Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 64

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 7

Is a motorcycle ride ever just a motorcycle ride?Catch up on previous chapters here !          It’s Easter Sunday, and Tess has convinced me to resume our routine of going to church together. We used to go every week, but laziness and self-pity kept me from going to any of my usual places, including the gym, in the weeks after Jared broke up with me. Now, finally, I’m taking responsibility and re-immersing myself in the world I’m used to.     Not surprisingly, as I return to the dorm that evening, the shout “Hey, AK-47!” stops me in my tracks. I’ve barely crossed the parking lot, and already my presence has been detected. Playfully I ask “Are you stalking me or something?” but I’m not entirely kidding. It’s starting to feel a little weird, the way he keeps surprising me like this. There might be a small chance it’s a coincidence, since we do live in the same building, but what are the odds of that? Why doesn’t he hang out in the student center like everyone else?     “You flatter yourself, AK. I’m just about to indulge in some bad habits.” He holds up a pack of cigarettes, which is a perfectly convenient excuse not to kiss him!     Asking where I went in such a pretty flowered dress, I remind him that today is Easter. His response: “Right, Zombie Jesus Day! How could I forget?”     For the life of me, I cannot figure out what it is about this guy that still tempts me. I’ve never poked fun at his beliefs – actually, I’m not sure what his beliefs are, exactly, but I don’t pick up any religious vibes from him – so what gives him the right to make fun of mine? His only purpose in my life right now is to validate my sick need to feel loved, however temporarily. That makes me feel pretty despicable.     Stuffing the cigarette box in his pocket, he says “On second thought, I’m kinda hungry. How do you feel about an Easter dinner? My treat.”     Oh goodness, this is tempting. A meal I don’t have to pay for? Can I really refuse that, broke almost-graduate that I am? Or am I a tool for blatantly using him for food?     Ugh, that smile. It’s infectious and entirely too convincing. Maybe, if I lay down the condition that this is between friends only, one meal with him would be harmless.     “Sure,” I tell him. “But only if –”     “Excellent. Would be a shame to waste that pretty outfit.”      I’m pitifully speechless again. He is constantly full of surprises. Rather than walking toward the student center, where I assume he meant to eat, he takes my hand and walks into the parking lot, saying he wants to show off his motorcycle. He’s as gleeful as a small child showing off a new toy, and I can’t help but indulge him a little. “All right, show me your motorcycle.”     Well, he does more than show me. He hands me a helmet, and my first thought is, Hell no. Honestly, it’s not him I don’t trust; rather, it’s the thought of my body brutally scraping against pavement if he rounds a corner too quickly in an attempt to impress me, or something.      Sensing my apprehension, he pouts. “Oh come on, AK. Live a little. You can’t graduate college without riding a motorcycle.”     Oh, hell. Chalk this up to one last undergraduate hurrah, I suppose. I take the helmet, which doesn’t fit easily over my ponytail, and nervously wrap my arms around him once I climb on. Who would have thought I’d ever have to literally cling to him for dear life? He’s loving every minute of this, I can tell.      It should come as no surprise, once he revs up the engine a few more times than is probably necessary, that he drives us away from campus. Briefly, I panic. What if I’ve been wrong about him this whole time? What if these last few weeks of flirtation were nothing but a ruse to charm me into trusting him, all so he could drive me away like this, completely unsuspecting, into some remote wooded area, where God only knows what could happen…     “Where are you going?” I hiss, having no choice but to hold on to him tighter as he speeds up.  “It’s a surprise!” is his predictable answer. Joy.     We end up at Bellacino’s, a semi-fancy (by college student standards) Italian restaurant. Much too fancy to accept the school’s dining plan, which is accepted at some places outside of campus – usually places that are no fancier than McDonald’s.     I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this irony: I’ve longed for a genuine, loving relationship for so long, and the first guy since Jared to show an interest is someone I shouldn’t want. Is this a normal phenomenon, or is my life sitcom material?     I wouldn’t feel guilty about having Collin pay if we were dining at McDonald’s: but Bellacino’s? It doesn’t seem fair to accept this dinner off him when I have no intentions of dating him. At the same time, it’s too late to tell him now that we’ve already been seated, and he’s placed an order for a bottle of sparkling grape juice. Besides, he never actually used the word “date.” So, technically, this could be an outing for which the only goal is to enjoy each other’s company. That’s a stretch, I realize, considering his offer to pay. Still, I don’t want to be one to assume…     Staring at the menu, I realize what a mistake this is. I want someone to love me, I want to feel cherished and special, but I hate dating. I hate the façade of putting on a show, the pressure to be my best self. I hate feeling self-conscious about which of my quirks to reveal, because who knows what personality traits are considered cute, and which ones are turn-offs?      I want to be done with this agonizing competition to try to win a man’s heart. There’s so much pressure to be the prettiest, the smartest, the funniest; pressure to look my best when all I really want is to show up in sweatpants and my favorite T-shirt.      There was never a “comfort period” like that with Jared. With constant subtle reminders of my imperfections (“You should work out more if you want to wear pants like those”), I could never simply be myself around him. I’m not convinced I can be myself around Collin, either. We’ve built a pseudo-relationship on a foundation of non-stop sarcastic banter that, quite frankly, is a little exhausting to keep up with. It’s like I’ll lose an unspoken competition if I can’t fire a comeback quickly enough.     Dating, when it comes down to it, is a lot like auditioning for American Idol: thrilling, if you’re approved to go to the next level; devastating if you’re rejected.      We have just placed the order for our meal, but already I feel sick. Deciding I no longer care about keeping up appearances, I ask a question I’d never dare to ask if this were someone I was truly desperate to impress: “Why are we here, Collin?”     His confused expression, I must admit, is somewhat adorable. “We’re here to eat dinner, silly.”     “No, I mean why are we here, in a booth at a fancy restaurant, implying to other people that we’re a couple or something? Where are you trying to go with this?”     I’ve gone ahead and done what Tess says women should never do: initiate the DTR, or “Define the Relationship” conversation. It’s such a juvenile expression, but a very fitting one. Supposedly, the guy is the one who should start it, but I can’t remember why that is and I’m beyond caring about convention anymore.     “Uhh,” he stumbles. “Well, I think you’re cute and interesting. I’d like to get to know you better. Is that a problem?”     There’s still that obnoxiously charming twinkle in his eye, indicating that I’m supposed to retort with something clever. Instead I reply, “I guess not,” even if I think his answer is more than a little vague.     “The day we met,” he continues, no longer grinning mischievously, but actually appearing concerned, “You seemed upset. Anything you want to discuss?”     Well, that’s unexpected. Not to mention completely out of character, the little I’ve seen so far. All this time I thought he was being cutely obnoxious to start a casual fling, but that’s not the kind of question you’d ask someone you don’t want to get emotionally involved with. But how could he want to get emotionally involved when he attempted to kiss me before even learning my favorite color?      “I forgot I had a paper due that day,” I say, attempting to relax. “You might as well know I’m the type who’s extremely anal about her grades.”     “I see.” He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. “What class was it for?”     “Great Books. It was a report on Great Expectations.”     “There would be a book with the word ‘Great’ in the title for a Great Books class.”     “I know, right?”     Here we are again: the same old banter that keeps getting worse as it gets better, and damn near impossible to end once it’s already started. Like trying to contain Niagara Falls in a coffee mug.     When our food arrives, we stop talking for a while. Is it “romantically correct” (as opposed to “politically correct”) to ask the girl to pay for her own meal if the guy decides, mid-date, that he doesn’t want to see her again?     No, I’m the one who should offer to pay my own way. I’ll end this whatever-it-is first, just to avoid the humiliation of being the one to get dropped all over again. Always better to be safe than sorry.     The waiter comes by, asking how our food turned out. I seize the opportunity and say “Can we have separate –”     “It’s on one check,” Collin interrupts. Nodding, the waiter disappears, and Collin reaches for my sweaty hand from across the table. “Chill out, AK-47. I got this.”     I am hereby excused from any accusation of leading him on. Still, it feels wrong.     The ride back to campus is more nerve-wracking than before, now that it’s dusk, and pitch black from the tinted glass inside Collin’s helmet. I really have to trust him now that I can’t see a thing, and I hate myself for agreeing to this all over again.     My paranoia is unfounded. We arrive back at the campus, safe and sound, and I accept his offer to walk me back to my room. Now I can pride myself on having experienced one official date since Jared: it means I’m not a complete loser.      Yet here we are once more, alone in the hallway, and temptation creeps in like water from a sieve. What, exactly, is protocol here? With Jared, a kiss was the least amount of activity expected to close an evening together; was that just him, or do all guys expect that? Do I “owe” Collin for taking me out for a meal?      Most importantly, do I want to kiss him, dinner or no dinner, simply because he’s Collin?     Playing into the moment, he whispers “I had a great time tonight,” and he’s tracing my jawline again. Whatever it is he’s trying to do, he’s good at it – good in a way that tells me, somehow, it’s worked before. It feels calculated: rehearsed, even.     When his hand cups my chin and slowly tilts my face toward his, I all but lose myself completely. His mouth is a centimeter away from meeting mine when common sense – or is it fear? – kicks in, and suddenly I am wrenching myself away.     “There’s too much garlic on my breath, right?” he asks, at the same time I think Goodbye, last chance.      “Uh, no, your breath is fine.” It just now occurs to me that if I were serious about this, I would have avoided kissing him anyway, simply because my breath reeks of garlic too. Or would it matter, if we both smell the same? It’s not like people never kissed each other before there was a standard for hygiene.     “So what is it, then?” He sounds slightly irritated now, for which I can’t blame him. This was a two-person tango, after all. How can I back out without looking like a tease, or worse: revealing the real reason I can’t do this? Because even if Collin is about six inches taller than the man I used to date, maybe ten pounds heavier, and has blond hair instead of brown, I know I’d be pretending it’s Jared that I’m lip-locking instead.     And that’s not fair to either of us.     “I thought I was ready for this,” I stumble. “But I don’t think –”     “Shhh, AK.” He puts his finger over my lips to shush me. “There’s no pressure here, okay? We don’t need to decide anything right now. I just want to have some fun with you.”     All the lingering temptation sucks out of me like a vacuum. He thinks I’m nervous because of how kissing would affect the friendship, not because we’re about to kiss, period. Kiss and who knows what else.     I understand now what I could not see before: I don’t need this. If Collin and I were to hook up tonight, and I imagine with all my heart that I’m with Jared again, a man who no longer loves me, what possible good would that do? I’m tangled enough in hurt as it is. I may not feel worthy of much, but somehow I know I’m worth more than this.      “I think we’ve had enough fun already,” I tell him. My voice is icier than I intended, but I don’t apologize. Not for that, and not for sliding my key into the lock and slamming the door in his face.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 6

Catch up on previous chapters here.


     The musky air and creaky floors of Book Nook must seem old-fashioned to the average customer, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any regulars. A typical day consists of a few patrons, usually women who could be anywhere from their late forties to early sixties, looking for gifts or classic literature.      Mrs. Jensen, for instance, is a middle-aged woman with a penchant for strong female protagonists in fiction: more so classic than contemporary. “Just give me anything” she told me on my first day, “with female characters that have more backbone than that flimsy Twilightgirl.”     Eyeing her more closely – blouse perfectly crisp, hair coiffed, lipstick fresh – Mrs. Jensen did not look like someone who would ever pick up a copy of Twilight.     “My granddaughter loves the series,” she explained, reading my mind. “Such a shame, considering the copy of Anne of Green Gables I bought her for her twelfth birthday…”     “So you’re looking for a book for your granddaughter, then? Is she interested in romance, adventure…?”     “Let me handle this,” Julia intervened. “It’s Anna-Kate’s first day, she’s still learning the ropes around here. I’m sure we can find you something…”     Thankfully, not all customers are quite as picky. Once I direct them to their desired genre, most appear content to search on their own, leaving me to unload new shipments and occasionally dust the shelves. Modern series, like Gossip Girl and my beloved Hunger Games, look very out of place in a building as old and historic as this.      And so do my co-workers. There’s Eryn, who has a penchant for big earrings and juicy gossip. Her opinions about anything and everything are as loud and attention grabbing as her mountain of thick, brown curls. And then there’s Morgan, her exact opposite, who is so quiet you forget she’s even there. If she isn’t shelving books, she’s constantly checking Facebook on her phone when Julia isn’t looking. Because Eryn talks enough for all of us, and Morgan barely speaks at all, I can’t imagine becoming friends with either of them.      “I can’t stand that woman,” Eryn says once Mrs. Jensen leaves with a copy of Persuasion. It wasn’t a comment meant for anyone in particular to hear – certainly not Julia – but being the closest to her at the time, I boldly ask “Why not?”     “She’s clearly repulsed by the so-called ‘loose morals’ of her granddaughter’s generation, so she’s trying to ‘reform’ her by stuffing boring literature down her throat.”     It’s probably a bad idea, but I can’t help myself. “Uh, ‘loose morals’?”     “Oh, you know. Hooking up, sleeping around, whatever you want to call it. Her grandkid may be a pre-teen, but I doubt she’s as naïve as that lady thinks she is.” Her giant silver earrings clang like cymbals as she shakes her head in disgust. “Just let the kid read Gossip Girl or whatever she wants! At least those books are more realistic. Persuasion? Please.”     “In case you’ve forgotten,” intervenes Julia, “We work at a book store, implying we know much about good books. You’d rather have that woman purchase Gossip Girl over Jane Austen, Eryn? Seriously?”     Completely unfazed by however much the boss may have heard, Eryn simply shrugs. “For her purposes, yes. She didn’t buy Persuasion because her granddaughter is an Austen fan. She’s imposing her relationship values on her, because she can’t stand the fact that her granddaughter’s mother is unmarried.”     “How do you know that?” Julia asks, incredulous.     “Well, as much as I’d love to claim I know everything about our regulars, Mrs. Jensen is a friend of my mother’s and goes to our church.” She pauses, and then adds, “I mean my parent’schurch,” as if to clear up any misconceptions that Eryn might be a churchgoer as well.     “I see.” Something tells me that Julia and Eryn have a tendency to clash like this on a regular basis. If this is the case, I may take my cues from Morgan, who has been silently shelving and re-shelving the children’s section this whole time, and remain an unbiased observer.     This may not be such a boring job after all.

Repost: Rape is nothing to joke about

This is a re-posting of a previous blog entry about comedian Daniel Tosh's rape jokes, which I cleaned up for a writing contest. I think it's way better than the original (but what do I know?) ;)


A certain episode of “Tosh.0,” starring comedian Daniel Tosh, making a rape joke has circulated the internet hundred-fold, and drawn critiques from two different camps: the "it's just comedy, lighten up" camp, and the "some things should never be joked about, ever" camp.
For those who haven't heard, here is what happened: Tosh made a series of generalizing comments about rape jokes being hilarious. A woman in the crowd became outraged, and called him out in the middle of the show: "Actually, rape is never funny!" Tosh fired back, "Wouldn't it be hilarious if, like, five guys just raped her right now?" Maniacal laughter ensued.
You may be thinking that the likelihood of a gang rape occurring in the middle of a comedy act is next to zero. However, it doesn’t matter if the threat of violence was real or not: that comment was meant to "put her in her place," so to speak, which it did: the woman ran straight for the nearest exit.

Why do we tell oppressive jokes? A better question: why do we find oppressive jokes funny?

There are tasteful ways to use humor to promote social examination of serious issues. But there are some lines that should not be crossed when it comes to comedy. When the end result of a joke is further oppression, and further promotion of already existing stereotypes, the joke is no longer funny. It's cruel.

Before you go on to accuse me of stomping on the First Amendment, consider the effect that rape jokes, like those made by Daniel Tosh, have on a society that is already poisoned by rape culture. It's very similar to the reason it's frowned upon to yell "Fire!" in a crowded theater.

Rape jokes trivialize a devastating, life-altering event. It’s racist and inappropriate to make jokes about lynch mobs; why is it not prejudiced and inappropriate to make jokes about other acts of violence?

Rape jokes can potentially justify further violence. However, if a woman was raped outside the set of Tosh.0, Daniel Tosh is not to be held liable. At the same time, a man of his influence is not doing victims any favors by perpetuating a "She was asking for it" mentality. She interrupted a comedy show? She's "asking" to get raped. She wore a short skirt to a club? She clearly wants to get laid. She left her drink unattended? She should have known what was coming to her. There may not be direct causation between Tosh's jokes and men who go and commit rape, but there is definite correlation.

Sadly, Daniel Tosh is far from the only symptom of what is wrong with society's response to rape. We live in a culture that makes it acceptable for these jokes to be told, and look what happened: Tosh’s ratings increased. We live in a culture where making fun of violence is okay, and we forget that the victims can just as easily be people we know. We may already know these victims, but men like Tosh have shamed them into silence.

"Public Displays of Convention" chapter 5

Missed chapter 4? And 3, 2, and 1? Catch up here!      “Fake it till you make it” has become my current motto. If I surround myself with bigger priorities, like seeking a job or possibly an internship, the less likely I’ll be to commiserate my lonely single life further. It seems an unlikely possibility at the moment, but reality will hit me at the end of these remaining weeks of my final semester of college if I don’t start looking for opportunities now.      Unfortunately, there’s not much out there for an English Literature major with no desire to teach, but I apply for everything I can find. The hardest part is waiting.      It’s a pleasant surprise when, only a few days after submitting an application, I receive a phone call from a woman named Julia who wants to interview me for a staff position at Book Nook. At present, there is no way I can refuse.      Julia, my potential new boss, appears to be in her early thirties. In typical bookkeeping fashion, she is wearing a grey pencil skirt and black cardigan that somehow doesn’t make her curvy frame look too dowdy. Her thick blonde hair is knotted behind her head and held together with a pencil.      She’d be completely out of place if this were a trendy Barnes & Noble, but Book Nook is a historic building converted into a shop with floors that creak and shelves that bear the markings of all the business owners who used them since the late eighteen-hundreds. Being the literary nerd that I am, I can see myself here easily.      “Your application is impressive,” Julia tells me. “You are graduating in May?”     “Correct.”     “With a degree in English Literature and a minor in Creative Writing?”     “Yes.”     “Well that’s it, then. I’d love for you to start as soon as possible. This store desperately needs employees who believe in what they’re selling. It’s hard, you know, trying to interest people in print media when everything is electronic now…” she shakes her head distastefully.      We shake hands, and I walk out completely bewildered by what just happened, and so quickly. This is the first glimmer of hope I’ve had since Jared left. It’s small, but it’s something. Now all that’s left to do is graduate. The sooner I do that, the sooner I can formulate a plan to get the hell out of here.     No sooner than I found myself employed did Tess discover news of her own. “I’m volunteering with my church at an orphanage in India!” she glowed when we met for coffee later this afternoon.      For Tess, whose faith has always seemed superior to my own, this is a perfect opportunity for her. “That’s great,” I tell her, sipping my latte. “For how long?”     That’s when her face starts to lose its gleeful shine. “It’s all summer,” she says, staring into her cup. “I feel bad, after what you’ve been through. I should stay –”     “Don’t you dare.” I feel bad too, realizing I don’t whole-heartedly mean what I just said. Tess should go to India, but deep down I know I’m selfish enough to want her to stay and help me move on from Jared. These situations are what best friends are for; but what kind of friend would I be if I kept her from pursuing her dream? “Those orphans need you way more than I do. Seriously, I’ll be fine. Now that I have a job, I’ll be too busy to think about my broken heart.”     Her smile is definitely full of relief. “Thanks, AK. I’ll send you letters, I promise. And I know you’ll be okay.”     I know you’ll be okay. I repeat those words over and over, hoping the repetition will stick and become true. I’m sure it will as more time passes. Until then, ordinary tasks like making my bed and washing my hair feel mundane and purpose-less when I remember that Jared doesn’t love me anymore. It’s a defeatist way of thinking, but it permeates my every thought and move.     Collin is standing outside my door when I return from coffee with Tess. I want to believe he was just about to knock when I showed up, and hadn’t parked himself there, after not receiving an answer, deciding to wait for me to come back. No, he’s not creepy like that. I hope.     Whatever the circumstance, seeing him nearly scared the crap out of me. “Don’t freak out now, AK-47,” he chirps. “I just wanted to stop by and say hello.”     “Stop by and say hello”? For some reason I have a hard time believing this, but decide to play along anyway. “It’s not fair,” I say, attempting to sound coy. “You have such a convenient nickname for me, but I don’t have one for you.”     This isn’t doing much to stop our apparent flirting game, but I’ve wanted to mention it for a long time. He’s nicknamed me so I can never live down the way we met. If nothing else, I need a clever name for him just to put him in his place.      “Oh, something might come to you eventually.” It’s ludicrous, and extremely frustrating, how tingly that cocky smile of his makes me feel. Even if it’s probably used to flatter countless girls everywhere he goes.      Part of me wants to stick around and continue this banter further, but he has an annoying habit of finding me when it’s getting late, my defenses are down, and I need to get some sleep. I have to say “Goodnight” about five times before he gets the message and leaves – though I almost didn’t want him to, for no other reason except that he’s an attractive guy who has taken notice of me. Pathetic.     If he keeps this up long enough, who knows: my defenses might end up collapsing completely. If I were smarter and bolder, I’d tell him upfront that I’m in the agonizing process of recovering from a broken heart, and these impromptu flirting sessions are nothing but a distraction (I know I’d be lying if I said unwanteddistraction). But doing so feels risky, because it will make me look weak and vulnerable: a perfect target for a rebound fling.      As it is, Collin’s parting hugs are torturous and might be the death of me one day. He always initiates them, and I don’t immediately pull away – ugh, how long has it been since I’ve been held like this? Then his hand starts rubbing my back, slowly and gently, and his other hand is on my neck, so lightly it sends a shiver down my spine. He seems to sense that, and only draws me closer, tighter, and starts to trace my jawline before tucking a stray curl behind my ear…all the while, in the silent oblivion of my troubled mind, I scream do NOT look up at him, do NOT look up, because I’m positive he will kiss me if I do. Luckily, the common sense side of me is running efficiently enough to tell me that should never, ever happen.     Tempted beyond reason, I manage to pull away and say “Goodnight Collin” a sixth time, and the last. Closing the door on his slightly disappointed face stirs a strange sensation of pride; I’m relieved to know I’m not a girl who is desperate enough to cling like a leech on flesh to the first person who makes me feel attractive and worthy once again.

When bad reviews happen to aspiring writers: a pep talk

It's finally happened...every writer's worst nightmare. The time when someone who doesn't know you has something negative to say about your book. Or, in my case, gives a 1-star rating without a review (yet) that affects the overall star average on Goodreads. For those of us who have spent our entire lives dreaming of becoming writers, this can be tragic.

Or is it? On the one hand, negative book reviews can provide opportunities for growth. If something about my plot really was weak, a constructive critique can help me improve as a writer. But sometimes there is nothing helpful to be gleaned, and that is a time when I need to realize that I can't please everyone. What some readers hate about my book(s), others may love the most about them. There are negative reviews for JK Rowling, Stephen King, Jane Austen, and other writers that the majority of society considers "great." But then there are books that many bibliophiles admit are not very well-written, yet they still sell in droves (even Snooki from Jersey Shore is a "best-selling" author now).

So this raises a valid question...what is good writing, and how can I learn it?

The answer to that question is highly subjective, and always will be. But part of solving that mystery lies in what genre you choose to write about. Certain genres demand certain expectations. As a YA writer, that's not easy to pin down, as young adults can find themselves in mysteries, romances, fantasy, etc. I know what I like, and it's rare for me to read a book in a genre I enjoy and hate everything about it. But clearly, not every enjoyable book is classified as a favorite.

For me, "good writing" is more about the author than the structure. If the author really enjoys what they do, it will show up in their work. Guaranteed. It's the difference between having a teacher who truly loves her students, and an older, tenured professor who keeps showing up just to collect his retirement. Writers see the world differently, and hopefully our books will attest to that fact.

There's no such thing as a truly original plot; only repeated plots with unique twists. I enjoy those books, but I also enjoy books that are more focused on character development than plot, and affirm the human experience...books that expertly capture love, loneliness, anger, and personal growth as only someone who has been there can. A book doesn't have to be "original" for me to enjoy it; if I can relate to a character, and close the book with a comforting sense that I'm not alone, the author has done his/her job well.

It's easier for me to characterize "good books" over "bad books." Obviously I'm biased when it comes to my own. I write about what's important to me, which is all I can do. All books have traits that are quirky and interesting to some readers, and complete turn-offs to others...just like people do.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 4

Enjoy chapter 4 of "Public Displays of Convention"! Catch up on previous chapters here.


     Spring-cleaning has come early this year. It felt so liberating to take down all the pictures, delete all the emails, and erase Jared’s contact information from my phone. However, there are still the contents of my “memento box” to deal with. Much more personal than photographs and text messages, this is a box that contains artifacts from every person who has ever meant something special to me: birthday and Christmas cards from Tess, the collar that belonged to my first pet, even the ticket stub from the movie I saw with my first boyfriend back in ninth grade.      The majority of the contents in this box actually aren’t from Jared, but there are enough birthday cards and pictures of him to keep me away for now. I don’t trust myself to throw those things away without reliving the way I felt when I first received them. Doing so would crush me all over again, even though he’s been nothing like the person who sent them for a long, long time.     After another tiring day of class, I come back to the dorm with the intent of going to bed early. My plans are thwarted by an unexpected distraction: Collin is in the lounge, talking to a guy who lives down the hall. To say I’m shocked is quite an understatement. I wait in the stairwell for a few minutes, but it doesn’t seem like he’s leaving any time soon. There is no choice but to walk briskly past him, and pray I’m not recognized.     Just when I think I sneaked by unnoticed, I hear him call out “Hey, AK-47! What are you doing here?”     I grit my teeth and stiffly reply, “I live here.”     “Oh yeah? Well I live here too, three floors up! I was just visiting my buddy Eric here.”     The guy I presume to be Eric stands up, informing Collin he’s stepping outside for a smoke. How convenient. Once he leaves, it’s just the two of us alone in the lounge. I can’t explain how or why, but I think I’m starting to smell trouble.     “Nice pin” Collin tells me, pointing to the mockingjay on my bag. “Big Hunger Games fan, huh? That’s cute.”     I’m about to defend my strong devotion to the series, but decide against it at the last second. Now that we are out of the cold, he’s wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt. “Says the guy with Lion King characters tattooed on his arm,” I retort.      “Well I’ll have you know that Lion King was the last movie I got to watch with my grandpa before he died. Mufasa reminds me of him.”     Holy crap. “I…wow, I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry –”      “Psyche! My grandpa is still alive. I just wanted to see your reaction.”     “You’re an ass-hat.”     “Aww, come on now. Can you at least admit I’m a cute ass-hat?”     “Well,” I stumble. “I guess, since you said my pin was cute…”     Wait wait wait – am I flirtingwith this guy? Someone I only met two days ago? And is he flirting with me? What am I doing?     It’s quite shameless, open flirting. There is no way to deny otherwise. I am completely without excuse, other than having my heart blasted to smithereens by the man I loved for the last four years, rendering me temporarily senseless. I’m not the sort of girl who goes looking for rebounds, but I can’t stop myself from feeling oddly flattered by Collin’s unexpected attention. Dangerously, dangerously flattered.     Having stood up and moved closer to me during this exchange, I realize Collin is close enough to kiss me. Something in his manner tells me if I were to look up at him the right way, it could happen. If I were truly calculating and shameless, I could play this so we end up not only making out, but going back to his room or mine, for God knows what.      With a clearer mind now than when we first met, I notice he is attractive, in a nerdy sort of way. The giant Mufasa tattoo on his bicep is kind of a turn-off, simply because it’s too big for my taste; the thought of what that will look like in twenty years makes me cringe. This banter has been amusing, but something in my gut is telling me Collin is more of a charmer than a serious dater. I don’t need any charmers right now.     Clearing my throat, I tell him “We should go to bed.” His eyes widen, and I instantly realize my idiot mistake. “Go to bed separately,” I clarify. “It’s almost ten o’clock.” Good grief, could I sound dumber if I tried?     “Right, right,” he replies, laughing. Honestly, I don’t get the impression that he would have objected if I meant what I’d originally said.      Reaching out with both hands, he holds my arms like he’s about to pull me toward him. My breath quickens, and I keep my gaze focused on the floor so there’s no temptation to kiss him. Before I can say anything else, he folds me into a quick hug that almost turns me to Jello. He breaks away just as quickly with an abrupt “Goodnight!” and disappears down the hall, toward the elevator. I do the same, to my end of the hall, not allowing myself to think too deeply on what just happened, or could have happened.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 3

Catch up on previous chapters under the "Books by Sarahbeth" tab. After two weeks of sulking, I resolve to start positive today. I think I cried more during those two weeks than I did in the last year. At first it felt good to let out that pent-up, overdue grief, but after a while my body ached, and I actually began to crave productivity.     Or at least I thought I did. I made the mistake of checking my email before class this morning, something I don’t usually do because it ends up making me late. My heart leapt into my throat when I saw a new message from Jared, and without Tess there to hold me accountable, I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to delete it without reading it.      My day had barely started, but these words have now been seared into my mind: “You’re just going to act like a child and delete me from your life, is that how it’s going to be?” I can’t imagine what more he has to gain by keeping me around. He has someone else now, what does he need me for? Does he really think I’ll be fine with simply being “friends”? Or, more likely, does he enjoy the hold he knows he still has over me?     I won’t respond to his message now, if at all. Not when my emotions are all stirred up again. Turning off my computer, I grab my bag and head to class, but at the end of the lecture, I barely remember any of it. I’m angry all over again; just when I thought the worst part of the grieving had passed.     This is how I know just how deeply I am wounded: after changing into sweatpants and an old T-shirt, I walk briskly toward the campus track and start jogging. I hate jogging; Jared knew this. The only thing that can propel me to move faster than speed walking is someone chasing me with a sharp object.      I probably look like a crazed idiot, but adrenaline compels me to keep pounding against the pavement, not caring who sees. I imagine fleeing from every dark moment with Jared that made me question my worth, and I imagine that I’m running him over.      Actually, I do succeed in running someone over. It must not be a great idea to run when your heart is splintering, when all you see in front of you is pure red. The unexpected thud of my face meeting someone else’s chest happens so suddenly, we both collapse on the ground in an ungraceful heap. Wind bursts out of my lungs so painfully I can’t respond for several minutes when a male voice asks, “Are you okay?”     Completely embarrassed, I fervently nod yes. “I – I’m all right. Just a…a little shocked.”      How sad that this man should know I’m a terrible liar before even knowing my name. “You don’t look all right. You look upset.”     His concern is not unwarranted, but it irks me anyway. “I’m just not used to jogging.”     “Yeah, well I’m not used to running into pretty girls who look like they’re about to implode. What’s your name?”     Did he just call me pretty? “I’m Anna-Kate.”                                     “Nice to meet you, Anna. I’m Collin.”     I sigh heavily, having to correct someone yet again for not understanding my double-barreled first name, the bane of my miserable existence. “No, it’s Anna-Kate. It’s hyphenated.”     “Ahh, one of those girls. Okay, Anna-Kate. Is it okay if I call you AK? No, wait.” A menacing twinkle sparkles in his eyes. “I think I’ll call you AK-47 for the way you clobbered me.”     On a better day, under completely different circumstances, I might have found this amusing. But not today. “Umm, yeah, whatever.” Not like it matters. After this confrontation, the most awkward, literal confrontation of my life, it doesn’t matter what he calls me since I’m highly unlikely to ever see him again.     Reluctantly, I allow Collin to help me up. “Shoot straight next time,” he says, and with a strange wink he proceeds to sprint away, leaving me to hobble on a scraped knee back to my dorm. I hope I never run into – I mean, see him, again. It’s a decent-sized campus, so I suppose the odds of that are in my favor.     After I’ve showered and made myself a cup of tea, I sit down to tackle Jared’s email. After careful consideration, I type, “We both know that what we had wasn’t healthy, and I need to get over you. So if you love me like you say you do, please just leave me alone.” Without any hesitation, I click the “send” button. Still, I wonder now if I said too much, or perhaps not enough to accurately convey the hurt I feel. As furious as I am, I don’t want to appear scathing or vindictive. I can’t let him think that I’ll wither into a bitter, shriveled excuse for a woman because I don’t have him anymore. I should be done caring what he thinks.     Perhaps I should have been clearer that this separation is meant to be permanent. I should have left no doubt that he is not welcome in my life anymore, with or without a new girlfriend in the picture. But even if he tries to crawl back into my good graces, hopefully by then I will reach a point where the thought of taking him back is not the slightest bit tempting.

No heritage left behind? Post-"conversion" thoughts

My first book "Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter" has undergone a slight makeover recently. I finally got around to correcting the grammatical errors that aren't uncommon for a first-time, self-published author's debut. This meant re-reading the entire manuscript with fresher eyes, and as I did so, I realized a few things. Mainly, I don't quite have the same strong beliefs as I did when I first wrote it. I'm also more confident in other beliefs that I was still unsure about at publication time.

Considering the book is barely two years old, it surprises me how much has changed since then. But living at seminary will do that to you. As a "baby Christian" explaining how my spiritual turnabout happened, I wrote as if I was trying to convince myself that Christianity was the ultimate fulfillment of Judaism. This is what my new Christian friends told me, and it made me feel slightly better about myself. I didn't have to compromise as much as I thought. Christianity and Judaism cross paths with each other in history: no one can argue that. The change would not be as radical if, say, I was going from Judaism to Hinduism.

But the "Jewish Christian" or "Hebrew Christian" label never sat well with me. In fact, I didn't really understand why it was so important to hold on to something -- anything -- Jewish in the first place. Never in my life have I ever been a "religious Jew." I suppose it had more to do with appeasing my family and remaining Jewish friends; I didn't want them thinking I went completely off the deep end.

Then seminary happened. My immersion into Christian culture has been, shall we say, not so graceful. "Christian-ese" language, and pretty much everything having to do with Christian culture, drove me nuts. And that makes sense, considering I spent most of my life making fun of it. Now I'm a Christian, and I'm supposed to forget how it made me feel to hear people talk about me being a "non-believer," as if I didn't believe in anything, and hearing phrases like "bathed in the blood," which just sounds cult-ish and creepy to people outside the church? This language was so off-putting to me then, and it still is now. In addition to not knowing what any of it meant, it also implied an air of exclusivity: "First you join our club, then we'll let you know what we're talking about."

Okay, so it's not like Jewish culture doesn't have its own "air of exclusivity," with words like "kvetch" that sound like a sneeze to gentile ears. What can I say? I know I'm biased.

I started to long for my Jewish culture again -- because there's more spice and history in words like "chutzpah" than in any other "ism" I've heard in church (personal opinion). Quite honestly, I miss having Jewish friends: to joke with, to commiserate with, to bond with. But to miss the culture is to ultimately miss the religion itself: something I didn't completely internalize until my father got really sick this summer, and I had to fly back to Ohio. It felt like a metaphorical return to my roots: something I owed to myself after trying to assimilate in foreign territory for so long.

Long story short: it just isn't that easy.

Some of my Christian friends at seminary will still try to convince me I can have it both ways: they try to tell me I'm a "completed Jew." I've been called a heretic for strongly disagreeing with that wording. Only those who have grown up Jewish, or studied the religion immensely, can understand just how much one gives up when they decide to embrace Christianity. I don't regret this decision at all, because I love the Christian theology of God becoming man so he can relate to me on my level. I love that so much, I am now willing to accept that such a theology is incompatible with Jewish theology. Maintaining a love for Jewish culture and being a descendant of Jewish heritage are one thing, but spiritually speaking, I know I cut myself off.

It's irrelevant to me that Jesus didn't intend to create another religion when he started his ministry. Judaism and Christianity evolved in separate directions anyway, and that is the reality we must work with.

It's not enough to convince a Jewish person that Jesus is the real Messiah: the Jewish teachings about sin are different from Christianity's, as are the doctrines about the afterlife, suffering, etc. It makes me angry how "Messianic Jews" (in my experience, the people who use this title are actually full-blooded gentiles who "have a heart" for Judaism) dismiss all that, as if it's all so simple. It's not. Theology -- any theology -- is already messy, but combining two religions as one is even messier. Not to mention impossible.

Of course, people who disagree are free to believe what they want. I just have to put my foot down when it comes to the evangelism tactic that Jews can become Christian and not lose Judaism. Yes, talk about Jesus' Jewish ancestry and what he set out to do, but couching Christianity in Jewish terms is deceptive, plain and simple.

I still wonder about the "What is a Jew" debate, and how much of Judaism, if anything, I can still claim as my own. But that doesn't mean I can't still appreciate it for what it is, and "visit" my roots by rereading my collection of Jewish books. It feels good to be somewhat more at peace with what I believe, even if complete contentment is highly unlikely in this life. Such is the summary of every conversion story: you can't ever leave your heritage behind.

"Public Displays of Convention" chapter 2

The paperback version of "Public Displays of Convention" is undergoing some maintenance, but the ebook version is up and running on Amazon. Here's chapter 2 (all previous chapters will be posted under the "Books by Sarahbeth" tab).


     I crashed on Tess’ couch that night. After only three hours of sleep, my appearance in the morning matched the way I felt. I would have slept longer, skipping my morning class, if only there wasn’t a quiz.     My day is miserable. I wander absent-mindedly through campus, ducking into every restroom I pass when I can’t maintain a straight face. I wish I could be the kind of woman who may be going through hell, but is able to put on a façade of complacency so no one suspects a thing. But there is no way I can ever be that person.     Back at Tess’ apartment, she has prepared an evening of sappy chick flicks and not one, but two cartons of Ben and Jerry’s. I wear my designated “fat pants” for this night of unabashedly consuming my feelings. I also haven’t showered in two days, so now I know I look as gross on the outside as I feel on the inside.      Nonetheless, I’m surprised I can actually laugh at the movie we’re watching. Tess’ roommate brings over a small group of friends later that evening, and I am instantly embarrassed. Had I known that more people would be coming, I would have made more of an effort to look somewhat presentable. I think, judging by some of the looks I got, they are able to see that something isn’t right. Thankfully, no one asked or said anything to me.     When the movie ends, I’m still stuffing my face with Doritos, which Tess has to forcefully pry from me – “Enough, Anna-Kate!” She then has to literally pull me up off the couch. “You and I have something we need to do.”      “I can’t move,” I tell her. “I think I gained ten pounds in the last two hours.” Surprisingly, the other guests laugh, though somewhat cautiously.      “Glad to see your sense of humor is back,” quips Tess. “Now up!”     Reluctantly I stand, and a pile of crumbs fall from my lap (which I promise to clean up later). We leave our friends in the living and go to Tess’ room, where she closes the door and pulls out her laptop. “You ready for this?” she asks as it boots up.     “No, but what choice do I have?” We sit on the floor, and I draw my knees up to my chest, trying in vain not to start up the tears again.     “Do you want me to do it?” she asks gently.     “Please.”     The most I do is log in to my Facebook account, praying Jared is not online and hasn’t left me any messages that will cause me to lose my nerve – but I don’t think Tess will allow that to happen. Once that’s done – no messages waiting in my inbox – the rest is up to her, and I turn away so as not to catch any unwanted but curious glimpses of recently uploaded pictures of this new woman of his. With just a few clicks, Tess has ceremoniously removed him from my friend’s list, and un-sarcastically tells me “All done. I’m proud of you.”     “I didn’t exactly do anything,” I say.     “Well, you provided your account information, so if nothing else, that makes you an enabler of long-anticipated closure.”      “Long-anticipated” is an understatement. Breaking up with Jared should have been done years ago. There are so many regretful “should have” thoughts swirling in my head that I decide against contacting him by other means to speak my final piece; some kind of well-scripted monologue about how I’ll be a better woman without him, after which I saunter off with unmistakable confidence. That’s not the woman I feel like right now. I doubt I could even pretendto pull it off.     It helps to have friends like Tess – friends who aren’t afraid to tell you that the man you loved for four years really was a scumbag; that the woman he’s with now is probably a ditzy airhead blonde with a ditzy, airhead name like Candy, who never graduated college and works part-time at a tanning salon. More than that, the now-nameless man I used to love has damned himself to a lifetime of grief with this new woman, who has undoubtedly trapped him into a relationship by getting knocked-up accidentally-on-purpose.     It’s nice to have friends like Tess, who draw up these ridiculous stories to make you feel better, even if you think the real reason the love of your life left you is because you aren’t good enough.

Free Preview Friday: Public Displays of Convention, chapter 1

Starting this new idea to advertise my third book, Public Displays of Convention: now available on Amazon! Every Friday will be a "Free preview Friday," where I'll post a chapter excerpt -- first half of the book only. Enjoy chapter one this week for free!


Today marks the beginning of my New Normal.     Today, my worst nightmare is confirmed. The bottom half of my world drops instantly after reading the following message, barely an hour old on my phone: “Just wanted to tell you I’m seeing someone else now. Still care about you, though. Jared.”     I stare at the message for a full ten minutes, thinking over and over, is this real? Our conversation from the previous afternoon is still fresh in my mind. If he cares about me as much as he claims to, how could he not have told me about this then? How could he drop this revelation on me in such a flippant, undignified way? The humiliation of this – the lack of an honorable face-to-face explanation – is more painful than the breakup itself. Anger simmers in my gut; boils into my lungs. Four years, wasted. My entire college experience.     It’s late, but sleep is completely out of the question tonight, and there’s only one person to call.      “Tess?” I say when she answers.  “Can I come over? I – I need to talk.”      In best-friend-speak, this clearly means “I’m in the middle of an emergency.” Never mind that it’s barely been a few hours since we last saw each other. I feel terrible for imposing like this, but am not surprised when she says, “Of course you can, honey. You can even stay over if you want.”     She’s a godsend, Tess Olsen – my best friend since fourth grade, and the only person I know who talks about Jesus the way most people talk about their crushes. Under her photo in our senior yearbook, where students shared their career goals, all she wrote was her ambition to become a “Proverbs 31 Woman,” with a husband and football team of children. She still has a box of letters to her future husband underneath her bed, per our teenage youth group assignment. I did that too for a while, but then gave up because…well, I had Jared.     As her devotion deepened with age, mine seemed to waver, but she’s never judged or condemned me for it. So, somehow, our friendship still works.     I can’t stop shaking as I pack my school bag with some overnight necessities and a change of clothes. With uneven breath, I dive straight into snowy oblivion.     Tess’ apartment would only be a five-minute walk in normal weather, but the thick wall of snow – unusual for the end of March – makes each step heavy, and I’m a little disoriented with the wind whipping brutally at my face. Still, adrenaline keeps me trudging on.      As tears begin to freeze on my cheeks, only one thought repeats: Why couldn’t I be the one to move on first? It sounds shamefully petty, but it’s devastatingly true. I knew Jared could never be “The One,” but I clung to him anyway, thinking it was such an honor to be chosen by a visually stunning, impossibly charming, seemingly genuine man like him. Yet, there was never a time I felt secure enough to believe I was good enough; the thought of being cast off for a woman who could match his allures was always imminent. What a self-fulfilling prophecy that was.     Finally, I see Tess through the glass windows of her apartment lobby, and that’s when I officially lose it. Once inside her apartment, she places a box of Kleenex and a glass of water in front of me on the kitchen table, and waits for the story to begin.      Once I start talking, the words come out in such a sloppy, tangled mess. I’m amazed she can comprehend any of it. She knows the basic story: how we met at the party of a mutual friend early in my freshman year. I was barely legal; he had just turned twenty-one, and it was love (infatuation? lust?) immediately after “Nice to meet you.”      But there is much that she doesn’t know; much I made sure she’d never know: the way he’d tell me my opinions were ridiculous; my clothes were either too loose or too tight, revealing too much of a tempting figure, or too much of a too-fat one. The way he refused to introduce me to his other friends, or tell me anything about his family.      I expect Tess to be angry for withholding all this from her. For a while she’d had inklings that something “wasn’t right,” but I was so careful about keeping his dark side a secret, I don’t think she had enough evidence to stage an intervention with me. By the time I finish speaking, she looks very near tears herself.     “I feel so worthless,” I whisper.      She shakes her head. “If only you could see what I see, Anna-Kate” she whispers back. Like a child I lay my head against her shoulder, tears still gushing. I can’t believe it’s happening like this. I knew the end had to happen sometime, and soon – but not like this. I always thought I would handle it with tact and grace. This is just pathetic.      “Does anyone else know about this?” Tess asks.      I don’t quite know how to answer without sounding like a fool. There were other friends, like Carrie and Liv, who knew bits and pieces of this anti-love story as it tragically unfolded, but not any more than Tess knows. I rarely talk to Carrie since she transferred schools, and I stopped mentioning Jared to Liv when, sensing my love for him was greater than his ever was for me, she told me “You’re such a smart girl, AK. But you’re acting really dumb right now.”      Actually, that comment was enough for me to distance myself from her entirely. Now I realize how true it was, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.      I shake my head at Tess to say “No.”     “I know you’re feeling worthless right now,” she says. “But your worth does not depend on him. Please believe that.”     I want to. I really, really want to. But Liv was right – I was a smart girl acting very, very stupid. Every date, every kiss with a man I knew all along was not “The One” was all to feel a little less lonely, a little more secure. And it worked for nearly four years, most of the time. I disgusted myself then; I’m more disgusted now.Check back next week for Chapter 2!