Every semester one of my English classes reads the story "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien, taken from his book of the same title.
There are always students who've read the whole book; shamefully, I try to not let it leak out that I haven't. Till now, that is. As I work my way slowly through O'Brien's gorgeous prose, his story about remembering his stories of Vietnam, puts me in the center of him and myself.
A few lines I love: Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can't remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.
I read these sentences this morning while at my usual Starbucks, feeling a startling sense of displacement. All that had changed from the past four months to today, is that my school work is done. Instead of reading student papers, I read a book I wanted to read. But, something much deeper than that seemed askew.
I relaxed into the book, and O'Brien's words opened my own disquieting story. The recent one about where I am now and where I will not be tomorrow--Nyack, Philly, Ocean Grove, Queens or lots of etcs.
I'm disappointed that my next move won't be the great adventure I planned. I didn't cross the bridge that was surely strong enough to hold me and my belongings. The story inside of me was stronger than the one outside. When push came to shove (as it always does)--I landed where everyone who knows me knew I'd land along--not very far from home.
I return to my stubborn story; I'll try to rewrite myself as boss.
Followers
