The Way You'll Remember Me When I Go

     I'd seen the name in my Ladyslipper music catalog. Ani (pronounced Ah-nee) DiFranco. That was all it was to me at the time, a name attached to some music. I was more interesting in Bikini Kill and L7. I'd heard their music and heard of them.

*     *     *

 

     This was going to be my first official college art class: Drawing 1. I went in and sat down next to a handsome man and struck up a conversation about art. He told me his name was Peter. He had long, brown hair and green eyes. He was small in build, but had a very angular, masculine face. And he was taking art to help him become a better entomologist.

 

    Over the course of a couple of weeks, we talked about everything, and I began to have feelings for him. I invited him to my first poetry reading at Yesterdaze Cafe, and he accepted. I read my poems of love and hate. I read my poems of beauty and feminism. I read my poems of hurt and joy. I had a rapt audience. It was the fullest I'd ever seen the little coffee house on the square. Afterwards I had a crowd of people come up to congratulate and tip me. I noticed Peter sneaking out. I knew he was shy and hoped that was the reason, but I feared he had not liked my poetry.

 

     I spent most of the weekend at Yesterdaze, sitting at the counter and getting my coffees and teas paid for by some of the guys that hung out there on a regular basis. I didn't want to think about Peter, but I couldn't help myself.

 

     On Monday, I got to class early and took my seat near Peter's. He was always early to class. He smiled at me and handed me a cassette tape. "Here, I think you'll like this. Your poetry reminded me of Ani DiFranco's music." He had recorded one of Ani's albums onto a cassette for me. The title of the album read Puddle Dive.

 

     I had a CD player in my truck, so I had to wait until I got home to listen. Once in the privacy of my room, I popped the tape into the player and an amazing sound greeted my ears. It sounded as if someone was attacking an accustic guitar as "Names and Dates and Times" started to play.

"I know so many white people/ I mean, where do I start/ The trouble with white people/ Is you can't tell them apart./ I'm so bad with names and dates and times/ But I'm big on faces/ That is, except for mine."

     I was hooked, but I didn't really feel that it sounded like the stuff that I wrote. Then the next song came on, and it sounded as if someone was making love to the guitar. Then Ani's soulful voice spoke out of loneliness and touched the emptiness within me as she sang "Anyday."

"I will lean into you/ And you can be the wind/ I will open my mouth/ And you can come rushing in/ You can rush in so hard/ Make it so I can't breathe/ I breathe too much anyway/ I can do that anyday."

     I had heard Roberta Flack's song "Killing Me Softly With His Songs" before, but this was the first time I'd experienced it. I could feel my eyes welling up with tears. More songs followed. "4th of July" spoke to me about how it feels to be a strange stranger in a new place and having only one person accept you for who you are. "Willing to Fight" was everything that I felt as a feminist. "Blood in the Boardroom" shocked me with how boldly it talked about getting one's period.

     Then the assault on the guitar started up again, and the most powerful song I'd ever heard exploded from my speakers as Ani started singing "Born a Lion."

"Oh I'm not hurting anyone/ Oh I'm just/ Telling my own truth/ If there/ If there is something wrong/ Then maybe/ Maybe there's something wrong with you."

     I finished listening to the album. Then I listened to it again. Then again. The music seemed to soak into my bones. I wanted to keep it, but I wasn't sure if it was a copy that Peter had made for me, or if it was his, so I took it back to class the next day. "Did you like it?" Peter asked.

     "I loved it!'

     "Cool. I brought you another album to listen to." He handed me another home-made duplicate. This one was labeled simply Ani DiFranco. "It's earlier stuff, her first album, but I think you'll like it. It's different from Puddle Dive, just Ani and her guitar."

     I couldn't wait to get home and listen to this new gem. Ani didn't strum the guitar. She picked it. I wanted to learn how to play the guitar like that. I wanted to pick out the notes until my fingers cramped. "Both Hands" started up with a staccato rhythm, and I listened to the story of how hard she tried. I knew in that moment that it would become one of my all-time favorite songs. The album was filled with relationship problems, politics, equality, and feminism. Then "Out of Habit" started up, and it was shocking and thrilling, and then it got to a verse that I adopted into my life as an artist, one I would pull out any time anyone would ask me why I wanted to be an artist or how I defined art:

"You know art is why I get up in the morning/ But my definition ends there/ You know it doesn't seem fair/ That I am living for something/ I can't even define/ And there you are in the meantime/ You know, I don't want to play for you anymore/ Show me what you can do/ Tell me what are you here for."

    I returned the cassette, and Peter let me borrow another duplicate, this time an album titled Not a Pretty Girl. "This is the most recent one. You should really love it." We hung out after class. While I had really liked Ani's first album, it had not set me ablaze the way Puddle Dive had, and I wasn't in as big a rush to listen to this new offering.

     I got home and slipped the cassette into my stereo system. The songs were good, catchy, the Ani I was growing to know and love. Then the title song started up, and I felt my heart in my throat once more:

"I am not a pretty girl/ That is not what I do/ I ain't no damsel in distress/ And I don't need to be rescued/ So put me down, punk/ Wouldn't you prefer a maiden fair/ Isn't there a kitten/ Stuck up a tree somewhere?"

     "32 Flavors" punched me in the gut with the line "God help you if you were an ugly girl/ Course too pretty was also your doom/ Cause everyone harbors a secret hatred/ For the prettiest girl in the room." And "Asking Too Much" described the very guy I was looking for "I want someone who's not afraid of me/ Or anyone else/ In fact, I want someone who's not afraid of themselves."

     I had to get one of her albums, maybe all of her albums. The next day before classes, I stopped by my favorite music store ABCD's to see if they had any. They had never heard of her but promised to look into it for me. Then I went to my second favorite music store. It was a chain store, so I didn't have too much hope that they would carry such a rare find. I was wrong. There she was in the Folk section, but it was not the album Peter had given to me declaring it to be her most recent, but a new offering called Dilate.

     I popped it into my truck's CD player as soon as I got in. I listened on my way to class. I listened between classes. By the time I got to my drawing class, I'd listened to every song and had my favorites. "Dilate" was part attack and part love. Ani would start each verse as if she was angry at the very thought of someone, then you'd realize she was having these thoughts in the middle of the night in a dark, strange hotel room: the life of a singer. "Done Wrong" reminded me way too much of what had happened with Ray back in high school.

"How could you do nothing/ And say, I'm doing my best?/...And now I'm tired/ And I am broke/ And I feel stupid/ And I feel used."

     The album ended with a rather meloncholy tune called "Joyful Girl."  The lyrics, on the other hand were a little more upbeat.

"I do it for the joy it brings/ Because I am a joyful girl/ The world owes me nothing/ We owe each other the world."

     I handed Peter his tape. "Did you like it?" I told him I did. "Do you want to borrow another one? I don't have too many more. I've got the one she did with Utah Phillips, but it's him talking, and her music. You may not like it as much."

     I was giddy with the excitement of my news. I was about to return the favor Peter had bestowed on me by letting him know that there was more Ani out there than he knew existed. "I sincerely thank you for introducing me to Ani. I love her work and feel flattered that my poetry reminds you of her stuff. I actually went and bought one of her albums." I was practically vibrating, waiting for the straight line he would undoubtedly deliver, so I could reveal my big news.

    "Cool. Which album did you get?"

     "Dilate."

     "I've never heard of that."

    "That's because it's new. It was released this year."

     Peter's eyes narrowed as he looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. "You're a liar. She hasn't put out an album since Not a Pretty Girl. If you didn't want to listen to her, you could have just said so. You didn't have to pretend."

     He turned and walked away as I stood there trying to piece together what had just happened.

A Doodle of Dragons

     My freshman year of high school was filled with boy-watching. I watched Casey in first period geometry. He was a tall, athletic senior with bright blue eyes. I watched Bob in second period biology. He was a skinny, tanned Arizona boy who'd moved to Alabama recently. He and I even dated briefly. I watched him again in third period P.E. He was small, uncoordinated, and cute. I watched Allen in my fourth period choral class. He wasn't the cutest or the most talented, but we had a duet together. I had no opportunity to watch boys in fifth period typing. Very few boys took that class. I watched the Arizona boy again in sixth period English. Since he sat right next to me, I got a good view, and I got to know him. And I watched Ray in seventh period Alabama history.

    Ray was tall. He had dark hair and blue eyes, a combination that intrigued me. He was left-handed and casually brilliant. I wanted to get to know him better, but I was terrified. I wanted nothing more than to turn around and talk to him, to dazzle him with my delightful personality, to win him over with my big, brown eyes and my funny charm.

     But the thought of turning around made my palms sweat, my mouth dry out, my heart race, and I would sit there. Then one day, I wrote a short note.

Ray,

     I don't know if you know who I am. My name is Debra. I was just wondering if you would like to talk to me or write me back. If you know who I am, do you think I'm weird? It's sort of the popular opinion.

     If you want to talk to me, please stay after class or you can write me a note back.

                                                                           Debra

     I took a deep breath and dropped the note over my shoulder onto the desk behind me. My hands shook, and I felt the need to run far and fast. Then nothing happened. The class dragged on in usaul style. My nerves began to calm down as despair set in. After thirty minutes, I just knew he wasn' going to write me back.

     The bell rang, and I stayed in my seat, hoping that he would do the same, that he was just waiting to talk to me. Then I felt him getting up. I heard the sound of him collecting his books. My heart took a running leap as I waited to see what would happen. Then he walked past me.

     My heart plummeted. I couldn't take the highs and lows anymore. I started getting my own books together. I was bent over, pulling my purse out from under my chair, when I noticed a shadow cross my desk. I looked up to find a note.

Deborah,

     I would love to correspond with you, if that is what you wish. I do not know if you are weird because I do not know you. I do not trust the opinions of others, so I will judge for myself if you are unusual or "unsane."

                                                                                             Ta,

                                                                                             Ray!

     I tucked the note into my purse and floated to my locker. My best friend was waiting for me. "Guess what?"

     "You finally talked to him."

     "No, I gave him a note and he wrote me back." I showed Cheyanne the note.

*     *     *

 

    The next day, I was standing in front of the English building at break, talking to Cheyanne, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find Ray standing behind me holding out a piece of paper. He handed the note to me with a bow, and in curtsied in response. Then he walked away.

 

     I unfolded the letter to reveal a drawing of two dragons, tails intetwined, lining the side of the paper. The drawing was like something I'd only ever seen in Celtic knotwork. Each dragon was outlined in pen, one blue with gold details, and one black with red.

Deborah,

     I was sitting in 2nd period, doodling, and I wondered, "Who do I know would enjoy a note outlined with dragons?" Then I answered myself, "I bet that 'weird' girl Deborah would."

     I'm still not convinced of your strangeness. You could say I'm a bit of a skeptic. While your wardrobe is a bit unusual for this area, it reminds me so very much of my home state of Florida, that I cannot count it in your favor. I have seen some very weird things in my life so far. You would not believe the stories I could tell you about military school, so you'll have to be really "out there" for me to consider you stange.

     If you have some stories to tell me, I'm always open to hear anything you have to tell me to convince me otherwise. In fact, you can call me. My number is (334) 555-6733.

                                                                           Ta,
                                                                           Ray



     I read the word doodling and looked at the dragons. They didn't look like any doodle I'd ever drawn, and I considered myself an artist. Well, maybe artsy was a better discriptive. I had to put a lot of effort into any art piece that I did just to get it to turn out looking 1/10th as good as what I imagined in my head. I was much better with words, but I loved to paint. It was something my Paw-Paw had taught me, and it made me feel connected to him.

     I looked at the doodle again. Ray's casual doodle of dragons put me to shame, and he had done it in class, so he'd put less than an hour's effort into it. I felt both jealousy and intrigue, and I knew in that moment that I had to get to know him better.

 

The Hobo Ballerina

     I set my rocking chair in the middle of the living room - it would be my boxcar - and I went to my room to change. I loved the red ballerina costume because it had feathers at the collar bone that swept out past my arms. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had two big girl teeth growing, and they looked strange next to my baby teeth, but I liked the way I looked.

     I was deeply tanned from playing outside with my cousins and swimming in the pool. My eyes, skin, and hair was all a light shade of brown, which had prompted one of my mom's co-workers to describe me as monochromatic, which I had to look up in the dictionary. The red costume broke up the brownness, so I was happy, but what really thrilled me were the silver sequins. I loved anything that sparkled.

     I grabbed my baton and a baby blanket from my toy box. It was important to pack wisely for riding the rails. I grabbed my Monchichi for company. The rails could be a lonely place. I grabbed my harmonica because you aren't allowed to be a hobo without one. I needed a snack, just in case, so I washed an apple, and placed it on the blanket along with my Hickory Dickory Dock book with a clock for telling time. I wrapped my items carefully and tied them to my baton and set off.

     The train was already in motion. I hid, so the guards wouldn't see me. They didn't like freeloaders. The train chuffed a slow steady rhythm as it overcame its steel inertia. I watched and waited for the perfect opportunity and the perfect boxcar. And there it was. I jumped on without hesitation. Hesitation could get you killed, or worse, maimed for life. I settled down amongst the cargo and took out my apple. It matched my ballerina costume: red and delicious. I wished for a pocket knife like my dad's. I'd be able to cut the peel off in one whole ribbon like my great-grandmother could, but no one trusted me with anything sharp, so I ate it peel and all.

     As I was finishing up my apple, I noticed a man who could run so fast, he could keep up with the train. He was staring at me with green eyes, one clear and one cloudy. He called out to me, "Whatcha doin' there? Are you a ballerina?"

     I pulled me feet up closer to me and grabbed up my bindle. "Yes."

     "Are you a hobo? That looks like a hobo bag."

     "Why? What are you going to do about it?"

     The man laughed and sped up to outrun the train. It was a close call. I re-arranged my bindle and grabbed my harmonica. I blew in and out making a soulful haw-hummm sound. It echoed the lonesome sound of my roaming soul.

     Haw-hummm. The rocking of the train was making me sleepy. I took out my monchichi and told her about the green-eyed man. The memory put me back into an alert state.

     "Deb!" The sound came from further up the train. "Deb!"  Was someone calling me? I poked my head out of the boxcar door. A woman holding food was looking at me from the passenger cars. "It's time for lunch." She was standing next to the green-eyed man.

     "How did you know I was on this train?"

     She indicated the man. "He told me. Now go wash your hands."