'C' is for 'Charming'.

I read in public for the first time in five years last Friday.

I've read my poetry before in classes or workshops, and as a requirement for my first college poetry class I had to read a poem aloud at a group reading featuring my entire class and our professor.

I also read once as part of a two-week writing workshop that I attended in Prague the summer before my junior year of college. I read two poems in front of the entire program--this time it wasn't necessarily required but it was sort of an unspoken rule that everyone would read on the 'student reading night'.

This was the first time I have read by 'choice'.

Although, I found out about the reading when I received a picture message from my roommate, a fellow poet, with the image of my name on a sign-up sheet that I didn't remember signing. She had signed up for me and I was reading so I better "figure out some poems to read" because I had 15 whole minutes to fill. I could have said no and un-signed up, so I still consider it a choice even though I guess technically I didn't choose to do it in the first place.

But that's not really the point.

The beginning of this semester was a little rough for me if I'm being totally honest. I am taking three classes which, as I've come to find out, is quite a course load for a graduate student to take. One literature class, one poetry workshop and a publishing (column writing) class. Which means I'm basically always reading or writing. Like all the time. I also started working at my college's writing center three days a week so my weeks are pretty full.

I was stressed at first because of the amount of work I had (and still have) to do but also because I didn't feel totally comfortable in all of my classes. The poetry workshop was the easiest because it's in my genre (a.k.a my comfort zone) but I had a new, guest professor and a new group of students to get used to.

In writing workshops there is a sort of bond that develops among students after you've started reading each other's work. You learn each other's style and voice--but most importantly it becomes understood that 'what happens in workshop stays in workshop'. It is a safe space, or circle, and what is said during that time is privileged. In a weird way it's like therapy because there are these people that essentially you barely know, but who may know you better than your family does. I suppose this is because writing and sharing that writing with others is a very intimate type of act.

You feel a little exposed, naked even--and feeling comfortable doing this over and over again, takes time. So switching into a new workshop is kind of like stripping in front of a bunch of people you don't know, just as you were getting used to skinny dipping in front of this other group of people. Maybe I'm getting a little carried away with this whole 'naked' metaphor, but you get what I'm saying.

So, even in the the class where I was supposed to feel most comfortable, I was still adjusting.

Then there were my two other classes--one is a particularly difficult travel theory literature class and a publishing class where I am writing in a different form/style than I've written in before.

The literature class was the scariest at first. In part because of the topic matter, it's very much a historically based curriculum, or at least it was in the beginning and I felt like I was a little out of my league as far as my understanding of historical-literary criticism. And also in part because the professor is an extremely intelligent, no nonsense woman who definitely scares the crap out of half the people in my class. Her knowledge and demeanor are a very intimidating combination.

Then I felt like I botched an oral presentation (although I was the first of many to go so I didn't have an example to follow) but since I am hyper-critical of myself I felt that I had ruined any chance of getting a good grade in this class. I was also supposed to coordinate with another student in the class, but he ignored my email and took what I think was probably the easier portion of our presentation to explain to the class, leaving me floundering trying to make sense of the other part. I don't blame this kid though, just my own insecurities that were at play when I was presenting.

I tend to compare myself to other people, particularly my roommate who is also in the program and in that class, when I know I shouldn't. And I was literally afraid to return to this class after my disaster of an oral presentation. But I went.

I promised myself I would work really hard to get a good grade on my midterm paper to make up for the oral presentation portion and then go from there.

My column writing class started in a similar fashion. I didn't do too well on my first two columns I turned in. I find it hard to write in a way that is informed without sounding academic, cold, or dull. This is a problem when it comes to column writing because columns are essentially judged in terms of 'voice' and I didn't want to put readers to sleep. But I also didn't want to act like an authority on topics that I had to right to be an authority on. So it was a difficult balancing act to get used to.

My stress reached its peak when I had a particularly bad week. It was the week of my oral presentation, the same week one of my first two columns was due, a week when the poem I turned in got torn apart in workshop and a week when I had a difficult day tutoring. It was like a domino affect of awfulness that managed to topple down onto every area of my life for one whole week. I cried on the phone to my older sister and felt like I was the worst person ever at every single thing a person could possibly be bad at.

Walking. Talking. Dressing. You name it--I was bad at it. I was especially bad at writing and had no place in my graduate program. How could I even dare to call myself a writer or poet? I would resign immediately. As if that was possible, or it was quite that simple.

I really just needed to have a little cry and get the stress that I had been bottling up out of my system so I could focus on the task at hand. My sister pointed out that in the past I haven't had to work very hard to get good grades and maybe now was different. Maybe now I needed to put in the extra work, although I felt like I had been, and maybe I needed to buckle down a little bit.

I really felt that previous to this point I had been trying to do just that. I had started the semester with a more serious and focused attitude. I had worked out all the first-year kinks of being a graduate student and a new Bostonian, so now it was time to work hard and those results would be worth it; my hard work would pay off in the end. But like any other red-blooded American, I wanted instant results. I forgot to factor in that tricky little element called 'time' which is essential in any type of growth or development.

But my sister's "dude maybe you just need to work harder" really put this all into perspective for me (I swear my sister should have t-shirts and bumper stickers with her amazing affirmations like the one I just mentioned). So I took my sisters advice and made a point of staying in and studying even more than I already had been doing. I went to birthday dinners but didn't go out for drinks afterward. I refused invites to go meet for drinks. I even stayed in for an entire four-day weekend to work on my huge 10-15 page paper that was due for my Travel Literature class.

This doesn't sound like a big deal but I am a person who really enjoys her "fun time" in order to lend some balance to the "school/work time." And I'm a pretty social person who enjoys a little silliness/lightheartedness from time to time.

But I was focused on my goal of getting doing well in school and specifically getting a good grade on this paper. I was trying to reverse the domino affect. (Spoiler alert: I got an A- on my paper. But that's not why I'm writing this blog post.) So because of my shaky start to the semester, it was with a hesitant state of mind that I faced my upcoming reading. I was nervous, even though everyone I talked to insisted I had no reason to be nervous. But hearing that I shouldn't be nervous was like telling a girl who is having a "fat day" that she looks skinny. It doesn't change things. At all.

I wasn't sure what poems I should read, I was afraid the poems I wanted to read weren't "finished," I just wasn't in the mood to be stressed out when I could just sit at home watching Netflix and avoid the whole thing altogether. And as I stated before I have the terrible habit of comparing myself to others so I was afraid I wasn't good enough yet, to read my writing aloud with the other poets. In fact, the day of the reading I was so nervous I considered just not showing up. But Eloisa my roomie said she'd "bring down the hammer"if I no-showed and I'm not sure what exactly that would entail, but she's a feisty thing with contacts in Mexico so it can't be good.

So, I drank the double whiskey-diet that my roommates made me, put on some Baby Lips lip-balm and showed up. I was introduced (out of order I might add, there were six of us reading and I was supposed to go fourth after the 10 minute break but they introduced me third instead). I read all seven poems I brought. People clapped. End scene.

I expected the grad student and friend audience to be sympathetic. What I did not expect was people I didn't know coming up to me afterward and telling me how well I did and how much they enjoyed my poetry. Or one of the curators of the reading series asking me if I had submitted my work, and if I hadn't suggesting that I submit and giving me a website with publications that might interest me.

It's funny how we trust strangers to tell us the truth more than our friends or family sometimes.

A non-writer friend had told me a few weeks before that I would be fine at the reading I would get up there and be the same "charming" me that I always am.

It reminded me of how in the past few years that word 'charming' seemed to keep popping up when people were describing my personality. It wasn't typically a word I would include in my vocabulary to describe myself. (A few words I would include are the following: sarcastic, feisty, awkward at times...)Yet there it was, from a variety of sources.

I had been told I was extremely charming by various guests at the restaurants I've worked at in the past.
A former employer that I interned for jokingly yelled at me once for distracting the group and instructed me to "just stop being so charming and focus." I protested that I wasn't trying to be 'charming.' He said, "you can't help it, it's just the way you are. You're just naturally charming."

So when a friend brought up this word 'charming' again a few years later, I started to believe maybe there was a little truth to what these various people were saying. I even looked up the word in the dictionary to dissect the definition to see if I feel like the word actually applies to me.

Then I realized it doesn't really matter what I think of me, this is the conclusion that people who know me have come to and I don't really have a say in their opinion. As is the case with all opinions, we all have our own. And they have their opinions about me independent from my input.

And this is not necessarily a bad thing. I tend to be harder on myself than other people, I'm sure most people are like this also, and I am extremely reluctant to accept praise. I have learned over the years that I really don't take compliments well. But I'm trying to learn. And this is something that applies to not only my personality but my writing also. I just have to put it (and myself) out there and let other people make their assessments.

So when people came up to me and told me how well I read, or how much they liked this poem or that poem, I tried to resist my usual course of action: denial. Instead, I blushed and attempted to graciously and gracefully accept the praise thrown in my direction.

After the reading I realized that this confidence boost couldn't have come at a better time. I was almost half-way through my program and not sure I was making any actual "progress" with my writing. I didn't have a strong sense of improvement, but I also became increasingly aware that this was in part because I was so hesitant to share my writing with my peers, or with anyone really.

I've never really had the type of personality that was self-promoting, or a 'look at how great I am' type of person. I know a lot of people like that and it kind of grinds my gears. This is extremely prominent with other writers. Everyone thinks their story, or memoir, or novel, or poem just needs to be heard and is so important that everyone should read it. And that kind of annoys me sometimes.

But it's okay to toot your own horn once in a while; moderation is the key.

My favorite compliment came from my friend Kyle who is also in the program. We were in the same workshop last semester so he's familiar with my poetry and he's even seen some first drafts from the poems I ended up reading to the audience. He made the comment that he could really tell how hard I had worked on my revisions and how much I tried to incorporate all the feedback into the new drafts.

He said that he was impressed about how far I'd come since last semester. I didn't know it until the words came out of his mouth, but I really needed someone I respected and whose poetry I also admired, to tell me I was doing something right. That my hard work was actually paying off, and that I wasn't just wasting my time with this whole poetry thing.

In the end I guess I succeeded in both 'charming' the crowd and I was also 'charmed' by the audience and their reception of my poetry as well. It helped me remember the payoff of putting yourself out there and being in vulnerable positions.

The encouragement and appreciation is definitely worth the risk.


                                                                          ~~~

I'm Never Moving Again.

After this past move, I seriously never want to move again.

I've moved once a year in the past six years, so basically I'm over it. And while I know this is not exactly logical because eventually I'm going to have to relocate my things, I really mean it.

Let me fill you in on how moving works in the Boston/Brighton/Allston area. Everyone moves on September 1st. EVERYONE. It is one giant apartment shuffle with five Uhauls on every street.  The reason this happens is because there are only June and September leases widely available. Sure there are the random May leases, or even occasionally an August one, but those are usually rented out to the lucky few by private owners and not property management companies. Combine the mass apartment swapping with all the one-ways they have going on and the T and it's pretty treacherous.

This is why me and my soon-to-be roomie Eloisa booked our Uhaul and two spry movers in April. I'm not kidding. We booked our Uhaul in April and they told us that if we had called the next week we might not have gotten one at all. I'd also asked a friend from the area who was wisely not moving to lend an extra set of hands and maybe even drive the Uhaul because Eloisa and I were a little hesitant about driving in Boston. Especially on the day that locals call "Allston Christmas."

 Some wires got crossed and she ended up going out of town for Labor Day, and I really wish I could have gone with her. But as a result we felt very unprepared about the impending move/doom. We worried about being able to pull off the move with just the two of us the night before the big day and then even with the help of the two moving guys the day of. Time was an issue because Uhaul truck had a drop-off time and also driving said truck was going to be a chore because of parking. Apparently Eloisa had been discussing the stress of the move with her boyfriend, who is from New Hampshire, and out of guilt he offered up one of his friends to help us since he couldn't help us himself. He lives across the country so he gets a pass but I think he offered Danny as a peace offering. One that we gladly accepted.

Danny was a godsend. I don't know how we would have made it through the weekend without him. He came straight from work which is about a 45 minute drive to come help drive the Uhaul. As an attempt to pay him back in some small way we had pizza waiting for him, which he ate in the car on the way to pick up the truck. We were under the impression that it was okay to park his car in the Uhaul lot overnight, but that was not the case so I had to drive his car while he drove the Uhaul. His car is a stick-shift, and even though I learned to drive a stick years ago, I was a little stressed. I'm not an aggressive driver and people around here drive like idiots. There's a lot of honking. People are always trying to beat the T, which is an awful idea in my opinion. I almost got hit by some Asian lady who didn't even look before switching lanes. But I did it without getting injured or crashing the car so I considered it a huge success.

Then came the fun part. Luckily, we had thought to stop off at the liquor store en route to the apartment before we started the heavy lifting. Eloisa and Danny parked his car in the liquor store parking lot down the street and I waited with the truck on the street to save our spot. Then we did a quick 'cheers' and drank one beer/cider to commemorate the beginning of our hellish weekend. We loaded the contents of Eloisa's apartment into the truck while other people in her building were doing the same. And we did it pretty quickly considering our serious lack of muscle. I kind of wish we would have timed it.

Then while Eloisa waited for her landlord to inspect her apartment, me and Danny went straight to my apartment and loaded up all of my stuff. Let me just remind you that this is the first time I've met Danny. We have never hung out previous to this day and he gave up his Saturday night to come help his friend's girlfriend and friend move, expecting no payback whatsoever.

After loading the truck we were all drenched in sweat from humidity and all the trips up and down the stairs. Our friend Ashley graciously let us stay at her house for the night since all the cheap hotels nearby were booked. So we parked the Uhaul in her driveway and decided we needed more booze to celebrate phase one of moving day coming to a close. I offered to walk with Danny back to his car and to buy a bottle of something, or a case of beer. When we got to the liquor store it was closed. This was not our only problem. The bigger problem was that in the time that it took for us to load up the truck, Danny's car had been towed from the parking lot.

I felt awful. Here this guy is trying to be nice and help two desperate girls out and his car gets freaking towed. But Danny just rolled with it and we went to get his car from the tow-lot. We hitchhiked there, catching a ride with a pizza delivery guy we made friends with in the parking lot. Which I would never normally do, but I was with Danny so I felt pretty safe. Not to mention it was just down the block.

After paying for the tow, that Danny had to pay for himself because they only accepted cash, we drove back to Ashley's to shower. Then we settled down to eat some wings (that we picked up on the way back) and to drink our remaining supply of alcohol while playing Bananagrams. We wanted to relax after the stress of moving and the car being towed. One of Ashley's roommates, Shin, came home and joined us and we ended up having a really fun time. Then it was off to bed to rest up for round two the next morning. But the next day would be easier, we'd have the help of the two movers and we'd get the job done in no time, right? Wrong.

We woke up when Eloisa's phone started ringing and the screen showed a local number. It was 8:30 in the morning the day of our move and the caller let us that our movers were cancelling. They gave us a simple explanation that they had overbooked and informed us that no one would be there to help us at noon. And our truck had to be back by three o'clock that afternoon. We were, to put it bluntly, screwed. It was too late to find other movers especially ones with a reasonable prices, and it was too early for me to start panicking especially because I hadn't even had any breakfast or coffee yet.

Then here comes Danny who calls the Uhaul place to try to explain our situation. He works in customer service so talking to people on the phone is kind of what he gets paid for. He told the woman from the Uhaul place that the movers Uhaul had outsourced called to cancel. And because of that we were unsure of whether we would make our drop-off time or not. Then he stayed around to help us move. Again.

The move on the second day happened in a blur. Partly because there were so many people around and partly because it was pouring rain for part of our move. Danny drove the truck again, parked it like a champ in front of our building and then we began unloading the truck as fast as we could. I forgot to mention before that the two apartments we moved out of were on the third floor--and so is our new place.

So we loaded our belongings, with the help of Ashley and Danny, into the lobby because we only had 20 minutes in our spot. There was literally a line of other Uhauls waiting behind ours. Some random guys that were either moving in or moving out saw that we had one guy and three girls so they started helping us with our stuff also. A few things broke, like my bookshelf--yet my wonky dresser miraculously survived. But nothing major was damaged. In no time all of our belongings were transferred to the new place and set haphazardly in the living room.

We were in no mood to open any of the boxes or get organized plus we had to return the Uhaul. So, I drove Danny's car, Danny drove the Uhaul, Eloisa rode shotgun in the truck, and Ashley headed home.   I made it to the Uhaul place before the other two, so I waited in the parking lot of a near-by gas station until they showed up. Because just like it was chaos getting the Uhaul, returning it was equally chaotic.

Then we all piled into Danny's Subaru or the "subee" and headed to Southie. Danny convinced me and Eloisa that we were in need of a little Sunday Funday action, so we decided to have a few post-move drinks. The bar we went to was so...Southie. Family owned by Irish immigrants, kind of dive-y, but luckily not the kind of bar we needed to be dressed up to be at. We were a little haggard looking, I'm not going to lie. Or at least we felt that way. We had gotten rained on, sweated more than I thought a person could sweat in one weekend, and were covered in a mysterious layer of dirt, dust and general grime. Not pretty.

But in spite of our outward appearance our little group arrived at the Shannon in Southie to de-stress. To drink a few beers/ciders, eat some much needed food, and play a few mindless games of pool with Bobby the bartender when his shift ended. And that was the grand yet mellow finale of our moving weekend.

The girls were tired (me and Eloisa) so Danny's friend Bobby graciously drove us back our apartment instead of letting us take the T home (our trip would have taken close to an hour). Again, this gesture was offered by a guy I had just met, and it was very much appreciated. We exchanged hugs and promised Danny a couch, a meal, or a drink whenever he is in the Boston area.

And that is the terribly true story of how we moved on September 1st in Boston during a flash flood warning. Jealous?

                                                                                ~~~