Mark Twain

Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.


Dorothy Parker

Ducking for apples - change one letter and it's the story of my life.


Bertrand Russell

There is much pleasure to be gained from useless knowledge.

Musings and such


2005-06-05 at 10:02 p.m.

I have a confession to make.

When I left El Paso seven years ago, I swore I was leaving for good. It had been my dream for years to leave that dusty-ass town and move somewhere cool like Boston.

I mellowed over time and, as late as last year, I was thinking about moving back, but only if a good opportunity presented itself. I wasn't committed, but I wasn't ruling it out like I had been in the past. I was keeping all options opened.

Then my dad had his accident and, three days later, my mom told me. Then he had his second heart attack and it took me an entire day to get back to El Paso. When my flight was delayed out of Chicago, I nearly had an attack myself. I kept thinking, "What if he dies before I can get to him? Will he know how much I love him?"

I sat in my airplane, in a holding pattern over Chicago until the plane almost ran out of fuel and then I sat at the gate in O'Hare for another intermidable amount of time, worried and upset because I couldn't remember the last thing I had said to my father before his accident.

When I finally got to El Paso, it fell to me to sit at my unconscious father's side all day long, day after day, because my mom and my brother were lucky enough to be able to escape to work. So, I stayed to talk to the doctors and nurses and to receive all the people who poured in to see my father. And there were a lot. I found myself woodenly repeating the same story over and over again, going over my father's injuries with a clinical, detached air, graciously accepting the same hollow condolences again and again with a smile and a brief, perfunctory hug.

But I was still alone a lot in my father's room, with nothing but the beeps and howls of the equipment that kept him alive for company, and while I sat there, I thought. I thought about a lot of things, like my relationship with my dad, I tortured myself with memories of every fight we ever had and, when I couldn't take that anymore, I comforted myself with good memories, funny stories and happy moments.

While I sat in ICU, I decided that there was no way I could go through any of this again. I couldn't have the hours of uncertainty, the long, agonizing flight home, the fear that every time I checked my voice mail when the plane landed, I would get a message I didn't want to hear. I couldn't handle it. I needed to be close to my family so I could be only minutes away instead of hours or days.

So, I thought to myself that I should definitely return home. This way, I reasoned, if my father died and my mom didn't tell me, at least I'd figure it out when I didn't see him for a day or two. And I'd save travel costs. Win, win.

The problem is, over the last several months, something remarkable has been happening over here in New York. I am beginning to come into my own here. I used to think I should return to El Paso because I had roots there. But you know, I have roots here now, too. I have good friends and a burgeoning career. People have point blank told me that they don't want me to leave. And not the insincere crap, either. Unsolicited "don't go" speeches. Over at the place where I'm interning, they've said they would hire me if they had the chance.

I love that I'm a person here wholly separated from my parents and their influence. I love that I'm respected because of what I've done, not who my parents or my brother are. I love that here I'm me and not an extension of anyone else. I love the feeling of pride it gives me. I'm the best I've ever been right now, right here.

And I don't want to move back to El Paso. I don't want to be the daughter of..., or the sister of... I don't want to live in a dry, brown, dirty, dusty place, the third fastest growing city in the nation, which essentially means that there's one Starbucks for every 3.5 people and a Krispy Creme to cement its status as metropolitan city. I don't want to live in a place with sunshine 360 days out of the year, where there's no water and no one speaks English, so I'd have to learn Spanish to do my job.

I don't want to live next to a foreign city that boasts over 400 unsolved murders of women and a bustling drug trade. I don't want to have to watch my back at night or travel with a can of mace and a whistle. And I sure as hell don't want to live in a red state filled with Republicans, horrible public schools, massively underfunded libraries and grinding poverty.

I'll miss seasons and grass and flowers and green, green everywhere. And winters, as horrible as they are, I'll miss all the people I've met and the strange little quirks of living in Central New York, Entmann's bakery, black and white cookies, Hillary Clinton and being in a blue state that actually cares about education and, even though it's still not as good as it should be, funding libraries. And most importantly, I'll miss me.

Because I know if I move back to El Paso, I'll be the daughter and the sister again. All the growing I've done up here won't matter because I'll still be the idiot who got stuck in the lazy susan, the girl who threw fits and was very demanding. I'll still be the daughter and the sister who hated waking up in the morning and was never on time for anything, the kind of person you wouldn't trust with simple tasks or driving.

I'm massively conflicted. I don't know what to do and it's driving me nuts. Mom has gotten very good and the wistful little sighs and meaningful silences whenever I mention that I might not want to move back, she wants me home. I might be able to deal with disappointing her on that front with minimal guilt if it wasn't for one small fact.

I don't trust her. I love my mother and I know she's a good person, someone I admire. But I still don't trust her. I had a completely normal conversation on the phone with her while my father was in ICU, after his first heart-attack and she never mentioned ONCE what had happened. She said she didn't have the emotional strength to do it. I kind of understand, but I don't care. SHE SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME THAT NIGHT and she didn't, so I don't trust her. And my brother, lord love him, is an idiot. He is the king of avoiding anything unpleasant or anything that makes him uncomfortable.

I talked to my dad about this because of all the people in my family, he's always been the one I can talk to because he's the most like me and he told me, "Baby, do what's right for you. Don't worry about me or your mom. Worry about you." But I don't think I could ever forgive myself if something happened to one of my parents or my brother and I wasn't there.

So what makes me happy? My family and friends, as stress-inducing as they can be, make me happy. My job makes me happy. My newfound freedom and understanding of myself makes me happy.

So maybe the real question is, "what is best for me?" I can't answer that because I can't separate what's best for me with what's best for my mom, my dad, my friends, my brother, etc. What if what's best for me is making other people happy? Will I become resentful if I move back home? What if I settle for a job I hate when I love what I do here and now? Will I be miserable? Will my friends and family be enough? Will the pros outweigh the cons? I just don't know and it's driving me nuts.

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