Over the summer of 2003, I
interviewed twice at an all girls Catholic high school in Clark, New
Jersey. It was a great school, and I
would have taken the job if they offered – but I immediately began mourning my
loss of adventure. I saw my self,
five-years down the road teaching in suburbia New Jersey, working on extra-degrees,
creating after school programs, coaching softball teams – and I felt
sorrow. It was all so simply laid
out. I knew it wasn’t simple, that those
years would bring its own excitement and drama.
But the reason I was living so far away from family was not to work in
suburbia New Jersey – I could do that in Minnesota. I was here for New York City. What was I doing at Mother Seton Girl’s
Regional High School?
I can’t really see through my
peripherals any longer. I haven’t
pursued offers that have come up this past
month. I want to teach. I don’t want to serve coffee or food, I don’t
want to sell books, I don’t want to substitute teach or tutor privately. I can’t.
My heart can’t take it. I pursued
other options like these over the past couple years, and I can’t spread myself
out any longer. Putting myself out there
feels the equivalent to standing on the Jersey Turnpike. Maybe it is the tough job market, but more
often I have felt it was me. But either
way, something is going to change soon.
I know I keep saying this – but now because it has to – it will.
On my way home from class that night, I was walking from the
bus stop, venting to my parents.
“I’m just
calling cause I need you to tell me I’m not crazy. That I don’t need to
be doing anything, or making anything happen.
That its okay for me to pursue what I think I want, even though its not
seeming to work, even though it might not work...”
Does this scene create reason for suspicion? The Closter
Police thought so. I was pulled over, if
there is such a thing for walking. The
officer unnecessarily put on his lights – spotlight, headlights, and approached
me sideways with his flashlight. I
wasn’t quite finished with my parents, and feeling much better already having
talked with them, I actually laughed at the officer and took out my ear piece,
but kept mom and dad connected so they could hear the exchange,
“How old
are you?”
“27. Heh heh." (I can't help laughing and I have to always suppress the urge to make inappropriate jokes when I'm nervous).
“Can I see some I.D.?” I handed him my Pace U ID from my back
pocket without a word, still snickering, but out of embarrassment now. “Do you have any other ID?” This caught me off guard. I wasn’t taking him seriously, entertaining
the idea I may have been pulled over for using my two legs as
transportation. But maybe he thought I
was a drunk or high or the more feasible
. . . maybe he knew I was slipping into the irretrievable world of crazy? I felt further embarrassed, and was about to
retort something, but stopped the words in my throat, letting down my backpack
to pull out my wallet. He decided to let
me on, upon verifying my age,
“There’s a missing 15 year old who
fits your description – sneakers, jeans, black coat. There’s an Amber Alert out for her, she’s
been missing two days.” I thought
several different things. But didn’t say
them, rather,
“Where’s she from?”
“Dumont. Can I ask you . . . why are you
walking?” There it was. The New Jersey upper-class neighborhood
felony. Walking instead of driving a
Beamer. I snickered again,
“How much time you have?” He backed away slightly. “Just kidding,” I quickly adjusted,
embarrassed for a third time, “I’m taking classes at Pace in Manhattan,
and we were let out late, and so I missed my bus and had to choose between
waiting another hour and ten minutes, or walking two miles. I chose the two miles, ah, obviously, and its
last stop was back in Dumont on Chestnut Bend.”
“What bus is that?”
“167.”
“And where you heading to?”
“Harrington Park . . . Want to give
me a ride while we’re at this?”
“Um. . .”
“Just kidding—“
“No, its okay. I can.
I just gotta call this in. I need
your name.”
I rode in the back while the
officer released my name to Interpol.
Mom and dad were still waiting with glee, on the other line. We pulled up to the Harrington Park bus stop.
“I have to let you out here.”
“No problem, thanks,” I said, and
began scratching at the door looking for the handle, before he came around and
opened the door for me. “Heh-heh, oh,” I
laughed weakly, “literally, you had to let me out here.”
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