Don’t Get Too Close

A story about looking for love when you’re traveling.

I guess I’m still trying to figure it out,” he says in reply to my question a few minutes earlier.

I put my phone back under my pillow, trying to think about what to say. It was after 2AM in Antigua, Guatemala, a tourist town a few hours away from the city in the mountains where I had been living for the past eight months.

A year ago, I had Don'tGetTooClosenothing to lose. No job, no apartment, no relationship to leave behind. So when I was offered a teaching job in western Guatemala, I said “yes”. I imagined myself being free and independent, ready to take on the world. But when I found myself in a place where my primary dating requirement was “guy who speaks English”, the internet became my connection to the outside world.

So when I woke up one morning to find a message in my inbox, I was intrigued.

It’s funny how quickly a new possibility can begin to consume my thoughts. This is usually the time when I start pushing away, afraid of letting myself be overtaken by someone who I have never even met. I start imposing rules, censoring words, allowing weeks to pass between short conversations.

In this moment, I realize that I’m scared.

I’m scared of never settling, of never figuring it out, of never getting it right. I’m scared of being irresponsible, of wasting my life away. I’m scared of the people who talk about me behind closed doors, saying “she could have been so much more.”

I’m afraid of allowing myself to love someone who doesn’t have it figured out either. Not because I expect perfection, but because when I look at someone else and see my own faults reflected in him, I see a relationship built with toothpicks and glue. I’m looking for someone else to hold it all together. I need him to be stronger than I am.

After all, I have tried that before. I have waded through the months of confusion that come from dating someone who is deeply uncertain about everything. Once I return to the United States, still without a job or a real life of my own, I’m afraid that person will be me.

So I want to tell him the truth, I want to tell him that I don’t have it figured out. I want to tell him:

Don’t get too close, I’m dangerous.
Don’t get too close, because I’m broken.
Don’t get too close, because I don’t have it figured out.
Don’t get too close, because I might leave.

How do people do this, I wonder? How can we allow someone else to hurt us, or to be hurt by us? When we’re all stumbling around blindly, making mistakes and trying to “find ourselves”, everyone is a risky commitment.

I wanted to roll over and ignore the message in my inbox, but as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I had an idea. “Maybe relationships require us to change,” I said. “Maybe we need to find someone good, and then figure it out together.

Maybe so, but I’m still not there yet,” the realist replied.

It was a relief in some way, knowing we both told the truth. But still, we are stuck in the stalemate of I live here and you live there and I want this now, but I might want something else tomorrow. Giving someone else permission to change us doesn’t come easily, but I think it’s the only way out.

The desire to leave is a powerful feeling. That desire to leave brought me to Guatemala, and it became like a thread that stretched for thousands of miles, connecting me to another person with the same desire. Love, however, comes not from a desire to leave, but from a decision to stay.

Maybe this isn’t happily ever after. A leap of faith can’t fix everything, nor can a plane ticket bring two people closer together whose ambitions might be miles apart. But someday, everything will change. Someday I will say let’s figure this out together. We can fix what’s broken. And if you leave, I’m leaving with you.

I don’t know who I will be saying this to, but God, if you’re listening, I have a suggestion.

* * * * *

beccaBecca is a teacher who has discovered writing as a cheaper form of therapy. Originally from Chicago, she spent the past year living and working in the town of Xela, Guatemala, where her hobbies included squeezing onto tiny, overcrowded busses, reading in the park, and smiling and nodding when people spoke Spanish much too quickly. She blogs at beccanelsonwrites.com, where she is passionately spreading the word that it’s okay to fail. You can also follow her on twitter @beccaliz.

Owning It on the Dance Floor

I do not have a dancers body–nothing about me is long, lean, slender, or angular. I am all curves, round and full. But, there is a vein of dance in my heart. I will not hesitate to open and close down the dance floor at a wedding. When listening to music, I envision dance moves in my head–things that my body can’t do but my imagination can. Admittedly, I even like dance movies, even the ones that reek of cheese.

I’ve taken a lot of dance classes in my lifetime. Enough that I can instinctually feel the rhythm of music: “1 eee and a 2 eee and a 3 eee and a 4 eee” or “one n’ TWO, three n’ FOUR.” Taking dance classes as an adult can be a challenge. I’m not a complete beginner. But, I’m not destined for Broadway either.

When I moved to DC, I looked up the adult classes at the nearby studios. Dance is a form of exercise that doesn’t involve a feat of willpower and I desperately needed the natural happy of endorphins. I tried a handful of classes including Zumba, Hip-Hop, and Casino Salsa (the Cuban version of square dancing! Yah, I didn’t know that either.)

On a whim, I mustered my courage and walked into a class labeled: African Tribal Dance. Not long after the warm-up was finished, I was hooked. I’ve been a regular the entire time I’ve been in DC.

The West African dances we are taught involve dramatic movement to the music of livedance-place-97 drummers, performed by men and women wrapped in bold prints. At times, grandmothers modify the steps while maintaining the fire of the movement and the younger women hoot and holler as a sign of respect. Bodies of all shapes and sizes move across the floor in small groups according to experience.  There is swaying and hopping and flailing arms in big sweeping motions. Some of the movements communicate worship and gratitude, others speak to crops and childrearing and animals. All of it requires me to step outside of the intellectual life of graduate school and into the world of rhythmic music and form and steps. For at least a hour, I am out of my head and fully present to my body.

Gratefully, there are no mirrors in the classroom. For, as much as I love the class, I find myself very self-consciousness.

On a practical level, my body simply does not move with ease in some of the ways that are required. Many times, watching the more experienced dancers, I have placed my hands on some region, say my lower back, and tried to think through, feel, and build a simple sense of muscle memory for what it is like for those muscles to move according to the step.

In another way, my self-awareness is an insecurity of role. Am I an intruder into an ethnic art-form? Am I the awkward white girl whose movements revert to Western dance postures when a more soulful stance is required? Am I the outsider in a community of people who clearly know each other well?

Nothing has happened externally to cause these questions to be raised. I’ve been met with graciousness and professionalism throughout my time at the studio. Rather, it’s an internal insecurity, a questioning of my place.

And really, the same questions resonate in many areas of my life:  Am I a poser in the academic world? Am I the legit as a student who stammers to communicate my thoughts in a classroom full of articulate peers? Am I an outsider to the East Coast culture where I often feel a bit unusual?

Having been through a significant transition in recent years, I am rebuilding my sense of self, at times fumbling and confused, experimenting a bit. I am finding that I’m a bit more mysterious to myself than I realized.

But, you know what?!?!

I do know that I love to groove to African Tribal rhythms!  So, awkward or not, I am gonna own that!

size_550x415_DanceAfrica 2010. Photo by Enoch Chan (29)

Photos were found online associated with Dance Place: http://www.danceplace.org/.

© Enoch Chan

Fill in the Blanks

If you had told my seventeen-year-old self what she would grow up to be, I think she might have cried. But then again, she never knew half as much as she supposed.

It all began early. In second grade I was set apart as “gifted.” Practically, this meant I stood waiting in the school stairwell on Thursday mornings, with a little boy name Todd, and a mini-bus came and delivered us to a neighboring school. It was the best part of my week. There, waiting in the library, were several other children, word puzzles, art materials, floppy disks labeled “Oregon Trail” and “Turtle LOGO”, and a magical teacher who made learning seem like play.

As school progressed, I rode the wave of privileges and honors. When I was in fifth grade, they let me assist the kindergarten teacher, in junior high I chose among special electives that were only available to kids ‘like me’. By the time I got to high school, I was enrolled in A.P. Everything, heading for Governor’s School, and chosen as a National Merit Finalist.

I was so very impressive back then.

****

When I was seventeen, I wanted to be an elementary school teacher when I grew up. And so I chose a college, and everything went swimmingly for about two years. But my interests were broad–or maybe I should say ‘scattered’. Toward the end of my junior year, I added some religion courses and decided not to student teach.

And with this choice, I stepped off the marked path, and began wandering in my very own vocational wilderness. Eventually I would end up in seminary, still longing for the day when I could finish this sentence: “I’m a _____________.”

If it wasn’t “I’m a teacher,” it could be “I’m a pastor.” Right?

But then our lovely, miraculous and terribly inconvenient babies were born. We welcomed two little girls, in two years. As graduation approached and I was changing diapers while learning Greek conjunctions, the thought of ordination exams-or a role as a full-time pastor-was more than I could bear. Again, I chose to get the degree without the title.

And again, “I’m a _____________,” was an open-ended statement. Sure, I could say, “I’m a mother,” but many of my friends were mothers and _____________. I had no “and.”

Without a professional certification, there was no point in getting a job just for the sake of getting a job. I made less per hour than we paid our babysitter. If I stayed home, the numbers worked. But still, it gnawed on me. How could it be that the little girl who was so smart, so full of promise, could grow up to become… me?

****

Here is a true statement: we would never talk to our friends the way that we talk to ourselves.

Did I consider my fellow stay-at-home-mom friends “failures”? No, of course not. They were making choices within a specific season of their lives. They were blessed to have spouses who made good salaries, allowing them to focus on their young children. They were doing what they needed to do, as were my friends who pursued their professions.

And I soon learned that the grass wasn’t greener for my “mother and _____________” friends. Their paths were not as straightforward as they seemed. Some alternated between full and part-time, and many felt as if they did everything, but couldn’t do anything well.

It seemed that we were all making this up as we went along.

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photo by Niklas Fridwall

As my children have grown older (both are in elementary school this year), I have added hats along the way. Two years ago I took a part-time job as a secretary, working for an organization and with people I love. I’m also (as you may have noticed) writing, or rather trying-to-write while volunteering at my kids’ schools, leading a community Bible Study group, and being the “on call” parent for snow delays, sickness, after-school activities, and random inservice days.

It’s good. It’s busy. It’s worthwhile. However.

The most difficult part of all this is that it is almost completely volunteer. Not getting paid is a blow to my ego, makes our finances tight, and sometimes makes me feel as if I’m not a real, contributing grown-up. Now again, would I ever tell a friend that you “are” what you “make”, or that volunteer work is worth less than paid work? No.

But there are times, many times, when I still find these thoughts needling into my sense of who I am. Especially when I am tired, or a child is screaming, or some activity was a disaster, or a blog post fell flat, my seventeen-year-old self sits on my shoulder and says unhelpful things like, “We could have been someone, you know.”

And I just nod, wearily, and say, “I know. I know.”

But when I recover, usually after getting a good night’s sleep, I also know that being a grown-up is more complicated than I ever imagined it would be as a child. And then, ironically, I often remember a picture that was posted in the halls of my daughter’s elementary school, a picture that stopped me in my tracks.

The kids were asked to complete this sentence, “When I grow up, I want to be a __________” and then draw a picture of themselves in this role. Down the row there were firefighters and teachers, police officers and dancers-all the typical kid answers-but the one that stopped me said this:

“When I grow up, I want to be a woman.”

And underneath this sentence was a smiling stick figure. I suppose it was a picture of me.