I was in love with a place . . . in my mind

Lately I've been listening a lot to "Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens. There are a few of his songs that seem to stick with me. I heard this one for the first time, ridiculously enough, while watching the Veronica Mars movie. Veronica was riding home with her ex-boyfriend/best friend/enemy/frenemy, Logan, driving through the city she'd grown up in, with the boy she'd once loved, 10 years from her graduation from high school. This song started playing in the background as Veronica looked out the car window and you can almost see her living in the memory.

There is a line in the song that really resonates with me. "I was in love with a place, in my mind, in my mind. I made a lot of mistakes, in my mind, in my mind." I tend to look at different experiences in my life with a rosy, nostalgic, somewhat regretful glow. So much so that for a long time, I had an odd habit.

I used to drive by the house that I consider "the house I grew up in" in Enumclaw, out in the country. Mostly I'd just drive by, but once I snuck under the fence in the field and just walked around in the woods. Such clear memories of running, playing, imagination, and freedom.

I used to go back to my academy when I was at college, the first few years after I graduated. I wouldn't go during the school day or anything, that would have been awkward. No, I went during the summers when school was out. I'd drive by and suddenly pull in. I'd walk in my old haunts and remember the good times and the not so good.

It became an even more unstoppable habit when I graduated from college. High school had been a nice memory, but college was, for me, a more profound experience. I had many important moments there, some that are incredibly clear and sharp in my memory. So for many, many years after I graduated college, I'd go and visit Walla Walla. I'd come into town to see friends, and in the midst of the visit, I'd go take a walk. My "walk through memory lane" as I called it. I would walk all throughout campus. Through the music department and the practice rooms, the stairways I'd walk as I closed up for the night. The lobby where I'd curl up reading. I'd sit on the steps outside the band room. I'd walk past Village hall, remembering seeing my name on the cast list on the door. I'd go for walks around campus, remembering one spot where a boy said he loved me, another where a boy broke my heart. I'd walk by places where I made stupid decisions and smart choices. I walked by the house that I laughed and cried in. I walked and walked and marveled at my choices. So many different things I could have done and said . . . what directions could I have gone in if I'd done one thing a little differently.

As I'd walk, I almost felt the echoes of myself. I could see her walking ahead of me, blithely stepping into situations, some good, some bad. But mostly, I allowed myself to think back on that time as "the best time", when life was full of possibilities and options. I was indeed "in love with a place in my mind" and I continued to rehash "a lot of mistakes, in my mind".

Embarrassingly enough, it was only a few years ago that I went to visit Melissa in Walla Walla and realized that I had no need to go for my "walk through memory lane". I'm not sure of the exact moment it happened, but I became very aware that it wasn't that place anymore. You can never go back to that place in your mind, the rosy place of your memories. You can never be that person again, the one who runs in dress up clothes through your old backyard, the one who walks through the hallways of your high school and greets your friends by the lockers, the one who hurries to classes and acts in her first college play. At a certain point, I've realized that those places only live in my memory, and I can never  go back simply by the act of going to the physical location. The house of my childhood may still be standing, but it isn't the same home. The academy where I went is still there, but it isn't my school. The stage of Village Hall is still creaking beneath the feet of students, but those feet will not ever be mine again.

Nostalgia is a beautiful thing. It is good to remember. But as Dumbledore once said, "It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live." Wise words from a fictional character:) Why am I sharing this odd tidbit about me? I suppose because it comforts me to imagine that some of you may also occasionally fall into the rosy glow of memory and nostalgia. And my thought to share with you is this; memories are lovely, but living is beautiful.

In pursuit of blindness

I have often thought that the most heart-wrenching sense to lose would be my sight. Granted, any sense would be painful to lose (loss of hearing was right up there), but for me, I imagine it would be sight. I've always had a secret dread of it happening, although I also believe that the human mind is resilient and I would endure it. I shudder at the idea of not being able to see words on the page, the faces of those I love, the immensity of the ocean, and the beauty of the forests. 

So why this talk of blindness? Lately I have been feeling that the loss of our sight might be what this world needs.  

Does this sound like irrational babble? Probably so. Here’s my reasoning. A man called Tommy Edison has been blind since birth, and he gave an interview on “The perks of being blind”. One thing that really struck me was his last statement. 

“You know what’s cool about being blind? There’s no race. I don’t know from beauty. I know people from what comes out of their mouth and what’s in their heart. That’s how I know people.” 

I don’t consider myself a particularly weepy individual, but this made tears slide down my face. And for a moment, I longed for blindness. Not just for myself, but for everyone.  

There are good people in the world. There are bad people in the world. There are people at every level in between those two extremes. And I do not believe, and never will, that the pigment in our skin has any bearing on the beauty or ugliness of our soul.  

If only our sight could be taken away for a space in time. Not as little as a day or as long as a year. But for however long it takes to realize that we are focusing on that which is immaterial. Then I become discouraged as I wonder if we would then try and come up with something just as irrational to base our prejudices on. Perhaps we would discriminate against accents. Or whether someone’s voice was low or high. It makes me sad to think that, even without our sight, humanity would find some reason to hate or mistrust that which is “other”. 

One reason I enjoy reading science fiction and fantasy is because the authors are able to write about worlds and places that are like our own, with subtle differences. I have read books where discrimination occurred because one race of people had blue skin and the other gold. The darker the blue, the more socially acceptable. The lighter the gold, the lower the caste. I read another story about how the society was matriarchal and baby boys were unwanted and discarded for their “violent tendencies”. And yet another society where your social status was determined by whether your eyes were light or dark. Ridiculous, right? 

I am not trying to make a focused statement about recent events in the news. I'm not well enough informed to do that. I suppose what I can say is this: we are not living in a post-racial society, because we still talk about people according to their color.

I hope someday to live to a very grand age, maybe 105. And I hope to sit next to a young person of my acquaintance and tell them stories of when I was young and the foolish things people did “back in the day”. I hope to casually mention that I was talking to “a Black/Asian/Hispanic/White person” and for that child to squirm and say “Ms. Haning, that’s so old school (or the appropriate colloquialism of the day).  Nobody talks like that anymore”. I hope one day to see confusion on the face of that child when I say that, back in the day, people noticed what color your skin was. And I hope to see that look of confusion on their face as they are genuinely perplexed and ask me, “Well, what does their skin color have to do with anything? People are just people.” And I will say with no small amount of satisfaction, “Exactly.” 

Perhaps that wish can only come true in heaven. But it shouldn't. It really shouldn't. I want that wish to come true in my lifetime. I want to be "blind" to the surface things, to the shade of another person's skin, to outward differences from me. I want to look at another person and see just that; a person.

I sometimes feel that I can't talk about these types of things . . . hot button issues. I don't want to offend or talk about something that I can never truly understand/experience. But I suppose, in this instance, I would rather say the wrong thing than be silent.

“No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than it’s opposite." – Nelson Mandela