All in Non-Fiction

Autzen Stadium is many things. At worst, it is an edifice of concrete and steel, that’s seen millions of dollars in renovations funded by a man who’s devoted similar levels of capital to influencing local elections. At the same time, Autzen is a thing of beauty. For a few Saturdays in the fall, tens of thousands of people fill the seats, regardless of weather.

My Mork from Ork attachment makes me wonder why kids cling to objects, or why they’re drawn to characters from T.V. Why do we require that thing in our hands, our grip, near our noses to feel emotionally organized and at ease from setting to setting? Blankies, dolls, pillows pieces of fabric, whatever it may be that gives children (and sometimes adults), the feeling of comfort and home. Why do we run to their refuge in our beds or on our sofas and hold them tighter than life? 

Yesterday he texted me the definition of a new word he was excited to learn, “freudenfreude.” It’s best translated as “the bliss we feel when someone else succeeds, even if we weren’t directly involved.” This morning, as I watched him watch me scarf down my favorite donut from Dunkin’ Donuts (a creation filled with something called “cookie butter”), I realized he’d given me a word to describe the look on his face.  

The cars are angled to mimic the Great Pyramid of Khufu’s faces, which is one of my favorite things I didn’t know at the time. That seems like the type of fact to put on a plaque to help illuminate the general public and alleviate their apathy. Attempting to establish a correlation between these cars and the Great Pyramid is nothing short of incredible. What’s more American than that?

The discussion of the two couples had shifted to immigration and the southern border wall. Tom, of course, had the sharpest and loudest opinion. Something about the country being overrun by illegal immigrants, all of them welfare moochers who belonged in jail. Heads in the booth bobbed in agreement. The only objection was a mild one—-“Lower your voice, Tom,” one of the women said. 

Except she wasn’t looking. Here, blood was trickling like rust from a spigot, and my mother couldn’t be bothered to see it. We’d already made our way down one aisle and now we were making our way down another. But the blood went unnoticed because something else seized her attention. Something that wasn’t just pulling her along through the aisles, but pulling her away from me, from this moment.

When your parents are expats, you learn to move fast. Sometimes you only live somewhere for a few months, usually moving in the middle of the school year. You can’t afford to spend much time making friends, even if they do speak English, which was rare in the places we lived. Better not to invest much in getting to know someone when you—or they—could leave, possibly the next day, and you’d never see them again. 

I was still a bit sullen about the Powder Puff debacle and looked forward to making up for it by dotting my new helmet with the skull and crossbones stickers Coaches passed out for kicking ass when it mattered most. And this time I wasn’t some faceless lineman blocking for someone else’s glory. 

That’s all he had for me - and honesty he wasn’t wrong. By no means was this a Michelin Star dish. It probably had many flaws that any human who’d ever tried any type of pasta could point out. But it tasted so good to me because it meant so much to me. I couldn’t help but take it a little personally because its sporadic involvement of ingredients and hodgepodge of techniques was a reflection of me. 

In the tumult of adolescence, I had more anger than I knew what to do with and was willing to lash out at anyone. My wildcat fury emerged in full: thoughtlessly smearing on glittery eyeshadow and wearing loudly mismatched clothes, giving hell to anyone who would listen. I told Ashley, the girl I loved, in the school courtyard that the next time my name came out of her mouth I hoped she choked on it.

Down a rabbit hole, I spiraled, pairing Antoine’s name with multiple keywords: writer, photographer, book, blog, UCLA, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook. In my quest to prove an association, I scoured articles, interviews, and book summaries. And with each virtual page, I peeled away another degree of separation.