“The Waiting Game”

 

            Waiting.

            Waiting for a delivery takes a special kind of patience that I don’t have anymore. In the past, I would fill the hours by reading a book or watching something on television. Perhaps I’d do a few easily interrupted household chores to help pass the time.

  

          Today, I await our new Amana refrigerator. The Home Depot called last night and gave us a four hour window. I’ll receive a more specific time within an hour of delivery. At that point, I can shift all of the food into the sparkling clean and dutifully awaiting cooler.

            In the meantime, I linger around the house. I haven’t gone outside to water the gardens, as is my usual routine, in case I miss the phone call. I’ve tried playing Bejeweled Blitz and Zuma’s Revenge to keep me busy, but in the back of my mind, I listen for the truck’s sighing brakes.

            With my luck, the refrigerator will arrive late this afternoon, making me miss my workout at the gym and preventing me from picking up something to eat for lunch.

            With my luck, I’ll be the last delivery before the driver heads into his home base. That means an extra late start on chilling the new fridge and a delay in getting some groceries (which I haven’t bought for this week, of course).

            And so Impatience chats with me as I wait. Her ADHD keeps me on edge, though, and emphasizes that waiting just isn’t my game.

    

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"No Debate"

          I struggled to lug my books, my outfit for the day, and a poster for a history project. My car, parked in a space by the science building, stood lonely in the lot. Most of the other members of the dance team entered the school in the predawn hours from another part of the school, but I always used this isolated slot since it made leaving at the end of the day faster because my final class of the day was biology.

         I didn’t see or hear him.

         In seconds, he covered my mouth and began to pull me down while his hands pulled at my pants. My books and clothes flew into the air. Instinct kicked in, and my elbow connected with his stomach; my fist swung down into his groin. I heard him grunt as he shoved me away. My knees hit the cement, the impact causing me to gasp as pain shot through me. His footsteps pounded as he raced away. I kneeled in place, my hands against the cool concrete, tears splattering the gray surface. Cautiously, I eased back and scooted crablike against the wall. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see anything, waiting for my pulse to return to normal.

         Somehow, I collected my belongings, organizing them fanatically into a neat pile. I pulled out tissue from my purse and dried my tears. Once I could breathe again, I made my way into a nearby bathroom where I washed my face and smarting hands.

         I told no one of the attack. In my confusion, I felt that I’d get blamed because I elected to park in an isolated place, different from the other girls.

         I wasn’t raped, but I felt shame.

     I wasn’t physically hurt beyond bruised knees, but I felt damaged.

        In a matter of moments, I knew what it meant to be a victim of violence.

         And so my tolerance these days with men spewing mindlessly about women, rape, and choice brings to surface an experience I’ve neatly tucked deeply away. For four years, I kept my experience private. I confided in no one, not even my parents. I carried with me the haunting possibility of what could have happened that early morning. A different reaction on my part, a little more determination on my attacker’s part, and everything would have changed.

         My personal experience left me knowing that choices must always exist for women. Period. No discussion. No debate.  



High school me!

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Defense Mechanisms"

Digication e-Portfolio :: Social Studies, Mr. Young :: 8. PersonalityDigication e-Portfolio :: Social Studies, Mr. Young :: 8. Personalitybu.digication.com 

Defend and Protect at all costs    

bury unpleasant thoughts and feelings under, down, below    

refuse to accept reality    

deny, deny, deny    

change existence and rewrite your life    

fabricate your lies until they morph into your new reality    

regress or act out    

childishly punch the wall of your frustration    

disconnect from your follies    

forget, forget, forget    

place each dissonant thought into a strongbox    

locked away even from yourself    

project your pettiness and bitterness onto the wholesome    

react in opposition with your infantile impulses    

blockade your imperfections behind fantasy    

beat your spouse, kick the dog—never harm yourself    

Defend and Protect at all costs    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Go Spurs Go!’

            I just don’t get it.

            The frenzied, obsessed, crazed behavior of Spurs fans puzzles me.

            One day, they love their team. Their besotted comments flood social media constantly with tweets and status updates on the magnificent players and coaches. As I scroll down my Facebook Home page, I’m bombarded with pictures of Duncan, Ginobili or Parker doing some heroic deed. My friends plaster praise and promote their team with profuse passion.

            Then a game turns sour, and so does the support for the home team. Fans feed their frustration by frantically documenting play-by-play groans and curses. The favored player from two nights before becomes a target for malicious venting. And I don’t even want to touch the comments spewed about the refs.

            The Spurs often do a back-and-forth win-lose dance during playoffs. I suspect it increases viewership. It definitely augments revenue to go into more games. Professional sports are, after all, big business.

 

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

             

 

 

“Going to Seed”

            We don’t mow our yard every week, and when we do cut the grass, we have our mower set to the highest level possible. Unlike our neighbors who labor continually in their yards, we take a careless approach to the lawn itself.

            We let our grass go to seed.

            All of the negative connotations of neglect seem insignificant because we’ve learned that grasses need to reseed. The long drought we’ve seen over these last couple of years means patches of our lawns have shriveled up. With this year’s rain comes relief, and the only way to reestablish section of our yard is to let it go to seed.

            I love walking through dew drenched grass in the mornings as I check the gardens and pond. The gossamer fibers tickle my feet. Later in the day, sunlight polarizes the hue of the grass, crisping the greens into sharpness. By evening, a slight breeze kicks up, and the seedy fingers of grass hula dance.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman