Finding My Voice in Language
As I organized my bookshelves the last couple of days, I came across a dozen or so old journals, each unique in its size, design and color. Some are thinner, hard cover bound with lined pages, and some are wrapped in a cloth or vinyl, with unlined sketch book pages. While they all differ from each other in appearance, there is a common thread than unifies them. They are all blank save for the first few couple of pages, all chronicling my inability to tell my story of war and survival.
I have been purchasing these books since I came to Chicago, I guess one per a year, probably as a part of a New Year resolution. I do not remember exactly. In some of them I am struggling with the motive for writing my memoir. Often I write of a need to tell my story in order to piece my memory and myself back together. In a few of them I talk about the telling of my story as a way to become whole again and reclaim my life. Read more
Spark the Love in Our Hearts
There is something about the season that always makes me nostalgic for Christmas back home. Especially Christmas Eve, which was the main event in my family. My sister and I would wake up early, excited about setting up the tree that day. We would wait impatiently for mom to finish her coffee. In true Bosnian fashion, the morning coffee was akin to a marathon. The pacing was precise and there was no hurry reaching the finish line. It was a process, rather than an event, and the spectators were left annoyed. Read more
Joy and Gratitude
I’m always thrown by the Holidays. This year I said that I would not fall into that whole retail trap, that I would instead focus on spending time with my children and appreciating each moment with them, but I get stuck. I start to feel sorry for myself for not having enough for them, for going over my tiny budget and paying bills late to make this happen. I fell deeply into that trap I tried so hard to avoid. Read more
Nollaig Shona Duit – Merry Christmas From Ireland
As mentioned in a previous blog I wrote on Imagine 2050, I moved to the USA from Ireland in 1997. My family have become well immersed in American society but we still hold onto many traditions and customs from Ireland. During the Christmas period, there are many customs that we still practice. In my house, the excitement of Christmas morning and receiving gifts from Santa has been revived.
My father remarried about 3 years ago to an Irish woman who brought her 3 kids all under the age of 10 with her to live in our house. Since then my sister and my stepmother both have had children bringing the total number of kids to 7. The ages are 21, 20, 10, 10, 5, 1 and 4 months. So as you can imagine, our house is very noisy and Christmas day is no exception. Read more
Frostbite
I love snow. My early memories of snow are steeped in feelings of hope and wonder. There is something magical about how excited I felt as a child during snow storms in Sarajevo. Snow would come in abundance, brought from the mountains that surround the city. It would always announce itself with a crisp bite in my nose. I knew the next morning I would look through the window and see my school and my favorite apple tree blanketed in a heavy coat of snow, the kind of snow that begs to be disturbed and played with. Read more
Things I want for Christmas:
An apartment where Guitar Hero is not played at 2:30 in the morning.
A car that has Four Wheel Drive on negative 16 degree mornings when I have no coffee
A clear and concise parenting plan
A job that pays me benefits
Someone to take the GRE for me
A government system that allows me to get ahead while still providing a little help.
Enough time in my day to work 9 hours, have dinner with an old friend, and still have time to study after read more
Surviving War Trauma
For more than a decade I have been battling the effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Sometimes I feel that I just can’t win. Just when I learn to live with a specific set of symptoms they either change or another symptom arises and a new reality emerges.
PTSD is greatly misunderstood in general society. It carries the stigma of mental disorder, and is often interpreted as a singular response to an event or a prolonged exposure to trauma. Defined as a response, and paired with a lack of societal interest and inquiry, PTSD becomes either something one should “get over” or “keep to themselves.” In this environment, those who live with the disorder often become isolated and misunderstood. Read more
Giving Thanks in a Foreign Land
I spent this Thanksgiving, as the past four, with my neighbors. As I frantically cleaned my house and helped in food preparations, I could not avoid remembering my first introduction to one of the biggest annual events in America. In 1995 after escaping Sarajevo and living in a refugee camp for seven months, I was finally reunited with my husband in Chicago. It was the summer of 1995 and I was beginning to recreate my life in a new country, with language and customs other than those of my birth place. Read more
Nebraska Laws Undermine Families in Crisis
By Jessica Acee
The debacle surrounding the Nebraska Safe Haven law highlights a hidden crisis within American families.
Last week Nebraska amended its Safe Haven law and social workers and hospital employees across the state breathed an uneasy sigh of relief. Now, only infants 30 days or younger may be dropped off at hospitals and firehouses with no fear of prosecution for the parents. For the last two and a half months, parents have been able to drop off kids as old at 17, and many have done so. Read more
Brooklyn Still Haven for New Immigrants
Brooklyn continues its long tradition as a comfortable haven for new immigrants. A resurgence of western European immigrants are reshaping Williamsburg, which has been better known for its hipsters and indie music scene the last several years. But in changing, Williamsburg and other New York neighborhoods are merely remaining true to the best versions of themselves. Read more
It’s That Time Again: The Holidays
Ah the holidays. I can’t believe they’re almost here. No really…I can’t believe it! I don’t know if it’s that “the older you get the faster time flies” or if it has something to do with being so busy with the kids and jobs. This year instead of joy and excitement I feel a sense of dread.
I want to be able to give my children everything they ask for, for them to be content and stuffed full of food and happy with the Christmas booty they’ve received, but what am I teaching them? That Christmas is that terrible monster of greed that leaves one worked up and always unsatisfied? Read more
One Day in America: November 4th, 2008
I woke up around noon, nice and late, just as I like it. I stretched and cracked my neck, and then I remembered what day it was. I threw on my clothes and ran downstairs to the coffee shop below my apartment, grabbed a mug and filled it with the dark blend (spice island, one of my favorites). Then I saw my dull, but strangely glowing, grayish gold bicycle u-locked to the pole outside, and decided it was time to ride. On my way to work, I fantasized about the day’s potential. Sure, I may be spilling burning hot coffee on myself and on my way to work now, but tonight was going to be awesome. Read more
Things to do this Week:
Wake up everyday with my children at 5am.
Attempt to take a soothing bath and hope that the screaming children in the background will survive.
Dishes
Laundry
Pay rent
Weekly menu
Grocery shop
Check bank account
Pay bills.
Get gas.
Work.
Vote.
Vote.
Vote.
Restricting the American Dream
In December of 1997, I boarded a plane from Ireland with my family bound for America. My dad had been offered a job in Chicago and he took it without question. When we arrived I faced the daunting task of starting school in a completely different country where I knew nobody. I didn’t think I would fit in with the other kids because of my accent and because the school system and culture is completely different. But from the first day I walked into my 5th grade class I found out that I had something good going for me: in America being Irish is considered to be “cool.” I was the center of attention and the other students all gathered around me asking me all sorts of questions ranging from “do they have TVs in Ireland?” to “what language do they speak there?” Everyone made me feel welcome and halfway through the school day when my mom came to pick me up I told her that I didn’t want to leave! I was welcomed with open arms, but for millions of immigrants who come to the United States, the welcome is much different. Read more
America: Bigger, Taller, Stronger
Somewhere in the vast plains of Iowa you can find the World’s Largest Truck stop. The Iowa 80 Truck stop is unlike any other gas station, tourist shop or rest stop. To be quite honest, it is a small city.
In addition to being able to do your own laundry, take a shower, or play a few arcade games, you can visit Irene’s barber and styling shop; have your teeth examined at Interstate Dental; seek advice from the Career Center; visit the Custom Shop if you need anything embroidered, engraved, or have a need for vinyl graphics; fill your belly at the Iowa 80 Restaurant; and even catch a classic flick at Trucker’s Theater (which seats approximately 40 people). Read more
Fear & Faith in Two Thousand Eight
Last week I received a letter from my friend Jonathon asking for money. He had been laid off from his job with a major consulting firm and after spending a few weeks looking for work, decided that he needed to make a major change. At 28 Jonathon veered wildly off the corporate ladder and was preparing to go to southeast Africa to teach AIDS/HIV prevention. I was surprised to hear of his plans, because in his own words “roughing it isn’t really a term that people associate when they think of me”. He’s not exaggerating, I once saw Jonathon cut a meeting short to make a massage appointment. I was happy to learn that his request for money was to help fund a trip to Malawi, Africa, not just to get him through a tough time. Read more
My Little Princess
Well, it’s here. Fall is in the the air and with it Halloween. Hardly a soul is exempt from participating in one way or another. At the very least you will be forced to leave your couch about a hundred times to pass out candy to little beggars at your door. For these little ones it is not question of “if” they are dressing up but “as what”. They are going to dress up because if they don’t they won’t get any candy!
In my house (or tiny apartment) I pretty much know the answer as to what they will be for Halloween this year, but I have to ask, just in case. The feminist in me cringes as the word rings out in toddler unison “PRINCESS!!” What I’d like to hear is “DOCTOR!!” or “COMPUTER GRAPHICS ENGINEER!!” but with this I am merely delusional. Read more
Talking Truthfully About Abortion
After the debate last night a friend asked me what I thought about abortion. I immediately felt a sense of dread, not wanting to get pulled into a chat that might rile me up when I should be winding down for the evening. You see, I’m passionate about women’s rights, and discussions about women’s issues with men make me nervous. After a long day, I was liable to blow a fuse that would alienate my friend and keep me up tossing and turning for the rest of the night.
“What do you mean?” I asked, “I’m pro-choice, of course”.
“Yeah, but how do you feel about it?” he asked. This is where I started to get prickly. There’s a habit of defensiveness I’ve gotten into when it comes to the issue of abortion. A holding pattern developed in response to questions meant to entrap me in my own morality. Read more
Welcomed Home: Part 3 (finale)
The farm has always been my home. Even after the years of California sun has tanned my skin and bleached my long brown hair to sandy blond. Even after the years of going home to a house that was surrounded by dozens of other houses, that looked exactly alike, even when move after move has left me disoriented and lost. When I close my eyes, I go home. Home is where my grandmother works in her garden of tomato plants, and tall green corn stocks and carrots that are pulled from the dark brown soil with a single, tug of her hand. Home is where we sit and shell peas and watch the swallows shoot in and out of the old barn with rapid tucks and swoops. Home is where all the problems of my world were enveloped in one strong embrace. It is here the gopher and the squirrel harvest their food for the winter cold and oak leaves fall in orange and yellow flight on mid-October nights. It is where my grandmother and I watch the world develop and decline. Read more
Welcomed Home: Part 2
Inside, I shut the door and run my hand over an antique desk where She used to sit and do her make-up. The tainted mirror reflects my image and behind me, I can almost see her standing, searching in the closet for one of her rarely worn evening dresses. Her scattered fragrances fill my senses. Her powders and forget-me-nots still occupy the drawers, dresser and closet. So many times I have wanted to touch these things, to investigate their mystery, they seemed so foreign and strange to me these useless pretty nick-naks and fancies. I will not be shooed out tonight; there is no one here to defend her properties that she so intimately kept.
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