Not "Daddy's Girl"

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A couple of summers ago, I went to my parents' home on Hilton Head for a week after being spontaneously suspended from my bar job. I was having a completely unexpected post-grad identity crisis, and I needed to run away. I booked a flight on a Sunday that flew out 12 hours later.

In the mania of packing for my escape, I remembered to grab one piece of literature to accompany the coming afternoons on the porch overlooking the marsh. I had already begun Tim Tebow's second book, titled Shaken, over the previous winter, and thought this to be a fine opportunity to revisit the text, as it is subtitled “Discovering your true identity in the midst of life’s storms.” Talk about soul-searching.

Hours later, a glass of wine sat on the side table next to me, Shaken sat in my lap, and the family dog snoozed at my feet. My dad approached the porch and commented on my book selection, secretly knowledgeable of the fact that I am certainly not one who might gain tremendous value from Tebow's preaching. I replied that I had purchased the book hoping to gain insight into the Heisman winner's choice to transition to baseball, as that event seemed to align linearly with the book's release. I attempted to conceal my internal catastrophe. It seemed to have worked, and a thoughtful conversation followed about my earliest sports allegiances.

---

In Burlington, Connecticut, 1997, an infant in a bouncing chair giggled as her mother viciously coached young football players through our television set. Mom’s Wolverines had been intercepted. She glared in horror at her firstborn: a Cleveland-born toddler standing on her daddy’s belly doing the “Buckeye Dance" to the Ohio State fight song. Palms wrapped around his index and middle fingers, my feet moved very little; toes clutching the soft t-shirt beneath as my chubby knees hinged methodically while I attempted balance and stability, holding onto my father as tight as my rubbery phalanges could manage. There were several common games we played at this age--Airplane, and of course Tickle Monster. But my favorite game was the Buckeye Dance; it was a dance of - and for - the best.

While Dad was hosting SportsCenter programs on ESPN, my sister and I were singing and dancing in the living room. We were all about the show business. On “Bring-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day,” he would take us to the studios to see how the shows were made--always a special treat. One year, around the time of the X-games, he brought us into the studio and presented each of us our own signed copy of Tina Basich’s memoir, Pretty Good for a Girl. I was eight years old, and I was hooked. I read and reread the book. I had zero athletic aspiration but was obsessed with Basich’s total bad-assery. I wanted to be just like her in my own “field.”

My father, at the surface, is a very simple man. He aligns with many traditional “dad” stereotypes. He wears pleated khakis that usually don’t fit him right. He needs new sneakers and an understanding that t-shirts should not be tucked into sweatpants. On Christmas Eve, he sports the same highlighter pink button down that I’m pretty sure was a gift from my very fashionable aunt, and is absolutely not his “style.” He is his happiest when he’s napping in front of the Golf Channel with the golden retriever at his feet. I never know what to get him on any of the calendar holidays or for his birthday, but he seems to be content with the usual book or puzzle from Barnes & Noble. I definitely think these are pretty consistent qualities amongst middle-class white “dads.” That said, I didn’t really know what else there was, for a very long time.

The truth is, I missed out on many opportunities to learn my father beyond just a simple scratch of that very basic surface. I was primarily raised by my mother and pitches that bounced through satellite and into the car radio, “broadcasting live from ‘X’ center in ‘X’ city.” His voice and personality is well known and admired amongst those in sports broadcasting and golf fans everywhere, but somewhere in my teenage resentment of his travel schedule, I lost my Buckeye Dance partner. The fault was on both ends, but for a while, I was sure our relationship was irreconcilable. I would certainly never, ever be “Daddy’s Girl.”

---

His absence made me a cruel daughter. For most of my formative years, we seldom spoke, let alone led on any physical affection. Instances that were “quality time” for many parents and children often seemed like a punishment for both of us. I wanted nothing to do with his career. He, however, remained highly invested in mine.

In spring 2011, Dad was in freelance season, and spent most afternoons driving me two towns over, to Beaufort, for a dream role in a play. The rides were mostly silent; the only sounds emitted from the engine, and the bass of Green Day radiating through my earbuds, audibly clear even yards away. I would touch up my black sharpie-painted fingernails in his passenger seat, paying no attention to him as he chauffeured me to my rehearsals. Some days, we would stop Firehouse Subs to get cherry limeades. They were the one thing it seemed we could both enjoy about the ride; the singular commonality between father and daughter at that difficult point in our relationship.

“I don’t really like cherries. I guess it’s weird how obsessed I am with these.”

“You like the sour cover-up.”

“You think so?” I popped the lid off my styrofoam cup and pulled out a lime, sucking the remaining juice from its pulpy vesicles. He chuckled at the act.

“Probably why I’m so sour,” I joked.

“You’re not sour. You’re just stubborn. You got that from me.”

And… the headphones went back in. Sure, there were genetic commonalities: the big forehead and long limbs. Of course, I got those, instead of his strikingly beautiful hazel eyes. Tough break. I had not yet seen the character similarities. And of course, any interests beyond Firehouse Subs’ cherry limeades were even further off.

Tim Tebow was somewhat of an icon in my high school years. Fresh off his Heisman, the jocks at the public high school I attended for my first two years watched his career forming as they made their own decisions about whether or not to pursue their athletics in college. I was friends with the swimmers. I crushed on the quarterback. I knew what a Heisman was. My interest was nonexistent. My “sport” was storytelling. The closest I got to enjoying a football game was drinking stolen beer from my boyfriend’s parents’ fridge under the bleachers. I never gave my father's affinity for a ballgame my time of day. I’m sure he would have liked for me to take an interest in sports, but he never said anything.

Boarding school removed me even further, and it wasn’t until I came home for spring break my senior year that I realized my detachment. En route to a friend’s swim meet, I discovered that he was moonlighting as a radio DJ part-time by coming across “Sweet Caroline” on a local radio station--a song he was spinning for my little sister. I began to cry.

---

I went back to school that spring and secretly stalked everything he’d ever written that was published on the internet. I revisited my copy of Pretty Good for a Girl, which had followed me to my dorm room shelf. At the time, I didn’t quite understand my obsession with learning him. The binge was meant to make up for the years of purge, and while it’s been a slow manifestation, I began to realize that he’s been inside me from the start. I may not have known him, but he knew me all along.

He watched me singing show tunes in princess dresses in our Connecticut living room, and gave me Tina Basich as a model to run fast towards my dreams. He picked me up after my nearly fatal midnight car wreck on I-278, and did not scold or punish me, but comforted me because he knew it was an anxiety-driven mistake. He stood with me that one rainy day in the quad at the University of Hartford, and offered to drive me back home by way of New York City, because he knew I needed more than a small town collegiate experience. He saw me on the porch that summer struggling to find life inspiration in Tim Tebow’s book, and took the job into his own hands, ultimately encouraging me to use my words.

I had grappled long and hard with what to do with my theatre training. The passion remained storytelling, but the idea of standing in line with a picture of myself for the next 20 years, feigning happiness, haunted me. It was when I went home for that week and watched my father joyously waking up at 5 a.m. for his job writing and reading the news on the radio, that I realized maybe we weren’t all that different. I finally saw the character similarities--conviction, ambition, hot temper, love for storytelling--and my craving for Firehouse Subs’ cherry limeades returned. Through all of his own transitions and passions, he’d supported me through mine.

It’s been seven years since that initial boarding school awakening. Seven years of self-discovery and education and bartending. Seven years of writing this very piece, much of which I admittedly used in my grad school admissions essays. Seven years of becoming friends with my dad. And in these seven years, I’ve changed careers, fallen in love, moved across town, rediscovered education, pushed myself forward, fallen back down, read numerous sports biographies a lot more useful than Tim Tebow’s, and written countless works inspired and counseled by my father.

It’s been twenty years since the Buckeye Dance came to a cease, but now I am clutching at your middle and index fingers as I attempt balance and stability, more than ever before. Twenty years of exploring and learning and running away and running back. Twenty years of finding who I am and making peace with it--enough peace to finally admit with pride what I think I always knew: I may not be “Daddy’s Girl,” but I am my father’s daughter.

Amy Schumer’s Modified Brand, and the Future of Comedy in a Recently Highly-Affected World

Amy Schumer has come a long way since 2017’s The Leather Special. She’s not blacking out anymore (not for lack of desire), but she’s still talking about sexual taboos. She’s halfway into her pregnancy, but she’s still shamelessly celebrating her bodacious figure in her latest Netflix special, Growing. She has always been open and candid about the trials and tribulations of a modern woman in her sexual prime. Still, there is a shift in Schumer’s presentation this time, and it has little to do with her new state of primal womanhood.

Apparently, there is a new set of rules in comedy now, which surpass narrative structure and tackle content.

Schumer is a liberated woman. She never shies away from disclosing the size of her genitalia, her current bodily functions, and the faux pas that she and her loved ones commit regularly. She has built her career on flagrant obscenity. In her new release, however, we see that Schumer has “grown” less overtly in physicality, and more so in *gasp* maturity. She sets the standard for the potential of modern comedians to modify for an audience in the climate of 2019. Now, she has a larger goal in mind – to flip the rules of comedy on their head and remain accessible in a hyper-sensitive America, while maintaining her reputation of crude and absurdist truth-telling.

Full Article HERE!

HOUSE OF CARDS Season Six Disarms Womankind

*This review will not include overt spoilers for season six of House of Cards and will only discuss the effectiveness of its plotlines, both new and old.*

It’s early morning, still dark, on a quiet street on the outskirts of Washington DC. Several large brownstones line the sidewalks. Here is where the almost-elite exist. Wealthy families with a particular allotment of stature, all in a row. Frank Underwood is outside his property. He stands over a wounded neighborhood dog, placating him. We’ve heard the crash, but don’t know the severity of the animal’s condition. Frank does. He grew up on a farm in South Carolina, and euthanasia is not too foreign or drastic a concept for the politician. He explains this to us—his first of many soliloquies to the camera in the diary that represents his rise. Sirens blaze in the distant image, as officers discuss the implications of the hit-and-run with the dog’s masters.

“There, no more pain…” he consoles the shepherd as he liberates him from his anguish.


Full Article HERE!

A Star Is Born… Well, Reborn Once More

One scene remains constant throughout the A Star is Born films.

It’s been a long night. There’s been music and drinking and a hint of romance. It’s the most excitement she’s experienced in a long time—possibly her entire life. For him as well. The hour isn’t so surprising for him, but the company has been nothing short of extraordinary. Still, the misty early morning haze has erected a screen over the enchantment, and it’s time to call it quits. As she walks away at the conclusion of the escapade that both of these characters will fondly remember for their entire lives, he calls to her:

“Hey!” he shouts. She turns.

“I just wanted to take another look at you.”

She smiles, amused and bashful, and retires to her abode. There will be many other moments like this between these two soon-to-be lovers. But this moment, little do they know, will begin their story of epic passion. Their lives together may have challenges. Their love will be abundant, seamless, unbothered.

Full Article HERE!

LWOS Life: Pride and Prejudice and Lipstick: How the Stigmas of Past Political Women Have Set the Stage for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez has become widely known in the last two weeks for three things: her victory in the New York congressional primary over ten-term veteran Joe Crowley, her doing so without any help from the mainstream media, and the fact that her signature red lipstick is currently sold out at Sephora. Provided her expected win this coming November, Ocasio-Cortez will be the youngest woman ever to be elected to Congress. She has no prior experience holding political office. She describes herself as a democratic socialist, the complete opposite of our currently dominant representation as a nation. And she’s from the Bronx.

Backlash surrounding Ocasio-Cortez and her platform has been minimal, probably due to her lack of presence in larger media outlets, which keeps her safely tucked away from the slander of the Right. But Ocasio-Cortez has clearly taken notes from those women who proceeded her in political roles, with the help of the mainstream media that she has mostly avoided. Her rookie status on the political scene can only help her, as we saw Hillary Clinton recently slaughtered by attention to her past. Her femininity has a similar benefit, as she garners the respect that was paid to former politically surrounded women like Jackie Kennedy. Her resilience commands accolade, like that of the slandered former governor and vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin. All of these qualities fall under the stigma of what Joseph Roach calls the “it” factor—the only stigma necessary to being a successful woman in office.

Full Article HERE!

LWOS Life: A Bartender’s Lament: Why I Left The Bar Business, And Then Ran Back Screaming‬

‪“What’s the cheapest thing here?”

Don’t do it, I plead with myself. Don’t say “you are.” He doesn’t know any better.

“I have Bud Light bottles for seven dollars.”

“SEVEN?!”

DO NOT DO IT. DO NOT REMIND HIM THAT HE IS IN AN UPSCALE MIDTOWN MANHATTAN BAR AND INFLATION IS TO BE EXPECTED.

“Sorry, love. I don’t have any control over the prices here.”

“Fine. I’ll just take one.”

He puts down $7 exactly. The last dollar is in quarters.

Now, before I continue, this is not just another “bartender pet peeves” piece. I’ll try not to bore you with my minuscule gripes against the generally ignorant middle-aged white guys of the finance and business spheres. When I left the bar business, I was in the midst of an angst-filled rampage, and I’ve been over all of my industry qualms already with my boyfriend, my other industry friends, and my coworkers from the toxic job I walked out of mid-shift in January.

I try not to quit things, and I had never before left a position before without giving a proper two weeks notice or on negative terms. This behavior was new to me. I dramatically bid farewell to the industry that had provided me a primary source of income over the course of ten years after a last-straw altercation and only after locking down a minimum wage-paying internship; a nine-to-five, a “real” job.

Full Article HERE!

A Friend Named Burke

Where I went through my pubescent (ew) years, people speak with slow drawls and say words like “umbrella” in an emphatically strange way. “Y’all” is the most frequently used pronoun. Everyone has at least one go-to mac ‘n cheese recipe, and everyone knows that summer days at the beach would only be more enjoyable sans tourist traffic. 

On Hilton Head Island, one can walk in any direction and ultimately be greeted with foam-kissed toes. At only 12 miles long by five miles wide, the small community is described as urban cluster in the census. It is occupied by wealthy part-time homeowners, tourists from Ohio and Michigan, as well as the middle-class industrials who support the lifestyles of the aforementioned groups in their periods of residency with us. As far as the locals are concerned, any person who resides less than part-time on the isle is considered a “touron” and a parasite in our salty air.

This is what made Burkes Beach the choice family hang out for the locals. Some of my most intimate memories happened on those shorelines of adolescence, at that inspired young age when we “kids” were so angsty over issues we didn’t realize wouldn’t matter in a few years; when all we wanted to do was be in the comfort of our friends, with our heels sunk in the sand, and to capture the air and bottle it up and hold it over a light and see nothing but lavish breezes and the miscellanies of fallen stars. Burkes Beach became a symbolic notch in the timeline of my life; through different lifestyle changes, relationships, and seasons. It was where I began a lasting relationship with my first love—the person who would become my entire world for four whole years.  

 

I remember the night I knew him best; we were sitting in the dunes. He was talking about the future and his fear of it, and I was intercepting the topic with observations on the shape of the universe and the planes that flew above. That was when he finally confronted me about my fear of embracing the murky waters before us. 

Over time, I had developed a fear of the ocean and for what was in it, despite the pisces in my blood. My constant curiosity for the unknown was not a strong enough factor in my personality to lure me back into the foggy Atlantic. Maybe it was one-too-many jellyfish stings or bodyboarding incidents that historically had ruined several otherwise perfect beach days.

The first time I ever felt at home within those waves was that moment with that boy—a moment admiring the sky interrupted by an emotional adventure. Three rough knuckles grazed my cheek, before he suddenly rose to his haunches, scooped me up, and flung me over his shoulder; prancing towards the near tide pools. I banged my fists on the base of his spine. He, in turn, tripped on a jellyfish carcass. We went plunging into the puddles. 

It’s amazing how easy it is not to care about being soaked in dirty water and seaweed particles when there’s nothing you can do about it except make yourself even more acquainted with them. We laughed for an hour, plastering sand masks onto each other’s faces and shampooing the aquatic plants into our hair. We became the sea creatures that I dreaded, and we were proud of it. 

 

Over four years, nights like those maintained their luster, while dwindling in frequency, until they sizzled to a cease. Everyone remembers the first person who set their heart afloat. The sea tends to start steady, as the waters roll in synchronized rhythm with the leisurely winds. There would not be turbulence if there weren’t times of tranquility to define it. 

We learn who we are in disturbed waters. 

My fear of the ocean has yet to be faced. The bubbly wave tips are predatory anywhere above my knees. In my new, concrete tide pool, there is no physical evidence of waves in my back yard. Only metaphorical ones in my mind, which often are a result of the stresses that are associated with a life in Manhattan. They say you become a New Yorker after ten years (a year less for every time you’ve been mugged at gunpoint, in my opinion), which means I’m almost there. Certainly I have entered “touron” territory back down south, having been so far for so long.

My homecomings over the six years I’ve spent away have varied in sentiment. Some are for clerical purposes, like doctors’ appointments. Some are elopements, for when I need to run away from the messes I’ve made. And then, there is the rare actual vacation; for enjoying the family that still resides there, or the occasional old friend who sees my instagram story and wants to reconnect, or for bringing down a new lover with the intention of giving them a taste of the island experience that built me up as carelessly as the stormy tides which ripped me apart.

Each time I return, I wonder if the reason is special enough to bid my old friend Burke a fond hello. My most recent excursion finally sparked that reunion.

 

Michael and I pulled into the run down, empty parking lot of Burkes—the sand crackling in the ridges of our tires as we slowly approached the parking meter.

“You’re sure we don’t need to put anything in there?’

“No of course not. It’s offseason. We only have about ten minutes anyways. Let’s go.”

As we approached the boardwalk, I checked that the foot shower was working before sliding my flats off my feet. My toes were shocked upon their warm impact on the frozen rubber mat. He left his shoes on, hesitant at my sudden spurt of playfulness. As if it had been four hours, and not four years, I danced down the path to my former house of worship. With each stride towards the tides, my toes curled, cuddling the chilly sand granules.

It wasn’t memories that flooded my soul in that moment of revival—it was a sense of revitalization, as my lips became reacquainted with salty flavor, and my body remembered its smallness as a part of such vast space. 

Michael kept a few paces behind me at all times, admiring the empty shore.

“Wow.”

“Do you feel it?”

“I think I do. It’s beautiful.”

“Can you see how round the earth is in the shape of the sky?”

“I do.”

“This was my home.”

As the sea foam filled the gaps between my phalanges and flooded the high arches of my feet, it responded in a lush, flirtatious whisper.

“Welcome back.”

A Personal Essay: Beginnings

My hands trembled at a speed that I didn’t have a prayer of controlling. I couldn’t breathe out the minuscule termites that were itching the plasma between my bones and my skin, testing the reality of the situation – the fact that I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. Eliott put my palm in his, lightly rubbing it loose.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I can do it.”

I shook his hand off of mine, despite my inability to trust my quivering joints with holding his cigarette. I let out one more large exhale, and raised the little tyrant to my virginal lips. Inhale, hold – release. I regained my senses as I returned his precious cancer stick.

“You’re sure this is your first time?”

I laughed and nodded to conceal my shame.

“You’re good at it.”

… Words a sixteen-year-old girl shouldn’t be so pleased to hear about such a rancid habit, particularly from an addict. But at the precipice of young adulthood, I felt comfort in them. Our play had just closed, and I lived in a different county (read: COUNTY). We were just on our way to celebrate with our cast, thus, ending our teenage show-mance. And he was just so cute! How could I back out on the opportunity to spend one more moment of intimacy with this beautiful boy, even if it wasn’t on the stage?

The smell of burning tobacco lingered on my fingers and lips throughout the party. I remember trying to rub it off with the sweat that seemed to incessantly manifest on my palms, in dire fear that my mom would feel the tiny drag shooting bullets of odor at her suspecting nasal passages on the hour-long drive back home.

Like many, I have spent the majority of my life trying to fit in with the guys.  Since childhood, I was enchanted by masculinity.  The autobiographies of female athletes who impressed their male competitors, visiting the ESPN studios with my father and seeing the respect and admiration received by all the female anchors, and all the spectacular heroines in the John Hughes movies that I was obsessed with in my childhood. These examples of feminism like lead to the virulent label of being “guys’ girl.” The last example likely was a culprit to blame for my ambitions for a career in the theatre – a passion that I was given the blessing to embrace all through my adolescence, and one that culminated in a Manhattan college experience while I pursued my B.A. in the arts, specifying in theatre studies.

The youth theatre that raised me trained me to correlate “taking five” with cigarette breaks for our directors and techies. Exiting the green room through the side door of the theatre would without fail drown one’s senses in overwhelming fumes and billows of smoke.  As we grew older and became more cognizant of the activity around us, many of the older kids would join the festivities. So long as we provided our own supplies, we couldn’t be scolded.

There was a bar near the Sam’s Club that we used regulate after rehearsals and shows, or when we were bored and it was too late to go anywhere else. Its main selling point was that it stayed open into the earliest hours of the morning for us lonely teen angst-filled souls who had nowhere else to go. And sometimes they gave us beer.

My boyfriend and I – slightly under the influence of the infamous green plant – had decided it was too early to go home, so we headed to our beloved corner bar and sat at an empty table outside, where we could people-watch and be sociable in a semi-private eye.

The night was visibly humid.  He ordered my usual fish & chips for us to share, and we both drank sweet tea.  All of the above made sense for a late summer night on our island.

Our special pleasure was highly induced by the group of young women who clearly didn’t belong, crammed at a small table by the door.

“You’d better believe that I will be the last girl on this planet to EVER touch you again, you shitty fuck!”

Standing just a few feet from her group, the angry woman slammed her phone shut, and turned around to where her friends supportively participated in the normal post-breakup drinking/swearing/screaming rituals.

Her audience shook off the incident. The blurred black pavement beyond the concrete awning threatened our eventual departure, but we were at home for the time being, in our own depressed civilization.

A perfect gust of smoke intercepted us from a table behind – the nicotine tingling our senses for our own vulnerable reasons. We observed the threesome seated there. Potentially tourists, yet they seemed to fit in well with the scene that I was conjuring in my imagination. Like a Hopper painting, my brain was making brush strokes that would engrain this modern environment of Americana. In their thirties, with not too many visible tattoos, the perfect strangers harmlessly sat – enjoying their laughs, and some beers, and of course, their smokes. As I was observing their fun, my young love suddenly rose from his chair and ran to his car. He returned with a little silver and lime green paper box of American Spirits. He plopped himself back down, and let one dangle from his lips as he offered me one.

After a short forever of indecision, he snapped the top of the pack closed with just his forefinger, and stuck it in his breast pocket. He was always such a beautiful smoker. His heavy exhale always formed into the most lovely, natural shapes in that absurd cinematic thickness that makes you feel like you’re in Rick’s Café Américain with Bogart and Sam the Piano Man. I don’t think, at the time, he was a “smoker,” but I imagine his impulse to join in the fun of the perfect strangers behind us was acted upon in order to complete the scene I was manifesting, as if he saw the painting materializing out of my mind and onto the stucco of the patio. If a contemporary of Hopper were to snap us into his insta-story, we would look almost perfect – the girls crowded around their table with their revengeful faces and their wine coolers, the threesome of careless wanderers enjoying their laughs under the soft illusion of paradise, my love with his cigarette, and me… with…

When he offered me a drag, I couldn’t refuse. He lit up another, giving me the remainder of his. I finished it down to the filter.

It took a long time for me to become a good smoker. I never knew how to really deeply inhale, which defeated the purpose. But there was something so appealing about two complete innocents setting fire to their lungs outside the grungy bar. It completed the scene.

“How could he do this to me? I loved him so much. Why is he such a fucking asshole?”

The leading lady of the scene crumbled into her chair – her friends running their false nails along her shoulder blades in comfort.

After a few more sweet teas, we paid our tab, and headed home.

The entire summer before college had been filled with nights like those – where the world stopped turning entirely and time was abstract, if not totally absent. My nights with my boys were filled with activity that a good, pretty-little-white girl in the south should not have been partaking in. It took adulthood to understand why I was an exception to what seemed to be a constant argument against my gender when it came to indulging. It likely had something to do with the fact that I was always given the opportunity, as a “guys’ girl,” to say yes. So why wouldn’t I?

Smoking was not, is not, and will not be something that I take large amounts of pleasure in, despite my reoccurring participation in the act. The splendor of the season, abundant with stars and palm trees at their finest hour, has powers strong enough to damage all of your dignity. At this age, I think it’s forgivable to let curiosity take an educational toll on innocence. We played with fire, but only a little. We were good kids. We just had bigger ideas than the beach in the daytime and the movies at night.  We lived on a resort island, but we thought we lived in Harlem in the 1920s. On appropriately celebratory nights, we’d “suit up” and go to dinner at a local Sinatra-style restaurant to attach ourselves even further to the style. It was fun, and admittedly, I loved feeling pretty, and kissing cheeks, and being walked into restaurants on the arms of whichever of my gentlemen dressed the sharpest.

Adam, the epitome of class, was the cool adult that hung out with the teenagers, and always outdid the rest of us. After a rehearsal one night, three of us joined him in the adorable, religiously decorated house that he shared with his parents (who were out of town) to enjoy the simple pleasures of a summer night in the South. Of course, we dressed up – in preparation for whatever the evening might entail. When we arrived, we brought all of his dining room furniture out to his back patio to set up camp for a night of laughs and stories – just four high-spirited, big-hearted theatre misfits looking for sanctuary and understanding in each other’s company. Then Adam lit up, and my brother decided to join him.  As usual, he was prepared that night for what his brain truly craved.

My darling brother is nothing short of a stoner.  His passion for weed is comparable to his passion for photography, which perfectly explains our shared obsession with aesthetic. My brother has never had an absence in taking his turn with the bowl when the time is opportune. Or when it isn’t. This sweetheart is the most experienced smoker, as far as variety of substances, that I have ever met. When his lips touch the bowl, it is the most beautifully horrifying thing to observe; the small flicker that grows larger and brighter as he gets as much as he can out of a single hit of drug-infused smoke is an art form on its own. That little flicker at the end of a cigarette or a joint or a bowl and the way it brightens tells so much about a smoker. For my brother, it is a symbol of the ecstasy of life. For my ex-boyfriend, it is a flame of submission. For Adam, it is a glimmer of sanctuary. For me, for so long, it signified an acceptance to a world in which I was otherwise not privileged to participate within.

After a little of this and a little of that from the gentlemen, and a little of nothing from me, I took my turn with the blunt that my brother had rolled, and later accepted Adam’s tobacco offering – mostly out of boredom. Barely inhaling the smoke from the end of my first-ever full cigarette, my love chuckled from across the circle, juggling both toxins, unable to decide the lesser of the two evils. I’m not sure if there is a term for people who get high extremely quickly (does lightweight apply in this circumstance?), but he sure made the most of his intoxicants. He usually maintains a casual front when he is high. Sometimes he’ll suddenly crave a change in the soundtrack, or spontaneously kiss me. But this chuckle was intriguing – I had to know what his drugs were thinking.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He smiled, “It’s just… when girls smoke, there’s this very old Hollywood feeling of… Like that movie where…”

“… What?”

“It’s just extremely sexy. I’m very turned on.”

I liked attention until it was blatant.  So I excused myself and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt.

Of course, it didn’t change a lot. I always joke with people that I’m lucky to not be one of those girls who look like Barbie, because I can tell when people take me seriously and when genuine humans just want to know me. And that’s why I loved my own boys of summer – for keeping it classy, and keeping me there because they loved me, and I loved them, no matter what crazy shenanigans we found ourselves immersed in. I came to understand quickly that they only wanted platonic, innocent affection from the girl who wouldn’t judge them and wasn’t afraid to let her guard down every once in awhile, but who would also provide a feminine (or dare I say, maternal) perspective, when something was just too dumb. It was a perfect romance between the group of us and the tiny Bic lighters that were stored in the various places where we spent our time. It was a perfectly acceptable arrangement for the time being, situationally. There were many close calls, but no concerned parents and no run-ins with the law that resulted in any life-ravaging consequences. And to us, there was no harm in the world when we were blanketing the roof, back, and hood of my car with our bodies, watching the skies, sharing a “final joint” with one another as we would send someone in the group off to college someplace too far for our nightly shenanigans.

The only time we were ever caught was on one of those posthumous nights.  After flashes of blue and red from behind us had us slowly falling off the Chevy our hands on either side of our heads, vibrating with terror, and the stub that was our flame of resignation was jammed in the crevice between the hood and the sunroof, we called it a day. The first question they asked was if we were aware that we were past the community’s curfew. We were aware. The second question they asked was what I was doing parked with four adult men at a barn at 1:30 in the morning. I didn’t know what to say. They took down my license plate number, documented our identification, and told us to scram. No searches, no extraneous background checks, just a chance to run. That was how we closed off the escapade. We all raised havoc in our own, quiet way.  The fear was never addiction, it was losing each other, which inevitably happened not too shortly after.

I am a smoker. If I wasn’t before, I am now that I have written the phrase. It tickled my fancy enough to continue creating overcast scenes under the stars. As sad as it may be, the luster of our seasonal escapade will be revived every time I smell the nicotine that once coated our inner throat and nasal cavities. Every time I see my brother on snapchat smoking his pen, or I sit outside the old neighborhood bar during an awkward reunion of my high school friends, or put on lipstick before I light up outside my non-smoking building in Manhattan just because I like to see the red stain on my filter, I’ll remember the structure of a summer where we slept very little and partied very little but somehow saw the world beyond our teenage constraints, living as euphorically as the toxins we exhaled into the universe, drag after drag.

And maybe one day I’ll stop. I’ll realize that cancer isn’t as romantic a way to die as it always seemed. Maybe I’ll find a reason to not be seduced by the incessant need to set myself on fire. But ultimately, what is a vice if not a safety net of escape and a marvel at the mental summer storage of a careless time when all that mattered was miscellaneous joyful companionship? Go ahead. Try me.