SO. Here is the month of August. Which is starting soonly. Next week, actually.

Let me tell you about it. For me.

That first wednesday? I fly to Long Beach. Get picked up by some friends I've had for over 10 years now. And spend the night in a hotel room in Anaheim.

That thursday?

DISNEYLAND! The land of my dreams. If I could, I'd have my wedding reception there. I'd just rage around in a white dress and do what I want. And little girls would see me as a princess for a day. Maybe they'll forget about the animated, unrealistic princesses of years past, and dream to be me.

Oh, and club 33. Going there. JOY!

Then, on that friday, one of my best friends is having her rehearsal dinner in Santa Monica. Only 3 of us left standing! Stand strong, ladies!

On the 6th, i go to that wedding.

Then, 3 days later, on the 9th, I fly to portland. YAY! Blackberries, blueberries and huckleberries OH MY!

On the 10th?

I cross my fingers.

I fly back to Utah the 17th, to go back to work.

On the 20th, I'm still crossing my fingers.

And on the 25th?

Oh, the places we'll go.

I'm going CRAZY!

I thought I had gone through most of my life without getting jaded by thing. Without having really "lasting effects" of things. Basically I thought I could go into any situation without worrying about "last time".

I was wrong

I'm trying so hard to convince myself that nothing good can come of this. That there is nothing to hope for. Or look forward to.

I just feel like I'm going crazy. I'm trying so hard to not think about him. But of course, then I do.

Relationships only end in 2 ways.

I'm ready to try method 2.

Things Change

Things Change

Leah Pettit

Period 3

Mr. Ellis

When I was seven years old, a new family moved in around the corner, They had 5 kids, whose names all started with K – Klara, number 3, was just my age. The following Sunday, I met Klara at church, and we were fast friends. We spent tons of time together. After all, it was summer, so every day and most nights we spent in each other’s company. We were exactly the same – rowdy, hyper girlie girls who only talked about the 6 handsome Benson boys who lived down the street.

Klara and I were troublemakers. We’d climb trees in other people’s yards, play in the mud in our new white socks just to make our moms mad, eat disgusting combinations of food such as a cookie, toothpaste, and ketchup sandwich, play in the sprinklers wearing her mom’s high heels and petticoats- you think of something random and crazy and we did it.

Klara and I wrote, directed, and starred in plays. We would come up with silly non-coherent plots and expect our parents and a few select others 75 cents to see them. We would act out ridiculous scenes and expect laughter and applause. We had so much  fun, even my older sister (who was “too cool”) got jealous and insisted on acting with us.

Our families mostly got along as well. All except for Keegan, Klara’s 14 year old brother. We’d lock him out of the house and raid his room, and when he’d finally catch us, he would drag us outside and mercilessly peg us with water balloons. The worst incident by far occurred was when I was about 9 years old. Klara and I locked Keegan out, and he shocked and scared us by gasp flipping us off. We let him back in the house out of terror, and he was so angry he carried us outside, a kicking and screaming 9-year old under each arm, and used cheap yellow rope to tie us to the splintery wooden poles that held the aluminum panel over her patio up. He left us there for 3 hours, until Klara’s sister Kelsey rescued us. Periodically during the 3 hours, he and his doofus friends would walk by, point, and laugh. I had rope burns for 3 days.

Klara and I had officially become one person. That is, until the day that Klara told me that her father, who was a sergeant in the United States Army, was being relocated to Oklahoma. I cried. So did she. Over the next month and a half, we cried alot. But the day finally came that Klara drove away, and her once busy, happy house was empty save for the memories we shared there. I was devastated.

But Klara and I wrote each other every other week. I felt so special, addressing a letter to “Edmond, OK”. In every way except for physical distance, we were closer than ever. But then she started moving on. And I hated her for it.

Four years of bi-weekly letters, and semi-annual phone calls. Then, in the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, I found out she was coming to visit. I was ecstatic. Two whole weeks with Klara – what could be better? At the airport, I was so exited that I told my sister to drop me off at the wrong terminal – I ran halfway across LAX in sandals and a jean skirt.

When she came off the airplane, I looked right past her. She wasn’t the Klara I knew, but I eventually recognized the tan, freckly face, brown eyes and big smile of my best friend. She dropped her bags and hugged. She cried. We were together again.

But Klara was different. Or maybe the problem is that she wasn’t. She was still sloppy, naive, rude, obnoxious, and self-centered, but I had changed. I was hyper, yes, but I was now a neat freak, flirtatious, and entirely focused on school, swimming and my music. She still only talked about the 6 handsome Benson boys, and I had moved on to the high school boys I so eagerly flirted with. By the end of the two weeks, we couldn’t stand the sight of each other.

We drove to the airport, listening to the beatles very loud to avoid conversation, and right before she boarded her plane we hugged – for the last time. We exchanged a few half-hearted “I’ll miss you”s and said we’d write. We never did.

It’s three years later, and thinking about Klara still makes me want to smile and cry. We grew apart. That’s all. And now, the only thing to do is look back and remember picking honeysuckle, writing plays, a tearful goodbye, and a disappointing reunion.

Tease

Tease

Leah Pettit

Period 3

Mr. Ellis

It was a summer night – the kind that are so warm that a single touch can overheat every inch of your body. I was in a park, playing hide and go seek. I was wearing red dickies – the red that you would still be able to see even if you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. I was sweating – my parents though I was at my house in Newbury Park; they told me they trusted me.

The streetlamps were close – close enough to cast strange shadows around the jungle gym, where I was curled up at the top of a tube slide, my head resting on my knees. He hid at the bottom of my slide. We talked, casually, laughed, he told me my face looked orange next to my pants. We were alone. the person who was it was searching 500 yards away. I stood up in the shelter of a plastic tower. I remember how hot my mouth felt and how tight my muscles were. he started climbing up the slide. Seeing his arms flail and his white socks scramble with the effort he put into reaching me made me smile – it still makes me smile. he put so much effort in to getting to where I was.

he emerged from the slide, his knuckles turning white as he lugged his bulk up towards me. he was about 2 feet away. I suddenly had the urge to fan myself, but I stood still.

We stood near each other, talking, for probably 3 minutes, though I don’t remember a word we said. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, all I could feel was my boiling insides. The conversation died. he put his hand on my stomach – I could feel his sweat through the thin layer of white fabric stretched over me. My hands started sweating.

he got closer, closer, and just as I could feel his hot breath on my mouth, I turned my head, winked, smiled, bit my lip, and walked away.

Running out of Gas

Running Out of Gas

Leah Pettit

Period 2

Mr. Ellis

My headlights pierced through the otherwise pitch dark night... it was just my luck to be stranded in a stretch of road that was void of streetlamps. Like a racehorse that had run out of steam from being ridden for too long, my noble steed – my blue 1987 Toyota pickup – was quiet in defeat; it had run out of gas.

After dialing my house, and learning what triple-A was for, I did the only thing I could do: sat back, locked my doors, and turned up my radio. If there was anything threatening outside my car, I didn’t want to know about it. Simply knowing that I was within 15 feet of a ravine shrouded with mystery – or was it bushes?- was enough to keep me rooted to my seat.

A few pairs of lonely headlights passed; no one seemed to care much about the blue truck parked with its headlights on. Well, one person: a police officer. Yes, a car pulled up behind me, and when the driver’s side door opened my heart skipped a beat – what was this person planning on doing? It was only when I saw the uniform that I felt, for the first time in the presence of an officer, relief. I rolled down my window, and the kind officer shined a not-so-kind light in my face. After a few questions, a few unwanted tears, and a reassurance, Officer Dean offered to stay with me until either triple-A or my parents showed up. I accepted his offer, and settled in for what I thought was going to be a ten minute wait.

Half an hour later my parents showed up, in all of their pajama’d glory. Officer Dean left, with only one “you should be more careful”. A full hour later, a big greasy man with a big greasy truck pulled up beside my now dwarfish looking pickup. He said he worked for triple-A, so, against my better judgment, I opened my gas tank. Weren’t repair men supposed to be young, attractive, and look nice in white shirts, like in the movies? This man had yellowing fingernails and teeth, bad breath, and enough chest hair to satisfy all the rogaine users in the world. Despite my distrust, he did fill my gas tank with enough gas to get me to the nearest gas station, and with a toothy goodbye and a final glance at the neckline of my shirt, he and his “must-be-compensating-for-something” truck were gone. Following  a quick fuel-up and a lecture from my parents, I felt like I had run out of gas.

Prism

In response to D.H. Lawrence’s “Bavarian Gentians”:

Prism

So distracting

there’s rainbows everywhere

I am in my own palace

crystal floors reflect rainbows onto the crystal chandeliers

Mahogany furniture in a grand, golden hall

everything reflects color onto everything else

my eyes never focus

thousands of colors

blushing reds, sinful crimsons, fabulous fuscias, opulent oranges

yellows that blind me – make me squint

what thoughts those greens inspire!

sexy purples, calming lavenders, blues that bring serenity, peace

A chandelier with candles is the only light

besides the windows

windows of cut let crystal

windows viewing a kingdom unlike any on earth

A banister that is cool to the touch

stairs held up only by rainbows

a floor at the landing made of pure platinum

a bedroom with a glass bed

curtains of sheer, diamond – inlaid netting

blood colored, satin sheets

pure goose down mattress

a sea of pillows

I could suffocate in this bed

A crystal fire place burning logs of scented flowers

overstuffed, golden armchairs with fluffy pillows

like the ones I hug while slumbering at home –

Home?

My dirty, glass windows come into focus

windows that view my neighbors yellow curtains

I see my mahogany furniture

my satin and goose down bed

my sheer mosquito net

my sea of pillows

my scented flowers on my windowsill

            My Prism.

My name

My Name

Leah Pettit

Period 2

02/02/04

I am a mutt. No matter how much I try to be an individual, I will always be a mutt. I am not original, I am just a combination of everyone I’ve met. You see, I don’t really have a set personality. I sort of just snatch the personalities of different people at different times. I can be a nerd, a flirt, a athlete, a Mormon, a dumb blonde – you name it, I can be it. See that’s what happens when you’re the youngest of five children. Nothing really belongs to you- not even your personality. I am my sister Jen’s blondeness, my sister Debby’s musicality, my Brother’s swimming ability, and my sister Rebecca’s stubborness all rolled into one “travel size” package. When you’ve met me, you’ve basically met my entire family. That brings me to my main point; my name.

My name classifies who I am – both in it’s precedent and it’s meaning. My mom wanted four children. I’m number 5. Maybe that’s why she named me Leah, the name of the lesser, unwanted sister in the bible. She claims that’s not true, and I want to believe her, but just hearing and responding to that name my entire life has made me believe that I really am just an accident. I have no talent that an older sibling hasn’t already mastered, and I’ve never done anything that would set me apart from my siblings. I don’t know whether that’s because my name is Leah, or my name is Leah because of that – I haven’t quite figured that out yet.

Now according to name books my name means contentment, and if that doesn’t fit me, I don’t know what does. Even in knowing that I am an accident I am content – some accidents turn out for the better. I couldn’t be happier with my situation in life, being the spoiled youngest child and all, and I couldn’t ask for anything more than I have right here, right now.

So the moral of the story? I guess it’s that no matter how you identify yourself, how others identify you, or who you are, life is grand. It’s scary and hard, true, but the experiences I have had have taught me that life is what you make of it; and I choose to be unwanted, unoriginal, and yet be completely content. 

The Dragon

In response to Frank O’Hara’s “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island”:

Why is She Always Right?

She screeched into the driveway

why doesn’t she shift?

That poor car sounds like a dragon –

but only when she drives it.

My eyes closed

the projector in my brain began its nightly duty

bright colors, flashes, then the film caught

the show started on my screeny eyelids.

There she was – sitting on the beach

but she was half – dragon

I looked down – I was still human

I wasn’t relieved

She was green, scaly, but always, always

people saw her as beautiful

She wore a purple corset

that just flaunted her lack of breasts

She flirted with an attractive male dragon

he kind of looked like Ben Stiller

She ran, he chased

she climbed a cliff, bounding from rock to rock

but they were bouncy

like trampolines

I followed – I had to save her

no one followed me

I came around a boulder

she was perched, ankles crossed, back straight

on a freeway sign “Carmen Dr. – 36 miles”

She didn’t even look at me

much less thank me

for what I don’t know

Her fang – filled mouth opened

between puffs of dragon smoke

she said “Is he gone yet?

I mean, he’s good enough for you, but not for me!”

Why is she always right?

The car screeched out – lights on my ceiling

why doesn’t she shift?

it sounds like a dragon

but only when she drives it.

Cashmere

In response to Ezra Pound’s translation of Li Po’s “The river – Merchant’s Wife: A Letter”:

Cashmere

When my hair was short and unstyled

you stopped me

 asked why I was leaving

my cheeks matched your sweater

I said I was fine.

When purple eyeshadow never left my eyelids

you fascinated me

your loud tenor me

you smiled, and seemed to know me

once again, my cheeks matched your sweater

and I said I was just fine

When my hair was growing out

you said goodbye

two years is a long time

but not so long with correspondence

my cheeks no longer matched your sweater

I didn’t even try to say I was fine

Now, my hair is long and light

and you want me to send pictures

you’re coming home

two years was too long

 I’ve learned what you already knew

that when you’re near me, my cheeks will always match your sweater

and that, with you, I will never be just fine.

The day I broke dress code

In response to Gary Snyder’s “Four Poems for Robin”:

The Day I Broke Dress Code

The day I broke dress code

I wore those smelly shorts

the ones that you’re supposed to wash

no one does

My two best friends in the world

connected the dots on my legs

a blue shark

a pink bunny

Sand in my clothes

exfoliating, to put it mildly

tickling, spinning, dizzy, spinning more

climbing like rainforest monkeys in suburban oaks

Eating my body weight in pizza

protesting in Albertsons – “free the lobsters!”

finally returning

to my home away from home

I used to think the clothes made the day

until the day I broke dress code.

I'd do it for free!

In response to Spring Break:

I’d Do it for Free

Lauren got sick

we sat at those tables

the orange ones right by Deja Vu

Grace and Camille had left

Lauren and I had nothing to do

but bake ourselves in the Valencia sun

She reached din her pocket

“two dollars says you won’t”

I thought for a while

“up it to three and I will”

Grace and Camille returned, and we filled them in

after an eternity of contemplation

and a few “whether you think you can or can’t, your right”’s from Grace

I walked into the store

he was cuter from far away

“excuse me? Can I tell you something?”

Then, without waiting for a response

I reached my face up

got him squarely on the lips

turned quickly

and walked away

Grace said “I didn’t see – do it again”

Lauren said she’d pay again – what did I have to lose?

This one’s name was Dylan

he was cute too – from far away

 I used the same line

this one turned though

kind of a half – mouth, half – cheek thing

he turned bright red

his friend was jealous

I collected my money, the gave it back

it was too much fun –

I’d do it for free!

My King

In response to Wallace Steven’s “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”:

My King

I would not fall asleep until it sang me to sleep

a small child wailing in her crib until the moment

its sonorous voice reached her ears

It gave me my first hickey

it hurt a lot

but I was proud

it meant I was working hard

It frustrated me – how were my fingers

supposed to do that thing?

When I did it it wailed – no sweet moaning here.

The sound it made

with just the right amount of pressure

the perfect tension in the rubbing

( who knew wood, horsehair and cat guts could do that?)

My fingers don’t feel pain –

they don’t feel anything.

So much pressing in the same spot –

I once touched a hot frying pan

and didn’t even realize my fingers were scorched.

The sweet sounds it makes

(now that I’ve fully mastered myself) –

the frustration and the pain were worth it.

Now I can grab it

wrestle with it

make it say “uncle”

but when it’s all over

I still have to bow to my king/

A new series

I found some old poems I wrote for a creative writing class in high school. I am planning to post them. :)

You know who you are

I'm waiting for you.

Come find me.

Don't ask

Nothing.

That’s what you said I could expect.

No texts, no calls, no emails.

And so  I didn’t. And I don’t.

And you were right.

So not expecting things? Has turned out to be the best thing ever. Not expecting things has meant that we secretly get to connect. The never-boring spark of 4 lips meeting.  Physically mostly, but sometimes, just sometimes, you let me see your emotions. The man you are when no one is expecting things of you, or thinking they already have you figured out.

So what’s the problem then?

In not expecting, I have learned to expect certain things.

The relaxed smile you get on your face once we kiss.

The warmth of your chest.

The strength of your arms around me.

The endearing vulnerability of your truths.

And so on we go, expecting nothing, but somehow learning to expect from one another. So what can you expect from me?

An incontrovertible sense of adventure.

That the lightest touch of your hands on my back will make it arch.

That I will listen.

That I will continue to expect without expecting.

Dear Mike

I've spent a lot of time thinking about you. About what we had, about who we were and who we are. And so I just have to tell you a few things. Not because I think it will change anything, because I don't. Not because I'm hoping or wishing for more. Just because it feels good to say it.

I've spent a few years thinking that whoever said "it is better to have loved and lost than to never love at all" was full of crap. And now, after more than 2 years, I think I get it.

They're right.

I've been going on tons of dates recently. And all of them prove one thing to me.

I loved you. There is a part of me that will never stop loving you. And, unfortunately, that part is big enough to make it impossible for me to give that much of my heart away again. If I did, it would stop beating. The next time I love, it will have to be less, or it will kill me.

So even if you never read this, and even if we never speak again, just let me say this: you are the satisfaction that lasts a lifetime. The amount of love I had for you was enough to last me for the rest of my days.

And that I would be happy living a celibate life, knowing that at one point, I loved.

I loved you.

November 26, 2009

What kind of person uses an email account as a journal? I don't even know. But since no one but me knows about said email account, it helps me sleep at night - knowing that my life is safely stored in binary in an unknown account in google. I don't even know why it matters. Who is going to read this? Some yet unborn daughter of mine? What does she look like? Who is her father?

Just a few things you should know about me first.... before we jump into any kind of cyber relationship, oh mystic void. I am 23. I am strawberry blonde naturally, though not by choice. I am 5'10" and "meduim build" - something that I hope will shortly change.I just got home from a mission which was served in Armenia, and Chicago. I'm sure the explanation for that will come out sometime. Just not now. I have never had a successful long-term relationship. I like to think that it's because I know myself and what I want so thoroughly that I know when I'm dating someone that's not it. Who knows if that's the real reason. Maybe I'm secretly ugly or unpleasant, and I'm just totally oblivious to the fact. Point is, I go long periods of time where I just casually date, and then get flung into short term, passionate romances which some life circumstance then prevents from continuing. Summer camp ends, boy goes home to Wales, girl goes home to California. Two long time friends share a few days and nights together with some hearty makinng out and some handholding in Disneyland and Palos Verdes... girl goes on mission. Two people who are CRAZILY attracted to another have a short tryst, and..... girl gets called back to her mission. Yes, that is my sad romantic history. Not to mention a long string of random makeouts to satiate the long suppressed sexual appetite of an 18 year old mormon virgin.

So Here I am. I'm 23. Single. A virgin (much to my dismay). I speak 3 languages fluently. I have a nice room in a nice condo in a nice part of town. and yet I just feel.... empty.

And there's no real reason why I should. My life is simple enough. Successful enough. I am just really sick of feeling alone. I don't want to label my milk anymore. I don't want to wake up alone anymore. I don't want to have a series of transient friendships and relationships that are just killing the time until I find the real person I'm going to spend the rest of my life with.

Something else you should know? I hate the unknown. Not suprises - they're fine. The unknown. Like what's at the bottom of a hill when you go sledding or ice blocking. What's at the bottom of the aqueduct you're sliding down. Skiing. Snowboarding. Skateboarding. Any and all of it - I hate it. And for a long time, I pretended to like it. I thought it made me adventurous and fun. I don't give a damn what it makes me look like anymore. I just don't want to do it. And no one can ever pressure me into it ever again.

It just doesn't seem fair to me, in terms of Karma, that other people get to be so happy when I feel like I deserve happiness too. I don't want to be single anymore. But maybe I still am because I think to far ahead. I went on a date last saturday, and I've already pictured our first kiss and holding hands and snuggling. I'm creepy and weird. But that's who I am, so I'm sorry. I don't like the unknown, remember? I like to know what's coming. If you could sit down on a first date and plan out the possible scenarios for how the relationship is going to play out, I would do it every time. But that sends a very controlling, creepy message.

I'm going to counseling right now because of what my counselor calls "an extreme caretaking personality". I've learned to negate my own needs and put the needs of others so far in front of my own that my own never get attended to. I still work at a job that's far away from my house and that takes me for granted because I don't want to leave during the busy season. I swallow my own needs in terms of my house as my roommate Jenny stomps all over me and I end up as her part-time maid. I admit I'm wrong when I'm right so that the other person can feel good. I don't give the answer first sometimes even though I know it because I know that it will make someone else feel good to give it. And I'm trying to get over this. So step number 1 comes tomorrow: I'm giving my two weeks in my job.

But what after that? I should have DONE something with my life at this point. Instead I have less than $100 in the bank, no car, no boyfriend, and a hair color I hate because everyone else seems to love it so much.

Is the only answer to become the selfish girl that I never wanted to be?

Let me tell you who I wish I was.

I wish I was tall, slender but curvy, with auburn hair and tan skin. I wish I could wear pencil skirts and snakeskin tops and tall boots without wondering if I'll get stereotyped. I wish I got asked out on dates at least once a week, preferably more. I wish I was still swimming, and was running and biking as well. I wish I had a boyfriend who adored me and let me adore him - who made me feel secure enough to adore him however I wanted. I wish I was the quiet, popular girl - that I was striking and kind. That I stuck up for what I wanted and that I helped others do the same.

Wishing don't make it happen though.

So, cyber void, I guess you get to be my log. Of how I'm going to become all the things I want to become. And I could wait until January, when it's even cold and I start getting even more depressed, or I could start now. Tomorrow. I'm going to quit my job, no apologies. I'm not going to apologize for who I am or how I feel. Because that's who I am and how I feel. I'm going to exercise and go hungry until I can put on my size 9 pants and stun. I'm going to go after the hard jobs and the big projects and the top grade. I'm going to be the woman I know I can be.

So by next friday night - what do I want to have accomplished? I want to have exercised every day. for at least 30 minutes. I want to be caught up in my school work,. and I'm going to do my darndest to get Alan to ask me out a second time.

Pretty good for a week, eh?

Saturday, March 29, 2008

I suppose the pen and paper are too slow to keep up with the fast-paced modernity of my thoughts. Only the heartless keyboard seems efficient enough to sufficiently express the depth of my feelings.

There are these periods of time in my journals, when I just don't write. For weeks. Or months. And those are the times when I really should be writing. When half my time is spent on my knees, praying for all the wrong things, trying to get my heart in the right place. When I have the final blonde epiphanies of knowledges others gained so easily. It seems I really just need to learn everything the hard way. That I have to struggle and talk and freak out and give in before I can just say; "oh. I get it." But that's fine. Heavenly Father works with the way that we learn.

So I was sent home from Armenia in the 6^th month of my mission there. And really, the medical reasons are just the excuse so that someday I can go back. So I'm having all these savage medical tests done. But really, I guess the issue is me.

Jake says that I am not my problems. The Armenians are not their problems. But we are the same: in Passage to Ararat, the author hypothesizes at some point that to be Armenian is to be crazy. And not crazy in an endearing way, but actually crazy – that the innermost parts of you are twisted. And I suppose that's how I feel.

And I'm finding comfort in the most random places. Armenian history. Sister missionary clothes. Let me tell you, future family – I was fashionable. Datable. Attractive. I carried myself well. Accessorized well. I had lots of boys that tried very hard to date me. Some succeeded. But usually, after a few nights of "good, clean fun" (aka making out and a few movies), I was over it. Because I guess I was never under it, if you know what I mean. But now all I want to do is go to bed early and read books about Armenia. People keep calling me, undoubtedly to invite me to mind-numbing social activities in the name of fun. But I think that so many people have tried for SO LONG to numb themselves, that they have no feeling anymore. I like the pain. Of knowing that I'm stupid. That I left the most amazing place in the world to come back to a selfish and petty people. Not that I hate Americans – they are my people, but what is America if not an extinguishing of race? A release of tradition? An opportunity to forget that people suffered so that you could forget them? I like that pain. Because I really did leave my heart in Armenia. And to some that seems trite – that I'm trying to claim that I was a good missionary, and so my heart breaks for the people. But I wasn't – a good missionary, that is. I talked about Babylon. I laughed. I wore clothes that were probably too cute. I had sparkly earrings. Sometimes, I sat through lessons passively. Because I didn't get it. That this is what life is about.

That Armenians have suffered – ¾ of their race extinguished by a people that lived, worked, played alongside them. Their brothers! Their brothers beat them. Tortured them. And there are so many messages from the dust, testimonies of long ago, people who cried to God, with no proof he could hear. But he did. He always does.

And he sent his answer in us. Only the gospel can save this people – these crazed Armenians, with the poison of genocide pulsing through their veins. Their inner twistedness from too much pain, torture, war. The pain of knowing that there is a whole world that doesn't care. And one of the greatest lessons we can teach Armenians is this: that God heard. That he answered in his own due time. And now they know, that their dead, forgotten by many, unacknowledged by even more, are remembered. That they will be given the chance to stand, in their own, beautiful flesh, and testify of the atrocities that happened to them, their women, and their children. And that after they testify, they will be held by a loving, caring God, and that they will heal.

So I have spent so much time examining my already blaring, apparent faults, trying to find something that I'm supposed to learn so that my time here in California will make sense. And I have found substance enough. But I guess what is more sufficient is that I have discovered the history and sufferings of a people so long forgotten and disregarded. The Armenian Genocide, to most, is a statistic. A tragic figure. But if we heard the individual stories from the thousands of people brutalized, then we would stop eating the mashed potatoes on our plate. Not only would we stop, but we wouldn't be able to start again. It wouldn't be "just another segment of news" to shake our heads at and tsk the world for becoming what it is. It would be the reason for pressing forward. To bring this message forward.

"Now, what do we hear in the gospel which we have received? A voice of gladness! A voice of mercy from heaven; and a voice of truth out of the earth; glad tidings for the dead; a voice of gladness for the living and the dead; glad tidings of great joy."

Now here's the part about us as missionaries:

"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those that bring glad tidings of good things, and that saw unto Zion: Behold, thy God reigneth! As the dews of Carmel, so shall the knowledge of God descend upon them!"

D&C 128:19

So here I am, in my house in California, wearing jeans, walking on carpet, with ample peanut and maple syrup glinting at me from their sick, shiny plastic bottles in well-stocked cupboards. With a bed that does not hurt my back. With streets free of trash. With all the amenities of an American house. But even while I'm sitting here, I can literally feel my heart beating for Armenia. My soul aches to go back. I'm pretty sure, that God and men let me, I would serve the remainder of my days there with no backward glances.

So I guess I'm grateful for this opportunity, to have my heart break. Because we have a good, obedient, hard working mission. But there are probably still that go home and think "well, that's over. Next step. College, marriage…" But I guess I'm just stuck on this step. The whole "mission" part. And maybe I never will go back. Maybe it's over. But I can honestly say that "I have a rash, and the only prescription is MORE ARMENIA!"

In all seriousness, my soul will never rest until my feet rest once again upon the bloodstained soils of Hayastan, until I hear the voices of Armenian women wailing the few hymns they have (don't worry, I'm on that one), until I can see groups of pointy-shoed Armenian men squatting on streetcorners or slouching on buildings.

The rest of the world thinks they are pathetic. But I don't. We don't. We see them as they are: beloved children of a Father in Heaven, who must trust and love them so much to give them that their share of adversity and affliction, and know that they would still worship him with all their hearts.

Now let us help them in worshipping with all His ways, to add to their hearts, shall we?

"Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life."

2 Nephi 31:20

P.S. Isn't it hilarious that we try to teach the Armenians about enduring to the end? I've decided that's something to chuckle over.

Packing

She finished her packing 4 days before she actually went anywhere. You can do that when the things you pack aren't things you would normally use. When you're packing to go somewhere totally new – to become someone totally different. When the new clothes and belongings that will define you for the next year and a half are just as foreign as the new language you will be speaking – the new rules you will be following.

Even though the packing was finished, she would still sometimes unzip the suitcases and peek. As if looking at the untouched skirts and blouses, the expensive winter boots would give her some idea of where she was going – what she had really gotten herself into.

You see, it happened faster for her than for anyone else. People would talk about the 3-6 months they had to prepare, to gather their thoughts and their belongings, to pack their lives into air-tight containers; remnants of who you are at this moment, stored away and forgotten from between 18 and 24 months. Over a million had already done it. It was supposed to be one of the happiest times of your life – giving up those precious months. It was supposed to be something you worked for, prayed for, were excited for; unless you were Victoria Hart. Like I said, it happened fast for her. Too fast. Fast enough to make the weeks leading up to her departure blurry – as if it wasn't real.

But the truth is, it is all too real.

It all starts with hope. The naïve hope of a girl, a woman, who wishes so dearly to become more than herself. To be that woman when she returns home, head held high and eyes bright with knowledge. The happiness and brightness she brought with her that day was almost blinding.

As they parked the car in the already full lot across the street, Victoria looked straight forward – past her parent's car, past the line of evergreens. Past the fence. This was her new home. At least for the next 3 months. She smiled as hundreds of families crossed the busy streets, funneling into this compound – families bringing overdressed 20 -something daughters, looking uncomfortable in their practical sturdy shoes and long skirts. Smiling for pictures in their last moments with their families. More families bringing 19 year old sons, wearing brand new, ill-fitting suits and conservative ties. Each family was feeling a myriad of emotions – it turns out emotion is the great equalizer.

In those last photos with her family, you can still see the fire, the life, the fight in Victoria's eyes. As she, wearing a long blue skirt and thick knit blouse, and her sister, wearing V's favorite pink satin skirt, struck pose after pose, their parents laughed. Neither of them had served; they only knew what people had told them about the experience. Next they entered the main building of the compound, and watched a short video glorifying those young volunteers. Mothers cried, fathers stood stony – faced, as their children walked, alone, out one side of the room.

When she last saw her parents, her sister, V didn't cry. She wasn't actually sad. She was excited. These were going to be the best years of her life! She was going to grow, and change, and learn, and serve, and come home with tattered clothes and holey shoes as her family sounded the trumpet of a victorious return. She followed the printed signs, just like all of the hundreds of other volunteers entering the training center that day, and wandered, lost, around a smallish campus.

“Hola!” some said as she passed. “Bonjour”, said others. As she walked, she must have heard at least 15 different languages being spoken. Older couples would smile as she passed. “Welcome sister. Just follow the signs.” She was lead through some double doors, up a flight of stairs, and into a large room, where long banquet style tables formed a U-shape. An older, nice looking woman beckoned to her from a chair behind one of the tables.

As she approached, it looked as if people were receiving information packets. V had always been the observant type, noticing and catalouging away details as most just passed by. They give their name, she told herself, then they get a paper and a packet, and they're on their way. Feeling prepared, she rolled her shoulders back and stepped forward.

“Name please?”

“Sister Hart.”

The woman searched through a stack of papers, until she reached the desired last name. “Ah. Armenia, huh? That's very interesting.”

“I thought so, when I got my call,” V answered.

The woman stared hard and long at the paper. Longer than the other women were looking. She looked up. “I'm sorry, can you wait here for just a moment?” She left her station and started whispering to one of the supervisors. The supervisor looked annoyed, confused, and then nodded quickly and started approaching. “You're going to be what we call a solo sister, she told V, looking at her with pity. “That means you don't have any other sisters in your classroom with you. So in order for you to be alone with elders, you need to wear this white sticker on your nametag.”

The white sticker. The only permission for a woman to be alone with a group of men. Otherwise, people thought you were a flirt. Flirt, in the MTC, was one of the dirtiest names you could call someone.

V was called that constantly.

You see, when you're born to be noticed - to cause a stir, its hard to blend into a crowd. V was never one to blend in. She is the antithesis of a wallflower. When she grows silent, people don't overlook her; they wonder why she isn't speaking. When she deflects attetion, it comes right back to her. She is a boomerang of audible uniqueness.

So she ws reprimanded. For all kinds of offenses – being alone with the elders, flirting, dressing too brightly, being too loud – quiet dignity – they liked to say. They still like to say.

Point is, after a few weeks of watching yourself be painted red, you start to go a little insane.

“Sister Hart, you can't do that.” Why not? “Sister Hart, where is your companion?” You didn't give me one. “Sister Hart, you are the most prideful person I had ever met.” If only they knew what she really felt. If only they understood.

I want

People sometimes make you feel guilty for wanting things. That your wants should be swallowed up in helping others. That forgetting who you are should fulfill you in the deepest and most Christian way.

I have one word for those people.

Bullshit.

I do not argue the value of selfless service, or that losing yourself for a greater cause can be the greatest therapy in the world.

But I refuse to cede to the idea that me wanting something makes me evil, or selfish.

So with no apologies, I venture on to the next chapter of my life. And you know what? This time it is all about me. What I want. I’ve given what everyone has asked me to give. I’ve accomplished what everyone has expected me to accomplish. My friend’s and familiy’s expectations have been fulfilled.

And so now?

I want.

I have nothing holding me back. Nothing holding me down. Nothing stopping me from spreading myself thin, from falling in love with as many things and people as possible.

For the first time in a long time, I can wake up in the morning and live my life for me. I can go anywhere, and do anything, and see everything. I can fall in love with the sun as it rises every day, and feel it love me back. I can live my life in color, shooting out turquoise and purple and pink from my fingertips, the ends of my hair.

And so here goes.

I want.

To wake up and be excited to see what the day will bring me.

To live unexpectedly, to fall in love often, to taste and feel and see.

To go places, and live them.

To really accomplish the goals I have.

To never reach my quota of close friends.

To learn something new every day. (How to play the trumpet? How earthworms reproduce?)

To be surrounded by someones, not just anyones.

Someone who can convince me that romance isn’t trite.

Someone who makes me feel calm.

To never try and delay pain with things. But rather to let pain change me.

To never define who I am by what I have, but by who I love.

To live fearlessly.

I guess the point is just those two little words. The ones that make your heart quicken, and your resolve grow stony.

I want.

Letting yourself die

“You can't do things like that,” Sister Smith said, panting, as she caught up. “This is just how things work here.”

V paced, fuming, on the packed snow and ice. She made angry, guttural sounds as she ground her teeth. “So what, we just, just take it?” She hissed through her teeth.

“If you fight it you'll be fighting your whole mission.”

They were standing a few streets away from their apartment building, in an accidental courtyard created by poor city planning. Rapid development. Those courtyards were everywhere in Gyumri. 20 years ago, the city had been devastated by an earthquake; it had never recovered. Half the people they visited lived in traincars. Domiks, they called them – each family that was left homeless was issued one by the Soviet government. They were supposed to be temporary.

Gyumri had once been beautuful – “more beautiful than Paris”, people would say. Streets lined with fruit trees, dripping with color. Beautiful apartments, with fresco ceilings and walls hung with persian rugs. A rich history oozing out of rich architecture; well planned streets with historic names, a majestic cathedral. In the summer, people would come from all over Armenia to walk the streets, filling their noses with the scents of prosperity, filling their bodies with the tastes of the north.

Sometimes V would walked the cracked streets and imagine what it was like. What it would be like to visit a city that was so different than anything she had ever seen, ever known. But in the end, her mind couldn't override the suppressing bleakness of what stretched out before her.

It's an exoskeleton of what it once was; hollow hauntings of past grandeur. Evidence of suffering is the only thing they eye can see; heaps of rubble, 2 stories high, where tall hotels used to be. Concrete and steel wrapped around each other, as lovers, frozen in the act of lovemaking. What was once beautiful, an expression of deep affection, has now become horrifying, as steely bones and concrete flesh jutt out at odd angles. Who knows how many bodies were crushed and buried in those mass graves, marked only by the rotting remains of what once was.

So as women wandered the streets, looking for fathers, children, mothers, and as men stumbled from body to body, hoping to find their loved ones alive, families stombled into domiks. Haphazardly placed shantytowns that created makeshift neighborhoods. Each with its own courtyard, where the families could come to the spicket to get water. It was in the center of one of these shared commons where they stood. Sister Smith was wearing her black coat, with the tan toggles. The one that had a broken zipper. Every evening, when they came home, it was a team effort to remove the heavy wool. Sister smith would push both sides together as V would grab the broken zipper with a pair of scissors and yank it downward. If they weren't so tired, they might have found it funny.

They had been walking home from church that day – just under a mile on Shirakatsi poghods. V would get excited as they got closer to their apartment – going inside meant a short respite from the cold. It meant food. It meant rest. As misionaries, they were allowed 2 precious hours during the day to eat, an hour each for lunch and dinner. But most took them together, to get some extra sleep in. Mission rules are rigorous, and even slight disobedience is frowned upon by all. Your adherence to these rules was representative of your love for God, your love for what you were doing. They were to wake up promply at 6:30am, retire at 10:30pm. Study from the hours of 8:00am-11:00am, work for the rest of the day.

Except those two hours.

So as they traipsed along, slipping along the packed ice, Sister Smith would try to talk to people – try to share the message they had volunteered to share. V would hurry along, trying to speed them up so they could get home. So she could warm her stomach with familiar food, warm her body near the heater. Talk of who they were, talk of what they believed. The things they missed, the things they loved. As they finally approached their cement building, rounding the back, V began trotting. Actually smiling. Two practices that rarely happened anymore.

Their apartment building was 3 stories tall, made of thick soviet cement, with stores along the front. A few small markets, where they would get their food a few times a week. Their apartment was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs in a dark, poorly lit hallway. Razmik had drawn jewish stars all over the walls. There were a few seperate entrances, all of which were framed by a heavy steel door. Rusted.

As they approached their door, Sister Smith led the way. V barely noticed the teenage Armenian, dark haired and heavy browed, smoking a cigarette in their entrance. Being the naturally observant type, however, she did take note of his thick sweater, his tight jeans, and the pointy shoes he wore on his feet. Armenian men always wear pointy shoes. Sister Smith, friendly as always, muttered “hello” as she walked by. He nodded. V followed close behind. She only had one thing on her mind. Food. And as she passed, something unexpected happened.

At first she was so shocked that she didn't even know what was the correct emotion to feel. And then it came. Hot, fast, and overwhelming. Anger. Pulsing through her, starting at the point where his hand had made contact with her body and spreading rapidly outward. When it reached her fingertips, it would shoot back up her harms to her throat. She turned on her heel, and stared him straight in the face. I guess he had decided that spanking an attractive foreigner would be a good idea. Or maybe he just acted on impulse.

“vai!” he exclaimed as she came toward him with her arm raised in the air.

“How DARE you! You have no RIGHT!” She began to scream. Her Armenian got better when she was angry. He, suddenly terrified, not realizing that with American redheads, undesired spankings have very undersirable consequences, grabbed the steel door and slammed it shut, blocking his frail body from her strong one with the slab of corroded metal. Suddenly, he bacame aware of just how thin that door really was, seperating him from the squall of female anger just inches from him. It seemed to heat the steel. He leaned all his weight on this, his las protection, as she pushed, hard, from the other side. He didn't care that looked ridiculous as he took off running. His only thoughts were to get as much distance between him and the fury on the other side of that door. V lifted her right leg on her side. Kicked, hard. By the time the door swung violently open and smashed into the crumbling wall, he was halfway down the alley. Running as fast as he knew how. She ripped off her bag, dropping it in the snow, and ran after him. She was going to make him pay.

Sister Smith trotted behind. By this point, she had learned; Just let V have her way, and get angry. And then she gets over it.

But this time, it was different. As V paced in the snow, she felt furious. And she felt justified in feeling furious. That she would never just give in. Let things happen.

That was the first time.

Eventually V did give in. More like she just let part of her die. Her self- respect.

So lets fast forward, a few months down the road.

She and Sister Smith stood on one of the main circles, V organizing her money she had just received, seperating it into weeks and categories – week 1, taxis. Week 1, food. Week 2.... Smith was pulling out the money in increments, just as they had been taught to do. Armenian ATMs wouldn't let you take out more than 20,000 dram at a time, so it took 5 seperate transactions to take out the money for the whole month. They would stand as close as possible, one focusing on hiding the large bills as quickly as possible – no use showing off their “wealth” - the other standing guard. By this point, V had stopped making eye contact with men. Any men. She had dyed her hair dark. She had stopped wearing color, or makeup, or jewelry. And so as they walked by, she didn't really notice. She tried not to. One came closer than the others. Too close. And before she knew it, he had grabbed her with his gloved hand. Sister Smith barely noticed as she gasped, paralyzed as he gripped that surprised part of her. He held on for just a moment – just long enough. Long enough to cause her to close her eyes. She disn't fight it. She just muttered “its fine”.

“What's fine?” Sister Smith asked, not even allowing her eyes to flicker from the ATM screen.

“Everything. Everything's fine.”