Ch. 2: The Gift of Not Knowing: Writing as Discovery

#1: Things I Was Taught / Things I Was Not Taught

Things my mother taught me

- That on Sundays showering is optional and you can wear your pajamas all day long, eat ice cream for breakfast and chocolate for lunch, and wrap up in a blanket on the couch and watch movies all day (getting up only to go to the bathroom or to get more food)—but on every other day of the week, you must look your absolute best before going out in public.
- How the best time of day is the hour before everyone else in the house gets up, sitting in the dark, the only light coming from the fire in the stove, drinking hot tea.
- How it is necessary to write a list of questions before going to the doctor so that if he tries to rush you through the visit you are prepared, rather than getting frazzled and forgetting what it was you wanted to ask him in the first place.
- That looking straight ahead when you see someone you don’t want to talk to doesn’t magically make you invisible.
- To never fight with your brother because there may come a day when he’s the only family you have.


Things my mother didn’t teach me

- How it’s best to leave the person you are with when the relationship isn’t working rather than being unfaithful.
- That your approach and/or response to a situation should always match your intentions, otherwise your intentions will always be misinterpreted.
- How to raise and care for a dog, and how having a dog can make you a more tolerant person.
- How to be affectionate with another person—to not cringe or shy away at their touch, or how to not get embarrassed or uncomfortable when they attempt to be affectionate with you in public.
- How to cook food with fresh ingredients rather than settling for meals that come out of a can or a box.


#2: I Want to Know Why

I want to know why:

- I freak out about people wearing shoes in the house (because of all the germs they track over my floor), but have no qualms about wearing new clothes I buy from department stores without washing them first.
- Sandwiches always taste better when somebody else makes them for you.
- When you go through a break-up every single song you hear on the radio sums up exactly how you’re feeling.
- Some women get all dolled up to go workout and sweat at the gym.
- The fifteen year old girl standing on the street corner holding a sign that says, “2 months pregnant, please help” thinks whatever money she does make will be even close to enough.
- The smell of cinnamon makes me feel like a kid again.
- I can’t find a single hot dog stand in San Diego.
- The only time I can sit still for long periods of time is when I’m sitting looking at the ocean.
- People who hate interacting with people get customer service jobs.
- My dog can love unconditionally, but I can’t.

I can’t find a single hotdog stand in San Diego. Sure, there is always Costco, but it’s not the same as the one-man-stand outside the bulk items store in my hometown. Ten years ago, when I was a senior in high school, four of us girls would pile into my best friend Shelby’s Christmas tree green mustang—me having automatic shotgun since I was six foot one and had the longest legs. We only had a half hour for lunch, so we’d race down the narrow back roads of downtown, avoiding the bumper to bumper lunch hour traffic on main street and a stop sign or two. AC/DC vibrated the stereo speakers, the other girls singing along because, unlike me, they knew all the words. When we finally reached the parking lot (only 20 minutes left!) our awkward, teenage legs would emerge from the doors before the car was even in park, feet hovering inches above the warm pavement. The man who owned the hot dog stand knew us all by name, his ruddy, red face breaking into a warm smile to reveal two rows of perfectly straight teeth stained yellow from coffee or cigarettes—we couldn't tell which—as we made our way up to the cart. His hair was a mixture of silver and charcoal grays and curled out from a dingy red trucker’s cap, the ends damp and slick from the steam that rose up each time he opened the lid of the bin the hotdogs were in. The white apron tied tightly around his waist looked like a kindergartner’s finger painting with its smears of ketchup, mustard, and relish. “Five regular dogs and five Dr.’s for the pretty college girls,” he’d always say, knowing we were still in high school. The other girls loaded their dogs with onions and relish, while Shelby and I dressed ours simply in a blanket of ketchup, spinning the dog a few times to give it an even coat. The dogs were plump and juicy; the thin skin of their casing making the slightest pop as it broke against your teeth. My favorite part was always the large, seedy bun, and when I was almost at the end I’d push my dog out a little bit so the last bite was always an inch or so of warm bread soggy with ketchup. We’d wash it all down with big gulps of Dr. Pepper, which always resulted in a burping contest on the ride back to school. Jaime’s burps sounded like the ones a newborn baby makes after gorging on its mother’s milk—a simple “eh!” forcing itself out of the throat. Shelby and I always tied for first place, as we’d been trying to out-do each other in the belching arena since the 6th grade when we’d come home after school and stuff ourselves with Hershey kisses and caffeine free Pepsi—staple items in my fridge. Our burps were long and loud, rumbling up from the deepest part of our bellies. We’d break into hysterics each time someone would say that all that was missing was the ripple across our lips like Homer Simpson got each time he let one off. Too soon we were back in the school parking lot (5 minutes left!), this time the doors staying closed long after the engine had been turned off, discussing whether we could afford to miss 5th period. Almost always the answer was no, so we’d suck in our protruding bellies, re-button the tops of our tight fitting jeans and walk slowly to our lockers, the taste of warm processed meat still fresh in our mouths.