am constantly waiting

I'm constantly waiting.
For a package in the mail, for a midterm/a final, for it to be time to eat again.
I wait for the holidays, for a birthday, for summer, for school to start once more.
I wait for Friday, for Monday, until the end of the month, for it to be cold/warm.
I wait for a text, for a phone call, for my cat to come inside.
I wait for the water to boil, for a book to be done, for my brother to be home.
I wait for the morning, I wait for the night, I wait for the time to be just right.
I'm constantly waiting.

In Closing

I came to this city when I was still young—just ten + eight

That first year was rough, determining my fate

But as the days swiftly passed, Portland softened the edges

I danced in her streets, was schooled amid green hedges

I commuted to obligations through puddle and rain

When I looked up at her gray skies, my happiness unfeigned

I worked for years in an office of pure magic

They plied me with treats and laughs, leaving was tragic

Through cars and motos and bikes I shuffled

I gained a constant companion, who liked his fur ruffled

It was sex, heartbreak, bliss, contentment I learned here

The taste of good food in my mouth, a hearty liking for beer

I know this city, she is my home

Everywhere else, I only roam

Her trees and leaves, and flowers blooming

The years ahead of me without her are looming

As I pass over the bridges my throat catches, my heart drops

I loved her, I love her, I promise to never stop

Play Me

Tonight, after leaving the club/bar a teensy bit tipsy, I made my way home past the churches and museums in the park blocks, hoping that the public piano located on Madison (and the space surrounding it) would be free, allowing me to satisfying the night's sky with my chords.
I justified my desire to create noise in a slightly residential area late at night: it was romantic.  Even if people woke up to my notes, it would be as a pleasant lullaby to their ears: lulling them back to sleep.
I turned the corner, and my eyes found the piano with the stick-on lettering plastered to its side: Please Play Me.  But alas, there was already a pedestrian seated at the bench.
I made my way over to the instrument, and calmly smiled, "Are you the guardian of the piano? Making sure that no one plays it late at night?"
Ryan was deeply tan.  He had dirt underneath his nails, oversized clothes garbing his body, and he wasn't wearing any shoes.  He quickly jumped off the piano, "oh no! do you play? play for me.  I am just trying to figure out what a "suspended chord" is".
I answered, "I do play, but I am terrible with theory.  I have no idea what a suspended chord is."
He asked if I had a pen, and I supplied him with one. For the next twenty minutes we poured over his tiny notebook, comparing a six string guitar with the octave of the piano, discussing half and whole notes, and talking about Chopin and the om symbol.  I asked him where he got the music he was trying to figure out (he had handed it to me upside down) and he answered that he had "stolen it from the bench".  I asked him where his shoes were, he said he didn't have any, he had lost them earlier, everything that he owned, I was looking at.

After we argued whether or not the piano should be moved to better light (he won), I clumsily attempted to play.  I admitted that I was slightly inebriated, and embarrassed I stood up to go, slinging my backpack on.  He barely looked up from his notes (a scribbled "Brook" was written above the penned guitar frets in his notebook) as I told him I was headed home and that it had been nice to meet him.  After I had already started to walk away, he called after me, "your pen!"
I told him to keep it.

Attack of the Appendix, and Other Hospital Tales

Let me lay the scene out for you:
I had been in the hospital for over three hours with an excruciating pain in my side.  The pain was so severe that I had already vomited several times, both in the waiting room, and in the smaller room they place you to wait some more.  Granted, it was a pretty busy day at the ER, we saw sick children, a pregnant mother who came in sobbing and did not stop--her cries could be heard fading away as they led her into the back--a bloody homeless man, a whole family (in which the mother indicated she had "severe pain" of her skin on one side, yet I literally saw her skipping through the waiting area at one point) her daughter would screech from one end of the waiting room to the other, a man with a guitar and no apparent ailment passing out business cards to the unfortunate, an older woman complaining of dehydration, and finally a couple who both appeared to be receiving treatment, the woman handcuffed and accompanied by a police officer.
A paramedic intern was finally called into the room (where I was kneeling on the bed, doubled over, my boyfriend hovering around me, rubbing my back, angry at how long everything was taking) to place an IV line and inject me with morphine.  She "blew through" the first vein she chose, meaning she passed the needle through the vein entirely, causing the blood from the vein to leak into the skin around it, which, on the outside, looks like a huge, nasty bruise.  I was in so much pain I barely even noticed.  The nurse helped set the next line, and soon morphine had taken over my system--the relief was sweet.
The doctor/surgeon ordered a CAT-scan (A side note about the scan--they pump iodine through your veins in order to see any infection more clearly, the iodine creates a warming sensation throughout your body, but especially in the pelvic area.  I legitimately thought I wet myself while being scanned). A nice, older lady came by to pick me up.  She was very thoughtful and attentive, and when she was wheeling me out of the room, she placed my wallet on the bed with me, "just in case!" she sang.
"You can leave the clothes" I said
"No one will steal those" she smiled.
"Hey! Those are some nice clothes!" I laughed
"I just doubt anyone around here is your same size, and shares your same style" she said, kindly.
"Oh, well, I guess that could be true" I let it be.
"Except for maybe, a beginning transgender".
EXCEPT FOR, MAYBE, A BEGINNING TRANSGENDER.  I am not sure what this means, and my only reply was a laugh, "ha".  This same lady, after I thanked her profusely for being so nice to me, went on to say, "who knows, you might be my next daughter-in-law!"
Yes, maybe.
The doctors were unsure as to what was causing my pain, but were closing in on "appendicitis".  I was not running a fever, and my white blood cell count had come back normal.  My body was not treating whatever was happening to me as an infection, which made the doctors wary of operating on me.  Furthermore, my CAT-scan had come back inconclusive.  There seemed to be some fluid surrounding my appendix, but as far as an infection was concerned, the scan did not show it.  All my other symptoms were consistent, however, and the surgeon eventually approached me with three options: operate, wait, or see if a round of antibiotics helped.  I chose to operate.
Luckily for me, I was experiencing an appendicitis, and the one side of my abnormally long and skinny appendix was indeed infected.  It was snip-snip! and then zip-zip! and I woke up in recovery.  I spent the night in the hospital, and the staff ensured that there was a pull-out couch in the room, and my bf spent the night as well.
I was discharged the next day, and then the next week was a haze of pain killers and a sore, unable-to-move body.
I am feeling much better now!

Orange, ORANGE!

       My family, being many mouths to clothe, feed, and house, was never rich.  Although we grew up in a fairly nice neighborhood, and my dad was always employed, my parents went to great lengths to save money—coupon clipping, no allowances, food bought in bulk, eating out was a rarity, and family “vacations” were never trips to Mexico, or flying across the country to see the Big Apple.  While “vacation” may not be the correct word, family trips were taken almost every summer.  We had cousins in California, Washington, and Idaho, and when the hotter months rolled around and school was out, the parents would pack their kids in their large, brown, 12-seater van (sometimes, if their were not enough seats to spare (before the seatbelt laws), a child would sit on the floor in between mom and dad’s captain chairs in the front of the vehicle), and head off down the highway.  

            Mom would wake us early in the morning (at around 4 or 5am) the day of the trip, and we would all wearily stumble into the van with our pillows and blankets dragging behind us, bags already packed and stacked in the back, seat assignments planned and handed out the night before.  Leaning up against windows and each other we would doze off, and wake up already bumping our way down the road to our destination. 

            Family trips, long and usually hot, were always pretty fun.  My mother, a cooler at her feet, would prepare sandwiches and snacks, passing them back with questions like, “who’s hungry?” or “who wants turkey, who wants ham?” Apples, and a knife would be produced, and she would cut away, whistling all the while.  This meant we always made great time, only stopping for gas (and you had better go to the bathroom while we were stopped at the station, because we would not stop again until the gas gauge indicated need). 

            For family road trips, my dad bought had purchased two large, 64-oz plastic jugs for soda.  These jugs were fastened to the seats with bungee cords, and pulled out at gas stations to be filled with pop.  My family, devout Mormons, could only drink soda that did not contain caffeine, so the options were limited: orange, root beer, and sprite.  Two, special children were chosen by father to carry the vessels into the convenience store, each to be filled with one of the designated flavors.  The other children, forced to stay in the car, would hang out the doors, or call through the window slits—the van had those wretched windows that only popped opened with frog handles, creating a small opening at the base of the window, barely wide enough for a child’s hand to feel the wind caress his skin, let alone get a blasted breeze going through the vehicle—yelling to the chosen ones what flavor they should bring back, “Orange, orange!” “ROOT BEER ROOT BEER ROOT BEER!” “Sprite!, get Sprite!!” And heaven help the children who brought back two of the same flavor. 

              After we were back on the road, the pops would be passed around the cabin, “Orange, third row”, “I SAID ORANGE THIRD ROW”, “Sprite to the front, please”, “Who has the Sprite, Matt, will you get Kendra’s attention, SPRITE TO THE FRONT, KENDRA”.

            Should the arguing becoming incessant; my mom would flip down her rearview mirror, sunglasses glaring into the back rows, searching out the problem the child, threatening punishment.  If the arguing insisted, became irritating, or too much to handle, my dad would boom, “Pass the mugs up front”.  A cry would go up from the children in the back, “No, please no, we will be better”, “Thanks a lot Lance, look what you’ve done!” The mugs would solemnly be passed to my dad, who would roll down his window—of course the front windows rolled down fully, a privilege of being a parent—and he would open the lids, and poor the sweet, sweet liquid out on the road.   

            When the road became boring, with the sun high in the sky, my parents would start us singing rounds, row by row.  We had:

Round One:

Get up ol’ Dobbin, We’re going to town

Get those wheels a-turnin’ around

Get those wheels a-turnin’ around

Giddy-up! We’re homeward bound

Round Two:

 I like to take my horse and buggy

While I go travelin’ to the town

I like to hear ol’ Dobbins clip-clop

I like to feel the wheels go’ round

And:

White coral bells, upon a slender stalk

Lilies of the valley line my garden walk

Oh don’t you wish, that you could hear them ring

That will only happen when the fairies sing

            When we neared the end of the trip, my parents would call for all of us to take out our headphones, and “clean up your areas, put on your shoes, We’re almost there”.

Keep Going!

Growing up, there were a lot of rules in the Harrison household.  We could only eat “cold” cereal on the weekends, and even then only before 9am (a tactic my parents used to get us out of bed on the weekends), there was absolutely no TV allowed during the week, and only a specific allotment of time for TV on Friday and Saturday nights.  We were only allowed to play on the computer or play video games for an hour a day, and of course only after our homework was completed.  Also, expected each day, every child was to practice the piano for forty-five minutes.  I was in the younger portion of the family, and the last three children were to practice an additional instrument (mine was the cello) for thirty minutes per day.  One hour and fifteen minutes of pure torture, per day. 

Did I mention I grew up in a big family? There were twelve of us.  I am number eleven; the eleventh of twelve.  Now, we were all required to play the forty-five minutes of piano as we reached middle and high school, but as younger, elementary-school-aged children, an hour was expected of us each day (barring Sunday, the Holy Sabbath). 

In the morning, my mother would enter each bedroom and wake up the sleeping children who occupied each said bedroom (there were usually two, and sometimes three occupants in each room).  She would brightly sing:

Rise and shine

Get up it's mornin’ time!

Rise and shine

Get up it's mornin’ time!

Rise! And! Shine! And!

Get up it's morning time

Children

Of the

Children of the Lord

We would grumpily roll out of bed, and when we heard the “dinner bell” (a large, brass bell that was rung in order to call the family from all corners of the house—used for prayer time, breakfast, dinner, and scripture reading) we would stumble into the living room, still in our PJ’s for family prayer.  And that is when the action started. 

The elementary school kids were allowed to play the piano for thirty minutes in the morning, before school.  If this was accomplished, after school was over you would only be required to play thirty more minutes of the hated instrument until you were free all evening! The only catch was, we only had two pianos.  There were five or six of us at the ripe age of splitting our piano time, but only two pianos.  So, in the mornin’, it was an all-out sleep-still-in-our-eyes war for who got to play the piano. 

We would position ourselves carefully in the living room:  the grand piano was located there, and the best spot to be in the family prayer circle was in the back of the room, nearest that piano.  The older piano was downstairs, so the planning had to be strategic—either you got the good piano upstairs, or you had to sacrifice it to at least get one of the pianos in the morning.   A second catch: due to the battling of the children for the pianos in the morning, it was forbidden to have your piano books already in your hands or (God forbid) already set up on the piano, ready to be played out of by some smartie-pants who thought ahead the night before.  So, after the bell was rung, and the children stumbled into the living room for family prayer, things got serious.  Children pushed and shoved each other for the coveted kneeling positions, and after the parents selected a child to offer up the supplication to heaven we would all bow our heads, tensed and ready to spring as soon as the prayer ended.  If you were the selected orator, you had an advantage—you got to choose when the prayer ended, and therefore you were the most ready to run for your piano books, and subsequently, for the piano itself.  The other children were would peek their eyes open, and gauge the other’s reactions and future moves, as well as eyeing the prayer-giver, sizing them up and guessing what tricks they had up their sleeve, ready to jump up as soon the word “amen” was spoken.  And then, it would happen.  The child would utter the trigger, “amen”, and the living room would erupt in chaos:  children running for their books, desperately trying to be the first to get their bums on the bench.  Every morning ended in fights, and exclamations of, “I got here first!” and “Mom! Lance cheated!” or, “Mom! Trent doesn’t even have his books yet!!”.  Often, the daily morning battle would end in tears.   

After the morning action, everything settled down a bit. I, along with most of my siblings, objected obstinately to practicing the piano.  I abhorred the forty-five to an hour (plus an additional thirty on the cello) spent each day playing music.  I would often “cheat” on my time by speeding up the timer, and if I didn’t do that, I would lie down on the piano bench and wish away the seconds.  My parents were cognizant of all this degenerate behavior, and they could be heard from distant corners of the house hollering, “Keep going!” Sometimes, in the act of lying down, and with the pressure of the parental need to hear music flowing from the living room, I would attempt to pick out the tune with my toes.  

I wouldn’t ever leave the bench, though.  As much as I hated playing the thing, I couldn’t leave the thing, because I had an obligation, and again only two pianos to accomplish this expectation on.   Going to the bathroom was tricky.  You had to be quiet and quick—lest a sibling steal your piano. An empty piano bench, regardless of how much time you had left, was fair play. 

            When I was sixteen, I talked my parents into letting me quit music lessons.  I never felt such relief, and such freedom when they relented.  Suddenly I had so much extra time for activities! It wasn’t until a little later in my life that I realized what a privilege it had been to learn to play two different instruments, as well as to develop the skill of reading music.  My parents had paid for lessons year after year (ten), and I had squandered the opportunity.  I wasn’t bad at playing the piano by any means, I had learned to do so, and quite well, but I could have been so much better if I had just appreciated the prospect.  But such are the ways of maturation, and the honed ability to value your parents and their attempts to shape you into a well-developed adult that only come once you are grown.