Intertwined 2021: Chances ~ Story Transcripts

Tristan Hurst

Parents always have these sayings that evolve over generations. “Don’t sit too close to the TV, you’ll go blind.” “The internet is just a fad, don’t get a job in that field.” “Don’t eat black watermelon seeds or a watermelon will grow in your stomach..” Exaggerated rules that come from a good place, but make no sense and, as time has told, aren’t usually followed to the letter. Acting counter to my parent’s sayings at the time, I took a series of chances that put me where I am today.

Chance number one: The One Where I Trust Strangers on the Internet.

To properly tell this story, I need to go all the way back to the before times. The long long ago when we could congregate indoors, what feels like 1790 but is more accurately 2015. It’s my Freshman year of undergrad. I, a complete and unashamed nerd, am in my natural habitat: the local game store. The game of dungeons and dragons I had been part of just ended and one of the players introduces me to a Skype chat room for another game. It’s rather exciting, meeting all these new people, but I was a bit concerned. Until then, nobody I had only met online knew my real name. Since I had first started to use computers my mom had (rather gratuitously, if we’re to be honest) warned me that if any of my personal information got out, people would find me. Some random person would figure out where I lived and steal me/my identity/my money, you get the picture. As exaggerated as it was, it made an impression. Because of that, I’d always gone by my screen name, one totally unrelated to my real name. As the friendships built in this new chatroom, the worry gave way to trust and a few of these people soon came to know me by my real name. I began to worry that just by letting this personal information out I’d made a huge mistake. However, for one of these people, that trust became something a bit more intense.

To make a long story short, hello, I’m gay. (Hi Gay, I’m dad.) I didn’t know this immediately, but I knew that if there was one singular universal truth, it was that guys were cute. I had no idea how to deal with this new information. A weird combination of worry, excitement, and confusion seemed to be my body’s regular response. In realizing this universal truth, I’d noticed that one of these people I’d met through the friend group was very cute. We began talking in private a bit more often after admitting to each other that we’d formed a crush. Without going into detail, things escalated, and shortly after we started talking we decided to try being boyfriends. There was a weird combination of self doubt, confidence, and yet again, worry. I had someone who loved me, but was I good enough for them? Especially since we’d never been together in person? We’d chatted on video before, but would we mesh physically? Especially since this was my first boyfriend, my first relationship even, and I had no idea how any of this “da-ting” stuff was supposed to work, I was petrified.

Chance number two: The One with Dallas-Fort Worth, or How I learned to stop worrying and love the layover.

The “boyfriend” and I planned to meet in person about eight months after we became “internet boyfriends” to use my mother’s old parlance. We needed to find a time when both of us were free of school and work so that one of us could make a 2700 mile plane trip across the country. (Because being boyfriends with someone in my own state, let alone my own coast, would be too easy, right?) After much back and forth, it was decided that I would be the first one to make the trip. Needless to say, my parents weren’t happy but they decided that since I was an adult, I could make my own mistakes. This was chance number two. I was about to, by myself, cross the country by plane.

I took a bus to a train station, a train to the airport, then after an hour layover in Dallas- Fort Worth I took the next plane to my destination. I was incredibly nervous. I landed. The nerves intensified. I got in the car with the guy. The nerves intensified again. We stopped in a parking lot and got out of the car. Then, he hugged me. All of those pent up nerves melted away (and I think I left them in the parking lot in Florida, I haven’t really felt that nervous since.)

This was in the before times, so we went everywhere we could. Warm beaches, warm walks, warm everything, really. (I went in July, this was a mistake.) At lunchtime, he and I took refuge in a restaurant, after virtually swimming through a touristy area. (Seriously, 98% humidity and 98 degrees, HELP.) We relaxed for a few minutes, eating lunch at a pizza parlor when suddenly, I felt the bottom of my stomach drop to the floor of the restaurant. We needed to meet his parents for dinner.

Chance number three: The One with the (God)Father

That ice-cold worry worked its way up from my feet to the top of my skull, starting at my ankles. I had never met these people before in my life. As far as I knew, they had taught my boyfriend the same things that my parents had taught me. The dread reached my knees. My existence, from what I could tell, was basically that some internet stranger had flown across the country to be with their son. The dread reached my waist. We arrived at their house, walked in, and did introductions. The dread reached my chest.. Things were going well, until my boyfriend, in Something I thought was a sneaky ploy to get his parents and I to bond, said he’d take a fifteen minute nap and then promptly passed out on the nearest horizontal surface for two hours straight (curse his sudden but, in retrospect, inevitable betrayal.) The dread reached my eyeballs. Just as I was about to try and sit with him for a while, staying in that wondrous feeling of safety his general vicinity provided, I heard the words that probably changed my life. “Hey Tristan, come over here and let’s make ravioli.” The dread hit the top of my head. I very desperately wanted to collapse but the little bit of socially competent human in me grabbed my larynx and said “Sure!”

We spent the next two hours working on some of the most tender, delicious ravioli I’d ever had. I’m not really sure where all that dread went. I think it went into that ball of homemade pasta dough I kneaded as we joked and talked and discussed what I wanted to do while I was here. I was having an amazing time, and genuinely starting to unwind and relax, when his sister entered the house. Knock knock, who’s there? It’s dread again! And a state prosecutor! Joy.

Despite dread knocking, it didn’t stick around. His sister was a government attorney, and we almost immediately started talking about law schools. I felt good, relaxed, happy. Three thousand miles away from home I felt like I was back in my parents’ kitchen. My good mood helped the conversation move along, and when it came time to discuss what to do after college, I rode that good feeling further and decided to apply to law school. I honestly don’t think that conversation would have happened, and I wouldn’t be here talking to you about it, without my recruitment into industrial-grade ravioli production. You might be waiting for a plot twist here.. There isn’t one. We’re still together five years later. You might also be thinking, “But what if?” That’s a good question. What if I listened to my parents? What if sitting too close to the TV blinded me? What if my “boyfriend” wasn’t really my boyfriend but was some random guy planning on kidnapping me and [insert cliche bad thing here]? If I’d listened to those what ifs, I wouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t really be the person that I am today at all. Taking those chances made me feel a lot more comfortable taking risks, because as much as my brain tries to tell me it’ll all end badly, I now know that it’s not guaranteed to end that way. I’m not going to go ziplining across an active volcano or swim unassisted across the Atlantic, but I think I could spend an eighth layover in Dallas Fort Worth. The trip looks different for everyone. You don’t need to travel 2700 miles, but try and take the first step. You might just love where you end up.

Sara Arc Clark

English [Español se queda abajo] On the drive to the airport I could not stop crying. I had wanted to do this for a decade, but the reality of leaving my husband in Eugene, moving Nicaragua for a year - with essentially no plan…I was scared, I was thrilled, I was 100 different emotions. My husband and I hoped that we built a foundation strong enough to withstand this, but we didn’t know how the year would change me, change us.

I found a host family to stay with and they welcomed me, though they were skeptical. They were used to hosting students for a couple weeks, but I couldn’t quite explain what I was doing and I wanted to stay for at least a couple months; that’s a long time if a guest is making life miserable. Thankfully they took a chance on me anyway and we hit it off.

The host family was like a soft pillow to cushion my fall. If I had to eat one meal for the rest of my life it would be breakfast with Niche, my host mom. Gallopinto, crema, cuajada, fried sweet plantains, pancakes, and delicious Nicaraguan coffee - accompanied with leisurely conversation. Never in a rush to clear the table, we enjoyed lingering chatting for an hour after the last bites were consumed. I don’t even remember what we talked about, but the feeling is clear as day. Warm and connected. And, I played tetris with my host nephew, Bryan, and joined Lu, my host sister, to watch cheesy Romantic Comedies dubbed in Spanish. NOT my favorite genre but the Spanish practice was good and it was nice to just be with someone as I coped with deeply missing my life partner of 10 years. [If] “home is where the heart is'' well part of my home was still missing. It was an emotional rollercoaster. I remember a moment about 4 months in, alone in my room in the dark, googling advice for homesickness, how do I cope with this?

One piece of advice was - keep finding new adventures. Well, I lucked out - I was able to join Lu and her friends in opening up a feminist cafe-bar. For me it was a new fresh adventure in the year, but for them, it was their dream project and their futures at stake; and allowing me in, a gringa they didn’t really know, it was a risk. We worked a lot of 14 hours days together, and we stretched our skills in many ways - cooking soup to taste like mom’s, negotiating contracts, navigating neighbors who expressed displeasure by leaving their trash on our front porch, and - googling how to kill a scorpion.

Eventually I became part of their close knit community. And, I don’t think it could have gone this particular way if my husband had been with me. I mean, we were a group of queer women, operating completely in Spanish, carving space for ourselves in the nightlife. It was - beautiful. And I had found ‘my place’ in Nicaragua.

Returning home was bittersweet and... the landing was a bit rough. I had grown used to Nicaraguan ways of being and I felt off balance here, like my husband made a simple direct request that I leave the washer door open so it could dry, it felt harsh, rude, even controlling. I confronted him. And, thankfully he listened, then gently asked - could this be culture shock? Yes, yes, in fact it could. With time, I settled back in, though I still miss Nicaragua. The risk of that year gave birth to so many new experiences and a love for my host family, friends, and Nicaragua - a love deep enough I [can] grieve with them when they are in pain. And the last 3 years have been incredibly painful in Nicaragua. Our bar is long closed and the country fell into political and economic crisis as the president turned dictator, targeting feminists and student activists. I watched the news knowing that loved ones could be in the crowd. Many have fled the country out of economic desperation or fear for their lives. Still in exile today, my friends and a hundred thousand other people can not return to their home. We’ve stayed [connected] and it has expanded my sense of the world - my sense of who ‘my people’ are. Realizing my people, are anyone I am willing to love. My life is richer now, thanks to this journey. It was scary. And hard. And wild. And wonderful. I’m proud of myself for taking this chance, and I did not do it alone. I am forever grateful for all those who took a chance on me. Spanish --Spanish translation by Lussiana Salazar. Traducción por Lussiana Salazar.—

En el camino al aeropuerto yo no podía parar de llorar. Había querido hacer esto por una década pero, la realidad de dejar a mi esposo en Eugenia para mudarme a Nicaragua por un año - con esencialmente ningún plan...estaba asustada, estaba encantada, tenía 100 emociones difer entes. Mi esposo y yo esperábamos haber construido una base suficientemente fuerte para afrontar esto, pero no sabíamos como este año me cambiaría, nos cambiaría.

Encontré una familia de acogida la cual me dejó entrar en su intimidad, aunque eran escépticos. Ellos solían recibir estudiantes por algunas semanas, no pude explicar completamente lo que estaba haciendo ahí y quería quedarme ahí por lo menos dos meses; Eso es mucho tiempo si un invitado está haciendo la vida miserable. Afortunadamente me dieron una oportunidad, de cualquier manera empezamos. La familia anfitriona fue como una suave almohada para amortiguar mi caída. Si tuviera que comer un desayuno por el resto de mi vida sería con Niche, mi madre sustituta. Gallopinto, crema, cuajada, plátanos maduros, panqueques, y delicioso café de Nicaragua- acompañado por una conversación relajada. Nunca se apresuraban por limpiar la mesa, aprovechamos alargar las conversaciones - hasta una hora después que los últimos bocados fueran consumidos. No recuerdo ni siquiera de qué hablábamos, pero lo que sentía me queda claro como el día mismo. Cálidas y conectadas. Solía jugar al tetris con mi nuevo sobrino Bryan y me juntaba con mi hermana sustituta, Lu para ver comedias románticas cursis dobladas en español. No es mi género favorito, pero me ayudó a practicar mi español y me gustaba solo estar con alguien mientras estaba extrañando profundamente a mi compañero de vida por 10 años. Si “el hogar es donde el corazón está” parte de mi casa me hacía falta todavía. Era una montaña rusa emocional. Después de cuatro meses recuerdo un momento sola en mi habitación en la oscuridad, sin poder dormir, buscando consejos en google sobre nostalgia. ¿Cómo podría lidiar con esto?

Un consejo era continuar encontrando nuevas aventuras. Bien tuve suerte - tuve la oportunidad de juntarme con Lu y sus amigas en la apertura de un cafè-bar feminista. Para mí fue otra aventura en este año pero para ellas fue la realización de un proyecto soñado que comprometía su futuro. Incluirme a mi, una gringa que casi no conocían, era un riesgo. Trabajamos muchos días de 14 horas juntas, expandiendo nuestras capacidades en todos los aspectos, cocinando sopas, para supieran a las de su mamá, negociando contratos, cumpliendo con los vecinos que demostraban su falta de contento poniendo su basura frente al porche y haciendo búsquedas para saber como matar a un escorpión. Poco a poco me integraron como una de ellas. No creo que habría podido acabar de este modo con la presencia de mi esposo. Lo que quiero decir, éramos un grupo de mujeres Queer, organizándonos solo en español, creandonos un espacio para vivir en la noche. Era magnífico. Encontré “mi lugar en Nicaragua”.

Volver a casa fue dulce-amargo y … El aterrizaje fue un poco duro. Me había acostumbrado a las formas de ser Nicaragüenses y me sentía desequilibrada aquí, como cuando mi esposo me hizo una simple solicitud- mantén la lavadora abierta para que se seque, se sintió duro, rudo, incluso controlador. Lo confronté. Afortunadamente él me escuchó, después gentilmente preguntó- ¿Tú crees que esto podría ser un choque cultural? Oh, si, si, de hecho lo era. Con el tiempo me acomode, aunque aún extraño Nicaragua.

El riesgo de que ese año diera a luz a tantas nuevas experiencias y amor por mi familia de acogida, amigas, y Nicaragua- un amor tan profundo suficiente para afligirse con ellos cuando están pasando dolor. Y los últimos tres años en Nicaragua fueron increíblemente dolorosos. Nuestro bar está cerrado por mucho tiempo y el país entró en una crisis económica y política, su presidente se volvió un dictador, eligiendo como blanco a feministas y activistas. Vi las noticias sabiendo que un ser querido podría estar entre la multitud. Muchos han huido del país por desesperación económica o miedo por sus vidas. Todavía en el exilio hoy, mis amistades y otras cien miles de personas no pueden regresar a sus hogares. Hemos continuado conectadas, eso ha expandido mi forma de ver el mundo- mi sentido de quién es “mi gente” - me di cuenta que “mi gente” son las personas en que estoy dispuesta a amar. Ahora mi vida es más abundante, gracias a este viaje. Fue duro. Y fuerte. Y salvaje. Y maravilloso. Estoy orgullosa de darme esa oportunidad y no lo hice sola. Por siempre voy a estar agradecida por todxs lxs que tomaron el riesgo de permitirme la oportunidad.

K. Jackson The end of this month will mark roughly two decades since I first moved to the east coast with my family. I got to know Washington D.C. right as the country went to war, the region battled a concerning surge of West Nile Virus, and the district dealt with the confusion of a rogue sniper.

The relative chaos of these years conditioned me to appreciate moments for reflection whenever I could find them. In particular, I think of one summer evening sitting out on our patio.

My folks and I, listening to a CD of ”Blue” by Joni Mitchell playing from the living room through a screen door. Mom plating her signature burgers, smokey-sweet and enveloped in thick chunks of sharp cheddar while the meat rested. Dad grinning widely, watching me duck a particularly large flying thing. “You know what's coming this summer, right?” My thoughts leapt to eager anticipation of the next Harry Potter book. I wondered if he’d heard some news about an early release of the sixth installment, as of then, still unnamed. “Go upstairs,” he told me, now starting to laugh a bit. “See if you can figure it out.”

I re-entered the now-dark house and took the stairs up to the computer room, two steps at a time. I couldn’t find much at first, then I decided to try the local news. And lo, there it was. “This summer will see thousands of cicadas descend on D.C.” There would soon be zombie bugs, nearly the size of baby mice, crawling out of the ground starting in roughly a week or so, depending on the weather. I was horrified. I sat in tepid disbelief, too-small in my father’s office chair, musing over this imminent test of my sensibilities. And friends, it was everything the articles hyped, and more. Every step we took outside for a month made a sickening crunch. The air was continually ahum, and, I’ve since learned, that during mating season, these bugs can reach a sound level of 120db. I remember school recesses overwhelmed by classmates running amok, attempting to catch the cicadas from out of the air, daring each other to eat them alive, while our school’s associated priest tried to distract us into appeasement by participating, poorly, in our kickball game.

The past year, to put it lightly, hasn’t been as diverting. In one way or another, we’ve all been stripped of our routines, our livelihoods, our friends and families, our core senses of stability. I've suffered from anxiety since I was about ten, but I tend to find things much more manageable with a little preparation, patience, and flexibility. I try to remember that “it’s all temporary”. But whenever I feel like I especially can’t handle something, I like to think back to a few summers ago, when I was on a language-study exchange in Qingdao, China, and I did not have the desired time to prepare for something which my mind felt overwhelmed by.

On my 21st birthday, I ate a bowl full of cicadas.

If you’ll recall, I’m not the toughest when it comes to interacting with our insect neighbors. But on that day, my host family gifted me a bowl of roasted cicadas for breakfast. I knew that it was going to be a difficult first bite, since I was less accustomed to insects through a culinary lens (although every time I’d cry out as a kid that I’d swallowed a bug, my mom would simply smirk and quip, “protein”). I just realized that I just had to consider this moment not as one of unpleasantness to be avoided, but as an experience to savor. As it turned out, the only truly difficult part about eating the cicadas was having to rectify my projections, and having to do so quickly. What I had really been gifted was an opportunity to try thinking about things differently — a chance to develop resiliency.

That brings us to this summer, summer 2021. For those of us in the mid-Atlantic region, our trials are not quite over. As of May 15th, we can expect the return of a familiar tune. The seventeen-year cicadas are due to re-emerge as soon as the local ground temperature hits 64 degrees Fahrenheit.

Rituals can remind us how far we’ve come between them. We’ve all had to do a lot of re-adjusting of our collective expectations lately. Personally, I’ve been learning to be more grateful. To appreciate the bizarre, the prodigious, the inelegant things that occasionally plague us. After the year we’ve had, I would gladly welcome the return of some minor inconveniences, like a delayed train, long wait for a table, or a sold-out movie. Even something as simple as the return of a routine.

This curious pattern of a cyclical cicada brood re-emerging— as if nothing at all abnormal has occurred in their substantial absence — is magical to me. All cicadas can do is what they’ve always done: emerge every seventeen years, at 64 degrees, like clockwork. All we can do is decide that even this mundane wonder is something magnificent to behold.

Emily Dale

August 8th, 2020 Facebook Message. “And hey, if you get super bored you could always get tested for covid and visit Eugene.”

It’s a Saturday at 9:55pm and I am… let’s call it less than sober. I sent these words to a person that: A. I dated when I was 17 years old and, surprise surprise, it didn’t end great. B: I have not seen in the flesh since May, 2012 and C: I have spoken to every single day for the last one hundred and thirty seven days.

Oh yeah, and it’s the beginning of the fifth “official” month of the COVID-19 pandemic running absolutely rampant through the majority of the United States.

Before you start thinking this is a love story or something, I’m going to hit the pause button here and tell you a couple of things about myself. Hi, my name is Emily. For those who know what this means, I am pretty much your textbook Enneagram Type Two. For those who that means nothing to, basically, my core motivation is to be loved by others, and the best way I know how to do that is by doing all of the things for them. I make most of my decisions based on how other people will think, feel, or react to them, and on the off chance I do still do something that they react negatively to, I take immediate responsibility for those feelings.

Because of all this, I have a tendency to listen to everyone else’s voice before I listen to my own. So much so, that even if I have already analyzed and over analyzed a decision, weighed the pros and cons, consulted the stars, and looked for symbols in my tea leaves, someone simply disagreeing with me is enough to make me second guess myself. Especially if that someone is important to me. So… that’s me. Or, rather, that was me. But we’re getting to that.

Aaannnnnd, PLAY.

The next day I realized that this person was actually going to take me up on my beer induced offer and immediately started to panic. Not because I didn’t want him to come, but because I knew some people in my life would have opinions about it. Regardless of the fact that he’s no longer the idiot teenager he was 10 years ago, or the fact that I should be able to make my own decisions about who I spend time with… I could hear the responses in my head. “What if he gets you SICK?” “Why are you hanging out with HIM?” And, as I mentioned, other people’s dissenting opinions have a tendency to send me into a spiral of self-doubt and shame.

So… why did I send the message? Well, shortly prior to that I read a book called Untamed by Glennon Doyle. There are a million little things I took away from this book. I’m not going to spoil all of them for you because, hi, everyone should read this book,. But I am going to spoil two of them.

First, what Glennon refers to as “The Knowing”. When she comes across chaos in her life, she sits in her closet, lets her mind sink deep down into herself, and The Knowing nudges her toward the next right thing. She moves toward that thing without asking for permission or offering an explanation, because, as she says, “no one has ever lived or will ever live this life I am attempting to live.”

Second, the world hands us a list of instructions for what it means to be good, to be successful, to be the perfect partner/parent/blah blah blah. Glennon calls these memos, and says that if we want to, we can burn them and write our own. Here are a couple of memos I was handed: Self-sacrifice is the pinnacle of womanhood. Strong people keep their emotions in check and don’t need to ask for help. And, the one that I was reading on August 8th, if you make a mistake, by your definition or someone else’s, it’s because you are not smart enough to make the right choice.

On August 8th, I was nowhere near The Knowing, but I did know that I was sick of abandoning myself for the sake of some arbitrary instructions I never agreed to follow. So, I grabbed a lighter and took a chance on burning one of my memos and sent the message. I also did this…

August 10th, 2020 Email. “I am currently seeking a therapist and was wondering if you were accepting new clients at this time. Please feel free to contact me via phone or email. Thank you!”

Up until this email and some of the work that has followed, I didn’t even really know how to HEAR my own voice, let alone listen to it. Remember that “sinking into yourself” idea that Glennon just introduced? Yeah. Completely foreign territory to me. Someone may as well have been saying, “here’s how you calculate the effect of gravity on time” and launched into a three hour lecture. Now, part of that can be attributed to some pretty intense manipulation from my past, but mostly it’s just that I placed more value on being who other people wanted me to be than on being who I wanted me to be. But Glennon’s words made me want to change that.

December 2nd, 2020 Journal entry. “I think I want to just let myself be happy. Simple.”

Sometimes, when the world is burning around us like it has been for the last year (at least), the biggest chance we can take is just to get out of our own way and be happy. Stop letting other people define what we need and who we should be, and just embrace who we ARE. Hopefully that is simple. Oftentimes, it’s not. Or at least, not at first.

December 20th, 2020 Excerpt from a letter I read to my family “It’s not that I am pushing you away, I’m just trying to take space for myself to figure these things out. I need to trust me as much as I trust you guys.”

January 30th, 2021 Facebook Messenger. “I’m very anxious and I can’t sleep and my brain is doing the dumb things.”

February 22nd, 2021 Journal entry. “I can’t stop crying today. I don’t know what is happening to me right now.”

March 2nd, 2021 Text Message. “I had my doctor’s appointment this morning. Picking up a prescription later today.”

See, part of opening the door to healing and growth, is facing all of the shit that’s been trying to rip it off the hinges. I’ve got 28 years of messed up memos waiting outside and they are not heading straight for the fireplace on their own. Luckily, part of all this has involved me getting better at three really important things: listening to myself... being able to identify what I need... and asking for help. Earlier this year, what I really needed was some pharmaceutically encouraged serotonin.

It’s taken a long time for me to realize that what is best for me, might not be what is best for someone else, and, more importantly, that that’s okay. In order to do things like figure out what healthy boundaries are and learn to be okay with disagreement, relationships have to change. And change is really hard. But I am done abandoning myself. Because the more I figure out who I really am, the more I like that person. Huh, I guess this is a love story... She is messy and complicated and imperfect. She is also loving and fierce and curious. And, most importantly, she is exactly who I decide I want her to be. Without asking for permission, without offering explanation.

April 16th, 2021 Words spoken to me in my kitchen by the man I invited to Eugene in the middle of a global pandemic after 8 years of not seeing each other, and now again, to every single one of you watching this, by me. “Always be you. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Always be you. The world needs more you.”

Trisha Maxfield

Picture this. A small, seven year-old girl, her brunette hair lightly brushing the tops of her shoulders as she’s getting ready for school in the morning. She digs through her dirty clothes bin, stumbling upon the least dirty pair of socks she can find, she puts them on her feet. She walks down the hill to the bus stop, where she’d wait for the bus the same way she always did. It was overcast. A slight drizzle laid mist atop her unkempt hair, tickling the tip of her nose, and welcoming her to another day of school. She could always rely on the winding road along the lake’s edge to dizzy her, but also get her where she needed to go.

A decade later, that girl’s jaw is set, her head held high, raising her right hand, she recited “I, Trisha Maxfield, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic”. Outside leaves clung to autumn trees, holding out for the brush of November wind before starting their descent to winter’s rest. After reciting the Oath of Enlistment, I looked around the room. Failing to find a familiar face, my head dropped, my chest tightened. I could feel the full weight of my body as I left the room. I boarded the bus back to the hotel, where I laid on my bed thinking about what a six-year commitment to the military could mean for a seventeen year old girl like me.

From a young age, I knew college wasn’t marked on the map. I knew if I wanted a chance at a secondary education, I’d need to take a detour to get there. All this, because I grew up low-income, raised by a single father and an absent mother. Neither parent graduated from high school. In fact, both grew up in homes filled with heavy- handed love. Which meant that, for my parents, survival was more important than education.

Education was a journey I’d map alone. With little in the way of guidance and support I buckled up in the driver’s seat. My vehicle would soon pioneer down unfamiliar roads as I became a first-generation high school graduate.

Autumn leaves clung to trees once more. I had my feet firmly planted as I stared at the large University of Oregon “O” that hung high on the Lillis Complex. This was it, my first day of college. In my first class, I sat on the edge of my seat. A lightness in my body as I scribed every detail from the lecture. But like all long-distance road trips, a few roadblocks dictated necessary re-routes. I left college after sophomore year to work full- time and regain stability. The first year guilt sat heavy in my stomach. Many nights were spent staring at the map, calculating distance and resources to get to my destination.

I remembered the young girl who dressed herself for school. It was at this point I volunteered to deploy.

I stepped off the C-17 cargo aircraft at the Bagram Airport in Afghanistan. Sweat pearled on my forehead, as the silence of three-hundred soldiers weighed the seriousness of what we had just stepped into.

Months passed, each paycheck going towards student debt. And eventually the deployment came to a close. As I boarded the final aircraft in Kuwait to leave the Middle East, I closed my eyes, I tipped my head back, and I inhaled deeply. I found gratitude in walking away from an experience that, while volatile, allowed me to reexamine the map.

After a two year detour, I was back on track to finishing my undergrad. While I struggled to transition back to civilian life, I found comfort in returning to the familiar path of education.

Six-years after setting out on my journey to an undergraduate degree, I woke up to a warm June morning. I pulled my gown over my black dress. I donned my customized graduation cap and drove to the University of Oregon. The drive to campus didn’t offer much time for reflection, just a few short moments of bubbling excitement.

The air was hot, the sun was beaming. I stood with my feet firmly planted in the grass, wishing I could be barefoot and rooted in the cool soil. It had been a long road of uncertainty to get here. Many years of self-parenting and discipline, but I did it.

With confidence in my stride, I approached the microphone. Warmth filled my body as I gripped the sides of the podium. Feeling vindicated I said, “my name is Trisha Maxfield, I’m a first generation high school graduate and now, I’m a first generation college graduate”. With their loud applause, the crowd reaffirmed how hard this journey had been for me. The feelings of elation overrode the tears that would inevitably commemorate this accomplishment. I received my degree, shook the hands of my professors, and hugged my family at the end of the line.

I am now a graduate student, looking to the horizon, as I anticipate completing a dual- masters next spring. This means, I’ll soon become the first in my family to hold a graduate degree.

I spent several years looking at the map. With all of the unknowns lurking around winding corners, I constantly questioned if I had the grit to get to my destination.

I think about my parents, how their upbringings set their priorities and what it means for them to have a daughter who set out on a journey that they, for one reason or another, couldn’t prioritize.

I think about my future children, what it will mean for them to have a mother who set out on an unknown winding road, who was resilient in the face of adversity, to be an example that hard work pays off, and that it’s worth it in the end. To be an inspiration to them and to others, has made this a journey worth taking.

Sarada Thomas

“Numbered Chances” Counting heartbeats is like counting seconds but far more fascinating. It gives you a focus, something to concentrate on. Especially when everything else is too scary to really look at. Once you get past the insensible desperation there’s a heaviness and a waiting, as if everything is balanced on the thinnest gossamer thread and anything can make it fall one way or another. There in the ICU waiting room we sat. And we waited for word about Mom. Friends came. Church family filtered in and out. Family appeared: my brother, from Philly and his girlfriend. Aunties, cousins, an uncle. And we waited.

When we first saw her she was so still. The only sounds were the machines automating the most basic of functions. My sisters and I, we moved into Mom’s ICU room. And we hoped. It’s embedded in our bones. Hope. Even when it’s hopeless. We counted heartbeats. We prayed. We sang. We sang to her. We sang to ourselves and we hoped.

“You gave me hope, you made me whole…”

It’d been a week…and she wasn’t awake. We needed to decide to feed her…or not. Well, we couldn’t very well starve her to death, now, could we? So, we hoped she’d wake up if we just gave her more time and took a chance.

You took my place, you showed me grace…”

Another week went by. The breathing tube had to come out and we needed to decide to put in a tracheostomy tube…or not. Well, we can’t very well suffocate her to death, now, can we? Again, we hoped she’d improve if only she had more time. So, we took another chance.

“Oh, look to the sky, hear the angels cry…”

There’s something maddening about being pushed in a direction in which you have no desire to go. Where there’s life there’s hope, but they kept telling us, she was “actively dying”; that she’d never wake up. But, when she did, they said: she’d never be the same person, she’d never get better, she’d never want to live like this, and time was running out to decide to pull the plug and we needed to choose. But every day was another chance and we wanted to give her as many as she needed.

Once we convinced the medical professionals there were no plugs being pulled. Then it became about discharging her. But mom was nonverbal; defenseless. She couldn’t even move away if someone hurt her. Well, we couldn’t very well put her in a nursing home now, could we?

My sisters and I were preparing our band for our first Italian tour. One by one we called our musicians, our promoter, and cancelled the tour. I took down our business website, closed my copy service, dropped out of school and became mom’s primary care giver. My sisters agreed to support my daughter and me and divide up the late-night shift with mom between themselves. And we all turned to our mother and offered her as many chances as she needed. My father, one day, was angry. He said if you guys weren’t praying so hard she wouldn’t keep rallying like this. I asked him, “who do you think we are? I don’t have the power to make someone live or die.” I mean that’s way above my paygrade. The most - the best I can do - is help Mom until she no longer needs me.

I frequently encounter people who, when they learn that we are our mother’s in-home caregivers, are shocked and impressed. Occasionally we get someone who disapproves and tells us mother wouldn’t have wanted to be a burden or how it is such a shame that she didn’t die. But usually, they want to tell us how amazing we are. I’m no longer surprised by this, but I am always perplexed. I don’t understand why in-home caregiving is so novel. To me this is the natural order of things.

Maybe it’s cultural. I remember watching a talk by Amy Hunter called “Things White People Don’t Know”. She articulated this thing so clearly. She said, “[in the African American community] the relationship is what is important, not the transaction”.

Maybe it’s familial. Ms. Hunter goes on to say that in our families, there is very little one can do that would result in being kicked out. And she’s right, to us people are not disposable. We might not agree with behaviors or attitudes but in general, even the worst drug dealer, can still go to grandmama’s house and get a hot meal.

Maybe it’s because of who my mother is. She is just so...loving. And tough. And wise. One of my starkest memories of her was when I was very sick. She sat down next to me on the bed and said, “You can’t stay here. You have to get up. Come on, I’ll take you to the doctor.” And she did. It took her almost 9 months to help me walk through healing until I could get up on my own and be a mother to my daughter. That’s my mom.

Whatever the reason, we are on chance number 3,157. And together we will take a chance on her until she no longer needs us. So, here’s to chance number 3,158.

“...don’t give up the fight for your life, you shall live and not die.”

Anna Mills Intertwined: Chances By. Anna Mills

I’ve been hiding behind these sage curtains for far too long now. Fully drawn victim to the bedsheets, and piles of laundry in every corner of my room going on and on

I am one of the 16.2 million A part of the 10.4 percent of women who have depression in the U.S.

And I’ve fallen into this habit been sinking into this hole I built for myself sinking into hour long stares staring at my life long to-do list of

do the dishes and avoid acting suspicious water your dying plants, and while you’re at it take off those damn sweatpants because it’s time again to pay your rent and let’s try today to be more content, confident but finish that 10 page essay but first drink some water, before you die of thirst and by the 8th line my mind wanders into this internal columbine And I’ll hide from the second-year struggles In that cocoon of worries This sophomore slump stomping hard into my manic mind that always yelling “hurry”

I am a product of 20 years too many terrible self talks and getting rid of anxiety neighborhood walks never shocked at how often I feel tired because this life of waking up and getting out of bed is far from retired And why does this always have to be the hardest part of the day?

Taking three doses of buspirone my illness sits on top of its throne Starting my day with effexor I’ve become this stockholm syndrome fool. and the medication should help And I need to be better on the whole self-help

Thing. Before it gets too late. And the only thing sabotaging me is myself.

And one day, one morning, I went through an old journal The thoughts of my 18 year old self now becoming external Another list of to-dos Another list unperformed A journal entry from my depression, waiting to inform The trials and tribulations of what it’s like to be me and I sat and traced the lines of the one person who understood that hollow pain those days spent just staring at rain how cliché all the things in life that I couldn’t obtain but on the bottom half of that page was a note a love letter to my future self, this moment was arranged she told me and I quote “Stop thinking so much and try to make a change” listing out ways I could be happy without coming out scathed and this version of myself was endearing, for all the terrifying reasons because she was honest and blunt, saw this future of me that she wanted to set free how I used to have hope, now here at 20 that’s not what it seems

She pushed me into my chair and sat me with my burdens told me the longer I just sit in this room, the more things would worsen Forcing my eyes open Gave me a token of words unspoken that the strongest person in this world is myself I’m the one who can get me out and I realized, then how my younger self was more wise more badass more kind to myself and in that moment, I did what she told me to do

I pulled the curtains back for the first time in a month let that light in to remind me how I’m stronger than beige duvets how great I look in March sunlight midday how my mind is more chaotic than tiny tsunamis in koi fish ponds but is beautiful in all of its chemical bonds And although those affirmations felt so unfamiliar I’ll repeat those lines to myself until it’s much more clearer Because this ignorance to my depression I thought would make it more bliss But instead manifested into a internal blindness that only persists Just hoping it’d go away, hoping neglection would result in difference

So I’ve decided to cut the cord

I now know that I’m a person with a purpose a body filled with bones, that move and blood pumping from this big heart a life from which I don’t want to depart from, anymore because I’m not finished, No I’m just getting started I got at least 50 years left of me And I’m spending it on the once guilty pleasures of small beautiful moments will come up whenever And reassure that this world is not just my trauma

I want to get to know myself from finding that center and turn my obstacles into experiences I’ll always want to remember and never ever stop writing love letters about life

I wanna love life so hard My heart breaks from the effort My bones will be invincible from the post-traumatic endeavors

And in that moment I sat in my room, next to those laundry piles And basked in wonderful silence for the first time silence that used to feel awkward and disagreeable But here it was bliss

And I couldn’t miss the sight of who I was trying to become, but already was someone that’s brilliant and sweet but also bleak and will surrender sometimes before even facing defeat and I’m not saying that what I’m doing instantly cures my depression Like the advil for my headaches, no I am a highly depressed and crippling anxious individual That is who I am, and that’s okay

But instead of staying in this bird cage view of everything sucks And being scolded for my scars I’m taking off the grey-tinted glasses, And forcing myself to look at the good Even if some days it’s small because this works for me because, happiness is a choice that I’m actively trying to make To take this chance on life for myself, And I’m doing this, at least trying every single day.