The One Who Got Away (in the style of Didion)

“If there's another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this. RIP Jordan B____. Everyone loved you and will miss you”

These were the sentences that I read at April 24 at 7:52pm on Easter evening, 2011 –– sentences that were the cause for many phone calls, sentences that brought back a flood of memories.

This was the night that I found out about Jordan’s death. I found out from reading a high school friend’s Facebook status – a series of html and text on a computer screen.

I was sitting cross legged on a chair at the kitchen table doing homework with two of my roommates. I was doing some reading for a class, which was a getting dull. Feeling tired from the work, I took a break. I signed online to see what friends from home were up to.

I expected to see someone post a silly video, nothing too serious. It was Easter after all. Anything serious would most likely have been religious due to the holiday, and even then, that was expected. However, what I read was something I wasn’t expecting at all. The first thing I saw on the top of the page was the announcement of Jordan’s death.

I froze.

What happened? Could this be the same guy that I went to Tustin High School with? The same guy who the Honors and AP students looked up to? The same guy who girls thought was both very smart and attractive?

Reading his name immediately brought me back to Tustin, California. I never really spoke to him. I knew he was intelligent, according to what many friends said. I heard many things about him. He was a member of Model United Nations and Orange County Academic Decathlon. He participated in summer programs at Oxford and Stanford. He was very into philosophy. He liked Modest Mouse. He left Tustin for Portland. Essentially, he was the complete package.

He was one of the Tustin High students with the most promise and potential. A friend from high school also wanted to know what happened. “No way. TELL ME YOU"RE LYING!!... plz,” he wrote on the post.

I wanted to confirm that this actually happened and was not just some cruel joke or rumor. I searched his name online and found several clues leading to what happened. Several online newsletters from various Orange County churches listed his name in the prayer requests, mentioning something about cancer. “It could be another Jordan B___,” I thought to myself, hoping that it was just a rumor. Yet, upon further research, another Orange County church newsletter had a prayer request for a “Jordan B___ , home from school in Oregon.” This confirmed it.

I eventually found out it was colon cancer, “stage 4 [with] inoperable tumors,” according to the friend who originally posted the news. He only found out he had the cancer one month before he died.

The tragedy of this event was undermined by having to read it impersonally on the internet. Not wanting others to feel the same way and find out in such a cold way, I called some friends from high school who were close to him. They deserved to hear it in person.

The same things were said in most of the conversations, mostly reflecting on and mourning the waste of such an exciting and promising life. The people I called were part of the group that Jordan and I were in as well: the kids who actually cared about work, took the hard classes, actually liked reading, wanted to explore the world, and make a name for ourselves (starting with leaving Tustin for some of us). Perhaps Jordan was the most exemplary of this group, definitely having made a name for himself. A legend was born in Tustin.

A scholarship fund has been created in his name for the Tustin Public Schools Foundation online, where people can donate money in honor of his life’s achievements, on a series of html and text on a computer screen.

As told by...in the style of Alex Haley and Malcolm X

Last April, I was going to get my film developed for my photo class at the shop on Bleecker and Lafayette.  As I was waiting for the prints the shop guys started talking to me about photography.  They asked me what my photos were for, and when I told them it was for a class, we got into a long conversation about how photography has changed almost completely from film to digital.  they started telling me that all these famous people use to get their film developed there.  They told me that Annie Leibovitz would go there to get her film developed from Vogue shoots.

I guess they decided that we were now friends, so they asked me for my number in case they ever needed anyone to help them shoot for weddings or parties.  Two weeks later I got a call from Prem.  He said he had a wedding for me to do in Queens and that I would get $250.  So I went with them.  First I had to go to the store to pick up their equipment.  I then took a subway by myself to Queens where they picked me up in a car.  It was a little strange.

We drove to an Indian party venue, banquet hall, I'm not really sure what to call it.  Everyone there was Indian.  I was the only light skinned blonde girl in sight.  everyone looked at me funny because they were all wearing traditional Indian saris and robes.  I was wearing black skinnies, a white jacket, and boots.  I was attempting to look professional.  I could hear them thinking to themselves, "Where did they get this girl?"

I used my own camera but they loaned me a better lens and flash.  I walked around taking pictures of the tables, food, decor, and some action shots.  There was only Indian music playing, and all the food was Indian, which I got to help myself to.  The buffet was actually really amazing.

When they were done shooting I got dropped of by Prem at a car service and they payed for my ride home.  It was such a bizarre experience.  They have been calling me ever since to do other events but I felt so out of place at the last one that I've never responded to any of their calls.

X factor

In order for us to fully understand our childhood we must resort to exaggerated stories passed down from our parents, relived and revived by photos and home videos. My parents claim I started talking in full sentences at six months, depicting me to have been a “little person” from birth, an old soul that did not quite fit the mold of a typical toddler. I didn’t like cartoons or Disney movies; I was only entertained by TV with “real people.” The first movie I ever saw was Pulp Fiction. I sat on my dad’s lap transfixed. When my mom walked in the den to view this absurd site she immediately questioned my dad, perplexed by how he thought this was in anyway appropriate. Throwing his hands up in the air with a slight smirk he replied, “What! Look at her, she likes it!”
I preferred the Eagles to barney tunes and often freaked out various babysitters while I happily bounced in my car seat singing along to hotel California. My parents, thinking they had produced a baby prodigy, brought me to a speech therapist. He informed them not to worry, that my language developed way before everything else and in time it would all even out. This aspect allowed me to retain and often repeat words I overheard from my parents unfiltered conversations and my “real people” TV. In most lights this trait was viewed as positive and comical. Yet, I had no idea what these words meant nor did I have any sense of timing, which proved to be dangerous, especially when in public.
We had just moved to the suburbs from NYC and there was a party at a fellow neighbor’s house. My mom was excited to mingle with the new community and introduce my sister and I to kids our own ages. The celebration was for a girl named Jenny who lived three houses down, she was turning two and invited all the other young kids on the block over to celebrate. We began to play a game that consisted of jumping off her bed into the arms of our moms, simple yet extremely. There were about 12 kids at the party and the system of the game was to wait in single file, gathered beside the bed, for our turn to make the leap into our mom’s arms. I was bored with the other children who stared blankly back at me, unable to speak. I began cutting the line thinking I was better than all the other two year olds and that I deserved to go five times before they even went once. My mom pulled me aside telling me I had to play fair, warning me that if I cut the line once more she would take me home. I didn’t listen and continued shoving kids out of the way. She pulled me away once again and firmly stated that this was the last straw. I proceeded to cut the line yet again. My mom was extremely embarrassed by my actions that were being carried on in an environment of strangers whom she had hoped to befriend. She grabbed me and excused herself from the party with flushed cheeks. “We are leaving!” she said in a furious yet hushed tone. I was propped up on a dresser in the corner of Jenny’s room and after hearing my moms intense command I stood myself up, got in her face and screamed as loud as my little voice could, “FUCK YOU!” Every parent at the party averted their eyes to the corner of the bedroom, amazed not only by my choice of words but also by the fact that I had even spoken. My mom froze, yet once again forced a smile and excused herself from the small gathering. She swept me up in her arms and upon a deep sigh told me that, “my life was basically over.”

As told by...

It had been two years since my best friend left for America. She was attending college, the name I can’t remember so well; but for a while she had been trying to convince me to come. During our talks she would tell me how beautiful it was and how much fun she was having. Oh and her big thing was the fashion, she would say “Girl, you should see how these Americans dress! It’s amazing!” No matter how many stories she told in order to convince me to come, I would always remind her of the responsibilities I had in Liberia. I was married with three young kids, my whole life was there. Even though my marriage was a disaster I was still trying to hang in there for the children.

As months past Liberia began to change for the worst. The first incident was a protest about the price of rice. Many people in Monrovia, the capital, were upset because the government raised the price for no other reason than greed. You know how important rice is to Liberians, so the people took to streets. It began as a peaceful march then after police arrived; it was a full blown riot. People were destroying cars and breaking into stores, the next day the city looked like a war zone. Soon after these riots became a weekly thing. So I started saving up money, a year later I got my visa. I did not want to leave my children but I knew a civil war was going to be the outcome.

It was 1985, and I finally saved up enough money for a plane ticket to America. I finally left my abusive husband and left the children with my mother. The day I left was the hardest, my two oldest children were crying and holding on to me, but my youngest who was about three years-old at the time, said nothing. He just held on to a toy that I had given to him, and stared right through me. It broke my heart. I really did not want to leave them but I knew I had to in order for them to survive.

In 1989 a civil war broke out; it was to be the war that destroyed Liberia. I became the sole provider for my whole family; cousins, aunts, uncles etc. If I did not leave when I did we all would have starved. After many years of trying I was finally able to get all three children and mother to America. Although it hurt to leave, I knew this was something I had to do – it all worked out for the best.

As Told By... In the style of the Malcolm X Autobiography

Halfway through my first year at an all girls’ middle school, my parents put me in therapy. It was a sudden and largely unexplained decision that I couldn’t understand. In several years time, their reasoning would become clearer, but at the age of 13, I felt that I was being punished. Once a week my parents would pick me up from school and take me to the therapist’s office that was in a building complex not far away. On those afternoons, I remember needing to make up excuses to friends about where I was going and why I couldn’t hang out. Therapy wasn’t trendy in 7^th grade.

After dropping me off in front of the office, my mother or father would leave to go do errands. I’d walk into the building quickly, aware that cars could see me from a nearby congested road. The most memorable thing about the actual office was the wicker basket of toys in the corner. Plastic giraffes, lions, and zebras overflowed from their container in the far end of the room. I remember the sheer humiliation that stemmed from having a therapist that primarily worked with children. The toys made me question whether my parents still thought of me as a child, and if their choice in therapist reflected their true feelings. Sometimes the plastic toys would be scattered around the room, as if they had been played with right before my session.

I spent a total of six months in that office before my parents decided they didn’t like things my therapist was telling me. I remember very little about what she said, but I do recall hearing the fateful acronym O.C.D for the first time. I believed I was leaving the uncomfortable nature of therapy forever when I left the building complex for the final time and felt relieved of a giant weight. It would be many months and another therapist later until I would question the reasons for my initial visit to the toy strewn office.

Archie, by Kate Geller. As told to Aleksa Maglich

I grew up with Maggy, my sister, my best friend. Maggy happened to be my dog. But I’m not kidding when I say that she was my sister. Until I was eleven I completely believed this, my mother convinced me that she gave birth to her. My dad would joke around and say “when Maggy was in the basonet, she was so hard to give birth to.” At my naïve age there was no reason not to believe that dogs were given birth to by humans… and in basonets. I spent more time with her than I did with my two older brothers, who I had a hard time relating to at that time.

Before me, my parents had two boys and had given up on having a girl. They always wanted a daughter named Maggy, so they adopted a daughter in the form of a Golden Retriever. I came along two years later but the name Maggy was taken so naturally I was named Kate. I like my name better.

In elementary school my dad used to put sweatshirts on Maggy on the first days of school, so we were prepared for whatever faced us together. One usual day in sixth grade, I was sitting in science class and a woman walked in with an adorable golden retriever puppy on a leash. At this point Maggy was getting grey and old, my dog-sister became more of a presence than a playmate, and this little puppy was so full of life. My teacher told us that the dog would be put up in our school’s annual auction to raise money for the school, a perfect tactic to use on young kids who they knew would fall in love with the adorable creature and run home to tell their parents the puppy is exactly what they needed. Some form of, “please put your money towards my school so I can have this dog and you can make me happy!” Obviously that is exactly what I did. I had to have this dog. It was so cute. I remember them telling me there was absolutely no way, Maggy was hard enough to take care of. There was no discussion and I was silenced in my misery.

A week later I was at my friends house and my parents picked me up telling me that they had a surprise for me at home. When I walked through the front door there was the puppy from the auction in my entrance hallway! They had foiled. I cried because I was so happy.

My new dog, Archie, was really rowdy. Five months after his addition to our family, Maggy had passed away. She might have lived longer if Archie didn’t ware her out. I think that my sadness towards Maggy’s death was slightened by Archie’s existence, something I see now as a blessing in disguise.

Even though I protested, we had to get Archie bark collars. He was out of control and would bark at every little thing that moved, or didn’t move. One time he fractured my Mom’s nose by jumping on her. My parents decided that something had to be done and ended up sending him to a guy people called “Hitler for Dogs.” He was this German man who has acres and acres of land in the middle of California and takes bad dogs and makes them better. Later I found out they spent $10,000 to make Archie calm down.

So Archie was away for half of a year on a farm with this guy. While he was gone we got another dog named Bentley, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, because we couldn’t be in a house without the companionship of a pup. I was never fully satisfied with Bentley because my loyalty to Archie was too solid. Unlike Maggy, I knew Archie was out there and I prayed that he thought of me, too.

Eventually Archie came home. The “Hitler for Dogs” gave us methods to maintain his new disciplined manner. We whispered to him when we wanted him to do something, because apparently dogs respond to your tone. They don’t know exactly what you’re saying so you have to keep a tone of neutrality. Anyway, no one seemed to pay attention to him because Bentley was in the house now, except for me. Archie and I slept together every night and I would whisper him my secrets. My parents said that when I left for college he would wait outside my door for me, or he would somehow get the door open and sleep on my bed. They tell me he’s never as happy as when I come home. He’d do this thing where if I was standing he would push his way through my legs and go around and around you. He was huge too, 110 pounds to be exact.

This year I went home for winter break and slept with Archie every night, as usual. A month after I came back to school my Mom called me and told me that he wasn’t doing very well. This didn’t worry me because he’s only eight years old and dog’s get infections all the time. I called home a couple of weeks after her call and he still wasn’t better. I was told he couldn’t walk or pee and he would stay awake all night whimpering. It was so bad that my Mom took him to a special MRI specialist. While my mom was at the vet she called me and told me they had found cancer all over Archie’s body. It was Valentines Day.

My friends and I were at my apartment drinking wine and avoiding the fact that we were alone on the day of love. While we were getting drunk and dancing to music my phone was going off with calls from my Mom, but I did not want to talk to her. I ignored the calls and vowed I’d call her in the morning, when I was sober and could deal with her nagging about how much money I spent or my grades. I had completely forgot that Archie was taken to the vet that morning.

The next day I called my Mom, and with out letting her speak I asked her if I could go on a road-trip with my friends for spring break. I went on and on about all the details and was so wrapped up in excitement I didn’t realize she wasn’t responding in her usual authoritative, perhaps concerned, way. She told me that all my plans sounded “fine,” and then paused. “Archie was put to sleep last night,” she said.

I could not stop crying. My friend came over and brought me cookies and a bottle of wine but no one seemed to care because it was a dog that died, not a “real person.” I would tell people that my dog died, and I never got more than an “Oh, that sucks.” I was alone in my mourning, and I was so far from home. I called my brother for support and he told me to forget about it and distract myself, so that is what I did.

I don’t think the reality of the situation will sink in until I go home and expect my dog to be there waiting by my door ready to push me down and follow me around. I’m so far away from home and the familiar roles in the life that I have there that I haven’t realized what is lost. I feel how I once felt when he was away learning how to be obedient. I have to pretend that he is off living somewhere, just without me, and it’s only a matter of time before I see his smiling, slobbery face again. I will take my cookies and my wine and ignore the fact that when I go home, I will be sleeping alone.

Malcom X

For as far back as I can remember I’ve been accused of acting white. I first heard the term Oreo in 6th grade, you know, black on the outside, white on the inside? I cringed after someone explained the meaning of the makeshift derogatory term to me. Deep down I think I knew my love for Tori Amos lyrics and all things Spice Girls qualified me as a first class Oreo in whatever school I happen to be starting that year. Since my mother and I moved around a lot I was always the new girl in school. I kept to myself most of the time but when I did happen to open my mouth it was apparent to everyone: I talked like a white girl. The latest slang or rap lyrics didn’t roll off my tongue as easily as it did for my classmates. Oftentimes I was the odd girl out and as a result, gravitated towards kids who shared similar interests, which usually meant white girls.
It wasn’t just my peers who noticed either. Growing up I can remember so many times when I was sat down by my father to discuss my behavior, my social circle, and the music I was listening to. He would relay instances from his youth in which white friends of his had done him wrong. In 5th grade I fell in love with Hanson and started pasting posters up on my wall. I remember the anxiety I felt when I was told flat out if I ever brought home a mixed baby or a white boyfriend I would be disowned. I remember feeling the same waves of anxiety when my father started ordering college brochures for me from historically black colleges.
Often times I wondered why I just wasn’t free to be myself? Why did I have to be a certain way, listen to a certain type of music, or speak a specific way? When I was 18 I fell in love with a girl. A white girl. By that time my father had eased up and we no longer argued about all of the reasons I wasn’t black enough. Still, I was scared to tell him about Barbara, my first girlfriend. What would he think, of her, of me? We went to prom together and I wanted them to both meet for dinner after my high school graduation. He said yes but then backed out and gave me a 20 dollar bill instead. She and I went to a diner on our own. I don’t think they ever met.