God rides the 3?

Every day I go to Temple, I ride SEPTA's bus route 3. And nearly every single time I'm on that bus that goes from the Frankford Transportation Center toward Strawberry Mansion, someone is preaching about God. Typically, it's an old black woman talking to another old black woman or maybe a young person who she thinks is especially deserving of her sermons.

The thing is, I really struggle to believe in God. At least in the way that these women view him, as someone you devote your life to. I live according to different beliefs. The overarching belief I live by is that I can do anything I want to. The power, I like to think, is in my hands.

And even if there is a God, I imagine that the optimal relationship with him is more like the relationship between an employee and their employer. The more you put into your 401K, the more the company will have to match.

I think this is exactly how one should think of God's gifts to him or her; God will only match the effort you put into your life. If you do nothing to lead a good life, to achieve the goals you have, then God will not help.

More than this, I believe that the Christian notion of God as this all-mighty being that you must serve all of your life is a farce. What a selfish God he or she would have to be to expect every single human to live their life in service of him. I do believe in being a good person, in being righteous and accepting and forgiving. I just don't believe in serving a master. Honestly, when you think about it, Christianity is a system of slavery to a master that hardly anyone has ever interacted with. And after all the lectures and classes I've taken on the enslavement of Africans in America, I just can't subscribe to such a belief system.

So, old ladies on the 3, the next time you want to lecture about God, I will whip out this sermon of mine.

(The above picture was taken by Lauren Townsend, in the Woodland Cemetery in West Philadelphia.)

Dream come true

I finally got it: the internship I've wanted for two and a half years. Ever since I attended the two week long Urban Journalism Workshop at Philadelphia's Daily News and heard one of the publishers speak, I've wanted to intern at two.one.five magazine. I applied right before my senior year and actually even got an interview. Unfortunately, I didn't get the position because the editors thought my school schedule would prevent me from really learning anything.

I sent my resume a couple of times last year and never really heard back, although I did profile their fashion and music editor Abigail Bruley for Motivos magazine.

Finally, after talking with my beloved professor George Miller about how I was getting shot down everywhere and didn't know what to do next, emailed two.one.five's editor-in-chief Piers Marchant. After some back and forth and submitting a 330-word review of the Australian indie Candy, I was asked to interview.

That interview was Friday and I got the position!

Piers looked through my clipbook and said "It looks like writing comes easily to you, whether it does or not. It's a good thing... And I'm not just saying you're good. I make it a point not to tell students they're good writers if they're not."

He told me about the new website the two.one.five team is working on and what he'd like me to do (cover film reviews and write some fashion-related content). He asked when I could start.

"Monday's good for me!" I exclaimed.

So tomorrow at 11:30, I will show up to the magazine's office and introduce myself to the other editors (all of whom were mysteriously missing on Friday). I even get to sit in on a staff meeting.

It's amazing when you take a giant step toward your dream. After the interview, I couldn't stop smiling and I could hardly breathe. Maybe that's why there were stars in my eyes.

Rejected reject.

When I approached my supervisor at work this morning, she said, "I heard you had something in the paper."

"Yes, actually I've had something in both editions published so far and something in each of the next few editions. I counted the other day and this is my 20th clip for The Temple News," I said with a smile.

"That's great, you know you could add that to your resume," she said, eyes wide and mouth pulled up and out in a wide grin.

If only she knew what my resume looked like. It would blow her mind. And yet, I'm faced with writerly rejection almost every day. Today I received an email from the head of Temple's Writing Center that read:

Hello Rosella,

Thank you for applying to be a tutor in the writing center. Our hiring committee has carefully reviewed all of your application materials, but I'm sorry to say that we will not be interviewing you for further consideration. As in every semester, we had many applicants for a very small number of positions. We must review these applications relative to one another, placing specific emphasis on papers that reflect the kind of carefully researched, problem-posing approach to writing that is most valuable to a tutor in this center. You might consider reapplying when you've had the opportunity to write more in-depth papers in your major, and review the guidelines for writing samples on the Writing Center's website. I apologize for having to deliver what I'm sure is unwelcome news; we wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors at Temple and beyond.

Not only did I receive that today, but I received what has to be the 20th rejection of my fiction (which pales in comparison to the 800 rejections Ray Bradbury got before publishing his first story, but it is no less painful). Furthermore, I queried 5 agents back in March or May and only heard back from one (clearly this was a rejection email).

Also, I've submitted my resume and clips for what is probably the fourth time to two.one.five magazine where I have wanted to intern since the summer before my senior year, and after the editor-in-chief reviewed these things, he said he needed to see more -- a 300-word review of something -- (this is pretty customary, actually) and I have yet to hear from him. This was last Thursday night that I sent my 330-word review of the 2006 movie Candy.

I don't know how much more rejection I can take without knowing what's wrong with me. Because that's the thing -- every rejection I receive is as uniform and vague as the email quoted above. I can see the tears welling up. Writing is the one thing I'm good at and which I love to do. If I can't make it in writing, I'll die.

I feel like part of me is dying.

Frustrated. ARGH!

Back to School. Those words and the subsequent sales on notebooks and new pens and other supplies used to make me sublimely happy. Even if only for the first few weeks of school -- until the normal bitching began.

This year, as I prepare for my second year of college (even armed with cute new Harajuku Lovers school supplies), I couldn't possibly dread anything more. I can't even quite tell you why.

I do know that I wish I was done already; that I wish I was living my life outside the realm of classes. I hate that I have to pay to subject myself to the whims and fancies of professors. I'd rather be subjecting myself to the whims and fancies of a boss and getting paid for it.

Perhaps my apathy toward school is also wrapped up in my recent failure to snag a rad internship or other writing-related gig. I recently took a fact checking test at Philadelphia Weekly, where I've been dying to intern since I met contributor (and beloved professor whose magazine writing class I didn't get into) George Miller in July 2008, only to be told there wasn't room for me this semester. There was no room for my proposed column on affordable living while in college for The Temple News' Living section. Oh, and the status of my application to be a writing tutor at Temple's Writing Center is up in the air.

As the handwriting analysis guy told me on campus on Friday, I'm feel frustrated and am only 75-85% of the way to reaching my goals. Which is pretty outrageous and annoying when I put in a thousand and 1 % effort.

And the one thing that's going well -- my relationship with Chris -- is being put under pressure from all sides.

I'm under pressure from all sides.

And I really don't want to have to worry about what other people -- except possible employers -- think of me. If only I had some marginal journalistic achievement to help me feel like I do in fact know what I'm doing and that even though this is slow and painful, I'm headed in the right direction.

Gah. I kind of just want to SCREAM!

Reticence on the subject of your relationships, or lack thereof

 Why can't we just shut our big, fat mouths about our coupledom?

It's a particularly pertinent question for a journalism student who, taking every job offered her no matter the pay, took a position writing about relationships for HOSTAGE magazine. Five posts a week means you've got a lot of material to create and as has always been my modus operandi, I turned to personal experiences for the bulk of my posts -- even when it's just a little anecdote to open a piece about a post by another writer.

What does this mean for my relationship with Chris? I've never asked specifically if he minded being written about, I guess I figured he should expect it as a fellow writer and, honestly, I was scared he'd say no. Then what the hell would I write about? I've sort of made it a rule not to disclose very personal matters -- and I stray as far from personal sex stories as humanly possible -- and I like to keep stories of whispered sweet nothings and impromptu slow dances to myself.

I'd like to think I succeed at writing Carrie Bradshaw style by relating personal experiences and those of friends to diatribes about overarching themes -- and I seek to answer questions and solve problems most people might encounter in their own relationships. See, I feel relationships are a huge part of who we are -- whether they're familial, friendly or of the romantic nature -- because we spend so much time surrounded by other people. Of course, our relationships with ourselves are majorly important as well -- and that's what I try to focus on in this blog.

So, I turned to CB for her thoughts on the matter. There's an episode in season two of the fabled TV series where my hero just can't shut up about her failed relationship with that unicorn, Mr. Big. "Really, I pity him," she says a little too emphatically before her three girlfriends launch an intervention ("[S]top her before she obsesses again," as Miranda says). It's not about the state of their relationship -- or that it's ended -- the thing is Carrie always talks about Mr. Big -- and Aidan, and Berger, and Petrovsky -- to her girlfriends and to readers in her weekly column.

When they intervene, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte suggest a therapist. Carrie asks why she needs to pay someone when she's got them. "Look, we're as fucked up as you are. It's like the blind leading the blind," Samantha responds.

What really sparked my investigation into this topic was Lesley Dormen's article "Secrets and Lies" in the August issue of ELLE magazine. Dormen, a happily married woman for the past 14 years and obviously a writer, encountered a very similar question. "When is it okay to talk about your marriage, when isn't it, and who decides? Is privacy a trust issue, a loyalty issue, or more about context and intention--invasion of marital privacy versus lunch with your best friend?" Dormen wrote.

Further on, she wrote, "Why is marriage so determined to close the door behind itself? Are we ashamed of ourselves, of our messy married lives? What is it we're hiding? Or protecting?"

I've been guilty of invading married privacy out of curiosity. As a young person who has been in only a handful of relationships, I'm always wanting to know how marriage works. I've read that in order to help your relationships, it helps to talk to your married friends. And when one website listed the ten things every single person must do, on that list was "Talk to someone your age who is married."

It seems human nature to talk to at least our girlfriends about our relationships, writes Dormen. "The freedom to exchange private information about boys is one of the first ways we declare our independence from parents. We learn early on that boy talk is a social lubricant."

Even Drew Barrymore, cover star of ELLE's August issue isn't immune to boy talk with the girls. "I talk shit with my girlfriends, and it can get dirty."

If everyone does it, is it so wrong? Why do we do it? Is it that boy talk is one of the oldest ways of fulfilling our desire to be seen and heard, a desire so prevalent in today's reality TV obsessed culture? Is it that boy talk is the only topic everyone has an interest in and that everyone has something to say about?

Are all guys as reticent about their relationships as Dormen's husband? I know Chris asks guys at work for advice about sex things... the nature of which I won't divulge here. But how much does he tell buddies about me? He's often professed how differently he acts at work. So is he more talkative or more quiet? Who knows.

Because of popular movies and such, most women have a concept of men as vulgar pigs on the subject of sex (Barrymore said in ELLE, "In a lot of ways, I feel like I have a little bit of a dude inside me--except mine happens to be a 13-year-old boy, not a full-fledged man.") but what about the regular stuff?

In the end of "Secrets and Lies," Dormen writes about the benefits of sharing your marriage with others. "The telling," she writes, "lifts the veil from no one's eyes but your own." Producing a narrative surrounding your relationship, she says, whether to friends or in writing, helps the sharer to better understand him or herself and their partner. The pulling away actually brings you closer Dormen states.

For now, I'll continue doing what I've been doing, writing about us without delving too far. Because as Dormen writes, "for me, as for many writers, private life is my material."

(The above image is a closeup, shot by me, of a token card and tickets from Dave & Buster's at the Franklin Mills Mall where Chris and I played skee ball before seeing a movie.)

Further notes on mission impossible

In my last post, I wrote about how, no matter how hard I try, I can't be perfect. The one thing I realized that night, along with that, is the second you think you've got yourself figured out, the second you think you've worked through your issues, new ones crop up and you've still got something to learn.

I am not complaining -- I actually find it comforting to know that life won't (maybe ever) hit a wall and never change. It's nice to know that everyone can continue to grow and change without having to force it.

It gives our interactions with others more dimension, as well. And in terms of romance, who wants a static relationship?

Perfection: Mission Impossible

I apologize for the rambling that was my last post. I'll have to edit it a bit. But when I posted it, from my friend's iPod Touch while on Percocets after my wisdom teeth extraction on Wednesday (all four and they were impacted). I believe you'll understand even if it kills me to not write perfectly -- at least to my usual standards.

Speaking of aiming for perfection, readers who've been with me on this journey for a while probably know how I want everything and want to do it with poise. If you're a newer reader, I've now told you (instead of showing, oops, another writing boo-boo).

Yesterday was the height of this. After a night with very little sleep -- I'd slept from 11:30 p.m. till 4:40 a.m. waking once in between time and as 5 a.m. approached, my dad turned on the light in the living room where I slept and after that, I couldn't sleep a wink -- I accompanied my dad to a surgical checkup. See, five years ago, he had bladder cancer. It's back and this checkup, the second with a month's time, was to see how bad it is.

So I went to the hospital with him and when he was back from the recovery room, they let me see him. He didn't look good. He was shaking and they'd had to leave a catheter in with a bag to collect urine. I got scared. He said they'd had to take a good deal of tissue. He started to grow perkier and he smiled even though we all knew he was in pain -- the most he'd ever had after one of these surgical checkups -- and my nurturing instincts kicked in.

When we got home, I made sure he had what he needed. Because I can't drive yet, I had to wait for Chris to get off work so I could go to a grocery store and CVS to get his prescriptions filled. But it wasn't very long and when Chris came and got me we headed to the CVS.

Of course, I sucked at directing him where to go. We found a route that was pretty quick actually and not really out of the way but it wasn't the way I normally go. And when we got there, they wouldn't fill dad's Percocet prescription because the doctor didn't put his name on it. I almost had a fit although when I called my dad he was calm about it.

Then we went to ShopRite and because I rarely ever go grocery shopping and they keep changing around the store, I had no idea where anything was. I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. Thank goodness for Chris who helped tremendously.

When I was almost done, I realized I hadn't placed my order for seafood -- dad wanted shrimp (although I was a tad nervous in his condition) and that I'd now have to actually stand around waiting for it. To top it off, Chris was tired and ready for bed and I wanted to get done so he could go to bed.

I was a mad woman last night. Of course, after stopping at Wawa to get cigarettes and coffee for dad and Chris, we got home and brought the bags in (or should I say, my boyfriend the HULK, who did it in one trip). There I realized we'd forgotten to get the prescription.

On the way to CVS again, I realized something. I was trying to be my mom who has always been so put together, doing everything for everyone.

It's impossible to be Wonder Woman. I try. But it's impossible. I just have to come to terms with it.

Absense made me feel lucky

This weekend I spent time with my family -- my Grammy, Aunt Cindy and her husband Ed -- down in North Wildwood. This meant I was away from Chris for just about the longest we've been apart in the two months we've been together. We were going out of our minds being apart. Every phone call we made, we said a thousand times how much we missed each other. A couple times I actually felt physically ill!

I couldn't wait to get back to his arms and kisses. Still, I was almost scared by how much I missed him because the other thing his trip threw into sharp relief was how I rarely feel like I'm surrounded by people who see the real me. It worried me that I feel I have so few friends (there's Ashley and Michele but that's about it). I then told Chris that I was terrified of becoming the girl who only has her boyfriend.

I think this offended him a tiny bit but then he said something that made a shitload of sense. He said that the only difference between a boyfriend and a best friend is that you kiss -- and do other stuff with -- your boyfriend. Suddenly I realized how right he was and that I should be thankful because I've got a relationship that other girls would kill for. I'm kissing my best friend. It doesn't matter that we don't know each other's every story yet but we're happy and comfortable enough to tell each other anything.

I'm so thankful to have the few great friends I've got and I now know how lucky I am to have
boyfriend who is in my corner. I'm happy he's not the only friend I've got but I know I'd be lucky to have even just Chris.

Impressions

Last Saturday was spent in Atlantic City with the family of one of my best friends. Ashley and I have been friends since we met in 8th grade at Conwell Middle Magnet School here in Philly. We were both part of the Principal's Leaders Academy and were stationed at the ladies room, patrolling the kids. Most of these periods were spent working on my valedictorian speech, which I was chosen to deliver at our mutual delight. Then we went to the same high school and through ups and downs, we've always come out of it together.

Then, last weekend was only the third time I'd seen her since we went to separate colleges. She's at the University of Pittsburgh's Bradford campus while I'm still here in the City of Brotherly Crime.

On Saturday, a major theme of our conversations was how glad we were to have left high school behind. She told me how one of her former teachers -- who I'd never had -- was talking to her on Facebook about who she had stayed friends with from high school. There were, like, four of us, she told him. He asked who. When she got to me, he said something about how I'm a girl that's going places.

I was surprised he even knew who I was. In retelling their conversation, Ashley said that our freshman year English teacher had told this other teacher that she and I were his favorite students.

It's funny how you can leave impressions on people you had no idea about.

(The above image is of me and Ashley on my 17th birthday. 2008.)

Home isn't just a Glee episode

Yesterday, Michele and I had a conversation about our favorite Glee episodes -- yep, your favorite blogger here is far from immune to its musical pleasures -- and mine were Wheels and Home. Probably because both episodes touched on major themes or experiences I've had. The former is pretty obvious but maybe not the latter.

The thing is, for longer than I'd like to remember, I have felt out of place in the various living situations I found myself in. When I was fifteen years old my parents separated and my mom moved me and my sister to an apartment roughly a half hour from our childhood house.

Then out of the blue, she had a serious boyfriend. And quite quickly, I felt really out of place. They played his reggae music really loud and turned sporting events so loud that I couldn't hear the movie I was watching. To my eyes he was treated like a king, while she acted like his handmaiden.

I made it clear that I disliked the situation -- and him -- and I was the one who was ostracized. I spent whatever time I could in my room -- whichever makeshift room it happened to be at the moment -- and hoped for someone to rescue me.