This post has been a long time coming. Every time I sit down to try to write it, I can't seem to find the words to convey what I want to say. However, I found the strength I needed after singing a friend's funeral yesterday. That being said, this post is all about family.
My "real" family is often difficult for me to talk about and explain. Long story incredibly short, there aren't many of us. In my generation, there's just my older sister and I. And - get ready for it - there are seventeen-and-a-half years between us. Yes, you read that right. 17.5. No, this isn't some huge family secret where she's actually my mom or something. (I was just a very, very pleasant surprise.) My mom is also one of two girls, but we are currently estranged from my aunt and her family. My dad, whom I have not been in contact with for almost eighteen years, is an only child. I do have a stepdad, but his family currently isn't talking to him, and I've never met my three stepbrothers. Add my sister's husband and their two girls, and we have a grand total of seven family members.
I mean, seriously, I have friends with more siblings than that. But I can't say I'm bitter about not having a big family. There are perks to there being so few of us. Nearly everyone can always be there for major holidays/birthdays/life events, and it's super-easy to exchange Christmas gifts. We can all go out together more often on a smaller budget and still eat somewhere fancy. Thanksgiving is awesome because we all fit around one table. And, my favorite, we are all so incredibly close-knit. However, there is a tiny part of me somewhere that has always longed for something more.
Cue the choirs! Growing up, St. Bartholomew's parish was my home away from home. It was there that I discovered my gift of music, fell in love for the first time, and found some of the most loyal friends I could ever ask for. Many of my childhood memories revolve around the numerous events hosted by the parish and the choirs. My high school graduation party boasted over seventy-five of St. Bart's finest. Even now, when I'm home and singing with the choirs during school breaks, I'm welcomed back like I never left. They haven't even given up my spot in the choir yet, despite the fact that I'm moving overseas to minister with a different parish - I still have my assigned music "number", and a binder is made for me even though I'm unable to sing most of the year.
The parish family of St. Bartholomew has been a family, in every sense of the word, my entire life. I was baptized, given my first communion, and confirmed there. It is still where I call home after twenty-two years of living. I can't say I've ever been more loyal to anything in my life, simply because it has been there for the entirety of it. Sure, my St. Bart's friends are a bit older than I am, in varying degrees, but who says you can't have a couple dozen ladies in your life that you can call a grandmother? Or maybe a few dozen more who are like those crazy aunts no one ever talks about? (My biological one included.) Let's not forget the men, who have been more like dads to me than my own flesh-and-blood one could ever be. The camaraderie between the generations has been the single greatest aspect of my life with them. St. Bart's has undoubtedly filled the "family" void that I have felt my whole life. I've never really been one to be considered ordinary in any way, but I feel my parish family is completely normal, despite what anyone says.
(This isn't to say that I haven't felt familial ties with any other very important groups in my life - my Saint Mary's family and my various theatre families, for instance - but there's something to be said about a group of people who have watched you grow up during the most formative years of your life, and who have stuck with you despite how blonde your hair was or how weepy you were when your goldfish died. That's love, and that's family.)
Earlier, I mentioned a funeral. One of my "grandmother" figures at St. Bart's, Lottie, passed away last week at the ripe old age of ninety-five. Her health had been failing for the last several years, so the phone call wasn't too much of a surprise to me. I'll always remember her for her crocheting, and how she once raised $2500 selling her wares at a parish picnic in order to purchase our first-ever choir sweaters. (I bought my own "Lottie scarf" that year, which I still proudly own.) She used to cook all of the onions for the Lenten fish frys, and even acted as the cashier when she wasn't physically able to cook anymore. (She actually willed her onion pan to our choir director, John, on her deathbed.) Lottie was a unique combination of class and wit, and was never afraid to speak her mind. She called us all her grandchildren, and was so proud to be among the ranks of the choirs. I'll never forget her sharp, sure voice, or her words of wisdom that could only come with age and experience.
Lottie had told John that she'd come back to haunt him if the choirs weren't present to sing for her funeral. Well, John did his duty, and more than thirty members showed up to sing yesterday. There certainly would have been more had it not been a Tuesday morning workday, but the number was still impressive. One thing that struck me, though, was the fact that there were more people in the loft than in the congregation. However, as I came to learn during the mass, Lottie only had one daughter and no biological grandchildren. It struck me how Lottie calling us her "grandkids" for all those years really meant more than what any of us realized. Then, it finally hit me - St. Bart's was a family to Lottie, as well. As a forty-five year parishioner, Lottie had made St. Bart's just as much her home as I've made it. Only a grandmother's love could endure sitting through hours of sewing and crocheting in order to provide the warmest sweaters for the chillest loft in the Diocese of Cleveland. Lottie loved St. Bart's as much, or more, than I do. If this was true for her, who else is it true for?
Certainly, St. Bart's isn't the only parish family that has people who feel this way. All over the world there have to be others who view their parishes much like families. Over the last hundred years, back when European immigration to the United States was much more abundant, parishes were indeed like families to the newcomers. It was the way they kept in touch with people who were from their homelands, people who spoke their languages, and people who could understand their situations. Parishes were the hub of family life not that long ago. They're where the kids went to school, where the parents went to socialize, and where major life events occurred. This holds true whether someone is Catholic, Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, or of any other religious affiliation. What's happened? What's changed? Or are these same things happening in new ways that I'm just not seeing? I'd love to know, only because I find this type of "family love" some of the most powerful on Earth. I also believe it needs to be shared among the masses.
I'll be honest, I'm terrified of moving to Ireland and having to establish myself in a new parish. I've already been so warmly welcomed by the parishioners of Clonard, but will I find the same sense of "family" that I've grown up with at St. Bart's? I trust that God will, in His own way and His own time, give me the answer that I'm searching for.
So, whether you're from a more traditional family, or one that's even wackier than mine, I hope you found something to take away from this post. After all, we weren't put on Earth to walk alone. We need lots of kinds of families if we hope to survive this crazy thing called life.
To ALL of my families - ILY. (I Love You.) :)
--Joy.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Tinderella Finds her Prince...Sort of.
Alright, let's be honest here. One of the latest social media crazes is the Tinder app. Tinder is basically the smartphone version of "hot or not" - swipe right for hot and left for not. It connects to your Facebook, providing the app with some photos of you, letting people know what common interests and friends you share, as well as how far away you currently are from each other. If you both swipe right, you are "matched", allowing you to start a conversation with that person. I have the app. You have the app. And, now that Androids can enjoy Tinder, we all have the app. It's creepy, stalker-ish, a wee bit juvenile, and terribly addicting.
But, let me clarify. I only use the app when I'm back in Notre Dame. I made the mistake of not turning off my Tinder once, only to come back to school after a break to find myself matched with several people I went to high school with. High school. I am not the person I was back then, and I certainly do not want to be "matched" with anyone who knew me from before. So, suffice it to say, I completely deleted my profile and the app after I graduated in May. I was moving home, and therefore done with it.
Old habits die hard, though. This week I've been back in Notre Dame to teach at a summer camp. The first night, a few of us adults found ourselves downloading Tinder. In my opinion, there's really no harm in the app, and it's pretty much safe if you keep it to just talking via the conversation tab. Plus, as most girls do, we talk about boys. A lot. It's fun to compare our matches and laugh at some of the ridiculous-looking photos that crop up. "Oooh, he's an ND football player - right swipe!" "Look at that adorable dog in his picture - right swipe!" "Is that his nephew, or his kid?! - left swipe for safety..." These are generally how our Tinder circles go.
I know what you're all thinking - "So, do you ever meet anyone from this app?" The answer varies. Yes, I've met people from it. Nothing serious, of course. Maybe we happened to have some mutual friends, or realized we passed each other regularly all along but weren't Facebook friends. Or, more commonly, I recognize them out on the town as "that guy I saw on Tinder!". But, until this week, I had never deliberately set up a date with anyone.
Yes, you heard right. I set up a date via Tinder. His name is Luke, (name changed to protect the innocent,) and we were both in South Bend this week; me for camp, him for Army training. First and foremost, he was gorgeous. (Why do you think I right-swiped to begin with?) Second, he didn't start our Tinder conversation with the typical "hey, baby" that you get from others. Plus, since it's connected to Facebook, these are real people we're dealing with here. We chatted about this, that, and the other, and we found out we had a lot of random things in common. For instance, our mutual passion for wanting to teach under-privileged children. Since we were both in town, we decided to exchange real phone numbers and meet up. He asked me to come to one of the local dive bars where him and his buddies were hanging out, but I refused to step foot in there - I told him I'd pick him up and we'd go to a different bar instead. Luke agreed, and I was already halfway out the door.
(Fun side note - the three songs that came up on my shuffled "Guilty Pleasures" playlist during the car ride to pick him up were the following - Taylor Swift's "22", Robyn's "Call Your Girlfriend", and The Wanted's "Glad You Came". With every song I kept going, "Oh my God, this is perfect!" The lyrics were literally speaking my thoughts, and I couldn't have been more pumped for the evening ahead of me.)
After picking Luke up - which, before he got into the car, he shook my hand and introduced himself like a proper gentlemen - we headed towards a downtown bar where I knew the atmosphere was chill and where my friends could easily meet up with me worst case scenario. Actually, we both commented to one another how overprotective our friends were being of us. I had to give play-by-play details to my group, while his was very worried that I was going to murder him and dump the body somewhere. We laughed at the mutual situation and continued to get to know each other. I told him about Ireland, which he was incredibly supportive of. It made me feel better knowing we were both going into this with the understanding that we just happened to be passing through South Bend at the same time. No strings attached.
Before we even got to the bar, though, Luke's sergeant was calling to look for him. Apparently he didn't get permission from the correct person to leave, and, even though he was on civilian time, he still had to follow some rules. Incredibly embarrassed, he warned me that he might have to leave, and wondered if I could drive him back, if necessary. Normally I'm the one making a fool of myself in these types of situations, so I told him it was perfectly fine.
A weird run-in with theatre friends, a dead phone, and a horde of Army men later, Luke had to cut our date incredibly short. He didn't say much other than goodbye because he had to rush right off. We had lots of time to talk in-between all of the antics, and I felt like we did get to know each other much better. Out of the conversation, I found out that he was Catholic, too. That made him instantly more attractive to me, and I found out it helped make sense why we had so much in common. (Joy's two major rules for any datable guy - he must be taller than she is, and he must be Catholic. Check and check.)
I spilled the details to one of my best friends after he left. Even via text message, she could see how incredibly giddy I was over the whole evening. Despite him being so embarrassed by the entire situation, I tried to lighten the mood by expressing my own nerdy side to him. (Harry Potter, class valedictorian, etc. - the whole nine yards.) He texted me later to apologize again, and explained how he felt even more inadequate because he had never read Harry Potter himself. I could only laugh. Unfortunately, much to my own guilt, he did tell me he got put on lockdown as a result of leaving the first bar to go with me. He insisted it wasn't my fault, but I still felt terrible nonetheless.
The next day, I waited for a text that never came. I can't say I wasn't a bit stung by that - I thought the date overall went really well, and, despite everything, I thought he'd still follow-up. I broke the ice by texting him something cheesy about hoping his lockdown went okay. He didn't respond. I realized that, even though this clearly wasn't going anywhere, I was still considering myself extremely lucky that I got to meet him. I hadn't been asked out on a date since I was 17, and it was such a nice change of pace to be with someone who I was able to be so open and honest with. Call it my "finishing school" training, but after living and learning with all girls for the last four years, I think I've discovered that I need to just be myself in order to be truly happy. The idea to blog about it was born out of this realization. I knew writing my feelings out would make it all better.
I sat down and began to write this when the text back finally came. He flew out of South Bend this morning and is now en route back to the Army base in Georgia. Will this ever go anywhere? Who knows. Do I want to be friends with him? Certainly. At the end of the day, while we were both mutually attracted to one another, we also had a lot in common as friends. Having positive, forward-thinking people in my life is a top priority. He seems to be one of those people. Will we ever talk again? I hope so. Whether or not it goes any further than this? Only time will tell. I have two years in Ireland and he has at least another year-and-a-half in the Army. Maybe our paths will cross again when the timing is right, and maybe they won't. Much to my own surprise, I'm okay with whatever happens.
For now, my hope has been renewed that God will bring me to the right person at the right time. I no longer feel like I will be alone forever, or be forced to join the convent. There are guys out there who find me at least somewhat attractive. (Let's ask my 100+ Tinder matches this week!) But, more than that, there are guys out there who are genuinely honest and caring human beings. If there's one, there must be more, right? The task at hand is my dedicated service to the Catholic Church in Ireland. But, when the time comes, I will go on more dates and meet more of these men. Someday, I might even find "the one" to share my life with. There have been so many weddings and engagements lately that it feels like my time will never come. All I can do is privately whine to my friends who are in the same boat and forge ahead. I just have to keep reminding myself that the time will come. If only I had ever learned the art of patience...
Oh! There goes my phone! Another text... :)
--Joy.
But, let me clarify. I only use the app when I'm back in Notre Dame. I made the mistake of not turning off my Tinder once, only to come back to school after a break to find myself matched with several people I went to high school with. High school. I am not the person I was back then, and I certainly do not want to be "matched" with anyone who knew me from before. So, suffice it to say, I completely deleted my profile and the app after I graduated in May. I was moving home, and therefore done with it.
Old habits die hard, though. This week I've been back in Notre Dame to teach at a summer camp. The first night, a few of us adults found ourselves downloading Tinder. In my opinion, there's really no harm in the app, and it's pretty much safe if you keep it to just talking via the conversation tab. Plus, as most girls do, we talk about boys. A lot. It's fun to compare our matches and laugh at some of the ridiculous-looking photos that crop up. "Oooh, he's an ND football player - right swipe!" "Look at that adorable dog in his picture - right swipe!" "Is that his nephew, or his kid?! - left swipe for safety..." These are generally how our Tinder circles go.
I know what you're all thinking - "So, do you ever meet anyone from this app?" The answer varies. Yes, I've met people from it. Nothing serious, of course. Maybe we happened to have some mutual friends, or realized we passed each other regularly all along but weren't Facebook friends. Or, more commonly, I recognize them out on the town as "that guy I saw on Tinder!". But, until this week, I had never deliberately set up a date with anyone.
Yes, you heard right. I set up a date via Tinder. His name is Luke, (name changed to protect the innocent,) and we were both in South Bend this week; me for camp, him for Army training. First and foremost, he was gorgeous. (Why do you think I right-swiped to begin with?) Second, he didn't start our Tinder conversation with the typical "hey, baby" that you get from others. Plus, since it's connected to Facebook, these are real people we're dealing with here. We chatted about this, that, and the other, and we found out we had a lot of random things in common. For instance, our mutual passion for wanting to teach under-privileged children. Since we were both in town, we decided to exchange real phone numbers and meet up. He asked me to come to one of the local dive bars where him and his buddies were hanging out, but I refused to step foot in there - I told him I'd pick him up and we'd go to a different bar instead. Luke agreed, and I was already halfway out the door.
(Fun side note - the three songs that came up on my shuffled "Guilty Pleasures" playlist during the car ride to pick him up were the following - Taylor Swift's "22", Robyn's "Call Your Girlfriend", and The Wanted's "Glad You Came". With every song I kept going, "Oh my God, this is perfect!" The lyrics were literally speaking my thoughts, and I couldn't have been more pumped for the evening ahead of me.)
After picking Luke up - which, before he got into the car, he shook my hand and introduced himself like a proper gentlemen - we headed towards a downtown bar where I knew the atmosphere was chill and where my friends could easily meet up with me worst case scenario. Actually, we both commented to one another how overprotective our friends were being of us. I had to give play-by-play details to my group, while his was very worried that I was going to murder him and dump the body somewhere. We laughed at the mutual situation and continued to get to know each other. I told him about Ireland, which he was incredibly supportive of. It made me feel better knowing we were both going into this with the understanding that we just happened to be passing through South Bend at the same time. No strings attached.
Before we even got to the bar, though, Luke's sergeant was calling to look for him. Apparently he didn't get permission from the correct person to leave, and, even though he was on civilian time, he still had to follow some rules. Incredibly embarrassed, he warned me that he might have to leave, and wondered if I could drive him back, if necessary. Normally I'm the one making a fool of myself in these types of situations, so I told him it was perfectly fine.
A weird run-in with theatre friends, a dead phone, and a horde of Army men later, Luke had to cut our date incredibly short. He didn't say much other than goodbye because he had to rush right off. We had lots of time to talk in-between all of the antics, and I felt like we did get to know each other much better. Out of the conversation, I found out that he was Catholic, too. That made him instantly more attractive to me, and I found out it helped make sense why we had so much in common. (Joy's two major rules for any datable guy - he must be taller than she is, and he must be Catholic. Check and check.)
I spilled the details to one of my best friends after he left. Even via text message, she could see how incredibly giddy I was over the whole evening. Despite him being so embarrassed by the entire situation, I tried to lighten the mood by expressing my own nerdy side to him. (Harry Potter, class valedictorian, etc. - the whole nine yards.) He texted me later to apologize again, and explained how he felt even more inadequate because he had never read Harry Potter himself. I could only laugh. Unfortunately, much to my own guilt, he did tell me he got put on lockdown as a result of leaving the first bar to go with me. He insisted it wasn't my fault, but I still felt terrible nonetheless.
The next day, I waited for a text that never came. I can't say I wasn't a bit stung by that - I thought the date overall went really well, and, despite everything, I thought he'd still follow-up. I broke the ice by texting him something cheesy about hoping his lockdown went okay. He didn't respond. I realized that, even though this clearly wasn't going anywhere, I was still considering myself extremely lucky that I got to meet him. I hadn't been asked out on a date since I was 17, and it was such a nice change of pace to be with someone who I was able to be so open and honest with. Call it my "finishing school" training, but after living and learning with all girls for the last four years, I think I've discovered that I need to just be myself in order to be truly happy. The idea to blog about it was born out of this realization. I knew writing my feelings out would make it all better.
I sat down and began to write this when the text back finally came. He flew out of South Bend this morning and is now en route back to the Army base in Georgia. Will this ever go anywhere? Who knows. Do I want to be friends with him? Certainly. At the end of the day, while we were both mutually attracted to one another, we also had a lot in common as friends. Having positive, forward-thinking people in my life is a top priority. He seems to be one of those people. Will we ever talk again? I hope so. Whether or not it goes any further than this? Only time will tell. I have two years in Ireland and he has at least another year-and-a-half in the Army. Maybe our paths will cross again when the timing is right, and maybe they won't. Much to my own surprise, I'm okay with whatever happens.
For now, my hope has been renewed that God will bring me to the right person at the right time. I no longer feel like I will be alone forever, or be forced to join the convent. There are guys out there who find me at least somewhat attractive. (Let's ask my 100+ Tinder matches this week!) But, more than that, there are guys out there who are genuinely honest and caring human beings. If there's one, there must be more, right? The task at hand is my dedicated service to the Catholic Church in Ireland. But, when the time comes, I will go on more dates and meet more of these men. Someday, I might even find "the one" to share my life with. There have been so many weddings and engagements lately that it feels like my time will never come. All I can do is privately whine to my friends who are in the same boat and forge ahead. I just have to keep reminding myself that the time will come. If only I had ever learned the art of patience...
Oh! There goes my phone! Another text... :)
--Joy.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Sing-Song the Witch is Dead...
Due to a lack of consistent wifi and armed with only my iPad, I'm afraid to say that I didn't get to do much blogging while in Ireland. (Granted, my post about Irish animals was one of utmost importance that I knew I had to get up, no matter what the cost.) Regardless, I also viewed my time on the Emerald Isle as one of reflection and relaxation, since come August I will hit the ground running with work. Now that I've been home for two days, with only minimal jet lag, I've had a chance to digest everything I've learned and realized over the last few weeks.
Most importantly, I'M MOVING TO IRELAND!
I mean, when I found out about this service opportunity, the fact that it was abroad was just the cherry on top. After a long talk with a dear friend over it, we both agreed that I would've applied for the position even if it was in some boring American city. Ireland wasn't necessarily a country that had ever appealed to me because they speak English there. Where's the challenge in that? Even so, I'm quickly realizing that the cultural adjustments I will have to get used to are more staggering than I ever could have envisioned. The most important piece of new culture I encountered were the sing-songs.
What exactly are these, you ask? Pretty much what it says - sitting in a circle and singing songs. Someone will inevitably have their guitar, and probably a whole slew of other instruments, including Irish tin whistles and a bodhrán (Irish drum). What do we sing? Everyone has their "party piece," usually a traditional Irish tune or a popular arrangement. Was I prepared for this hugely important part of Irish culture? NOT. AT. ALL. I can barely stand listening to the radio, and beyond Danny Boy, I knew about zero Irish songs coming into this. My limited knowledge of American musical theatre and operatic literature wasn't likely to get me through this. Or was it?
At the insistence of Teach Bhríde IV's Nick, I was urged to sing a little of Carmen's Habenera one night at a particularly lively sing-song hosted by our friend, Therese. The thought to sing something a little - ahem - more classical had crossed my mind, but it definitely didn't seem appropriate for the setting. I mean, come on, where's my grand piano?! However, I got over myself pretty quickly and sang it anyway. Everyone seemed to really enjoy the familiar aria. I ended up using it at a few different "sessions," (which are mostly instruments rather than singing,) and even at a post-morning mass tea.
One of the infamous "Tea Ladies" at Clonard parish is Maura - a delightful woman who is the epitome of what it means to be stylish. She is a truly sweet soul who is there every morning without fail. Our parish priest, Fr. Denis, asked me one evening after I sang at a session if I'd be willing to sing the Habanera at tea the following morning. The Tea Ladies were celebrating Maura's 70th birthday, and Fr. Denis informed me that Carmen was her all-time favorite opera. (She saw it three times in one year!) I hesitated - Carmen and I have a rough history after some underlying health issues caused me to give a not-so-favorable performance of the aria at my junior recital. The fact that I was even singing the Habenera at all was a testament to the level of comfort I was feeling in my new surroundings.
However, I realized you only live once, and if Maura was living to 70 and beyond, it was the least I could do for my new friend. The crowd who came out for Maura's birthday tea was quite larger than normal. I stood up and sang it just like I had the previous nights. The smaller space made my voice seem even larger than I think it already is, and it felt quite staggering. Afterward, everyone was very appreciative of my effort. Wexford Town, with good reason, is a little picky about their opera - they hold an annual festival every fall, which is considered the most important in Ireland. However, I passed their test, and Maura, especially, was so delighted with my special gift to her. The next morning, I was asked - no, dragged - to give a repeat performance for a couple of the "regulars" who had to miss Maura's birthday. I think I might've scared a couple of the maintenance men who were helping themselves to tea in the kitchen.
So, I suppose I came to Ireland with my "party piece" in tow, after all. It isn't necessarily the most traditional of the bunch, but it is definitely something unique to me. I'm still preparing for the fall, when I know that the members of the sing-songs are going to be expecting much more out of me because I know exactly what's coming! However, it didn't hurt to also have a monologue in my back pocket when the Habanera began getting a little overused - even if I did forget the words to the end of it...
Cheers!
--Joy.
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