One Man’s Prison is Another Man’s Home
Oh, give me a home
Where the buffalo roam
The state song of Kansas is “Home on the Range.” I remember squawking it off-key at the top of my lungs as a child during school concert performances. Growing up in Leavenworth and Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas, you’re always aware of the prisons. There they are. In my child mind I knew it housed and employed people, but that was the extent. In high school my biggest problems (thankfully) were worrying if anyone thought it looked strange that my boyfriend was 6’2” and I was only 5’2” and if I could get the timing right on Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch’s ‘Good Vibrations’ for a cheerleading halftime performance. But, the prisons were there the whole time. I didn’t see what they really meant, the strange juxtaposition against Leavenworth’s charming downtown filled with historic buildings–one man’s idea of home in sharp contract with another.
Watch any military movie and some superior will shout at his enlisted soldier to shape up or he’ll be transferred to Leavenworth (meaning Ft. Leavenworth, which is the U.S. military’s only prison). Our house on post, the one I lived in from second grade until sixth, stood on a hill overlooking the back of the prison. People used to ask our family all the time if we were frightened to live there, and I don’t remember ever being scared. Even as a child I sort of thought the last place an escaped prisoner would want to be is hanging around in the same area he just tried to rid himself of.
Once we moved off post, to The Boss’s House, we were less than a mile from Leavenworth’s federal prison. Nicknamed, “The Big House,” it has housed the likes of Al Capone, Leonard Peltier, and more recently, Michael Vick.
Dahlia Lithwick wrote an amazing piece for Slate that stuck with me as it delves into topics and issues I won’t even begin to pretend I’m intelligent enough to bring up regarding the prison system in the United States. It’s incredibly well written and a must-read. I suppose I give more thought about the justice and sentencing more than the average person because of where I’m from. But, when you pass the federal prison in Leavenworth, one thing that always sticks out to me isn’t the barbed wire, or the guards, or the gates … it’s the buffalo. Some yards from the prisoner’s cages are buffalo roaming, grazing and semi-free.
Since the culture of prison is so engrained in Leavenworth’s society, it comes as no surprise that a friend of mine from my high school graduating class is tied to the prisons. Both his parents were incarcerated during pivotal moments in his life. He broke the cycle and is strong enough and man enough to speak about it today. I’m so proud to share this Q&A a longtime in the making.
Especially now with the holidays approaching it’s the age-old lesson of–it doesn’t matter where you are, someone always has it better, but we must remember those who have it worse. We decided together to keep his identity anonymous, but his story could be anyone. For me, this story is one worth hugging everyone in your life a little tighter and never allowing the past dictate the future.
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A Hipster in Faux-Sheep Clothing
I was at an event a while back and one of the main topics of discussion was the definition of a hipster. Folks, these are not brain surgery conversations. No one is splayed out across an operating table.
The word actually originated in the 1940s, used to describe those on the fringe of society (first used to define the Jazz subculture). But, for argument’s sake, here are a few things that I’ve come up with; all based on my own observations as to what truly defines the modern day hipster (which, by the way, isn’t considered outskirts any longer). Any combination of these items matter and not a whole lot changes the scope with gender (except for noted facial hair).
1. Occupation
2. Attire
3. Overall Appearance
4. Hobbies
5. Ride
6. Family
The Unknown Abyss
How I wonder what you are.
As a child, I was obsessed with outer space. If I had to guess now, it was more likely the idea of a vast universe with all sorts of matter floating around. It intrigued me and filled my mind with curiosity for years, the existential questions of what is really out there, the unknown. Because I’m so familiar with these thoughts in my own mind, I often wonder why is it so scary, the unknown? I’ve always wrestled with it. Now, the full disclosure–after thinking our life was going one way, it’s clearly not.
This was supposed to be our baby year. This was supposed to be my writing year. This was the husband gets a promotion at work year so I could have both the writing and us working on trying for a baby. Then, the economy tanked, just after I’d started up my business.
Then, my husband’s company kept eliminating positions until finally, while I was in California (which you’ll read all about next week) visiting my sister, my husband calmly (err, sort of calmly) told me he’d been laid off. The news was delivered in a tone I recognized from five years prior when I was post-appendectomy with my husband tearing through the Piedmont Hospital hallway screaming, “My wife is throwing up!” and me sitting in the mechanical bed covered in vomit wearing my coke bottle glasses, crying, “I don’t know why you love me!” We really know how to hold it together, the both of us.
It didn’t come as a huge surprise. We’d been waiting for this day for a while, as the writing has been on the wall for ages now. But, if you ignore it enough, it goes away, right? Let me tell you, waiting for the shoe to drop doesn’t make it any less scary. Or easier. So, there’s quite a bit of unknowns at the moment. More than I can begin to wrap my head around.
The Lost Years
I sure liked the Mardi Gras beads.
You know you’re getting older when your dream car becomes a Volvo XC70 and if you came across a pile of moolah you’d buy a front load washer and dryer set. But, I wasn’t always like this–so mapped out. Well, I was in how I grew up, as that was quite controlled with the path mostly laid, but once I broke out of my parents’ house the compass sort of went off kilter for a while.
I think this happens to a lot of children brought up in strict households once they leave home. They go buck effing wild. I’m incredibly thankful that, for me, this occurred pre-internet and youtube boom–but still, I know there are pictures floating around that would make it impossible for me to run for political office (if that was an aspiration of mine, which thankfully, it is not). Most are tame, maybe in the realm of Girls Gone Wild and whatnot, but cringe-worthy nonetheless.
It’s a period in my life that I’m not particularly proud of–about a six-year span (roughly 18 to 23ish). I sort of wish I could forget (parts of it, ironically, are very fuzzy), but I know those moments made me who I am today–the whole me. Never in my life have I been so off course and confused than I was during those years. In short, I was lost. September marks the start of many college freshmen settling into campus life, and potentially the start of the wander off the laid path.
The Long Way Around
Leavenworth, Kansas circa 1800’s-Courtesy of the Command General Staff College of Ft. Leavenworth
When we visited Vancouver earlier this summer there was a chatty store owner talking to my mom, sister and I while we were shopping. She couldn’t fully comprehend how my sister could live in Maryland (she’s since moved to California), my mom in Kansas, and me in Georgia. None of it made sense to her. She kept asking why we didn’t live near each other–we all sort of struggled with an answer, but the easiest one was because of work. Which is true, but only partly.
There is something to be said about small towns. A quaint Main Street with boutiques, a past rich in history, where everyone knows your story. Leavenworth, Kansas, for me, is that place. Although we moved around quite a bit growing up, Leavenworth is (and likely will always be) home. It’s where my parents chose to set roots–where I attended school off of a military post for the first time, where I graduated high school, where friends I have known the longest live, and where my mother still is (with my brother and his family not too far either).
One of the oldest themes in everything from movies to music is the idea of leaving home. You know, putting the past town behind and starting fresh, in a new city. I did that. I left home almost a decade ago at 23 and haven’t returned much besides holiday visits and the occasional baby shower, hometown wedding, or milestone birthday celebration. I left my small town in Kansas in my rear view mirror for a job, which I’ve since also put in the rear view.
And while I look at my Leavenworth with fondness, I do feel a teeter-totter emotion of extreme complacency when I visit. When I go home I see the small town sadness and a desperation that is just not present in my life in Atlanta. Once I arrived here, I quickly came to the realization that I was a very small fish in a very large pond, especially compared to where I came from. I was nervous, scared shitless, excited and totally unprepared for the whirlwind of a life I would have here, those first few years.
From Vet to Vet
My father wanted to be a veterinarian. He was attending Oklahoma State University on a wrestling scholarship, which was one of the only means for him to pay for tuition. His grades weren’t exactly on par with what was expected of collegiate athletes, and what happened to boys flunking out of college in the late 1960s was a little thing called Vietnam. There, my father went from vet to vet. I’ve often wondered how different his life might’ve been had he been a vet of the animal doctor kind instead of the one holding heavy artillery in the Da Nang Delta.
So, it got me thinking about all those moments in life when you’re headed one way and before you can blink, a crossroads occurs. I heard about these a lot when I worked at CNN–the stories of people who were running late to work at the World Trade Center the morning of September 11, 2001, or tourists who barely missed the 2004 Asian Tsunami by coincidently checking out of their hotel within hours of it getting hit. Or horrific outcomes of circumstance like Daniel Pearl who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time asking too many questions. It thankfully turned out differently for The Christian Science Monitor’s Jill Carroll whose updates I followed religiously and have left me wondering now, how that period has changed her life perspective.
But, these acts are all around us, not just on the news. Everyday, to folks much like my father.
They are the weddings being called off countered with those being planned. The teeter-totter of life, or as I call them, the Sliding Door moments. You know, the movie where Gwyneth Paltrow gets fired (or in the movie, “sacked”), in one scenario she misses the train, in the other, she catches it only to find her boyfriend carrying on an affair. Life’s parallel shifts.
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The Cup is Full
The last thing in the world I wanted to have happen when I started this site was for it to stress me out. Make no mistake; I think some level of stress and challenge in life is a good thing. In theory though, this was to be the arena for me to look the most forward to. And right now, if I’m being totally honest, it isn’t. Because this, alongside my other writing gigs, has gotten to be more than I can pull off, for now.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s partly because of this venue that I’ve managed to build up such solid work and for that, I’m very grateful. The full disclosure is this–at the beginning of the summer I went under contract to write a book–ghostwrite, and it, as you can imagine, is quite time consuming (and fantastic). I’ve juggled it thus far, but currently feel I’m not doing anyone any favors (other clients, dog, husband, family, and dirty dishes in the sink included) keeping this pace and this crazed look in my eye.
I always said that when I had my own company I would never want the work to suffer, any part of it. So, I’m slowing down. I’m trying a new format here with once-a-week-postings to publish on Tuesdays. I’d rather publish less often, but let the standard still be there than to go on pretending I’m not checking it off my mental list of articles to write in a week.
Like most changes in life, it’s bittersweet–on one hand I’m hoping it’s temporary, on the other, thrilled at the reality of being so busy at something I created. Until then, continue to enjoy reading, just at a less frantic pace.
Here’s to filling the cup, but not letting it run over.
The Real Slim Shady
When I launched danapop I had no idea that there would actually be someone with the name or a similar name. I mean, you do all the searches for domain stuff, you try to come up with something that’s brandable, and reflective of you … and danapop fit and I had no idea about this Dana Poplawski. A.k.a–Dana Pop (as her friends and coworkers, as best as I can gather, like to call her).
In short, I get hit often with email invites to parties and requests to join groups–she sounds like she has a pretty fabulous life, in all honesty. It reminds me of that Friends episode where Monica’s credit card gets stolen and the person who stole it is having a much better time than she is.
It got me thinking–what about those people who have the unfortunate names of someone else.
My Other Twin
It recently dawned on me that I don’t write much about my marriage. I mean, I feel like at this point, you know quite a bit about my family (brother, sister, twin, mom and dad, and a bit about my extend family on my husband’s side), but not so much about my husband – our life and marriage – and I want to talk about that.
But, oddly enough, in order to do that, I have to begin with my first twin – my birth twin…my sister, because figuratively, the second twin in my life is my husband, which I’ll get to later.
My mother found out in her seventh month of pregnancy that she was expecting twins; can you imagine learning that you had just T minus two months to prepare for dos bambinos…in addition to the six-year-old and four-year-old already at home and a husband who was often away on business…and all without a housekeeper, nanny or BlackBerry – my, oh my, how did women do it then? They must have been made of stronger stuff than me, I think I would pass out on the spot.
But, mine not only did it, she did it well. We’ve all grown up to become semi-productive members of society – no criminal records, tattoos, illegal addictions – no judgment if you have any of these, but in my family, any of the aforementioned would’ve been a major faux pas and likely cause years of the silent treatment. So, job well done there, I suppose.
One of the most common life questions I get is – what is it like to be a twin? The simple answer is – I love it, but it’s all I know. For all I know, I’m sitting here this whole time thinking that having a twin sister is fabulous, but really it’s horrible and my non-twin friends feel sorry for me (just a thought). But it just is. I love her and know her likely more than anyone else on this planet (barring her boyfriend). And vice versa.
The more complex answer is that being a twin and having a partner is so ingrained into my identity as a person – one doesn’t go without the other. I’ve never truly been alone in my life because of this. We aren’t geographically close, but I’ve never flown truly solo or felt like I was going at anything without her full support. She keeps me sane, balanced and calls me out when I need to be called out. I’d like to think I do the same.
I equate marriage to twinship. I looked for a partner that would be with me no matter what, and in return, I’d do the same. That said I always knew that my mate for life and love would know me like my twin. And he does.
Let it Go
Whether you call them toxic friends or frenemies (the latest amalgamated word), there’s no denying that some relationships are loaded with destructive drama that leave us feeling overall worse, rather than better, about ourselves. As Gwyneth Paltrow put it so eloquently (har har) in her recent GOOP newsletter, these are those “frenemies, hell bent on taking us down.”
For most of my adult life, the e.e. Cummings poem, Let it Go has been one of my favorites. My very loose (and incredibly simplified) interpretation of it is that when you let go of the gunk, in comes the good. Cummings is specifically speaking of relationships, which intrigues me because one of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn is letting go, particularly, letting go of friendships that are on life support. Read More
