Stories of Friendship - Trinh and Rachel

Raphael (Raffaello Sanzio, a/k/a Raffaello di Urbino): Self-Portrait with a Friend (1517-1519, Oil on canvas)

Tell me, is it easier to make friends while a child when just running down the street can make you ‘buddies’? When everyone is from the same neighborhood and as a child, you don’t really understand what the economic division means, and we don’t have all those pre-conceived notions (yet) of who we’re not supposed to like, does friendship just come natural?

Some days the friends I had as a child are so clear. The area we lived in was mostly Section 8 housing, which is subsidized by the government for the economically disadvantaged. My mother prided herself on never actually living in the projects, but across the street from us stood ‘The Projects.’ These were housed, when I was a young little thing in Arizona, mostly immigrants as at the time Tempe was a place that was more of a stopping point as people made their way in America.

One of my closest friends was Trinh Phon (excuse me if I mangled the name). There were a lot of Cambodians at the time coming through. I remember the first time I ate at her house, how they sat on the floor and there was a big bowl in the middle. Everyone drank out of the same cup and that was something I was taught was ‘icky’ by my family. Birds were cooked in metal tins on the rooftops.

My mother used to warn me about her, say she was a thief, I didn’t believe it. We were friends, and friends don’t steal from each other! At the time my father, for some reason, had become the care taker of two giant drums of wheat (non-milled). My brother and I were yelled at often for playing with the wheat that was stored in the backyard. My mother was convinced that Trinh was stealing the wheat.

Now, we shared everything. One time she came over with some gum she got from her grandma – which turned out to be ‘chew’. Not something we were allowed to have. I think she did try some first, and thought it was nasty. Another time, she was talking about her sister needing new clothes. Now, I got my clothes as hand-me-downs from my brother, but I knew my mother had some of my older dresses in the closet, which I gave to Trinh. Little did I realize I just gave away my christening gown! My mother didn’t let me live that down for a while.

Trinh also came to my birthday parties. I still have ‘Ozma Of Oz’ – a book she gave me for one birthday. Again, my mother told me it was probably stolen. Well, then arrest me, it’s on my bookcase now.

Now, while she was a close friend, my best friend was Rachel. She lived with her mother and brother in an apartment complex that, well, was in an even worse area than my house. A story my mother always told involved a stabbing happening in front of those apartments. Though, in hindsight, that might have been told to keep me from asking to go to Rachel’s house.

In school, the teacher would give us a penny for each bottle top (the metal kind) that we brought in. I always looked on the streets for them, as at home it was plastic bottles or my parent’s cans of beer. But Rachel, without fail, on Mondays would bring in enough for a whole dollar. How I envied her! She told me that her mom got money off the rent by cleaning the other apartments, and they were always filled with the beer bottle caps! I was so envious of her to get that dollar every week.

When my mother packed up my brother and me up in that car to leave AZ, I was devastated (as I mentioned). But the worst was leaving Rachel. We were going off into the unknown – I didn’t even have an address to give her! A post card was sent once, from one of the states. But there wasn’t a response as there was no place to send one too. Rachel and her family were planning on moving as well, so we were doomed to be separated.

This is in answer to David's question - Who was your childhood friend?

Stories of Friendship – Xiomara

So I was talking to my best friend about the website (yes, she’s still stressed and eating not getting help. Although she told me she tried Nutrisystem to work on the weight.) and she said I can talk about her as long as I say she’s pretty (yup, she is) and change her name to something exotic. We agreed on Xiomara.

I already mentioned how we met in college during Badminton class. I remember when I really began to feel our friendship bloom. After finally getting a CD player, I purchased a John Lennon CD. It had the song ‘Mother’ on it. We both started to cry when it came on, and it opened up for us to talk about our families in a more honest light. No one’s family is perfect. I think she mentioned sleeping on wooden planks (softer than the floor).

The lyrics to ‘Mother’, for those who don’t know:

Mother, you left me
But I didn’t leave you
I-i-I, I needed you, but you didn’t need me
So-o I just want to tell you, goodbye

We were both children deprived and ended up making up for it in college. Beanie Babies were big then and she and I used to buy way too many of them. Sometimes we sold them on Ebay, more often than not we kept them. Our senior year we were roommates and fed into each other’s bid to reclaim childhood. We played hooky from classes one day to go down to the Manhattan Mall and buy games such as Operation and I think CandyLand and sat down in our dorm and played them.

But, such extravagances add up quickly so, for Christmas that year, we each went out and realized we had bought stuff mostly for ourselves. So what did we do? We handed it to the other person who wrapped it and gave it back as our holiday gifts.

That year I think we were off our rockers. She was a huge Yankees fans and every year NYC was having a parade in their honor. So for some reason we got it in our heads to create a picture book comparing each of the Yankees to a cartoon character (such as Scott Brosius as Droopy Dawg and Derek Jeter as a limp carrot, we never much cared for him). After we got the book finished, we had to find a Kinkos to Xerox it so we’d each have a copy. So we went all over ‘the city that never sleeps’ and found out it does take a lot of naps. At around 3 a.m. we finally found a Kinkos and by then, we realized there wasn’t a need to go home if the parade was going to start around 8 am or so, no?

So by 4:30a.m. we were down at the parade route and watching all the floats be put together. The place was quiet, and dark. Well, quiet being relative for New York City streets. There were reporters running all over the place and security, but the general populace was still preparing for the day. As we were the first ‘fans’ there the reporters had a field day interviewing us. I don’t think we were in any way coherent after being up all night. Then, as the sun came over the horizon, the newspaper vendors came out. For those that don’t know, they give out the papers on parade day complete with posters of the team. At least, most do. Those that charge only charge around a quarter or so. So we went around the parade area collecting all the papers we could and other memorabilia. By then more people were starting to come and crowd up the streets. We entered a Modell’s just when it opened, bought some Yankees shirts, looked at the people congregating on the sidewalks, and left.

Back on campus we were now over 24 hours without sleep and had to go to class. We debated skipping it, but both were mostly conscientious students. I had an early morning film class that I went too – and started to fall asleep during. Then I got nauseous (lack of sleep really messes with my stomach) so after 45 minutes in that three-hour class, I went back to my room and found – Xiomara asleep. But then she got up and went to class.

We were both falling asleep in various classes all day. But it was fun. I highly recommend going to a parade before everyone gets there just to watch it being set-up. I think it was much more entertaining than the actual parade would have been.

Stories of Friendship - R. (Part 2)

"Friendship quilt" from http://static.howstuffworks.com

The thing that began to bug me about R. was that she was sexual, and I was not. While we talked of being chaste and she was a ‘good catholic girl’ she’d always come back with stories of acts she’d done with her boyfriends – and in public spaces. There was a disconnect between her actions and her words that really set off alarms. For instance, she cried when her boyfriend went off to the army and sent her back letter after letter saying what he did with other women because she wouldn’t. So the minute he got back she ‘serviced him’ at a local park. She did the same thing with her boss at a fast food restaurant who said he was in physical pain and needed her help for a release, and later when we lived together for a few months had an affair with someone because she ‘always wanted to do it with a man of his profession.’ But after each excursion she’d come to me in tears asking for redemption. Redemption isn’t my job.

My mother loved R. and even called her her other daughter. R. called her ‘Mommy #2.’ She was included in all our functions. When my brother was dating some woman, that person tried to call my mother ‘mom’ and was cut off at the pass – “You do not call me mother, even if you marry my son you will not call me mother,” was her response. Only R., my brother and I could.

R. was older and thus went to college before me. It was her first time away from home. The next year I ended up in NYC. We sent letters back and forth and the every important packages. I swear, the other kids at college measured your worth in boxes from ‘home.’

I remember thinking how grown up R. was the first time I saw her in a suit. This was when I went to visit her after she graduated when she had a ‘real’ job.

As I think I mentioned in another post, there were so many times that I wanted to quit being her friend for all those ‘odd’ feelings I had about her. If we went halfsies on some candy at a store, and it came out to say, 1.27 she’d want that extra penny because ‘we can’t split a penny.’ She always argued about such things, and I’d give in. Plus she was just so sexualized and it made me uncomfortable. Add to that the fact that if we were out and a man would whistle or whatever, she’d always preen and say it was at her, like I was denied that right to be worthy of attention. She would also always comment on the largeness of my breasts, which was unnerving to say the least. But my mom loved R., and I loved her mom, so we stayed friends.

By the time I finished college my mother had helped R. get a job working with her. I had no career plans to speak of, was just amazed that I graduated, but couldn’t take living with my mother. Thus, R. and I got a place together and I got a job working at the same place as the two of them – who by now had gotten really close and made life plans for me (which I didn’t realize at the time). We got a two bedroom in a nice area and had drawn up a plan that I would take the small room (less than half the size of the master one) in exchange for proportional rent. Since we each had a cat, we each would pay the 150$ deposit and realized we would only get half back.

Shortly after we moved in R. told me that she spoke to other people and proportional rent was stupid. I told her that’s why she got the big room, or else we could have found another way to figure the rooms out. She told me “No, you pay half and if you don’t like it you can go back with your mother.” Bear in mind she had been in her job for over a year now, and I was just interning for the summer at $10/hour. Not much money. I, as always, acquiesced.

I started interviewing but wasn’t really finding a job in our area that I liked, I wanted to go back to Manhattan- it was my goal. Every time I said that R. got really upset with me.

Another rule we had made going into the place was no men allowed ever. That included our brothers. The simple reason was a friend of ours had been killed by her roommate’s boyfriend. We both realized you could never really know someone and it was agreed that we wouldn’t put each other in such a position. Of course, not soon after she had her military boyfriend over, the one who cheated on her across the globe.

Everything just went from bad to worse and I was trapped. I hadn’t yet gotten my license, so was dependent on her and the bad public transportation in that city. When I did have another guy that was interested in me, she asked him right in front of me if he wouldn’t prefer a slim brunette like her. Not to mention that her cat was like her- unpredictable and controlling.

I was there for three months before I got a call that my roommate from college found me a place – her boss got a new apartment and the first month would be free. After that I only had to pay about 300$. I left with no job prospects, my cat, and $30 in my checking account and never doubted that it was the right choice. All my furniture was still at the place with R. and she never allowed anyone else to take it, saying I had given it to her. When I went to get the pet deposit back it turns out I was the only who paid it, and since there were two cats on the contract (and they keep half for allergen cleaning) they were just keeping all my money. R. was also furious that I had turned in my key as she wanted to give it to one of the men in rotation on her mattress. There was no way I wasn’t going to hand it back in to the rental office to make sure they knew I was gone.

I swear, each person feels like a novella. There is so much, good and not so good, that went into the relationship. I suppose it’s that way with everyone though. In the end, she was bad for me, I realized it, and that’s that. But it’s still a part of me somewhere.

Stories of Friendship - R. (Part 1)

Picture from http://www.fairfield.edu

I forget how we met. Oh wait, Biology, my freshman year. We were in the same class. In my high school it was mixed ages in some classes, since there wasn’t much of a sequence to the sciences. She is older than me by about two years, but was held back a year so while I was in 9th grade, she was in 10th. There were other people in there that were ‘older’ and cooler too. One, I forget her name, my goodness, where is my mind? But I hung out with her a lot. We’d go to her house and she’d get drunk while we played nine men’s morris. We were partnered a lot in Biology and for one experiment we had to place a live fish under the microscope. She kept stirring up the beaker and I was getting upset that she was traumatizing the fish needlessly. Then I saved him from her and started singing ‘fish out of troubled water’ and she couldn’t get it out of her head.

There was another time when we had to dissect the live frog. I refused to do it but instead of taking the F this girl let me copy her work. I do remember thinking it was cool though when its heart was still beating on the scalpel. When we put coffee on it, it beat faster (that was part of the experiment).

Anyway, that is how R. and I met. It turned out we lived close to each other so we were walking home, saw each other, and started talking. She had a keychain that said, “how a woman is like the discovery of the U.S.” or something, about how at first they are exciting but soon become run-down. I thought it was funny at the time, if a little ribald. I was invited for dinner that night and went, it’s always nice to go to someone else’s house.

We studied a lot together, she had problems with schoolwork and I found out this was her second year taking biology. Back then, they hadn’t lowered the Regent’s state mandated test scores like they have now, so it was harder to pass. I worked with her a lot. We’d sit in the little strip of land in the middle of the roads to concentrate. There was a study guide we had to buy, I couldn’t afford it so the teacher had given me his. With it, he gave me an answer sheet so I’d know my progress.

The day we went in to take the test she and I were the first to arrive. This meant the pick of the seats. I went in and the first chair I sat in the legs gave out. This made me laugh hysterically. I joke about my weight, but while I have always been heavyset never THAT big. So after the laughter we set the chair back up – noticed how it was rigged – and waited for someone else.

I think she just passed that test by one point- but that was enough to pass the class.

Her mother was the real gem. Old world Italian she spoke very little English. R. told me that she had only up to a third grade education. She cooked and cleaned and forced you to eat and admonished her children when they did badly in school and absolutely loved her garden and later, their dog.

There was also an older brother. His voice was like cats being tossed at a blackboard. He had many learning disabilities. It was hard sometimes to talk to him because I couldn’t take his voice at all.

I couldn’t stand her father. He was big and gruff and always yelling at everyone, and was very sexualized. There were signs of pornography around the house. He refused to let his wife learn English – even when we had found out free classes were being taught at a local school. Her job was to cook and clean and care for him as well as bring in some money. She worked in factory jobs mostly, steam press and other textile things. I remember asking her about it once. She sighed and said, “He’s my husband.”

R. and I had a lot of fun riding our bikes all over the city, studying together, playing video games on her computer. She had compuserve – one of those initial internet providers – so that was a novelty. Her father also spent hundreds of dollars on telephone psychics, so we talked about that a lot. There was a time when she slipped down her stairs, twisted her ankle, and needed an air cast. Shortly after that I twisted mine on a welcome mat and ended up in her air cast.

We shared what we could, mainly junk food, and her mother always had a place for me at the dinner table. There was a time period when my brother went completely off the handle, more so than usual, and I remember walking to her house, in a blizzard, my school books in tow. My mother laughed that in my hurry to pack I left the clothes until last, but education was way more important to me than fashion. Her mother took me in with open arms.

Stories of Friendship

Freshman year of college was hard, but I made some friends during that time. There were a few of us that came from hardship and, at least for that first year, banded together. We were a rag-tag group for sure. But none of us kept in touch much after that first year.

My college required everyone to take a year of physical education (on top of a load of other requirements). Everyone fought for the ‘easiest’ and that found me in Badminton class. The first couple days the teacher put us through individual drills then, on the third class, we were to pick partners (after she gave us each a little drill and we passed it). I looked around the room to see who could be compatible. Everyone was so friendly and smiling and slim- I hated them all. I was surly, couldn’t take people who were always happy. “They never knew hardship,” I griped to myself, “They’ll never understand me. Spoiled brats all of them.”

Then, in the back of the room, I saw this other overweight person giving everyone the same evil eye. So I walked up to her and asked her to my badminton partner. We’ve been best friends ever since, always there for each other through thick and thin. She is the only person I talk to now who has even met my mother and knows some of the things I’ve gone through.

We were great together. We’d have our “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” nights in college where we would order Chinese food and sit up doing arts and crafts or other non-academic things. We were roommates our senior year in college and joked around a lot about how my grades just steadily climbed since I met her, and hers went down from a perfect 4.0 to maybe a 3.5.

Like I said, we have been through a hell of a lot and now, at 30, have known each other for a third of our lives. Here’s the thing- I don’t want to be the angry person like I was in college who hates the happy people. I understand happiness is a good thing. When we talk now, I have begun to realize she still feels the way I did. So I opened up a dialogue about it and for the first time we had a serious conversation.

She feels helpless
She feels like no one cares
She feels doomed, like nothing she does matters anyway
She berates herself for everything she perceives she does wrong
She has lost hope and is scared every day

I was happy she talked to me about such things, we were both crying on the phone. I recognized everything, as I’ve been through such a long period of that and I’m still fighting against it. She recognizes she’s depressed and has been for years but doesn’t know what she can do. Then she felt she didn’t have a right to feel that way since I’ve been through so much worse. Everyone has a right to feel how they do! That was one of my main reasons for not talking, how could I complain when my best friend in highschool was forced to bear her father’s child? We talked about options and she was very open to everything. She found the number to call for a mental health professional, covered by her health care.

“But I won’t call.” She told me at the end of our conversation. “I never do. I’m not as brave as you- I can’t just call. That first step is too hard.”

“But you already made the first step,” I told her, “you didn’t hang up on me when I brought this up, you listened and responded positively. I’m just sick of seeing you hurting yourself plus, in all honesty, had you said something similar to me a few years ago I would have hung up on you.”

“You stepped away from your mother,” she replied, “you’re stronger than me. Even if I do call, I’ll cancel the appointment. It’s what I do.”

“But it isn’t what you have to do,” I told her. “Therapy isn’t always the answer. You can try yoga, meditation, or just a week without McDonald’s since you are there everyday.”

“Not McDonald’s, just fried food,” she told me.

The other issue is this – It’s so easy to fall back into that habit of thinking. The idea of hopelessness is kind of attractive. It’s like an ex-junkie walking into a crack den. And I did tell her that – that I worry about her but also about me. When we go out she is always self-deprecating and it is something I’m fighting so hard against. It’s been ten years of our lives, and she’s always helped me, and I want to help her, but not hurt myself in the process or ruin our friendship. For the past few years we have been talking less and less and I know it is her depressive state that leaves her cocooned alone.

I did talk to my therapist about this as well, and she stated what I already was going to do, just keep the dialogue going and keep being friends. It can test me and might show her an alternative even if she thinks I’m ‘stronger’ than her. On the other hand, if it gets to be too much, I have to face the reality that for a while, we might have to part. That is the last thing I want to happen.

I had gotten her to agree to go to a social event with me and then, an hour before we were to leave, she canceled (after already paying a non-refundable fee). It’s hard for me, but goes to what I talked about the other day – she has to save herself. Which is what we talked about. I will not tell her what to do, especially since there isn’t just one way. She has to decide when it’s time and go forward. My friend fears she won’t be ready until someone in her family dies and she’s forced to deal with a change. I really hope she gets some help before then. As I told her, I’m not there to judge her or threaten her, I’m here to help if she needs it and still be her friend and listen to anything she has to say without judgment.

It does get hard for me when there are these long lapses between communications. For my first birthday since I’ve known her she didn’t call me. When I finally called her up at work, the day before leaving for Chicago, she told me she had e-mailed me at midnight and wondered why I never responded – I had never gotten the e-mail. We each thought the other was mad over some perceived slight when that wasn’t the case. There are so many long roads to walk down.

picture from http://www.nwf.org via google image search

Flashback Central - Three Stories of 'Friendship'

Today has been a weird day I think. For some reason I’m remembering moments with friends where I feared I did something wrong, or, where now I recognize what they did was wrong and I let it happen. All this tends to make me physically dizzy, and, to some extent with a rumbly tumbly.

I think I’ll go scenario by scenario.

#1 – College, Senior Year.

I had gone down to the soda machine in the basement and it ate my dollar – no soda. No refunds either as I recall. So about a week later my roommate asked me to go down and get her a soda, and I agreed. Well, wouldn’t you know the machine spat out two bottles? (I swear- she and I were the only ones who got the ginger ales anyway.) So I went back happy saying, “oh look, it finally gave me my bottle!” but she said because it was her dollar that got the two sodas it was hers. In the end I did get the soda, as ‘her gift’ to me.

Well that was the first memory, and I wondered about the ethics of it. Was it really her bottle as it was her dollar? She knew I lost the dollar earlier, and had I been in her shoes I wouldn’t have questioned the claim that the bottle belonged to each of us. After all, she had intended to get only one bottle of soda with her one dollar, and I had lost one earlier. There was no difference in standing than when I left the room. So was I being presumptuous in claiming that bottle as my lost one and had my act to get her soda, originally an altruistic deed, turned into a motive of profit and/or theft? Was I stealing her soda? Technically, this time it was her dollar.

I spent entirely too much time trying to figure out the ethics of this one. The machine owed me a soda, and I got it from the machine. But did I do so at her expense? Honestly, I’m at the ‘let it go’ point. There was a valid claim to that drink.

#2 – College, Junior Year

A friend who I would have to write multiple posts about, R, and I are going on what is my first vacation. I have done all the booking, put it on my credit card, and planned it all out. When I finally go to the ATM to get out 150$ spending money, the machine gives me 300$ instead. It is late at night so there is no one in the bank. I tell my mother and she immediately wants to drive to the bank and get a withdrawal, thinking it’s free money. She tells my brother and he calls his friends. They all go to the machine. Meanwhile, I call my bank to check my balance – there is only a 150$ difference.

My family comes back dejected – the machine is out of money.

So I tell my friend about this and she suggests I call the bank. I do, multiple times, and finally they say that there is no record of me withdrawing any more than 150 and that ATM is now out of service. I will not be charged more than 150 and since there is no record they cannot accept cash from me except to deposit it in my account. So, yeah! Extra money for my first vacation.

But, when R finds out about this she insists that half of this is hers because we are going on the trip together. It was my account, my worries, (and remember, I made all trip arrangements anyway) but she insists that as my travel partner I give her half, especially since it will cover most of the bus fare up there. I say no again. She then tells me that God sent me the money to do the right thing – split it with her. Again, and this time aghast, I tell her no.

Now, I know she was in the wrong with this one. She was an extension of my mother, one I got rid of a few years before my mother, but equally as controlling in many respects. So after the trip I fill out all the paperwork to get my tax refunds for the hotel and she insists on half. She did pay for half of the hotel, so fine. But it turns out the total is something like 52.35. Since half of that is 26.175 she decided she should get the extra half a penny – 26.18. She argues the point incessantly, and I, being the me at the time, give her the half a penny rather than argue.

#3 Twelve Years Old, Sunday School

This one also involves R. At Sunday School they had this treasure chest and the minister had a bag full of keys. Every Sunday he made a show about putting in a new shiny toy. There were fire trucks, my little ponies, princess castles, a Crayola backpack that I wanted, etc. You could go up and pick a key each week for remembering your Bible verses from the previous week, being picked by your Sunday School teacher, or one key for each new friend you brought to church. So I brought R. and won! I was so happy, the backpack and the princess castle were calling my name.

Now, I had fully intended to share with her as she was my friend. For so many weeks I had remembered my Bible verses and tried lots of keys. Of course, the Sunday school teacher asked me which toy I’d give my friend for helping me win. Then R. decided it was an equal share, because without her I wouldn’t have won. There were at least 12 toys anyway, so I was fine with that. We’d take turns picking out toys. Then she says she gets first pick. I didn’t like that. But she insists that it’s only right in God’s eyes that since it was through her coming I won. She starts to get mad. Did I mention she and my mom got along super well? Lol, my mother considered her the daughter she wish she had had. Every time I had wanted to stop being her friend my mom sat me down and had a talk with me about keeping her around.

Anyway, in the end I acquiesced and she took the backpack! I was so friggen upset. I still got the Princess castle that did special thinks with a magic ‘key’ and other stuff, but not the backpack.

So as I’m thinking over all these things I begin to feel distressed. I berate myself. “Why the hell did you let her walk all over you?” I asked myself. “You were such a f*cking wimp. What the hell? Couldn’t even stand up for a ½ a penny, let alone your backpack. You earned those Sunday School toys, why did you let her take them?

Then I started to feel lower and down on myself. Then the internal dialogue begins. There is the one me berating my childhood self, and the other recognizing that I was so beaten down by my mother I did what I was told. R. was an extension of her and the fact that I stood up to her in the college scenario shows progress and a development of self. I shouldn’t insult myself for actions that were deemed necessary to avoid conflict – something I lived in constantly anyway. It was my feelings of self-worth and like I was ‘undeserving’ for everything that let her have the backpack, not me.

It’s all so exhausting, to have to talk myself up after each little memory sneaks up triggering others and they just keep flowing and flowing. Then I have to talk down those feelings of powerlessness that come up. Then I berate myself for how petty this all must sound, a backpack, a soda and ‘found’ money.

Photos taken from the following sources:
http://www.britsuperstore.com/
http://www.simplydumb.com/
http://www.churchsigngenerator.com/