I was in a parade. A homecoming parade, no less. We spent the whole morning "decorating" my coworker's pickup with streamers, papers, posters, and the stuff you use to write on windows. Then I got to sit in the back of said pickup and throw out papers and candy. Things that went wrong:
1. Bought all items the day of the event (enhancing stress level)
2. Yellow window-writing stuff exploded onto my clothing, permanently staining a shirt, my shoes, and one of my nicer pairs of jeans.
3. Printer quit working, so we could not print off the graphics we wanted to use for our posters.
4. Half the balloons fell off on the way over to line up for the parade.
5. Ran out of candy AND papers before we were even halfway through the parade, so I just got to smile and wave at the good people of Mission.
So that was fun. Then the boys lost (by a lot) their homecoming football game. THEN the next day, I got to go take pictures of another parade for 'Welcome Neighbor Day'.
The parade, which ran an hour late, only lasted about 5 minutes. The day ended with "Native Idol" which had 22 people sign up (only 12 of whom actually performed) and started about 2 hours late. Oh well. The weather has been gorgeous lately.
And, of course, have had three more hobo encounters in the last two days. One man came up to me and tried to sell me a flashlight so he could buy food. I gave him a box of poptarts instead.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Kitty sabotage
You know what's fun? hearing the door "click" shut behind you and knowing, in that instant, that you have just locked yourself out of your own house.
After several hours of searching, I finally discovered the keys where my kittens had stashed them....in a hole up underneath the mattress of my bed. Ay yi yi.
After several hours of searching, I finally discovered the keys where my kittens had stashed them....in a hole up underneath the mattress of my bed. Ay yi yi.
Lover's spat...?
I sent an email to the high school volleyball coach asking for a player's number ID, because there was no "number 1" on the program. This was her response..."Her name is ____. Her original number is 4, but her boyfriend shredded her uniform, so she is borrowing number 1 for now."
I did not ask any more questions.
I did not ask any more questions.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Rez life in the Hobbit House
It was absolutely gorgeous outside today. And tonight was just...oh, man. No words. I just couldn't be inside.
So I did what I love to do: went for a walk. I am once again struck by the fact that walking anywhere other than Oxford or the gravel road where I grew up just..well, it sucks.
First of all, there are dogs EVERYWHERE here. This is not a stereotype. If you talk to your average, white, non-reservation South Dakotan and hear them make some sort of joke about dogs on the rez, you might think they're being mean or racist. They are not. Well...I guess they could be, but it's still a fact that there are way too many loose dogs 'round here. There's no animal control officer on the entire Rosebud Reservation (which I believe I read is roughly the size of Rhode Island.) and many people do not believe in leashes or fences. So dogs run wild. Literally.
This is not fun when you're a pedestrian. Maybe I'm just already a cranky old woman, but I don't enjoy being constantly barked at when I'm out for a walk. I like to walk to unwind and relax, not be constantly on guard, wondering "Ok, is this a nice dog or a mean dog? Is that dog tied up? Is that a dog or a small pony?!? WOW, I hope that large, angry looking animal's chain doesn't break!"
There's also the fact that my favorite time of day is twilight, which is right about the time one should probably not be walking alone. Anyway.
The beginning of my walk was also punctuated by a particularly shrill and long-lasting set of sirens. I don't know if it went cop-ambulence-cop, or ambulence-cop-ambulence (I think the first), but it was there. Also not the best way to enjoy a peaceful commune with nature.
(Note: I have never lived IN town before. I have lived just outside of town, I have lived on a college campus...and I guess I stayed with my sister in North Platte, Neb. for a couple months...but I have never lived IN town. I like my privacy. Especially when I go for a walk.)
Sooooooo, needless to say, it was a short walk. Then I watered the tomatoes. My very first tomato plant - a hanging tomato plant, no less - produces the cutest little cherry tomatoes!!! So excited! I ate one, and it was delicious. Next year I might get ambitious and plant two.
And then I got the perfect end to my night when I was in the kitchen talking to Javier about getting the oven fixed, because the inside of it doesn't work. So he opened it to look inside, and surprise!
"Oh hey, there's stuff in there!"
After I got done laughing, I discovered that the oven had become a closet for ramen noodles and a pot filled with the grease they use to make fries. He said it's just like how they cook fast food. I told him that's gross. He said he'll probably throw it out. I hope so.
So I did what I love to do: went for a walk. I am once again struck by the fact that walking anywhere other than Oxford or the gravel road where I grew up just..well, it sucks.
First of all, there are dogs EVERYWHERE here. This is not a stereotype. If you talk to your average, white, non-reservation South Dakotan and hear them make some sort of joke about dogs on the rez, you might think they're being mean or racist. They are not. Well...I guess they could be, but it's still a fact that there are way too many loose dogs 'round here. There's no animal control officer on the entire Rosebud Reservation (which I believe I read is roughly the size of Rhode Island.) and many people do not believe in leashes or fences. So dogs run wild. Literally.
This is not fun when you're a pedestrian. Maybe I'm just already a cranky old woman, but I don't enjoy being constantly barked at when I'm out for a walk. I like to walk to unwind and relax, not be constantly on guard, wondering "Ok, is this a nice dog or a mean dog? Is that dog tied up? Is that a dog or a small pony?!? WOW, I hope that large, angry looking animal's chain doesn't break!"
There's also the fact that my favorite time of day is twilight, which is right about the time one should probably not be walking alone. Anyway.
The beginning of my walk was also punctuated by a particularly shrill and long-lasting set of sirens. I don't know if it went cop-ambulence-cop, or ambulence-cop-ambulence (I think the first), but it was there. Also not the best way to enjoy a peaceful commune with nature.
(Note: I have never lived IN town before. I have lived just outside of town, I have lived on a college campus...and I guess I stayed with my sister in North Platte, Neb. for a couple months...but I have never lived IN town. I like my privacy. Especially when I go for a walk.)
Sooooooo, needless to say, it was a short walk. Then I watered the tomatoes. My very first tomato plant - a hanging tomato plant, no less - produces the cutest little cherry tomatoes!!! So excited! I ate one, and it was delicious. Next year I might get ambitious and plant two.
And then I got the perfect end to my night when I was in the kitchen talking to Javier about getting the oven fixed, because the inside of it doesn't work. So he opened it to look inside, and surprise!
"Oh hey, there's stuff in there!"
After I got done laughing, I discovered that the oven had become a closet for ramen noodles and a pot filled with the grease they use to make fries. He said it's just like how they cook fast food. I told him that's gross. He said he'll probably throw it out. I hope so.
Hopeful Hobo
Last week, an intoxicated hobo with a large decorative staff came into the office right around closing time. He walked through the door, waved his staff around a bit, and looked around expectantly.
"Can I help you?" I asked, like a good little employee.
"Probably," he says, with a condescending look on his face. "Probably."
Then he just kind of looks at me for awhile. As if my knowing that I can "probably" assist him is really all the information I should need.
He spends about 5 minutes getting his staff to stand up the way he wants it to against our table, then eventually wanders over to me and asks if I can make a copy of a very crumpled up piece of paper for him. Five copies, actually.
"Sure," I say. "That will be $1.06."
"Oh...I don't have any money," he says and looks at me like it's my fault. I mean, I suppose it could be, but I fail to recognize how.
I explain that it's .25 cents per copy (plus tax), sorry. So he says, "Well, I have a quarter."
"Ok, I can get you one copy for that," I say, figuring I can spot a homeless guy two cents to cover the tax. (Which reminds me...I forgot to put that in the till. Whoops. Now writing myself a note on the back of my hand.)
So I make him a copy. He then proceeds to ask if we can publish this short story, which I believe had something to do with a forlorn dog who finds happiness, in our paper.
"I think people would really appreciate that," he says.
"Of course they would," I say. I then explain that it would probably have to go on our opinion page, but we could possibly feature it as a local Lakota artist type of thing. But, this would be up to my boss. He nods, then repeats to me why he thinks it should be published.
Now, I don't know when exactly it was that I realized just how drunk this man was, but it was much prior to this point in the conversation, so I just nodded along and explained things as best I could. However at this point, I was beginning to get tired of repeating myself.
I re-show him the op-ed pages, where it could go, and he nods along saying that would be good.
"People will really like it I think," he nods again.
I tell him again my boss' information, when she's in our office, et. cetera. He says he'll come back when she's in. Then he takes his staff and stumbles out.
Fairly tame, really, compared to some of the others that have come in.
Fast forward to today. Apparently, he came in while I was on my lunch break. And asked for me. Not my boss. Me.
"Oh shoot, I can't believe I missed him...." I say to my coworker. (Yes, sometimes I'm a terrible person.)
"Oh, don't worry - he said he might stop back to see you," my coworker replies with a smile.
He did not. And none of my pages had to be re-sent. Thus I consider my day a success.
But tomorrow is only a day away...
"Can I help you?" I asked, like a good little employee.
"Probably," he says, with a condescending look on his face. "Probably."
Then he just kind of looks at me for awhile. As if my knowing that I can "probably" assist him is really all the information I should need.
He spends about 5 minutes getting his staff to stand up the way he wants it to against our table, then eventually wanders over to me and asks if I can make a copy of a very crumpled up piece of paper for him. Five copies, actually.
"Sure," I say. "That will be $1.06."
"Oh...I don't have any money," he says and looks at me like it's my fault. I mean, I suppose it could be, but I fail to recognize how.
I explain that it's .25 cents per copy (plus tax), sorry. So he says, "Well, I have a quarter."
"Ok, I can get you one copy for that," I say, figuring I can spot a homeless guy two cents to cover the tax. (Which reminds me...I forgot to put that in the till. Whoops. Now writing myself a note on the back of my hand.)
So I make him a copy. He then proceeds to ask if we can publish this short story, which I believe had something to do with a forlorn dog who finds happiness, in our paper.
"I think people would really appreciate that," he says.
"Of course they would," I say. I then explain that it would probably have to go on our opinion page, but we could possibly feature it as a local Lakota artist type of thing. But, this would be up to my boss. He nods, then repeats to me why he thinks it should be published.
Now, I don't know when exactly it was that I realized just how drunk this man was, but it was much prior to this point in the conversation, so I just nodded along and explained things as best I could. However at this point, I was beginning to get tired of repeating myself.
I re-show him the op-ed pages, where it could go, and he nods along saying that would be good.
"People will really like it I think," he nods again.
I tell him again my boss' information, when she's in our office, et. cetera. He says he'll come back when she's in. Then he takes his staff and stumbles out.
Fairly tame, really, compared to some of the others that have come in.
Fast forward to today. Apparently, he came in while I was on my lunch break. And asked for me. Not my boss. Me.
"Oh shoot, I can't believe I missed him...." I say to my coworker. (Yes, sometimes I'm a terrible person.)
"Oh, don't worry - he said he might stop back to see you," my coworker replies with a smile.
He did not. And none of my pages had to be re-sent. Thus I consider my day a success.
But tomorrow is only a day away...
Monday, September 6, 2010
Hobbit House, moving in: Part deux
Two things of note:
1. Couch moving = fail.
2. I (and by I, I really mean Javi) just duct taped the hinge on my door so the bolts won't fall out after almost getting stuck inside my room because the door flopped out.
Perfect end to my day, really.
1. Couch moving = fail.
2. I (and by I, I really mean Javi) just duct taped the hinge on my door so the bolts won't fall out after almost getting stuck inside my room because the door flopped out.
Perfect end to my day, really.
Little Hobbit House on the Prairie
I moved out of my pink trailer on August 7. Today, one month later (almost exactly), I am officially moved into my new place. (Granted, I could have started moving in last Friday, but I was out of town.) The past few weeks have been interesting, but people have been very kind and generous in allowing me to stay with them while waiting for this house to become available. Special thanks to Walt and Sonja - you rock.
I moved into an underground house in town. And by underground, yes, I really do mean underground. Like a hobbit house. It's like a basement...except that's the house. There's an attic "upstairs" (which is actually ground level), and then the "main" level of the house is the underground/basement part. It's peachy, except for moving in furniture and cell reception. Those two things, not so much. But I knew that coming in.
So, before I relay some of the day's comical events, let me just start by saying that it is WONDERFUL to have my own space again. It is wonderful to have a closet instead of a suitcase. And it is wonderful to have a housemate, and someone that I have known for a while so we don't have to go through the awkward "getting to know you" stuff. (I hope.) Being so uncertain of where I was going to be from one day to the next has taught me a very basic lesson: a bed and a roof are really all you need.
That being said, let's dig into the "Candy's ridiculous life: take 12,000." First of all, I "moved" straight into the house the night I got back from my vacation in Indiana...at around 11:30 p.m. Being out by myself at night has always creeped me out, and especially in a place that has a "night life" the way Mission often can, I disliked the timing of my arrival. But it's a 12-hour drive, and I don't like getting up at the crack of dawn to sit in a car all day.
Anyway. I spent about 10 minutes extracting the key from the hiding place created by my friend. (Mostly because my coordination was limited due to how tired I was. So once I finally got into the house, I made my way into my bedroom. This is when I realize, "Oh, huh. I don't have any of my bedding."
Luckily, my very nice friends left sheets on the bed. However, with no blanket, I got a wee bit chilly. I'm still not sure where my blankets are. (I found a substitute for now.) My stuff was (still is, to a point) interspersed between the attic of this house, my parents' house, the trunk of my car, and stashed under my desk at work. You can understand why I'm not sure what all ended up where.
That first night was just super fun, because not only did I wake up cold, I had a heck of a time falling asleep in the first place because right as I lay down, this story my coworker told me last week popped into my head. I guess some of her friends were asleep, and they woke up to this guy standing in their bedroom doorway, staring at them. He had broken in - through a basement window, no less - to their house and was being very creepy. I believe they chased him, but did not catch him. Naturally, my bed is right underneath the window without any kind of drape or curtain over it. So I spent about the first 45 minutes in bed just staring, wide-eyed, at that window. I think I left every light in the main part of the house on that night. Didn't sleep well.
So then I went to work the next day. And the next. And then I went to my parents' house for a couple days. So really, I didn't start moving in until yesterday (Sunday) afternoon when I got back. And by moving in, first I mean cleaning. My friends got back and did a ton of cleaning as well, and THEN I started to fully move all my crap in.
Once again I realize: I have too much stuff. And it's not like it's just stupid stuff I don't use...usually. Plus I went from my very own two-bedroom trailer all to myself to half of a two-bedroom house. So there's that.
So yesterday, after Javier repeatedly made fun of my teeny-tiny TV (deservedly so, it's ridiculously small), Rich and I moved my ghetto fabulous TV-console all-in-one downstairs. Got it all hooked up, got the remote programmed...couldn't get the satellite to work. First it was just showing us this infomercial thing; then it was stuck on HGTV.
Well later I'm in the living room and notice it's now on ESPN. This happens to be the same channel playing in Javier's room. So we tell Rich to change the channel in there. Sure enough, it changes the TV in the living room. Sooooo, can't really watch TV in the living room unless I want to watch whatever Javier is watching.
Which is fine, because that this point, the only place to sit in the living room is my beanbag chair. Have not as yet been able to find help to move the couch. And even if we find help, we're not sure it will fit. This process will be mucho frustrating, I have a feeling. Ay yi yi.
Other fun developments: The plaster in my ceiling has a gaping hole and is falling down; the door to my room came off its top hinges; my closet only has one of its two doors, and that door no longer fits/slides in the runner (it is now hiding behind my defective bedroom door...I thought they should be friends); Javier freaked me out by telling me about the time he saw a garden snake try to fit through the window; and finally, I think it's safe to say that every room in this house needs to be painted in some fashion.
But. It is a place to live. I have a comfy bed. I now have the windows curtained for my own peace of mind. It is close to work. It is cheaper than where I lived before because I'm splitting costs. I get to see another human being when I come home. And I have something of a yard to wander around in...during the daytime.
So that's the introduction to the hobbit house, my second permanent dwelling on the rez. I'm guessing that if we attempt to move this couch, it will provide material for a second blog.
Oh, and Happy Labor Day!
I moved into an underground house in town. And by underground, yes, I really do mean underground. Like a hobbit house. It's like a basement...except that's the house. There's an attic "upstairs" (which is actually ground level), and then the "main" level of the house is the underground/basement part. It's peachy, except for moving in furniture and cell reception. Those two things, not so much. But I knew that coming in.
So, before I relay some of the day's comical events, let me just start by saying that it is WONDERFUL to have my own space again. It is wonderful to have a closet instead of a suitcase. And it is wonderful to have a housemate, and someone that I have known for a while so we don't have to go through the awkward "getting to know you" stuff. (I hope.) Being so uncertain of where I was going to be from one day to the next has taught me a very basic lesson: a bed and a roof are really all you need.
That being said, let's dig into the "Candy's ridiculous life: take 12,000." First of all, I "moved" straight into the house the night I got back from my vacation in Indiana...at around 11:30 p.m. Being out by myself at night has always creeped me out, and especially in a place that has a "night life" the way Mission often can, I disliked the timing of my arrival. But it's a 12-hour drive, and I don't like getting up at the crack of dawn to sit in a car all day.
Anyway. I spent about 10 minutes extracting the key from the hiding place created by my friend. (Mostly because my coordination was limited due to how tired I was. So once I finally got into the house, I made my way into my bedroom. This is when I realize, "Oh, huh. I don't have any of my bedding."
Luckily, my very nice friends left sheets on the bed. However, with no blanket, I got a wee bit chilly. I'm still not sure where my blankets are. (I found a substitute for now.) My stuff was (still is, to a point) interspersed between the attic of this house, my parents' house, the trunk of my car, and stashed under my desk at work. You can understand why I'm not sure what all ended up where.
That first night was just super fun, because not only did I wake up cold, I had a heck of a time falling asleep in the first place because right as I lay down, this story my coworker told me last week popped into my head. I guess some of her friends were asleep, and they woke up to this guy standing in their bedroom doorway, staring at them. He had broken in - through a basement window, no less - to their house and was being very creepy. I believe they chased him, but did not catch him. Naturally, my bed is right underneath the window without any kind of drape or curtain over it. So I spent about the first 45 minutes in bed just staring, wide-eyed, at that window. I think I left every light in the main part of the house on that night. Didn't sleep well.
So then I went to work the next day. And the next. And then I went to my parents' house for a couple days. So really, I didn't start moving in until yesterday (Sunday) afternoon when I got back. And by moving in, first I mean cleaning. My friends got back and did a ton of cleaning as well, and THEN I started to fully move all my crap in.
Once again I realize: I have too much stuff. And it's not like it's just stupid stuff I don't use...usually. Plus I went from my very own two-bedroom trailer all to myself to half of a two-bedroom house. So there's that.
So yesterday, after Javier repeatedly made fun of my teeny-tiny TV (deservedly so, it's ridiculously small), Rich and I moved my ghetto fabulous TV-console all-in-one downstairs. Got it all hooked up, got the remote programmed...couldn't get the satellite to work. First it was just showing us this infomercial thing; then it was stuck on HGTV.
Well later I'm in the living room and notice it's now on ESPN. This happens to be the same channel playing in Javier's room. So we tell Rich to change the channel in there. Sure enough, it changes the TV in the living room. Sooooo, can't really watch TV in the living room unless I want to watch whatever Javier is watching.
Which is fine, because that this point, the only place to sit in the living room is my beanbag chair. Have not as yet been able to find help to move the couch. And even if we find help, we're not sure it will fit. This process will be mucho frustrating, I have a feeling. Ay yi yi.
Other fun developments: The plaster in my ceiling has a gaping hole and is falling down; the door to my room came off its top hinges; my closet only has one of its two doors, and that door no longer fits/slides in the runner (it is now hiding behind my defective bedroom door...I thought they should be friends); Javier freaked me out by telling me about the time he saw a garden snake try to fit through the window; and finally, I think it's safe to say that every room in this house needs to be painted in some fashion.
But. It is a place to live. I have a comfy bed. I now have the windows curtained for my own peace of mind. It is close to work. It is cheaper than where I lived before because I'm splitting costs. I get to see another human being when I come home. And I have something of a yard to wander around in...during the daytime.
So that's the introduction to the hobbit house, my second permanent dwelling on the rez. I'm guessing that if we attempt to move this couch, it will provide material for a second blog.
Oh, and Happy Labor Day!
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Rez Life
My undergrad alma mater, Indiana Wesleyan University has something called "rez life." It's short for "residence life," and it's geared toward the students at IWU. There's even a whole "rez life week," which involves lots of team spirit and dorm games that I never really felt the need to over-participate in.
It's been one year and four months since I walked across the stage, heard my name mispronounced, and received my empty diploma case from the President of IWU. It's been one year and a few weeks since I officially graduated with a double bachelor of arts in English and Journalism, officially ending my student "rez life" experience.
I suppose to commemorate my one-year anniversary of being a "grown-up," I returned to IWU to help with something near and dear to my heart: Sojourn staff training. Two of my favorite staff writers asked me to speak, so I drove 800 miles to spend a few hours with the student publication I gave up so much time, energy, sleep, and GPA points for. When I was in college, my housemates, editorial staff, and I sometimes wondered if all the effort was worth it. Unexpectedly and extravagantly kind words from the Sojourn staff make me think it was.
I'm now part of a new sort of "rez life," a more literal kind: life on an Indian reservation, a.k.a, "the rez." (No, this is not a politically incorrect term to the people who live here, so please don't be offended.)
The two Rez Lives couldn't be more opposite. One life is squeaky clean, the other's covered in trash. One has money and new buildings, the other is in the fifth poorest county in the U.S. One life is covered with some of the best and brightest high school graduates, ministers, and decorated academics in the country, the other has one of the highest drop-out rates in the state of South Dakota.
Both have challenged me. Both are filled with people - some wonderful, some not. But people created in God's image; people who have had a hand in shaping the person I am, and the person I'm becoming.
This new Rez Life is making me ask some of the old questions, and experience many of the old doubts. "Does what I'm doing matter?" "Am I making a difference?" "Does anyone even care?"
I get discouraged. I get stressed. I get frustrated. I get down on myself. Except, this time, I don't have my housemates checking in on me to make sure I didn't fall asleep on my keyboard when I'm supposed to be writing a paper or editing a story. I don't have the fellowship of thousands of other young believers. I don't have professors giving me constant feedback, showing me how to become better at what I'm doing.
I don't know why I'm here. I don't feel like I've made a positive impact. I've been a terrible "ambassador for Christ."
I. I. I. Me. Me. Me. I don't, I can't, I won't. I read an entry from "My Utmost for His Highest" today that made me realize how self-centered I can be sometimes. Both in college, and now, the times when I feel my personality and my joy being drained away are the times when I become completely self-focused.
As I return from my brief, refreshing visit to IWU and four of the best friends a girl could have, a couple things stand out.
1. I wasn't trying to "impress" the two staffers that I apparently made such an impression on. I was just doing what I was passionate about, which was make a better paper by building better writers. And I had no idea at the time that it made the impact on them that it did. I'm glad.
2. Even if they didn't remember me, if I'd made no impression on anyone at IWU or the paper - does that mean I should have done anything differently? Well, I should have done a lot of things differently, most likely - but nothing in the way of less effort. My only regrets are the things I didn't do, not the things I did.
So, about this new Rez Life. Nine months after leaving the old Rez Life, I started this one. Today marks the 8-month anniversary of my time here. It has been tempestuous. It has been very hard at times. It has been friggin' cold. But it has been good.
This is Labor Day Weekend, and tomorrow is the 6-month mark for this blog. As we start a new month, I'm thinking of taking this blog in a slightly different direction (which I promise will not be a string of timelines...like this post...). Up to this point, it's been mostly a record of all the ridiculous things that I witness on an almost weekly basis. Like, the lady who stashed her cigarette on the sidewalk while she went into the post office, then picked it up again on her way out.
See, when I first moved out here, it took me a month to find a place to live. When I found a place, it was a pink trailer house on the yard of a Mormon family with 10 children, and a bun in oven. (Note: pink is my least favorite color.) Then it was just a rapid succession of ridiculousness that I had to find funny, because quite frankly, I would have lost my mind otherwise.
So I started the blog to record these things, because they make me laugh. And I like to make other people laugh. And I wanted to steer clear of any melodrama or pretensions in my writing, so I steer clear of serious topics.
However, a couple of friends challenged me to write about life on the Rez. Real, honest, "this is how it is," (from my perspective) life on the Rez.
It will still include the ridiculous stories - because that's part of my life here (and anywhere, really). It will just also include some of the other, maybe not-so-funny things that happen here.
It's been one year and four months since I walked across the stage, heard my name mispronounced, and received my empty diploma case from the President of IWU. It's been one year and a few weeks since I officially graduated with a double bachelor of arts in English and Journalism, officially ending my student "rez life" experience.
I suppose to commemorate my one-year anniversary of being a "grown-up," I returned to IWU to help with something near and dear to my heart: Sojourn staff training. Two of my favorite staff writers asked me to speak, so I drove 800 miles to spend a few hours with the student publication I gave up so much time, energy, sleep, and GPA points for. When I was in college, my housemates, editorial staff, and I sometimes wondered if all the effort was worth it. Unexpectedly and extravagantly kind words from the Sojourn staff make me think it was.
I'm now part of a new sort of "rez life," a more literal kind: life on an Indian reservation, a.k.a, "the rez." (No, this is not a politically incorrect term to the people who live here, so please don't be offended.)
The two Rez Lives couldn't be more opposite. One life is squeaky clean, the other's covered in trash. One has money and new buildings, the other is in the fifth poorest county in the U.S. One life is covered with some of the best and brightest high school graduates, ministers, and decorated academics in the country, the other has one of the highest drop-out rates in the state of South Dakota.
Both have challenged me. Both are filled with people - some wonderful, some not. But people created in God's image; people who have had a hand in shaping the person I am, and the person I'm becoming.
This new Rez Life is making me ask some of the old questions, and experience many of the old doubts. "Does what I'm doing matter?" "Am I making a difference?" "Does anyone even care?"
I get discouraged. I get stressed. I get frustrated. I get down on myself. Except, this time, I don't have my housemates checking in on me to make sure I didn't fall asleep on my keyboard when I'm supposed to be writing a paper or editing a story. I don't have the fellowship of thousands of other young believers. I don't have professors giving me constant feedback, showing me how to become better at what I'm doing.
I don't know why I'm here. I don't feel like I've made a positive impact. I've been a terrible "ambassador for Christ."
I. I. I. Me. Me. Me. I don't, I can't, I won't. I read an entry from "My Utmost for His Highest" today that made me realize how self-centered I can be sometimes. Both in college, and now, the times when I feel my personality and my joy being drained away are the times when I become completely self-focused.
As I return from my brief, refreshing visit to IWU and four of the best friends a girl could have, a couple things stand out.
1. I wasn't trying to "impress" the two staffers that I apparently made such an impression on. I was just doing what I was passionate about, which was make a better paper by building better writers. And I had no idea at the time that it made the impact on them that it did. I'm glad.
2. Even if they didn't remember me, if I'd made no impression on anyone at IWU or the paper - does that mean I should have done anything differently? Well, I should have done a lot of things differently, most likely - but nothing in the way of less effort. My only regrets are the things I didn't do, not the things I did.
So, about this new Rez Life. Nine months after leaving the old Rez Life, I started this one. Today marks the 8-month anniversary of my time here. It has been tempestuous. It has been very hard at times. It has been friggin' cold. But it has been good.
This is Labor Day Weekend, and tomorrow is the 6-month mark for this blog. As we start a new month, I'm thinking of taking this blog in a slightly different direction (which I promise will not be a string of timelines...like this post...). Up to this point, it's been mostly a record of all the ridiculous things that I witness on an almost weekly basis. Like, the lady who stashed her cigarette on the sidewalk while she went into the post office, then picked it up again on her way out.
See, when I first moved out here, it took me a month to find a place to live. When I found a place, it was a pink trailer house on the yard of a Mormon family with 10 children, and a bun in oven. (Note: pink is my least favorite color.) Then it was just a rapid succession of ridiculousness that I had to find funny, because quite frankly, I would have lost my mind otherwise.
So I started the blog to record these things, because they make me laugh. And I like to make other people laugh. And I wanted to steer clear of any melodrama or pretensions in my writing, so I steer clear of serious topics.
However, a couple of friends challenged me to write about life on the Rez. Real, honest, "this is how it is," (from my perspective) life on the Rez.
It will still include the ridiculous stories - because that's part of my life here (and anywhere, really). It will just also include some of the other, maybe not-so-funny things that happen here.
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