After obtaining a degree in Creative Nonfiction an embarrassing number of years ago, I have been dedicated to writing my big, entertaining life down as much as possible. Since returning to the United States, this has been more of a challenge, as traveling always guarantees endless hilarity and easy writing. Inspired by contemporary writers such as Anthony Bourdain and David Sedaris, I usually focus on writing about my wacky family, food, and travel. Here, you'll find some of my best new works, and I genuinely hope you enjoy!
Cat Versus Benadryl
I’d wager that most devout people want to meet God for no other reason but to ask him questions. And I’m definitely one of those individuals. While the most common questions would likely be, ‘Why do bad things happen to good people?’ and ‘Why can’t we achieve world peace?’ I have one burning, lifelong question that he likely wouldn’t expect:
‘God’, I’d ask timidly, ‘What were you thinking when you made cats?’
Now, I’ve never spoken directly to God, so I haven’t been able to ask him this particular musing. However, I have to assume his answer would be, ‘Well, Amanda, it’s like this: Nobody likes lazy, entitled serial killers who act like a person who actually chooses homelessness and a trophy wife mated. And, because of that, I decided to create an entire species of these weirdos that were cute enough to fool half of humanity.’
As a reluctant cat mom, I’ve had two of these beautiful beasts since I was 21 years old. They’ve both found me and understood that I had ‘compassionate sucker’ written all over my face, and both have been young adults when they decided to make me a surrogate mother for life. The first came up to me, with a bloodied face, crying hysterically and while my stomach turned, my maternal instincts kicked in as soon as I saw her helpless state. She lived for 11 years with me and traveled all over the world, usually sitting on my lap on roadtrips and flights. She was a gem, and I miss her to this day.
The second one literally ninjaed her way into my home 14 years ago in the middle of the night, settled herself on the foot of my bed while I was sleeping, and proceeded to look cute when needed. I remember it was like it was yesterday: I felt a light weight on my feet, so I took the covers off my face to look down. And, as if it was completely normal, I saw her charming eyes staring at me, as if to say, ‘Hi! You’re my new mom.’
In the middle of my hardcore traveling phase, I tried to talk her out of choosing me for her lifelong companion: ‘Look’, I said as if I was the coolest woman in the world, ‘You’re cute and all. And I like cats. But here’s the thing: I’m sort of this world traveler who lives out of her carryon and having a cat would really cramp my style.’
She seemed to take all of this in, stared at me without flinching, and, loosely translated, communicated, ‘Oh my gosh. You are so adorable! You appear to believe that I am giving you a choice in this. You’re. My. Mom. I’d like some food now and make it the wet kind. Come on, dear. Chop chop.’
Fast forward 14 years, and she’s passed out in a blob on the futon. She has a lot to do from the hours of 11 PM and 9 AM, so she apparently needs the rest in the day. Like most cats, she mixes the sale of pure love and affection with a disturbing superiority complex, and I have accepted my role of mother / servant with her. I look at her, and ponder cats as a whole.
I suppose I would have a superiority complex and come off as lazy if I could get everything I needed to get done to survive completed in 15 minutes per day: Cats truly are the most evolutionarily perfect creatures on earth, and, as a genus, they appear to all know this. And, I can’t begin to imagine how extensive my criminal record would be if I did a tenth of a thing that housecats do.
For example, if I found a rich person, broke-and-entered into their home in the middle of the night, and sat calmly on their bed, trying to cute my way into a lifestyle of comfort, I’d end up in a State-Funded Mental Institution, Maximum Security Prison, or a combination of both. But, apparently cats do these sort of things all the time, with absolutely no recourse.
When my cat decides she owns something, she doesn’t work hard and save accordingly. Rather, she rubs her slobber on whatever item she fancies and, like magic, it’s now her property. I’ve thought about going over to the million-dollar beach a few miles away and finding the nicest McMansion on the beach. My plan is to stand there until the owners pull up and immediately begin rubbing my drooling face all over the doorknob. When questioned by the owners of the house, I could simply explain, ‘Yeah…. So my cat taught me this trick. I own this house now. So, if you can kindly sign over the deed, we can wrap this up as quickly as possible.’
I simply can’t imagine things going well for me, and I’m pretty cute for a forty-something human.
Trying to exchange affection with my cat is like playing a game of Russian Roulette: I’ll go in for a nose-kiss, and sometimes I’m rewarded with the purest of love and gratitude. But, if I catch her in the wrong mood, I’m one alcohol-swab away from two or three stitches. After an attack, I try to imagine a world where humans bit each other over the slightest annoyances: The gross guy gets too close to you at the corner store, and instead of shooting him a dirty look, you instead bite the tip of his finger. And rather than screaming bloody murder and calling the police, he mumbles an apology and backs up to preserve your personal space.
My cat was fairly clever: She is what my father would describe as a ‘defective cat’, and has always been fairly sickly, so I was a good mark 14 years ago. Of course, when her body can’t overcome a specific ailment and I can tell she’s suffering, it’s off to the vet. Looking at me with absolute betrayal, she starts screaming bloody murder constantly for the next hour and a half; When she arrives at the vet, she sounds vaguely like an accordion being run over by a car. Roughly translated into English, she says to anyone who gets close, ‘Help! My servants have kidnapped me and taken me to this place! I need anyone who is listening to immediately return me to the following address!’ This reaction I actually understand, as I feel exactly the same way about American medical providers. However, after the vet sends home whatever pill she will need to cure what ails her, the real fun begins: Like a dutiful Mom, I carefully tuck the pill into a small piece of delicious cheese. My cat then proceeds to eat all of the cheese, gag for a minute, and drop the slobbery pill on the floor. She looks at me, and then at the floor, as if to say, ‘I don’t mean to alarm you, but there appears to be a foreign substance in my foodstuff. I believe it may be poison.’
My cat isn’t just a biter. She’s a slapper as well. She’s decided to not only be nocturnal in the past few years, but also to train her mom-servant to be nocturnal as well. And she has begun playing a game I like to call ‘Cat Versus Benadryl’.
I have always had fairly brutal allergies, but since returning to the Lowcountry of South Carolina, which I call the allergy capital of the world, they are unbearable without daily medication. In the evening, I take a half of a Benadryl pill, which both manages my allergies and makes me catatonic for about 4 hours. My cat considers this a challenge, but not a deterrent to waking me for assistance at between 2 AM and 4 AM in the morning. Comfortably in my nightly coma, her meows don’t work, and I sleep right through them. Not taking the hint, she inches closer and begins slapping my face until I can assist her. This seems to work like smelling salts, and I sleepwalk my way to her bowl or the door to let her outside. Cat, 100. Benadryl, 0.
While I dream, just about every night, about traveling, I look back and wouldn’t trade my 25 years with my two little girls for anything. They are the only two creatures in my whole life that have made unilateral decisions I haven’t resented with every fiber of my being. I tried to talk my way out of being a cat mom, but looking back, I wouldn’t trade that love and trust for seeing all one hundred and ninety-something countries.
That said, cats are completely crazy. All of them. And when my cat gets a case of the crazy eyes, I look at her and tell her the truth: ‘Man, it’s a good thing you are so cute…’
Feeding the Basics
I had finally obtained the ability to escape to Heaven last year: With a fully remote job that allowed me to work anywhere in the world, it was just a matter of checking out of Hell on Earth and getting back to Heaven. And then, life happened, as it does for many people my age: Mom had a fairly major stroke three months before departure, and the medical providers also found cancer which would require invasive surgery.
And, so, my life as a world traveler was put on hold to reclaim my duties as a family caretaker. Now, this is pretty normal for a person in their mid-forties, and though I did everything to escape familial responsibility when I was younger, I had to stay. My parents needed help, and since my deeply Southern Family does not consider traveling around the world and learning from ancient cultures while developing a relationship with God ‘doing anything with my life’, I kinda sorta got voted in to be the primary caretaker.
In the end, it was my choice, and while my mom told me to get on the plane, I ended up staying and doing boring American things instead of fun international things. This is ‘normal’ for Americans, but has taken a bit of adjustment for me. And, never considered a disciplinarian, I finally had to lay down the law with my parents, who act like delinquent teenagers.
I get it: They’ve made it to their late seventies, and so they feel they can survive on sugar and bread and fat. After watching them bring in their booty after each shopping trip, I finally had to step up, take the credit card for shopping away, and fully take over shopping and food preparation: Imagine giving a credit card to a three-year-old child, sending them into a grocery store, and saying something like, ‘Hey kiddo! Just have fun and get whatever strikes you as tasty!’ Well, that’s how my parents shop.
‘I didn’t know what to get,’ My mom whined, while lugging in a loaf of bread, a block of cheap cheese, and pop tarts, my dad giggling like a tween who had just stolen someone’s bike. Dirty looks at my totally irresponsible parents only increased the laughter, as if succumbing to suicide through sugar-flavored sawdust was a clever act of rebellion.
‘Mom’, I said sternly, ‘I’m going to do all the shopping from now on. I’ll need the shopping credit card.’ ‘Ok,’ She sassed back. ‘I’ve got other cards.’
Now, I have always had the palate of a connoisseur, as I am a Fancy: I like foods from Spain and France. I’ve eaten at Halal Restaurants, Kosher Delis, enjoyed Ethiopian, Vietnamese, and Korean dives. I’ve tasted Opus One. I listen to music you’ve never heard of. I like fine art. And I love cooking foods that taste expensive. You know: The gourmet stuff.
And my incredibly quaint, ‘Murican’ parents, you ask? Well, they are Basics, and generally eat the grossest, least healthy meals they can find. Needless to say, finding a compromise for 7 meals a week has been a lesson in patience and persistence.
In the beginning, I went full-on gourmet, blending all the cancer-fighting, diabetes-preventing, heart-healthy foods into a structured and balanced dinner. And, man, did I get pushback from the human-sized raccoons who raised me.
‘Tonight, I’m going to make fresh burgers with Havarti cheese, topped with a vegetable blend and flavored with a garlic and lemon Aioli!’ I said excitedly to my dad.
‘What’s an Aioli?’ Asked my pop.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, Dad.’ I said, nervously trying to calm him and explain it in a salesy way. ‘It’s just a mayonnaise. A flavored mayonnaise. It’s French!’
‘FRANCE SUCKS!’ Exclaimed my dad.
Sigh. In the past 11 months, I’ve had to temper my exquisite taste in order to create more basic dinners that are packed with nutritiousness. I now sneak flavorings into fats instead of announcing the upcoming menu like I’m the head waiter at a five-star restaurant.
In the end, my parents get at least one balanced and nutritious meal per night, and they seem to be enjoying eating well…. At least part of the time. My mom does indeed have other credit cards, and at least once a month they sneak in with the worst foods in the world in their shopping bags, giggling at the look on my face like they just got away with murder.
Once, prior to a hurricane, they actually said they had to get ‘Essential Items’ at Walmart. They came back with a dozen custard-filled, chocolate-covered donuts.
‘I assume those are your survival donuts?’ I asked.
‘Yes, yes.’ They responded excitedly. ‘You know… In case the power goes out and you can’t cook…’
‘Uh huh’, I sighed.
I take my wins where I can get them, stuffing them with American-sized dinners that are nutrient-dense. The theory is to fill them up so much they will have less room for sugared bread. And it seems to be working moderately well.
And, it turns out, my dad actually loves aioli. That is, as long as you describe it as ‘a flavored mayonnaise’. Just, for the love of your creator, don’t tell him it’s French.
From Queretaro to Patzcuaro
I’ve done some amazingly dumb things in my life. One time, I decided that I didn’t want my naturally black-brown eyes anymore and decided to change things up. What I don’t usually tell people is that I tried to change things up on a lark, after finding a pair of bright green contact lenses at a really seedy gas station in a dumpy part of town. While every fiber of my being should have said, ‘Amanda, noooooo…’ my toxic positivity screamed, ‘Ooooooo. It would be nice to have bright green eyes whenever I feel like it. How exotic! And they are only 9.99!’
Of course, I ended up with a double eye infection for that little stunt and had to go to a Doc in a box to get a prescription for antibiotics to clear up the puss-filled mess my formerly nice-looking eyes had become. ‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘I probably shouldn’t have done that…’
That particular incident I very deeply ended up regretting. However, I have done many other dumb things throughout the years that have left me with memories that I hope will last a lifetime. One of my favorites was driving, by motorcycle, from Queretaro to Patzcuaro, which is about 5 hours by super-fast bus one weekend during my first year teaching in Mexico.
Now, I use the term ‘motorcycle’ loosely, and generally to make me seem like more of a badass. In actuality, I was driving the thousand-dollar moped my ex and I bought to get around the town we were teaching in. It topped out at around 35 miles per hour and the brakes seemed to have a delayed reaction. Additionally, I would be driving through Michoacan State, which, in 2008, was the most ‘dangerous’ state in Mexico. An avid photographer, I had it all planned out: I would make the cover of National Geographic or Time Magazine after procuring a gory photo of a severed head on a fencepost, and this would surely start my career in photojournalism off with a bang.
My ex had to work and agreed to take care of my cat, so after classes on Friday, I packed up a large bookbag and took off on the major highway toward Morelia. After several near-death experiences with big rigs, I thought to myself, ‘Hmmm…. Maybe I should take the back roads the rest of the way.’ With a trusty paper Mexican road map in hand, I mapped out all the back roads to Morelia, where I would stay for the night.
After getting off the major highways and onto the scenic, country roads, my decision to two-wheel my way to Morelia seemed quite a bit less dumb. The drive was beautiful, and I adored the solitude of being on the quiet, desert roads, occasionally passing over a lake. However, the middle of winter in high-altitude Mexico is bone-chilling cold, and I eventually took my entire wardrobe for the weekend out of my backpack and dressed myself in approximately fifteen layers to try to stay warm. Self portraits were few and far between on that trip, as I looked a bit like a homeless woman who happened upon a cheap moped and a fairly nice camera. Still, the local drivers were nice, and no one went out of their way to nudge me off the road. I stopped many times during daylight and took as many photos as possible. However, one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life I chose not to photograph.
After stopping for a rest, I heard a thin voice coming from somewhere behind the hill. It was followed by a melancholy chorus, and I watched to see what would emerge over the hill onto the gravel road. For the first time in my life, I had the privilege of seeing a traditional Mexican funeral procession; All in black, the devastated, but stoic crowd of mourners sang with an obedience and duty that only hundreds of years of tradition could conjure. The widow sang a verse in Spanish, and afterward, the chorus of mourners collectively sang their grief. For a moment, I wanted to pick up my camera and document the event. But every fiber of my being told me not to; It would be too disrespectful to this grieving family. And I wanted to remember everything about that moment, from the thinness of the widow’s voice to the glacial pace at which the mourners moved.
I’m glad I didn’t photograph it; To date, it remains one of the most beautiful and profound things I have ever seen.
I made it to Morelia late, and scoured the outskirts for a hotel. And boy, did I find a deal.
‘Sesenta pesos por una habitación?’ I asked.
‘Si, güera,’ replied the tired-looking owner.
And this is yet another stupid thing I have done in my life that seemed brilliant at the time. I paid the six dollars for the…literally… worst room I have ever seen in my entire life. The cuarto was filthy. The sheets looked like they hadn’t been changed in a year. And so I settled into bed, hoping that I would at least get a good night’s sleep. I didn’t, as a heroin-addict had checked in in the room across the hall, and must have had a bad cut in his score, as he spent the majority of the night vomiting loudly. In the morning, I woke up with what I thought were chicken pox. After visiting a Farmacia, I was diagnosed with bed bugs and given a cream for 15 dollars. After creaming up and trying to dress less homelessy, I ventured out to explore Morelia and visited a crêperie, filling my belly with thinly-cooked eggs and local cheese and vegetables before making the final trek to Patzcuaro.
Patzcuaro was indeed everything the guidebooks said it would be: A simple and beautiful colonial village with a town square and artisan everything. I had made it there, and shredded off several layers of clothes, powdered my face, and found a more acceptable hotel room for a whopping 20 dollars per night. Cuddled up in wintry bedding, I slept like a baby after exploring the magical town for most of the afternoon and evening. I looked everywhere for the Monarch butterflies that migrate there every year, but it may have been too cold for them to venture from their winter branches and explore the town.
I made it back to Queretaro in time to sleep off my exhaustion and be ready for the following workweek. And, in case you are wondering, I saw nary a single severed head on any a fencepost in that country-desert part of Mexico. But I’ve never regretted my stupid cross-country motorcycle adventure. The green contact lenses, however… Well, that’s another story…
Just For Show
The old saying rings true: You can’t judge a book by its cover. And I’m a perfect example of this sad, but true fact. Towering over most women at 5’10” I have a thin / athletic body type that immediately gets me first pick on any group sports team. I do minimal exercise every day, and manage to keep impressive muscle tone even in my late forties. Life looks like it would be easy for me.
But here’s the kicker: It’s all just for show. I have always been terrible at any known, American sport, and this has been true since I was a gangly twelve-year-old literally made to play basketball.
‘Amanda, you are going to be playing basketball,’ My freshman coach said to me. ‘You’ll make a great center because of your height.’
I did not make a great center, under any circumstances: Though I was only two inches shorter than I am now at 12, my jumping skills leave much to be desired: I can maybe clear four or five inches off the ground, and half the time, I was outjumped by a shorter center with more athletic prowess. I ran into people all the time, stepped on feet, and mumbled apologies constantly. I lived with jammed finger after jammed finger. I can barely dribble a basketball.
‘Coach, I’d like to quit the team,’ I said after a particularly nightmarish jammed finger. ‘I just don’t think I bring any value to the team.’ I shuffled my feet waiting for a response.
‘Well, we don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do,’ The coach said, looking visibly relieved. And so I went on to have a successful career doing what tall, uncoordinated people do best: Reaching things on the top shelves of grocery store aisles. This has, to date, been the only benefit of being a tall woman, and I gain incredible validation by standing on my tippy toes, gracefully selecting the exact product short people want, and handing it to them with a little, Japanese-Style bow.
‘Thank you so much!’ They always exclaim. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ I respond with a smile. This is the only way in which my height tends to serve the majority of society.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Awww, you can’t be that bad at American sports. Maybe you should have tried another sport to find your niche. I mean, look how athletic you look.’
Yeah, unfortunately I did indeed come to that same conclusion when I was young. Baseball looked fun, and so I tried baseball. And, when hard objects come flying my way, I tend to panic: Limbs akimbo, I’ll swing a baseball bat awkwardly, and if I’m lucky, I’ll tap the ball into one dugout or another. And don’t get me started on trying to actually catch the ball: One time, I was in the outfield and a, dare I say, Satanic baseball was headed my way. The sun also happened to be at just the right angle to block all vision. I held my glove up and hoped for the best. And…. Thwap! I felt the most extreme pain as the baseball made contact with my nose.
I couldn’t see for about five minutes and the pain was so extreme I couldn’t even cry. I was helped off the field and immediately quit baseball that evening.
‘Well…’ You might be thinking, ‘Have you ever tried golf? Maybe golf is the sport for you?’
Ahh, yes, I have indeed tried golf. I’ll center myself, look at the ball, and release all of my breath. With perfect form, I’ll raise the club. I’ll make a perfect swing; Everything is silent except for the whoosh of the club. And then, I’ll look down: Like magic, the stubborn ball is in exactly the same spot it was to begin with.
To paraphrase Kenny Powers, I’m not good at real sports. I’m trying to be the best at exercise. I can hike 5 miles straight up a mountain. I can cycle for miles at a time. I rock my rowing machine’s socks off. And, like most American women, I have my yoga poses memorized. But the ability to do real sports seemed to have escaped me.
Interestingly enough, I’m as graceful as can be in water; I can snorkel for hours. I’ve kayaked past vibrating alligators (yes, alligators vibrate when they are warning you they might be nibbling on your digits if you don’t get away from them very soon). I swim like a river otter. And I don’t tend to get seasick, which meant I made a great trophy ornament for bows of sailboats in my twenties. Of course, this would lead any genius to come to the same conclusion: I am clearly a descendant of a long line of Merfolk and likely have no business trying to conduct activities on land.
I didn’t bear children, as I felt like being diagnosed with severe anxiety attacks at 19 was evolution’s way of saying, ‘Amanda, you know we think you are great. Really. But, we’re going to pass…’ However, for parents out there who may be have tall, athletic-looking young girls, let my life experiences be a lesson learned that some of us, sadly, are just for show.
The Unfortunate Watts Bar Lake Manslaughter Incident of 1984
Most of the year, I was a young girl used to the coast of South Carolina; While my father’s family, who all live in the low country area, were all considered classy, educable folk, my mother’s family lived a plainer lifestyle a several miles west of Knoxville, Tennessee. I’d give up having to endure a sweltering August in Charleston, complete with jellyfish-filled waters, for the rolling hills and lakeside homes of Eastern Tennessee.
I loved it there: At my grandparents’ two acre property, I helped my country grandmother bake sugar cookies, caught June bugs and tied them to strings, and collected jars of fireflies. For at least a week every visit, we’d head to Aunt Nora and Uncle John’s lakefront home on Watts Bar Lake, which was the highlight of my trip. My great Aunt and Uncle had a pontoon boat, which I thought was the bee’s knees: It’s nearly impossible to have a pontoon boat anywhere close to the Atlantic ocean, as they don’t stay upright very long at all. However, on eternally calm Watts Bar Lake, pontoons were a dime a dozen, and my great aunt and uncle would take me out daily to explore the lakeside beauty.
My great aunt and uncle decided to take me lake-fishing the summer of 1984; I was used to fishing on the Atlantic Ocean, and had even been to some stocked trout ponds where I had caught some fish, turned said fish over to the adjacent restaurant, and been delighted with country-style trout and catfish many a time in Eastern Tennessee.
That said, I learned the rules of fishing by way of what the Atlantic ocean provided: Back in the late 1900s, net-fishing was still legal, and as a small, coastal family we’d take a net out every so often and capture fish and small sharks that we could freeze. I also had no problem catching blue crabs. And, when in the country, I loved a fried catfish dinner.
But, here’s the thing: I learned, at a fairly young age, that all of the fish and shellfish we ate were ugly as sin. It was something I never spoke about, but something I learned: There were two kinds of fish: Aquarium fish, who led lives of privilege in restaurant aquariums, and eating fish, who all looked like fish-shaped gargoyles. From a young age, I had no problem catching and eating the ugly fish: They weren’t winning any beauty contests, but they sure were flavorful. After filling my belly with ugly fish and gross-looking shellfish, I’d rush over to just about every restaurant aquarium and beg my parents for an aquarium of my own. They always said no, but I knew eventually I’d sway them into letting me have an aquarium of colorful, round fish with delicate, feathery fins.
None of this crossed my mind when I threw out my line on my great aunt and uncle’s lakeside dock. However, when I reeled in the most beautiful, delicate, angelic perch I had ever seen, I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I had caught my fish-shaped soulmate.
‘Good catch’, exclaimed my Uncle John. I said, ‘Thank you’ softly and smiled a knowing smile at him. I unhooked my new pet carefully, so his mouth would heal, and, without speaking, decided on a name. Bogie is good, I thought. He’ll be Bogie.
My uncle smiled at me, beaming with pride, and I knew… I just knew… That this was my reward for all the years I had begged my folks for an aquarium. I had it completely figured out: My parents didn’t want to buy me a pet fish. Rather, they wanted me to catch my own pet. I didn’t need to say anything; I didn’t want to spoil the surprise. Obviously, my grandmother and grandfather were in on the scheme, and I just knew we’d be out later that afternoon procuring a tank for Bogie. I didn’t want to speak up. I mean, I really didn’t need to speak up. I didn’t waste any time developing an emotional attachment to Bogie, reaching in to pet him occasionally while I had my line out.
After another hour, my Uncle John and I began our trek up the hill back to the lake house. I carried Bogie carefully, as I didn’t want to shock him with too much movement. I showed my great aunt and grandparents, who hemmed and hawed over my accomplishment.
‘That’s a pretty perch!’ My Aunt Nora exclaimed.
‘I know,’ I said proudly.
Imagine my surprise when, not even ten seconds later, my Aunt Nora grabbed Bogie in one hand, picked up her sharpest knife in the other, and went all Silence-Of-The-Lambs on Bogie. I opened my mouth to try to speak, but no words would come out.
‘Amanda, are you feeling okay?’ My grandmother asked. ‘You are as white as a ghost. And you are a little green. Did the dock jostle you a little too much?’
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t speak. And I couldn’t look away. All I could see was Bogie’s gorgeous, colorful skin in a pile and his meat in the shape of a perfect filet.
Aunt Nora had Bogie cooked, with lemon and dill, in less than ten minutes and proudly put the plate in front of my face. I choked back the bile in my throat and whispered, ‘Aunt Nora, I’m not hungry tonight.’
My grandmother, who usually spoke softly, raised her voice at me: A rarity. ‘Amanda, your Aunt Nora cooked that fish perfectly for you. Now eat it!’
‘I don’t feel good, Nana.’ I said to my unusually angry grandmother. ‘Can I go watch some TV?’
‘That’s fine,’ my grandmother sighed. ‘We’ll put the fish in the refrigerator for you. You can eat it tomorrow.’ I gagged silently and ran to the TV room.
In the end, I never tasted Bogie. However, I vaguely remember my grandmother saying he was delicious.
Ten years later, I tried lake perch for the first time: It turns out, perch is one of the most tender and delicate fish one can have the pleasure of enjoying. I’m rarely inland these days, but if perch is on the menu, it’s my first choice these days.
And every time I order perch, just for a second, I remember Bogie. Sorry, Bogie. I was as surprised as you were on that fateful August day in 1984. Rest in Peace.
My Ultimate Proper-Name Grandma
The peace lily we have sitting in our living room is now over 24 years old. I don’t know how we have kept it alive so long, but it seems to be flourishing: We received it during my ultimate proper-name grandma’s funeral, and despite its silence, we somehow remember to water it and give it plenty of sun. When it blooms, I always think of Caroline and get a little misty-eyed at the loss of my wonderfully quirky grandma.
Though I was too young to remember, my parents told me that I referred to my father’s parents by their proper names due to my grandma’s request. When I was born and started saying things like ‘Nananana’ and such, she apparently began teaching me to call her by her first name, as she stated to my parents that, ‘She was too young to be a grandmother.’
Born the second youngest child of eight or nine, her family was devastated by the first great depression. Her father died young, and her mother was coaxed to give up her children for adoption, as my great-grandmother did not know how to raise a gaggle of children and run a grocery store at the same time. My great-grandmother obviously refused, and kept all of her children. Caroline and her brothers and sisters knew extreme childhood poverty for their entire lives, and to the best of my knowledge, my grandmother did not finish high school. A classic beauty with a Kewpie-doll face, Caroline was short with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. When she met my grandfather, she laughed at all of his jokes and found comfort in his relative wealth and good money-management skills. He adored her spunk, and they got married, relieving my grandmother of ever having to worry about starving painfully again.
My grandmother was the only one of my female ancestors who adopted the ‘tradwife’ role; The rest of my female ancestors from ‘The Greatest Generation’ were accomplished and career-driven, with small families. It amazes me when younger generations cite the 1950s and 1960s like it was a twenty-year episode of Mad Men: That certainly doesn’t match the reality of educable, working women of that period of time. The fantasy of convincing modern women to adopt the barefoot-and-pregnant movement, citing the glorious 1950s and 1960s as a point of reference most certainly does not live up to the stories passed down from my female ancestors.
But I digress: My grandfather showered Caroline with the finest luxuries he could afford; I remember my grandmother having sequined everything, furs, and diamonds, as well as expensive perfumes. She welcomed this relative life of luxury and definitely earned her keep by cooking some of the best soul food you could have ever tasted. Going out to Charleston’s soul food restaurants and trying my grandmother’s dishes always makes me a little sad; I can’t get a bite of nostalgia with whatever half-baked recipe the restaurant is serving. Caroline lived at the stovetop, sneaking her afternoon cocktails between stirring four pots and checking the oven. She had two freezers full of food, and packed her refrigerator like she was playing a game of Tetris.
Despite marrying into relative wealth, Caroline never got over being so poor for so long. As a child, I couldn’t understand this fact, but after suffering through poverty in adulthood, I understand the quirks she picked up. Caroline would not throw anything away: Sheets of plastic wrap and Ziploc bags were carefully washed and hung up on a line over the kitchen sink in order to save a penny or two. ‘Caroline,’ I’d say timidly, ‘This cottage cheese has been expired for two months.’ My grandmother would snatch the tub of cheese away from me, check for moldy spots, and smell it. Then she’d say, ‘Manderrr (which is how, with her thick accent, she’d pronounce Amanda), it’s still good.’
And presto: Her eldest grandchild would be eating cottage cheese that was two months past the expiration date with canned pears.
I’ll give this to my grandmother: I never got sick from expired food, so I learned to trust her nose and eyes. However, as a tween, my grandparents would spoil me with trips to all-you-can-eat buffets, and my grandmother would most definitely be getting her money’s worth. ‘Yes ma’am,’ She’d say to the waitress, ‘I’d like a cold water with a plate full of lemons and please bring me your carafe of sugar.’ After receiving said items from the waitress, my grandmother would proceed to save a dollar by preparing, right there at the table, her own lemonade. I’d sink down in my seat and try to disappear. Rolls for the table would conveniently disappear into my grandmother’s humungous pocketbook, and I’d look around to see if any of the restaurant staff noticed my diamond-encrusted, sequined grandmother smuggling dinner rolls home. If Caroline decided she wasn’t getting her money’s worth for the buffet price, she would carefully unfold a napkin and take it up to the buffet line, wherein she would make a beeline for the cookie department. She’d then take twelve or so fresh cookies, stack them, roll them up in the napkin, and stuff them into her massive purse.
At this point, the restaurant staff would be visibly staring at her, and then look over at me, as if to say, ‘Hey, little girl… Are you aware of your grandmother’s actions? Mortified and big-eyed, I’d look at them and hold my hands up in an I-don’t-know fashion, desperately trying to communicate, ‘I see you, and we can’t control her. I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m the child here, and I have no authority to speak up about this.’ They’d eventually stop staring at Caroline, roll their eyes, and walk away. I’d sink down lower and lower in my seat and pray for an invisibility spell, just until checkout.
Caroline’s trauma from poverty lasted her whole life. I believe, due to her childhood, she was always waiting for the next big depression. My grandfather gave her an allowance to manage the house and, not trusting banks, she’d squirrel the money away in different parts of their home, wrapped up in barely-used socks and dress-pant pockets. After her funeral, my grandfather found approximately 10,000 dollars in her life savings in different parts of the house.
While I don’t steal from restaurants, eat expired foods, and reuse plastic wrap, after experiencing poverty in adulthood I can completely relate to my grandmother’s quirks about running out of money: I keep a ‘flee-the-country’ fund at all times in case the United States goes totally sideways and I have to make like a sane and bolt to a better place. The trauma of poverty is hard to get past, and your brain rewires itself to always prepare for the worst, based on your lived experiences.
Despite my grandmother’s worries about the next great depression, it never happened in her lifetime. She lived a happy life with my grandfather, and they were known for cocktail-infused parties and laughing all the time. Both of my parents worked, so they were my de-facto caretakers every day after school. Aside from the mortification at buffets, my grandmother was wonderful to me, and every time I smell honeysuckles, eat cottage cheese and canned fruit, or see the peace lily bloom, I get a little misty-eyed at a wonderful childhood that will always be in the past.
And when I miss my grandparents a little too much, I’ll turn off the music, close my eyes, and jog my memory to remember Caroline saying, ‘Manderrrrrr’ with just a hint of impatience.
Sailing, And Litmus Tests
I have never kept it a secret that I absolutely adore sailing and find monohulls to be some of the prettiest things in the world. If my brain had been willing to absorb Mandarin, I would probably be living on a Junk-Rigged boat in Shanghai right about now. But, alas, China was not for me, and so I am in the Southeast, which has plenty of sailboats and challenging waters to sail them on.
To date, I’ve been sailing all over the world, from Hawaii to Cozumel to the Virgin Islands to the southeastern United States. I initially had a friend and his now-wife invite me on a harbor cruise in his 38-foot monohull twenty years ago. I was terrified I would have a panic attack but found sailing to be one of the most peaceful and serene activities I could have ever imagined. Instantly, I fell in love and eventually plopped ten grand down on a ’68 Charlie Morgan in mint condition, sailing it through the intercoastal waterway from Jacksonville to Charleston.
Because of this, people always tend to ask me to go sailing with them. Before I say yes, our litmus test conversation generally goes like this:
[Any person in the history of people]: Hey Amanda! It’s awesome that you like sailing! You want to go out on the boat sometime?
[Me]: Yes! I love sailing! One quick question though: Do you get seasick?
[Any person in the history of people]: Well, as a matter of fact, I do! I generally barf once and then feel better and have a great time the rest of the day.
[Me, after an awkward pause]: Oh. Okay. Well, I’m super busy, but if we can ever connect our schedules, we’ll see if we can make a daytrip happen.
I’m blatantly lying when I say this to people. What I really need to say is, ‘Oooooooo. That’s gonna be a hard pass.’ And, here’s why:
I’ve only been motion sick to the point of barfdom once in my entire life. I was sixteen, and with my best friends from high school at the county fair. We had been on a number of rides, and I was feeling a little off, but having no concept of what it was to be truly motion sick, I didn’t stop riding the rides. The next ride on our list was the Pirate Ship, which is essentially a simulation of sailing through a hurricane. Now, from zero to barfing took a total of three minutes, and the cruelest part of the entire ride was when the operator stopped the ride to ask if we all wanted to go one more time. Though the rest of the boat was cheering, ‘Hell, yeah,’ I was silently mouthing, ‘Noooooo.’
My need to get off the ride immediately was completely drowned out by people having fun not getting motion sickness. The ride started again, and I knew that was pretty much it for me. Silently, I barfed on my best friend’s shoe, and amazingly, she was still friends with me afterward. Afterward, I stumbled around in a dazed haze, apologizing profusely to my best friend.
I guess what I am trying to say is motion sickness is absolutely horrible, or at least it was for me. Afterward, I was terrified to get near anything that looked like a sailboat for a good ten years. It took some amazing persuasion from my friend’s wife to get me on the actual boat and have never felt a moment of unwellness in sailing harbors and marshlands. Because, if I did, I’d never set foot on another boat ever again. Apparently, lots of people don’t think of spilling their guts as a sign from God that maybe their people weren’t meant to be on the water.
However, some folks are defiant and apparently enjoy barfing all over themselves on their day off. I tend to be compassionate to a fault, so I don’t want any people to endure even three minutes of suffering. Needless to say, it stresses me out to see you in any sort of misery, even if it doesn’t last long. In the future, I may recommend finding a Sadist to take you out on his or her sailboat, but I’m not the right sailing partner for someone who gets seasick.
Also, my best friend in high school was a Saint for just getting a little annoyed that I ruined what used to be a really nice pair of shoes. For me, that would have been the end of our friendship, and I would have said something like, ‘Hey. You know our friendship has had a really good run. But, here’s the thing: You just vomited on me. And, for me, that’s a dealbreaker.’
I guess the moral of the story is this: I have traveled a lot by way of boats, trains, busses, and other methods of transportation. I’ve gotten woozy a couple of times on impossibly windy roads in Central America. I even had to get off the bus once and take a fifteen-minute breather in order to avoid full-on nausea. But the only time I have been severely motion sick was on that fateful fair ride when I was sixteen. It was miserable, and I wouldn’t wish that pain and agony on anyone, even if it was in exchange for ‘a really good time’. And, while you may be a masochist, I’d hate to see you suffer.
My advice to people who get exceptionally seasick is always this: There is a lot of super-fun stuff you can do on land. And if you are dedicated to getting your sail on, I’ll most definitely have to refer you out to someone who isn’t bothered by watching you suffer…
Mixed-Breed White Female
Growing up in what used to be a quaint fishing village, I was raised by fisherman and scholars: My aunt used to measure my hand, and by the tender age of five, I could stretch my thumb and pinky far enough to catch crabs off our local beach. With my deep, olive skin, blackish-brown eyes, and platinum hair I must have looked unique to the inland folk, who always wanted pictures of the wild little girl filling up half a bushel with her blue crabs just about every day of summer vacation.
I grew up with a German surname, and so I always thought that’s all there was to the story. However, upon my trip to the Czech Republic and Austria 20 years ago, I was excited to be able to see people who looked like me. Imagine my surprise and loneliness when all I found were an agglomeration of porcelain-skinned, moon-faced Europeans who were more than a little aloof due to my lack of common language skills. Although it was an extremely pleasant trip and I was impressed by Europe’s cleanliness and devotion to preservation of historic buildings, I didn’t see anyone who looked similar to me: With impossibly curly auburn hair, olive skin coloring, and dark eyes, I didn’t match, even though I was well-dressed and tried my best to blend.
My younger sister, who is smarter than me, has had a recent obsession with ancestry, determined to find out exactly where our people are actually from. And, after a slobber swab and a well-researched report, it turns out that my people are from around twelve countries in Europe, from as far north as Scotland and as far south as Spain. Additionally, we have Middle Eastern heritage, but don’t worry, dear, fearful Americans: Jesus won my ancestors over with promises of Bacon-wrapped Shrimp, and we are a sarcastic, albeit God-fearing Christian family. However, I am officially a mixed-breed white female.
Now, unlike thoroughbred Whites, who can claim traditions and ancestry from one specific European, North African, or Middle Eastern country, my people were… I don’t know… All over the place. Going to a family reunion on my Dad’s side of the family is essentially like showing up at a convention for whatever company you work for. None of us actually look related, and range from fair-skinned and blonde to dark olive skinned with black hair. What was a commonality is that most of the people in my family are smarter than average, wittier than average, and decidedly attractive folk. My dad didn’t break ancestral tradition, and with his nearly black hair, olive skin, and dark brown eyes, he found my mom, who had the reddest hair, the bluest eyes, and the most freckles.
Though my younger sister is fair skinned, straight-haired, and a blue-eyed blonde, my parents’ chromosomes decided to battle it out with their eldest child. Though I favored my dad’s looks when I was younger and in my twenties, my mom’s freckly genes apparently said, ‘Wait a minute. Not so fast.’ In my forties, I now have spots that range from albino to dark brown, and my arms vaguely resemble an overripe banana. Thanks, mom.
I’m definitely not a thoroughbred white. That is to say, you wouldn’t want to pay between two and four thousand dollars to buy me from a breeder. More likely, you’d get a bargain for me at a shelter, after saying, ‘Awww, she’s really pretty for a mixed-breed white female!’ Then, for the grand total of 50 bucks, you’d get to take me home after I was spayed and dewormed with a bag of Cheetos and a case of Dinty Moore Beef Stew.
Honestly, the way my life is going, I really hope that’s just a joke and not a dystopian reality.
I think the thing that’s the most difficult about being a mixed-breed white female is the lack of consistency in my ancestry: I can’t go to my homeland in Europe or the Middle East and re-assimilate to any specific culture. Am I Scottish? Swiss? Spanish? Middle Eastern?
How can I subscribe to America’s obsession with identity politics if I don’t have a singular identity?
I’m weird for a traveler: Though I adore experiencing new cultures, my obsession with travel is born from a place of nostalgia: I tend to travel happiest when I feel at home, and for me this has meant spending many years in the Americas, well-south of Texas. While the food is always intoxicating, the buildings old and comforting, the museums a wonder for my eyes, it’s the locals who really draw me in: If they are happy, kind, and laugh a lot, I generally feel right at home. And, knowing a little more about my family history, it appears the urge to travel is well-entrenched in my DNA.
One great thing about not having a specific identity to draw from is that I adore foods from all over the world. My grandmothers taught me soul food and country cooking, and I wish my father’s mother had lived long enough to taste her red rice recipe infused with several key Mexican ingredients. I think she would have been remarkably impressed.
I am a seventh-generation American, with the matriarch of my dad’s family traveling over from modern Germany when it was but a collection of kingdoms. Apparently, her husband put her on a boat with some money and said, ‘Sail West.’ Then he died in what is now known as Germany. With merely a swab of saliva and no written history, it’s unclear if my ancestors mixed it up after they got to America or if they were already mixed-breeds when they came over.
My goal is to retire abroad, and while I’ve had about ten consistent years of being expected to work for a Nicaraguan annual salary in the United States of America, I’m pretty much done with this country: Anyone who makes the coveted ‘average American salary’, if forced to live on what I’ve made here, would have likely committed suicide after about two years. That is to say, when my paychecks end, so does my loyalty. If I can make a place in the world for my niece and nephew, and if they decide to give up on the idea of America, my people will have only spent a couple hundred years here.
So, how would I describe myself abroad? I would probably say something like, ‘I was born in America, and I’m a mixed-breed white female with peoples from Europe and the Middle East. But, I like it here the best.’