September 23, 2013 • A POSITIVE PRESS PUBLICATION • VOL. 4, ISSUE 2
We Don’t Need to Say Goodbye
written by third-year, Chelsea Harvey
My senior year of high school, a car accident left me with trembling hands and a mangled red two-door coupe to be sold for parts. It became my turn to inherit the family car. A gold 1997 Nissan Maxima, it was the car my mother bought following her divorce from my father, and the first of many decisions she would have to make alone for her two children. It was the car that saw us through early mornings in the carpool lane, late afternoons parked behind the soccer fields, and sleepy drives to visit family on the Gulf Coast.
The Maxima gave each driver their own set of rituals, their own private moments. For years, my mother fell asleep reclined in the driver's seat, waiting for one of her children to open the door after marching band rehearsals or softball practice. The morning my brother would move into his first dorm at Georgia Tech, he stood before that car’s trunk and meticulously assessed the belongings crammed inside, tetris pieces that fell into place to signify the beginning of his adult life. Then, just as easily as it had passed between them, it became mine. My summer spent with the Maxima and its broken air conditioner, sticky leather seats, and imprecise turning radius came and went gently, like a dream. Yet, when I arrived in Athens, I had to let it go. I needed money and wanted to join the mass of cyclists and pedestrians I had seen roaming the streets on my first visit. So, with a reluctant handshake, I sold our family car in the parking lot of a QT to a friend with whom I had once attended summer camp. I handed over the keys and stored away the memories that had come with them in preparation for new ones. |
Two years later, on a humid day in July, I turned the corner of the street before the Daily Co-op on my stroll home. Scanning the line of cars cradling the road, I thought, “wow, someone really destroyed that car's bumper.” Except that it was my car. And I had destroyed its bumper three summers before, to avoid a moving truck on Highland Avenue. I had thrown the Maxima into reverse and immediately cringed, hearing a small crunch and turning my head to find that I had struck some unsuspecting Atlanta homeowner's carefully-laid brick fence. That was my car, my destruction, my past.
As I now approached the crater I had created, I noticed something new beside it: an unfamiliar “Downtown Athens” bumper sticker. On the rear window remained my brother's “Georgia Tech” sticker with the “Tech” now aggressively scratched into oblivion, leaving only “Georgia” in out-of-place gold lettering. The steering wheel had become worn in places. Perhaps the leather had been rubbed away in the process of a tricky illegal U-turn performed by its new driver, knuckles white and mouth agape in concentration. There was a small scratch down the passenger side door. Maybe one night that same someone had become so lost in a goodbye kiss that they had failed to notice the keys in their hand scraping away the paint. I was standing before the car that for six months I had driven to the grocery store, to concerts, to the houses of friends who would soon move to colleges across the country and only speak with me by phone. It was the car in which I had first realized that I’d fallen in love, the same car in which I would later realize I was falling out of it. It was the car I had driven as I grew up and into myself. |
Except that it wasn't my car, not really. It was merely the vessel for each of these experiences, these tiny details I would cherish and remember for years to come. We go through our lives often sharing a common framework with the people around us: we blow out the same candles on our birthdays, have and eventually bury the same family pets, bemoan similar mistakes our younger selves made with eyeliner or hair parts, tussle for the same jobs and spend the same late nights questioning whether we're cut out for them, watch the same new people walk in and walk out, or stay. We schedule our lives around the same responsibilities and successes, relish the same relationships and weep over the same small failures. We drive the same cars. And at the end of it all, we look back on the unique experiences we've accumulated and choose to call them our lives.
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SUVs and Sombreros
written by second-year, Carly Moskowitz
You've been napping in the backseat. A hoodie is draped over you like a blanket, your cheek is pressed against the cool glass of the window, and the soft rumble of the car ambling down the interstate caresses you like a gentle lullaby. It's been a long but satisfying car ride with your parents. Before your nap, you chatted about everything from classes to friends to your anxieties about the future. You've had simmering political discussions which have mostly ended in resolved disagreement. Your parents have regaled you of ancient times, the 1970s and 80s. These anecdotes are both amusing and boring, as you've likely heard them all many times before.
The car lurches over some unevenness on the road, and you're awake. You squint and settle your nap-fuzzed gaze outside your window. Just in time, too, as a familiar object in the distance expands as you draw closer. This familiar monument strikes the same cord inside you at every passing, perhaps excitement, with your destination in mind. You watch the landmark come towards you, slip by, and melt away into the distance. |
This is a pretty typical trip I take once or twice a year to visit my grandmother. Each visit itself is unique; it is the drive there that is so steady and comforting.
One aspect that is particularly special about car trips is the presence of landmarks that you pass time and time again. Some you take the time to stop and explore. Others are merely an intriguing sight that you pass with consistency. On trips to see my grandmother, I always pass a metal tower with a monolithic sombrero resting high at the top. This strange landmark's purpose is to welcome visitors to an eerie, semi-abandoned roadside attraction called South of the Border. It is full of functioning shops, but the streets are filled only with kitschy, Mexican-themed statues, rather than live patrons. Seeing the silhouette of a giant sombrero on the side of the highway would just be an unusual vision to most. To me, however, it represents hours spent with my family in a cramped SUV: sometimes tense, sometimes |
boring, but always comforting and somehow cathartic.
My sombrero in the sky might be completely insignificant to people who pass by on a daily basis. For me and my family, however, the quirky monument holds 20 years of emotional association. It is a bi-yearly reminder of time spent talking and laughing with family. With this landmark, there is a certain beauty in finding meaning in which others deem meaningless. |
Windows Rolled Down
written by by second-year, Jessie Blaeser
I’ve fought for my driving privileges since my license became an actual piece of plastic and less of a distant dream. Somehow, obstacles seemed to continually stand in my way of the road. First it was the initial six months where anyone but family members was banished from my car. Then it was the sharing of “our” car with an older brother and the dangers associated with highway travel. Soon after it was the lack of driving experience on certain roads. And finally it was the risks of frequently driving back and forth to college.
The array of difficulties that hindered me from driving did not crush my desire to get behind the wheel. There’s something relieving about getting into a car and knowing that you are in control—you know where you are going, and you know how you are going to get there. When I drive, my windows are down and my skin is exposed to the rays of light beaming through the sunroof, the wind swings my hair wildly around my face, and my radio is cranked up to an obnoxious volume (I apologize to anyone who has had to sit next to me at a red light). Driving, for me, is an experience; it is a time to reflect and to release burdens. I look forward to driving home, I anticipate journeys to unknown locations, and I embrace errands simply for their necessary inclusion of a car. |
My driving rituals have become an indulgence, and for that reason, I treasure the moments I get to spend inside of a car. However, it is easy to become distracted when on a long drive. You have to focus on the highway, the directions, and which exit to get off of to run by the restaurant you’ve been thinking about for the past eleven miles. Furthermore, driving can simply become a means to an end—nothing more than a chore necessary to reach your every destination. But in my experience, I’ve earned the privilege to drive to those destinations more often than I’ve had to earn the privilege to go to the destinations themselves. And for that reason I am thankful for the inevitable process of getting from one place to another—driving from Tate to Kroger, taking the bus from Myers to Lamar Dodd, walking from the Arch to Park Hall, transitioning from high school to college, moving from class to class, and wondering where this journey ends—for it allows me the freedom to stop and think, and to enjoy the wind whipping past.
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Take Time for Yourself
written fourth-year, Kelsey Schmidt
Yes.
One word. One simple word. The difference between going outside to have one’s legs racing against the ground and continuing to sink into the creases of a second-hand couch. The separation between examining the Times New Roman of a textbook and losing oneself to laughter, gossip and YouTube with friends that bring out the pure joy of life. For many giving hearts around this campus, “Yes” is the difference between taking a restful afternoon and penciling in a catch-up coffee date with an old friend, a mentor or growing acquaintance. Most people know that familiar conversation, filled with “Let’s catch up!” and “Coffee soon?” Some of the best times spent are in those cozy coffee shops listening to others’ stories. These times can be vitally important. People naturally want their story to be heard. We desire to believe that others are interested in our trials and tribulations, for it allows a sense of value to be added to our lives. It makes us feel that our daily events are intriguing enough to make them worth sharing. |
Those who choose to quietly sip their Chai Tea Latte across from the storyteller become the most important people in the world. They allow others to feel appreciated with an occasional head nod to the story or a few small chuckles here and there. They pour into the lives of others, for they comprehend the importance of feeling supported. Their energy does not derive from the coffee in front them, but instead from the swells of joy inside knowing that someone’s day was made.
“Yes” is a common word to these givers, for they thrive off environments in which their ears can hear stories, their hearts can share sympathy and their words can express excitement. What they choose to give others is their most precious commodity: time. As we choose each transitory moment, we must realize the true value of our time. Supporting the hopes and dreams of others is a noble and necessary cause in this sometimes-downer of a society. However, we cannot rejuvenate the lives of our friends if we do not rejuvenate the lives of ourselves. |
To all the coffee-date lovers, supportive-texters and encouraging-huggers: choose to say “Yes” to your own time. Take a drive with the windows low and the wind circling your hair. It is impressive how refreshing the crisp, cooling air of a September evening can be. Close your bedroom door and turn off your phone. Simply spend time jumping into the story of that novel you have been pushing aside for weeks. A simple “Yes” to alone time will remind the giving hearts of the world why they do what they do, and it will bring even greater enthusiasm to their next catch-up session.
“Yes” is a simple word. Say it yourself as much as you say it to others. I believe in you. |
Being in Two Places at Once
written by third-year, Kent Strickland
Little Rock, Memphis, Birmingham, Atlanta, Athens. I watch hundreds of miles slip by as I cross the expansive landscape that is the southeastern United States on my trek to school. The eleven-hour (or longer) ride gives adequate time to think. What begin as idle thoughts that all my belongings are cramped in my sedan slowly turns into thinking about the people I just left.
My sister began her freshman year of college the same year that I began my freshman year of high school. In the four years that I spent at Little Rock Central High, I became accustomed to seeing her less frequently than I had in childhood. So when I finally departed for my own collegiate adventures, saying bye to my family wasn’t as difficult as I first imagined. Waving farewell to my friends was what I found challenging.
Now I’m in my junior year and my friends back home and I have no problems with our separation. We go a few months without face-to-face contact only to return to Little Rock without skipping a beat in our conversations. I’ve reached this point in my life where I have two homes. Constantly referring to either Athens as home when I’m in Little Rock or Little Rock as home when in Athens gets very confusing (and frustrating to my mother).
Part of the ongoing process of moving from home to home is learning not to be homesick for the other half of your life. The motto “home is where the heart is” can only leave me heartbroken. Instead, I have to say “see ya later” to my loved ones. Nonchalance isn’t something I want to happen. Obviously I miss my mom, dad, sister, friends and extended family, but to hold onto them only causes pain. It pays to be content with where you are and where you will be again.
Now my sister lives in Rwanda, I have friends overseas, and a significant part of my life rests in Arkansas with my beloved University here in Athens. Balancing the feelings of love for where you have been, where you are and where you will be again isn’t easy, but attaining that near complacency has brought an appreciation I previously thought unimaginable.
My sister began her freshman year of college the same year that I began my freshman year of high school. In the four years that I spent at Little Rock Central High, I became accustomed to seeing her less frequently than I had in childhood. So when I finally departed for my own collegiate adventures, saying bye to my family wasn’t as difficult as I first imagined. Waving farewell to my friends was what I found challenging.
Now I’m in my junior year and my friends back home and I have no problems with our separation. We go a few months without face-to-face contact only to return to Little Rock without skipping a beat in our conversations. I’ve reached this point in my life where I have two homes. Constantly referring to either Athens as home when I’m in Little Rock or Little Rock as home when in Athens gets very confusing (and frustrating to my mother).
Part of the ongoing process of moving from home to home is learning not to be homesick for the other half of your life. The motto “home is where the heart is” can only leave me heartbroken. Instead, I have to say “see ya later” to my loved ones. Nonchalance isn’t something I want to happen. Obviously I miss my mom, dad, sister, friends and extended family, but to hold onto them only causes pain. It pays to be content with where you are and where you will be again.
Now my sister lives in Rwanda, I have friends overseas, and a significant part of my life rests in Arkansas with my beloved University here in Athens. Balancing the feelings of love for where you have been, where you are and where you will be again isn’t easy, but attaining that near complacency has brought an appreciation I previously thought unimaginable.
The Tennis Kid
written by second-year, Anjalie Subramanian
“Repeat it back to me”, he coaxed. “Neutral-back-swing-hit-follow-through,” I replied impatiently. He nodded and crossed the court. I shifted from one foot to another the way I had seen the greats do it on TV, and waited. Every hair on my body stood up, leaning in, waiting to hear the much anticipated crack! The ball sailed towards me. Before my mind could process the situation, my body reacted, propelling me towards it. Clumsily reaching out, I tapped the ball back towards him. An encouraging but gentle smile opened up on his face as he said, “Not bad. Now let’s go again,” effortlessly directing the ball to the opposite side of the court.
So began my decade-long attempt to play tennis. I was never the kid who practiced from morning to evening, but tennis played a huge part in my childhood. It was and is my father’s one true love, so I enjoyed spending long evenings with him on the court. As a kid, I mimicked his motions hoping to be just like him. As I grew older, not only did I become physically stronger, but I also became headstrong. I added my own style to the game, developing a personality and rhythm. In my head, I was a powerful force, like a lightning bolt or a whip: concentrated and smooth. But in reality I was a four-foot girl who had discovered how to combine her strength with the laws of physics. My father saw through my dazzling façade and would immediately scold, “Don’t push the ball! Drive it!” He said it so many times that any passerby might have thought that “Don’t push the ball! Drive it” was my name. Feeling his words as more of criticism than constructive advice, I ignored him. He was trying to capture my lightning in a bottle and tame it! |
After almost four years, ironically around the time that I stopped playing tennis, I was hit with the true meaning of my father’s words. I realized that he was not trying to diminish my natural tendency, rather he was trying to harness it. He wanted me to stop using my racket as a way for the ball to naturally rebound, and to instead focus and return the ball with a goal in mind.
Over the last few years I have learned that my father’s lesson was not exclusively for tennis. He was trying to teach me to be intentional with my actions in all situations. It’s an easy concept to understand, but one that has been hard for me to thoroughly practice. Like most people, on any given day, there is at least one conversation that I’m not really listening to, one class that I have zoned out on, and many walks around campus that I don’t bother paying attention to. I have found that while multi-tasking may be more efficient, there is a clarity and potency that comes with really being aware of yourself. Instead of allowing ourselves to simply move through the motions of our day, instead of pushing the tennis ball, what if we drove it? What if we chose every one of our actions and reactions with intentionality? It may be difficult, but to me it has made the greatest difference, and I can promise I will never go back to pushing the ball. |
Just Don’t Ever Mess-Up. Easy!
written by third-year, Cecilia Moore
My parents are extremely athletic. My dad is a 6’4” man who was kick-ass in football and basketball growing up, and my mom is an incredible golfer who includes power lifts and squats among her daily activities.
My sister and I, well, we don’t really care. We aren’t competitive and we’re more into the artsy side of life. My sister can see a piece of designer clothing and tell you the brand, season, and year it went down the runway. And I prefer museums to sports arenas. My mother has cried out many times in exasperation, “How did your father and I create you two? How did you come from my loins?!” Though my parents are often exhausted by their children’s lack of any “love of the game”, my mom hasn’t completely given up on us. Once she even tried to teach me how to play golf, her one true passion in life. Her love and dedication is astounding. |
“Okay honey, use this four-iron to hit the ball over the pond.”
“You want me to do what?” We were at our local golf course, and I was following along with my mom. She had just walked up to the edge of the pond in front of the green on the 6th hole, and had placed a ball five feet from the edge of the water. “This is me teaching you how to play golf. You get one shot, just hit it over the pond and onto the green.” “Mom, this doesn’t count as you teaching me how to play golf, this is ridiculous!” “Cecilia, man up. Be a good girl and hit the ball over the pond.” Seriously? When I realized that she wasn’t joking, I squared up to the ball and gathered all of the knowledge I had learned |
from my freshman year summer golf P.E. course, which was my effort to meet her halfway, and I whacked the tar out of the ball. My “whacking the tar out of it,” a great phrase from my mother, amounted to the ball and a huge chunk of earth flying ten feet up in the air and then landing – PLOP – in the middle of the pond.
“Well, grab the clubs, hon.” We continued through the course, my head down and the clubs on my back, my mom with a club in her hand. While I accepted my fate on that day, months later I asked her what I was supposed to have gleaned from her “teaching lesson.” Please mom, give me some insightful parenting tips. She replied, “Do everything perfect the first time.” I’ve been her caddy ever since. |
Steering Straight
written by second-year, Eric Wien
At 4:00 am, “Can’t Hold Us” by Macklemore travels at 55 mph out the open window. One arm extended easily steers the vehicle around the winding road while the other arm rests on the gear shift, not for any reason other than comfort. I turn up the music with no particular emotion and stare at the empty road ahead. How many times have I made this drive before? It must be hundreds or even a thousand times. I’ll drive around two bends and then the Kroger shopping center will come up on my left, Fagan’s Biscuit Barn on my right. Farther down I’ll pass the Super Target then the Five Guys, then the Publix, a series of fast food restaurants, another Kroger, take a left and pass half-empty business buildings, the Pre-K I went to, two neighborhoods on the left, two on the right, and then mine.
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I could make this drive with my eyes closed, but I don’t. I keep them open, watching every street light and tree alike that blurs by my windshield. It feels so distant, like I’m watching a 1990s angsty-teen movie car scene. If I turn my head out the open window, it feels real again, conscious of my life and all its weight. Uncomfortable, I look ahead and the anxiety disappears. I feel so in control, able to go where I please with any change of heart. I can’t tell if it’s the cause of the late hour, the feeling of observing the world through my windshield, or how I feel when I drive alone. No matter the reason, I wonder how much better my life would be if the feeling of control could translate into the rest of my life. So confident in every thought, I know I would be able to move over all the speed bumps and around the sharp turns in my life with more ease. There can’t always be a windshield in front of my face and a rearview mirror to remind me where I’ve been, but if I can keep that same sense of direction, I will go places a car could never take me.
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