Murphy Family Post-Dinner

          Everyone was seated in the family room. Full from Easter dinner, everyone was lazily marinating in decaf coffee and country music. The entire San Diego Murphy family, excluding the uncle who had already left for his AA meeting, was chatting. With three priests present, religion was bound to come up, but my parents tried to guide the conversation toward sports, business, politics, and education (the hot topic for my sister and I, the only grandchildren still in school at this gathering). 

         My aunt asked my sister about the schedule she would have at the new school she'll be going to starting this summer. Put on the spot, the room was quieted as all the grown-ups and I listened. “Well, I’ll go to school once a week and do my work the rest of the week,” replied my little sister, Kelly, describing what her junior year of high school will be like at Escondido Charter School.

          “Well I just gotta tell you I think you’re crazy,” said one of the uncles. “But no one asked me my opinion,” he finished.

          The polite, lighthearted chorus of defensive“yeah’s!” followed, but I still wished I’d beat him to his own comeback. 

It Was Easy

     Day five of my sixth consecutive year at the same Catholic youth conference


     But this year I wore the $150 t-shirt that showed participants that I was on the leadership team that, generally considered, was comprised of college students trying to live like Christ. I was walking alone between our main venue, The Viejas Arena, on my left and SDSU Frat Row on my right. A man probably only a couple years older than me was walking towards me. He must have been hot, wearing such dark colors and full coverage clothes in the middle of July. As we passed, I smiled politely at him, looking him in the eye, but the gesture wasn’t reciprocated. 

     

     “Don’t fuckin’ smile at me you fuckin’ bitch,” he said to me, under his breath, as he continued walking past me. 

     

     I started walking faster. I started breathing quicker. I started to cry. 

     

     But I recovered because I had to go greet people at the next workshop. I put back my smile and welcomed the participants-

     

     it was easy, the attendees said thank you and smiled back at me. 
     
     It was easy... being Christlike? 
     It was easy... being Christ? 

Black Lie

     Runaway Bride won the vote. With nothing better-preferable-to do on a Saturday night, I joined them and sat down for a staring contest with the black box. 
     A small-town farm girl didn’t know how beautiful she was-it was all an accident. A successful writer from the city finally showed her what a perfect accident it was. 

     The first kiss was spontaneous. She left. He ran after her. 

     The last kiss was gentle. She stood, small and vulnerable. He held her softly like he cared. 

     He would try his best to never hurt her. 

     The credits began to roll. No more hollow montages. No more empty words. No more intimacy. No more. False. 

     And I hated myself for believing any of it-even for a moment. 

I Listen to Music

Sitting in the coffee shop, I listen to music. 

    

“Don’t worry about a thing

‘Cause every little thing is gonna be alright.”

     

     Bob Marley & his wailers can't help me now. 
     I’m worried about producing a television show for a class project.

     I’ve lost sleep over a scene by scene creative writing assignment 

     I still worry. About some things.

     They tell me power lines are up in progress at Japan nuclear plant while they sell me a 2011 “Silverado All-Star Edition.”

     They tell me there is no fuel for cremations so Japan buries those found dead out of the 23,000 dead or missing, while I learn that can still lease a Ford “Cruze LS” for $159/month. 

     They tell me the United States halts food imports from Japan nuclear zone for fear of contamination, while I trust the sandwich I was served an hour ago was free of salmonella, bacteria or radiation. 

     Sitting in the coffee shop, I listen to music. 

“Won’t you look down upon me, Jesus

You’ve got to help me make a stand

You’ve just got to see me through another day.”

     

     James Taylor can’t help them now. 

     Jesus, help them now. 

One Free Dinner

     Edward sat alone. He was eating a free dinner, on a grease-stained bench, in the lobby of the Plaza Single Resident Occupancy hotel, under a sign that reads, “No eating, No drinking.” I wanted to talk to him. I walked over, introduced myself and, wearing a smile that, regretfully, has become all too rehearsed, asked him, “How’s dinner?”

     “Oh it was very enjoyable. I’m about to eat my second serving.” He took time between his words and continued, “You know, the second serving can taste different than the first?” He said, speaking with care and slowly alternating his gaze between me and his food. 

     I answered, doing my best to seem like I understood, “Huh... I didn’t realize that. That’s interesting. Does this serving taste different?” I asked, as I watched him move his fork around his food. 

     Edward, holding his plate, closed his round, blue eyes, revealing only their red, slimy outlines, surrounded by deep wrinkles, starting at the corners of his eyes, crawling up, into his forehead. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and finally took a bite. I repeated my question, a little confused. He answered, “Yes.” Trying to probe deeper, I ask, “So how’s your week been going?”

     “I’m eating.” he curtly answered. Feeling like I’d done something wrong, I quickly spurted out a few confused apologies. Edward allayed my concern and told me, speaking in an uncomfortably slow voice, “I really appreciate food because food comes from nature and nature comes from God.” 

     Edward continued to explain for about five minutes, progressively inching closer to my face. I looked at him and listened as he repeatedly touched my shoulder with a strong hand, intensifying his words. And after listening to why Edward didn’t feel right talking to me while he was eating, it was he who thanked me. 

Revolution Prayers

          “Is this some kind of protest or something?” the bearded, red-haired stranger asked, as he walked by, carrying a box of wine glasses. He directed his question toward three of my friends, Julia, Joy, Clarissa, and I, who have decided to spend a portion of our Saturdays, before our local Planned Parenthood, praying for life. I considered this a strange question to ask four young women, carrying nothing but our Bibles when, only two days earlier, Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak resigned from office due to eighteen consecutive days of violent anti-government “protests.” The vast canyon of difference between four girls’ peaceful prayers and more than 250,000 Egyptian citizens, screaming, shouting and demanding political change was quickly flooded with a fundamental similarity; we, like the Egyptian rioters, are desperate for revolution, for a radical change to take place. 

          “No, we’re here to pray, and just pray for life,” was Julia’s response to our red-haired stranger. 

          We won’t revolt, with signs and weapons, but we will hold onto the hope of a revolution. 

          “Oh thanks. Keep doin’ what you’re doin.’ We need it,” our red-haired stranger encouraged us. 

Disappointmint

          I dragged my body into the bathroom, feeling the weight of sleep deprivation on my entire being. Being awake at such an ungodly hour was bad enough, but I soon learned that I couldn’t bask in the privacy of the communal bathroom this morning because I’d overslept. I walked in just as three other girls were washing the sleep off their faces and scrubbing the morning breath from their mouths. Just as sobriety hits during a traumatic situation, I immediately opened my eyes wide enough to examine and decide whether these interlopers would notice if I were to pull my toothbrush from my bathroom caddy and squeeze a squirt of toothpaste from a bottle in another. 

          I deemed it a risky situation and decided not to go through with it. My tired eyes, which preferred their closed position, finally adjusted and I was able to see my roommate standing at a sink next to me.

          “Can I borrow toothpaste?”

          “Yeah, I’m gonna go get some.”

          Waiting, waiting, thinking. Wintermint? Spearmint? Cinnamint? 

          Disappointmint.

          Colgate, Total. No clearly identifiable flavor. The fresh taste, gone within minutes. Nothing like the previous night’s Crest infused with cool mint Scope mouthwash. 

          I brush, making sure I get the back-my wisdom teeth are coming in. 

Sixteen

          Playing a board game in the lobby of my dorm is a common occurrence. Playing Scattergories with a group of girls at 11:00 P.M. on a Sunday night is a common occurrence. Having my little sister is calling me at 11:30 P.M. on a Sunday night, however, is not a common occurrence. “Hey I’m in the middle of something can I call you later?” I hurriedly said, as I laughed at the notion of “hair,” being an appropriate answer for “things found in an arcade.” 

“Oh... um, yeah, I guess.” Said my little sister, Kelly, clearly trying to conceal the tears behind her words. I became worried.

“Kelly, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, I’ll just call you later.” 

I was less than satisfied.

“Are you crying?!”

“No... I was. But it was funny." The game went on as I spoke to Kelly. 

“Did you laugh so hard you cried?” I asked. I could hear her chest expand and the lump in her throat rise to her mouth, as she she literally opened the floodgates of her face. “I just watched the Hannah... Montana finale and... I’m really sad!” 

Kelly is sixteen years old.