The Dinosaur Dream

My parents have been giving me grief all evening about my “last night as a teenager.” It has been in some ways quite different from, and in others quite similar, to most of the Wednesday nights of my teenage years: dinner, playing with my cats, watching Mr. Bean, and doing dishes. Its casual nature stands in stark contrast, however, to my first night as a teenager. During my last night as a twelve-year-old, I had a remarkable dream. There was a desperate hunt for fried chicken, an epic battle involving dinosaurs and half of a giraffe, and a few well-placed musical numbers.
I desperately wanted to share this dream with my family members, but the whole day had been rather full. They had blindfolded me and taken me to the Beehive Tea Room, where I had my first cup of jasmine tea, then helped me make fondant surf boards for the penguins on my birthday cake (I was thirteen, ok), and finally, helped me make mac and cheese from scratch. On this auspicious occasion, my parents opened a bottle of champagne; I guess they had one lying around from Christmas celebrations and felt my entrance into my teen years warranted the flair. However, as my siblings and I ranged in age from 11 to 14, my parents had no help finishing the large bottle. It was an ambitious choice on their part, considering the wine they had already consumed while dinner was being made.

We ate dinner, and the conversation never lent itself to the interpretation of my dream, so I waited patiently to mention it while my parents consumed many a flute of bubbly. Finally, the time for cake arrived, and the final glasses of champagne were poured. There was a lull in conversation, and I took the opportunity to introduce the subject of my dream. It was in vain; I was interrupted four or five times, first by parents, then by cats, then by siblings, until finally I raised my voice.

“HEY! Can I PLEASE tell you guys this dream without being interrupted?”

The table was silent, and my dad, visibly tipsy, nodded. “Sorry, sweetie. Go ahead and tell your dream.”

I began, but got no further than the first word when dad threw his champagne over his shoulder, dropping the flute into his lap and saying “lalalalala,” fingers in his ears. The table erupted into giggles. I stamped my tiny teen feet.

“Daddy! What are you doing?”

He picked up the miraculously unbroken glass and explained that he had meant to tease me by sticking his fingers in his ears and pretending to ignore the telling of the dream I had worked so hard and been so patient for, but he had forgotten the step that involved setting his champagne back on the table. From the other end of the room, my mother shook her head slowly.

“You know dear, if you weren’t going to drink that,” she mused, her own glass dangling from two fingers, empty, “I would have had it.”

By that point, my dream had rather lost its punch, but perhaps tomorrow, I shall attempt to tell it again.

Hear Me Out

Today, something truly horrific happened in Connecticut. So much pain and sadness has been sown, and so much fear and hate has surfaced and bubbled over. Hearts have been moved, and voices are shouting.

Mostly, I have been inundated with social media messages about gun control. Don’t get me wrong; I am 110% behind that; gun control will vastly decrease the ease with which such atrocities can be committed, but that is only half the story.

Everyone’s hearts are breaking for the innocent victims, the children in particular, but they are not the only ones to be mourned. People need someone or something to blame when tragedy strikes, a vessel for the negative emotions. Sometimes, we forget that the man who committed this crime was that: a man. 

We’re always told to hate the sin, not the sinner, in the Christian faith. That is what it means to walk in the image of God. Yes, this man did something unspeakably evil. Yes, it is perfectly valid to react to that with fear and anger and hate for the action. But the man himself, we ought to love.

So what is the other half of the story, if gun control is only a part? How can we love someone so broken that he would massacre children? We can start by examining something else that is broken in our world: the way we treat those who are mentally ill. Obviously this man was sick. Mentally healthy individuals do not commit mass murder. I don’t pretend to know what precisely in this man’s brain chemistry didn’t add up, but I would be willing to bet he was not receiving adequate treatment for it. So, yes, we do need better gun control, but on the other side, we also need better mental health care. Prevention is not just making it harder for sick people to obtain weapons. Prevention is trying to heal the sick, make it so that they do not feel compelled to use weapons. We’re not all doctors and we’re not all politicians. We don’t all have the power to pass laws and give therapy, but we all have one thing we can use to make this world a better, safer place: Love.

Let’s start loving one another, through and through. Let’s remember that we’re all imperfect people, no matter how hard it is to do so. 

So I Was on the Six Train...

Good stories never start that way, and this story doesn't start well, although it ends brighter than anticipated. This is a story of sexual assault, and fear, and a few very brave, very kind men who helped me out of a terrifying situation. 

I was on the 6 train, headed downtown to the Flute Bar for a friend's concert. My roommate and I were dressed up, a rare occasion for make-up (though we couldn't bring ourselves to travel in heels, so we carried them in our hands) and fancy clothes. A middle schooler gave me a once-over and I was amused. She was sitting, and I was standing, holding the bar over her head.

We were two stops away from our destination when it happened. A burly man, reeking of beer, his eyes rolling around disturbingly in his head, tugged at my sleeve.

"You look so beautiful."

"Uh, thanks!"

"None of the other girls here even compare."

I smiled, flattered, but a little wary. Then he stood up, lurched towards me with his hand out, offering a slurred, incomprehensible version of his full name. Marcello? Mark? Marmaduke? Hard to say. He asked for mine.

"Uh, Lars."

"Where are you from?"

"Uh...here. New York." 

I started to wish I had lied more about my name, given an alias rather than a nickname.

"What's your last name? You're from here?"

My roommate stepped in, trying to deflect attention. "She's from this subway car. The very one." He didn't even react to her.

Then time slowed to a crawl while events escalated. The drunk lurched forward again and kissed me, putting an arm across my back. Instinctively I began to back away, now terrified where I had been only creeped out. His arm held me in place, though. I was shooting panicked looks around the train, from my roommate to other people on the seats, but no one seemed to know what to do. When the drunk realized I was trying to back away, he began whispering threats in my ear.

"I'm an ex-marine, you know. You can't run away from me." He started fumbling in his jacket, and suddenly I was worried he might have a gun; he could certainly over power me, particularly in my current state, literally paralyzed with fear, so scared I couldn't even cry.

At that moment, two men who had been conversing urgently behind me sprang into action. The first, a short but broad-shouldered middle-aged man hustled his way under the drunks arm, pushing me back and breaking the hold, letting me free. At the same time, a tall, lanky man in his late 20s or early 30s began ushering me and my roommate towards the door as the train approached a station.

"Don't touch her. Get away from this creep, girl, just go. Don't you put your hands on her. I will fucking punch your face in if I have to, you stay away."

I heard myself yelling "This is my stop!" as though I had just had a friendly encounter with a kind person, then bolted from the train. The drunk tried to follow, but the first man held him back, the second stepping onto the platform to make sure we got into the next car ok. 

I was shaken; my legs were trembling, and my heart was racing. I thought I was one of those girls who could stand up for herself, protect herself from creeps and crazies, but when the moment came, I forgot everything I ever learned about how to handle the situation. The only thought running through my head was "Don't make him mad, don't give him a reason to hurt you," like I somehow owed it to this man to be nice, as though his advances were a consequence of my behavior. I don't like it. I didn't like feeling that way. I never want to feel that way again. I never want to be in that situation again. But instead of feeling completely disgusted, totally disheartened with men, I feel an immense gratitude. The heroes in this story out number the villain. Two total strangers were willing to stick their necks on the line to help a scared girl out of a scary moment. Two people who know nothing about me were brave enough and strong enough to fight a battle I couldn't. In a city where so many blind eyes are turned, how grateful I am that those two were watching.