Yup, I'm an ADK 1'er

If you’ve climbed all 46 mountains in the Adirondack High Peaks, situated in scenic upstate New York, you earn the title of ADK 46’er. I climbed my first peak, Mt Marcy, with my boyfriend (Paul) and one of his college friends (Will) this past Saturday. It was a 15-mile, 11 hour day hike along a rocky trail immersed in lush forests and rushing creeks. At the bottom of the trail, passing hikers would offer a friendly “hello”; unearthing a sense of comfort I’m not used to feeling in the cities I’ve lived in. Near the top, other hikers coming down from the peak would cheer you on with motivational lines like “You’re almost there” and “You can do it”. 

The funniest, and perhaps most challenging moment, was when I encountered the first pile of rocks thinking I’d reached the top. Seconds late, Paul pointed to the real summit — still about a mile away underneath a sheet of blue gray crowds. 

"Oh, fuck me." I said and pushed my aching legs to the edge of their limits.

When asked later on by Paul’s aunt, whose lovely summer home rests in the town of Silver Bay, just north of Lake George, what my favorite part of the trip was, I could only answer “Reaching the top of the mountain.”

But the journey itself — both to the top and back down — was an amazing learning experience. Though growing up between the stretching plains of suburban Illinois and the flat swamplands of Florida’s gulf coast did little to prepare me for such a lengthy and elevated hike, I felt inspired to rise to the challenge. At the top, we ate tortillas stuffed with mild cheddar cheese and smoked pepper salami. A friendly park ranger took these pics:

After the hike down, we had a beer at the Adirondack Loj. It was the best beer I’d ever tasted, despite being a domestic ale. Cheers to the ADK 1’ers!

 

My Cosmic Shift

We’re all in the middle of some grandiose cosmic shift. It seems like everyone around me is moving on to bigger and better things. Yet, here I am, with one more year left in Smallbz if I’m lucky. 

To be clear, I actually like living in Albany. But I also haven’t had much of an opportunity to travel since living here, other than to NYC (which doesn’t count because it’s two hours away). I like the idea of keeping a cheap home-base here, where I have many, many wonderful friends and traveling to larger cities when Albz really gets too boring (which it often does). 

I’m conflicted because on the one hand, I know that I’m destined to be a writer. But every time I want to write a short story or work on my novel, I am gripped with this overwhelming storm of anxiety. I’m not sure what to do with it. 

I expressed this to a man who gave me a tarot reading at Madame X in NYC a few weekends ago. He told me that I should look into writing screenplays. I pondered the reading for a while. When I stepped outside for a breath of air (since I no longer smoke cigarettes), I looked at an ivory building standing proudly underneath the setting sun. On it’s side, I saw the word “screenwriting”. 

Confusion set in. What about my novel? What about my short stories and poems? Then I thought, who cares? They are all stories and the medium through which people enjoy them does not matter. I am a storyteller and an artist. There are no limits for people like us.

Florida: Land of Racism & Misogyny

A few days ago, I created a vlog that expressed my discontent over the Trayvon Martin verdict. Moments before the upload, I put a status on FB and was amazed at the amount of whitesplaining going on from people who I'd thought were my friends. Take a look:

This argument went on for 28 more comments. Needless to say, I deleted and blocked him. Then, I subsequently posted a status about how I would block anyone else who defended Zimmerman with "soft" racism. Two people from Florida deleted me: one, a girl named Hannah who is uber-religious to the point of nausea and Leila (below) who also defended Ezekiel Gillbert, the Craigslist escort murderer, on another status. Here's her version of whitesplaining:

Bear in mind, that this is a girl who, at my age, still lives with an overbearing military father who drove her into a deep, dark state of depression that I and another friend had to help her out of years ago. But the women of Florida have Stockholm Syndrome and will continue to support misogyny because its all they've ever known. I don't hate them; I pity them. It's really sad that they will likely live the entirety of their lives in one place; never venturing out to see the beauty and love that the world has to offer. They will continue to wear their willful ignorance like a badge of honor.

You see, as a biracial girl growing up with white parents, I didn't understand racism until I moved out and started living on my own in Florida. I'd get pulled over for no reason by cops all the time, hassled for walking around in certain neighborhoods by lecherous old men and redneck racists, and on the rare occasions that I did get work, I was fired for no reason due to Florida's stupid "right to work" laws. As a child, I was often singled out for over-the-top disciplinary actions by lying teachers who had nothing better to do than profile. This was Florida. This is still Florida.

At 19, I moved to New York and started college. I could walk down the street or ride a bike alone without being hassled. I could learn something in class instead of just regurgitating shit I already knew. I could finally pursue a career in a creative field. These people remind me each and every day why I will never, ever go back.

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