Everybody’s waiting for me to fall

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I recently ran into someone who always made me feel dowdy and unsophisticated. I’ve always been a little self conscious about my appearance… guys used to make fun of me all the time in high school, and people used to tell me it must be difficult being best friends with someone who was as beautiful as my best buddy was. I always felt like second fiddle.

Well, when I ran into this particular person, they said, “You look great as usual.” This person then turned to the friend I was with and added, “CJ always looks great no matter what. The girl can eat anything and not gain a pound.”

So it was a relatively insignificant encounter, a relatively meaningless statement… but as I left the restaurant that evening, I thought about how much more self confident I’ve become in even the two years since I first met that person.

Part of that is probably because I’ve adopted some of the “cultural norms” of this crazy state. It’s a subtle thing, but I don’t think I dress quite as casually as I did when I first moved here. I probably wear more make up. I’m generally a little prissier, a little girlier… I guess I’m a Bama girl, at least nominally.

But I hope there’s more to my new-found confidence than physical changes. I think I’ve become more generally accepting of my quirks and my personality than I used to be. I’m more focused on my goals in life and less on trying to fit someone else’s ideals. I think I’m kind of a “grown up”–at least, as much as someone who uses the term “grown up” can be. 😉

I still get freaked out when boys tell me I’m hot, though… even if they are junior highers. 😛

Nobody’s happy while feeling alone

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

There are plenty of reasons why I claim Nickel Creek’s “Reasons Why” as my favorite song and one of the songs that tells the most about my life.

I realize it’s kind of a depressing way to describe yourself–read the lyrics for yourself if you don’t know what I mean. And I know I’m mostly a pretty cheerful, upbeat kind of girl. But I have probably more than my share of melancholy moments, and when they come I turn into little miss “woe is me.”

Sometimes I think that’s pretty normal for this stage of life. I’m in my early (almost mid!) twenties and I’m as far from being “settled” as I ever have been. Most days that doesn’t bother me (too much).

But then those moments of discontent come along. Yesterday was that kind of day… sometimes I get in a funk because there’s no one around, but then I’m in such a poopy mood that I don’t want to hang out with anyone. It’s pretty self-defeating and irrational.

My temporary employment is up in three weeks and I don’t know what’s in store next. (I know God’s in control, but that doesn’t mean I always live as though I believe it. So thanks for the reminder, but I haven’t forgotten. 😉 ) I have mixed feelings on the future. On the one hand, I have enjoyed working at the paper. If they offer me a full time job, I might have to take it.

On the other, I really don’t like this city. I know it took me a while to get used to living in Birmingham, too, but I never disliked Birmingham. I was just lonely. I don’t know if I could get used to living here again… maybe I could. But if I had to choose between employment here or there, the job would have to be pretty good to keep me here.

Of course, at this point that’s just wishful thinking… the employer’s aren’t exactly lining up outside my door. I guess I’ll just wait and see…

You can’t jump the track
We’re like cars on a cable and life’s like an hourglass glued to the table,
No one can find the rewind button girl
So just cradle your head in your hands
And breathe
–Anna Nalick

Protected: I’m a part of that… aren’t I?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

The first reporting class I took in j-school was JN311, Intro to Reporting. It was mostly what you’d expect of an introductory course: we covered the five W’s and H, made mention of AP style and were required to do some reporting and writing in a lab setting.

But one day’s lesson stood out. In the second half of the semester we talked about disaster coverage. That sort of situation is exactly why I didn’t want to work at a newspaper–you never know when you’ll be called into a delicate situation, when you’ll be interviewing people whose relatives have just passed away.

Our guest speaker that day was (if I remember correctly) an editor from the local paper. Roughly three years earlier, a significant tornado had hit the city and one of the paper’s photographers was among the first on the scene. The speaker recounted the photographer’s experience as he captured this news-worthy but oh-so-delicate event.

My assignment yesterday wasn’t quite a natural disaster in the sense that a tornado is, but it was the first time I’ve interviewed someone days after they’ve lost a family member. I went through the motions of reporting in something of a haze–I wanted to take down every piece of information I was able and to retell the story for the public, but I wanted to do so with gentleness and respect.

My 25 inch (or roughly 800 word) story ran on the front page of our local section today. I poured all I could into recounting the events of this local family: the granddaughter has been in the hospital with cancer (oh, just visit https://sideeffectsofxarelto.org! its so sad to hear about that kind of drugs), and on Sunday night her grandparents and younger brother were in a car accident while travelling to see her. The grandfather was killed instantly and the grandmother is in critical condition. The boy survived without injury.

I blinked back tears as I met friends of the family and wrote the story yesterday… and again today as I began to receive phone calls and e-mails from readers.

As much as I love magazines, as much as I love a good clip… my life and my work are not about me.

What’s the use in all these words

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I clean out my CD collection periodically. I guess part of my obsessive nature is that I don’t like to hang on to music that I don’t really listen to. The money I get for selling them is only a fraction of what I paid, but I take it as the price I pay for impulse buys.

Keane is a good example… I love “Somewhere Only We Know” and my friends raved about them, so I grabbed the disc for $8.99 at Target. But I wasn’t impressed, and I already had the aforementioned single on a Paste sampler, so $3 was worth more to me than a CD I wouldn’t really play. Off they went to my used store of the month.

Today is another clean out, mostly prompted by an upcoming Chuck Klosterman book. But even though there are several discs I rarely play, some of them retain too many fond memories to sell.

Most of my Caedmon’s Call catalogue falls into that category. I never listen to In the Company of Angels, and I skip more than half of the tracks on Back Home. (I rarely even play 40 Acres, and it’s my favorite!)

I feel like I should load my favorite tracks onto iTunes and get rid of the hard copies. Besides the questionable ethics of that, I just can’t abandon the albums. I bought ITCOA after I fell for Caedmon’s. It was summer 2002 and I was stuck on a lonely mountain in southern California. Few of the songs resonated with me, but those that did, I loved deeply.

Robinella & the CC String Band are probably on their way to a new home, charming as I do find their album. The fact is, I never listen to it and the memory it elicits is a particularly bad (though now irrelevant) one. “Man Over” is my favorite track but it also reminds me of the tears I shed over someone’s drunkenness. That’s not something I want around.

Underneath this age is the heart of a child

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

It’s been three years since I graduated from FSU. I remember much of that day vividly, though I really didn’t journal about it. I remember crying when Philip and Stacy left my house the night before because I didn’t know what to expect of our still-young friendships. I remember pulling over on my way to Schoolfield’s graduation party and crying off my make up. I was suddenly unsure about the early graduation I’d so long anticipated. I remember an early dinner at Carraba’s and running from Wescott to the Civic Center after taking pictures. I remember the blisters that made for a painful walk across the stage. I remember a half-hearted visit to Stetson’s.

Then just as quickly as it began, it was over. I was a college graduate, young and uncertain of what was next. I had a graduate school acceptance on one hand and a whole lot of nothing on the other.

I don’t remember when I decided not to go to Alabama, though I remember the fear and self consciousness that held me back. And I can still vividly recall the night when I began to reconsider that decision.

I’d been a graduate for almost six months by then—I was actually one day shy of that anniversary. I knew I couldn’t stay in my current master’s program. I was clinging to memories that had passed and friendships that were changing.

Against that backdrop, a stranger innocently asked why I hadn’t gone to Alabama. Though I risk crediting that simple question with too much power, it was then that I began to take slow, tentative steps toward Tuscaloosa.

It was in a coffee shop in that small Southern city that I celebrated the first year I’d held a bachelor’s degree. That degree hadn’t gotten me far at that point—I hadn’t even decided yet to enroll in the master’s program from which I would eventually graduate. But I was finally at a point where I was willing to take risks (however small). I was only 21 years old.

I guess I have grown up a bit in the years since my college graduation. I’m more confident in my relationships. My friends are still terribly important to me, but I don’t base major life decisions on them anymore. Though they do provide a sense of security, I’ve seen how my relationships grow, change and encourage me regardless of what city and state I call home.

Now I have a master’s degree. I guess that’s the most obvious difference, but its significance is more in the gamble and passion that earned it than in the degree itself. Student loans and writing at the risk of rejection aren’t what most thrill seekers pursue, but they were big steps for a little girl who thought she had life planned out at age 20.

I’m where I dared to dream I’d be. When I took the GRE with little preparation and a runny nose, it was with the hope of earning an education and a job in Sweet Home Alabama. On this day three years ago, I was scared to take that chance.

I think the 20-year-old me would be proud of who her 23-year-old self has become.

Wait, I’ll be fine, just give me a couple years to say my prayers

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

This afternoon I dropped Alisa off under the Southwest sign at the airport. I sent her into the terminal with a tight hug, then slid into my car and tried to drive away before I could get too sentimental.

It didn’t really work.

It’s not like we had particularly unusual adventures over these last six days. It’s just one of the trials of having far-flung best friends. It’s hard to release that bit of normalcy, to watch a person who loves the whole you slip back to the other side of the country. You may have a guarantee to see them again soon, but that doesn’t make up for lost months of playing with your cat and teasing friends on IM together.

I held on to that melancholy mood as I enjoyed front porch conversation with new friends tonight. Different as these scenarios are, they account for my nervousness about moving. My best memories of that city involve Ed food, sidewalk chalk, lattes and Friends, piles of leaves and adventures born of two young imaginations.

Those things aren’t tied to the city but to friendships. I’ve just started to feel comfortable in the place I’ve carved out here, and I hesitate to leave it for a place that only holds memories.

It’s hard for me to believe that I’m not losing the people I’ve met here and that the city’s promise isn’t tied to the friends who were once there. Honestly, I’m really excited about some aspects of moving back. The job I’m going for sounds great and I’ll be working with one friend and making others. There are churches there and my home church is only an hour away.

The memories and friendships I cherish won’t be there and can’t be recreated. But they’re not supposed to be.

It’s a bittersweet excitement that serves to confirm what I’ve long believed—success is often harder than failure.

“Failure’s hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you’re successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever.” -Po Bronson

I have seen you at your worst and I still love you when you’re down

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I started a new journal a few weeks ago. That used to be a pretty common occurence (as evidenced by the 14 journals scattered across my bedroom floor, all from the last five years), but this was my first new journal in almost two years.

When I inked my first words into these leather bound pages, I was sitting in a familiar coffee shop. I guess it’s been almost three years since I worked on a journal entry in that place. The memory is still dear, though… I remember sitting between two friends, writing while they studied… with bellies full of barbecue.

I began my newest journal at a table with two different friends, one old and one new. As I wrote, I wondered how much I’ve really changed in the elapsed time. Though I live in a different city in a different state, I was back in that coffee shop. I’m still friends with several of the people I was with that night years ago. I’m still clueless about what’s next in life.

But the more I thought, the more I realized I have changed in the (almost) three years since I graduated from college. I guess that’s part of why I ended up with these journals scattered across my room tonight. I’ve been flipping through their pages, recalling the over-excited girl I was and comparing her to the woman I’m becoming. (There is no excuse for three exclamation points in a sentence, ever.)

Some of the changes probably aren’t so great–I’m definitely more prone to cynicism now than then. But I’m also more prone to realism. I’m more likely to be honest about my struggles (and I’m more likely to punctuate a sentence correctly).

(My finances were better off when I was an undergrad, though. I thought it was supposed to be the opposite way around?)

I wish the changes were more obvious… I wish I was certain that I’ve lost that chip I carried on my shoulder after I graduated… but on days like today, I’m not quite convinced. When I’m discouraged, though, it’s comforting to look at the journals that hold my story, the friends who have remained by my side (or left and come back or appeared somewhere in the meantime) even when I’m at my worst.

And it’s comforting to know that God has a history of coming through for his people, even when they screwed up… and that he’s opened his promises to even me.

I wanna talk about me

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I wanna talk about me
I solve crossword puzzles in my spare time. I cheat at crosswords when I get tired or bored or just don’t know the answer. My favorite place to be is wrapped in a quilt. My cat is one of my best friends, but I like dogs, too. I wish coffee didn’t stain teeth and invite dehydration, ‘cause then I’d drink a steady flow. Whole milk is my favorite but I drink 2% because I’m afraid my metabolism will slow down someday. I’m kind of a hypochondriac. My inner monologue is constant and, I think, rather entertaining. I like to be told bedtime stories and to have my hand held. I sleep with a teddy bear. I’m a mix of Monica Geller, Kathleen Kelly and Sally Allbright… or at least I like to think so, because they’re my favorite fictional characters. I love cheesy musicals and sometimes pretend the leading man is singing about me. I can be slightly narcissistic. I like pink but prefer to surround myself with earth tones. I love orange, even though it reminds me of Auburn, Florida, Miami and Tennessee. I wish I were more spontaneous. I’m a daydreamer. I love road trips and long conversations with friends. I can have an adventure without leaving town. I don’t like the phone very much, but I can get past that for people who are important to me. I think I’m a catch. I don’t believe it’s a meal unless it includes meat, spinach or eggplant. I love Jesus but always fall short of my expectations. I read two or three books a week. I think daisies are the friendliest flower, but I love daffodils and tulips even more. A man who can sing makes my knees wobble, but a man who can write makes me melt. I love brown. Chocolate is always appropriate but flowers are better still. I love hugs. Sepia photographs are the best. I think I’m a princess but have never dated a man who agreed. My cat is a better judge of character than I am. I’m wee. Autumn makes me want to fall in love. Summer makes me want to flirt. I express my moods through my earrings. I think curly hair is the best, especially on men. Plaids, long sleeve, button down collared shirts make me want to snuggle. Just like every other woman, I feel fat at “that time of the month.” Unlike many women, I know I’m not. I think coffee shops and board games make great first (or second, or thirty-second) dates. I enjoy being single. I want to wake up with rain falling on a tin roof while I’m safe there in your arms. I love playing in the rain. Good songs are better with the windows down, especially when it’s cold. The beach is best at night. Honeysuckle is my favorite fragrance; it reminds me of my childhood. Fondue is overrated but I still like it. I think paper is romantic. I’m crazy, but I like me this way. I’m a drama queen, but it keeps life interesting. I’m a list maker. I wish I looked good in yellow. I keep myself awake at night thinking about what is, what has been and what will be. I love art galleries and I miss living within walking distance of several. I love rich fabrics–I should probably learn to sew. I spend money when I’m lonely. I’m not sure if I look good in hats, but I have several anyway. I have more winter wear than a Southerner probably should. I love leaves; maybe that’s why autumn is my favorite. My favorite sound is the crunch of stomping in piles of fallen leaves. I like Pottery Barn, even though it’s big and corporate and looks like everyone else’s stuff. I think the best rooms aren’t purchased at Rooms to Go. I like interior design. (Once I thought about majoring in it.) I’m an excellent letter writer. I can talk for hours about football, coffee and my cat. I’ve been called eccentric; I took it as a compliment. Valentine’s Day doesn’t really bother me, though I’ve never had a date on it. I haven’t had a proper date since 1999. I don’t know what I want, but at least I know that much. I want to play guitar, but I’m too lazy to learn. My guitar is pretty, anyway. Heirlooms are better than fancy new things. I have a squeaky voice in which I talk to animals and babies. I might want a dog someday. I know I want babies someday… at least one, anyway. There’s nothing easier than loving a newborn. I’ve never been “in love.” Maybe someday. I put lots of things off to “someday.” I’m trying to stop. Perhaps my biggest faith challenge is perfectionism. I’m very type A. I’m more forgiving of others than of myself. I like pigtails, flannel and cowboy boots. I have romanticized ideas of the west. I love curly haired men. I have a certain voice I use when I want someone to think I’m cute. It’s kind of annoying. I have a huge smile (even though I’m self conscious about my teeth). I love the smell of coffee. When I was a little girl, I dreamed of marrying a man who drank it so I could smell it every morning. I had no idea how much I would love it myself. I read too much, get quiet in large groups and have recently learned to enjoy wearing socks.

…domesticating you until you look just like me…

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

“I repent of parading my liberty
I repent of paying for what I get for free
The way I believe that I am living right
by trading sins for others that are easier to hide
I am wrong and of these things I repent.”
–Derek Webb

I was in the midst of a rather engaging conversation about my Friday night—a discussion of music and literature, two of my favorite vices—when my pastor dropped in with a brief statement.

“I love Patty Griffin,” he said. “I’m always spinning her albums.”

It was a passing comment that merited instant cool points in my book. Patty is one of my favorite musicians and many a friendship has been built or strengthened on her music. I made my way back to my seat with a smile on my face.

But as I listened to Steve’s teaching, a recurring thought distracted me from the class in which I sat. I have many music (and book) influenced friendships, but it seems there’s something wrong when a person’s choice of tunes affects how I perceive their social status.

I know I’m not alone in this, but that doesn’t absolve me of this curious guilt. People who read Paste are instantly labeled cooler (at least in my social circles) than those who read Rolling Stone or especially Entertainment Weekly. (I’ll be honest—Paste is clearly the better magazine, but I occasionally peek at and enjoy the others.) If you prefer Derek Webb to Caedmon’s Call, I’m prone to thinking we have something special in common. You’ll receive bonus points for generally thumbing your nose at the Christian music industry. If you listen to 93.7 WDJC (or your local Christian radio station), I probably have labeled you a “happy cheesy Christian.” If you know what local station plays Britney Spears, I instantly assume we have little in common.

There’s nothing wrong with friendships built on common interests. It’s only natural. But if I label people exclusively according to what they read and buy, I’m probably going to miss out on some wonderful friendships. I decided recently that the best friendships involved media recommendations, but just as quickly disproved that theory. Though I have several close friends who know just what book I need to read or album I need to hear, I have lots of others whose suggestions I take with a grain of salt. (Our tastes just aren’t always the same.)

It’s that same sense of self righteousness that shows up in my attitude toward faith and morality. As I already hinted, I’m likely to think I’m somehow a better (or at least hipper) Christian because I can’t stand CCM. Worse still, as Steve continued to preach I realized my motivation for talking about my faith is so often way off base.

On that Friday night, I was with a group of friends (and some virtual strangers) when someone made a joke about a loose woman. An internal battle ensued; I wanted to cry out, “I wouldn’t know about that because I don’t have sex because of Jesus!” I wanted to set myself apart somehow, but my attitude was very much “holier than thou” and not one of love, for these friends or for Christ.

Praise the Lord that those words didn’t escape my mouth! My own self-righteousness nauseates me, and I know it is just as filthy to God as anyone’s sexual misconduct. (The Bible compares it to menstrual rags. What a metaphor!)

The love of Christ, the redemption of all my sins (including this one!) has radically changed my life. But I still wrestle with this desire to perfect myself. Jesus ahs set me free from the eternal consequences of my wrongdoing (spiritual death, or separation from God) but I am quick to insist on continuing in this earthly battle. I am a perfectionist, and it does affect my relationships with myself, God and others. But I’ll never be good enough to compare to God. The deepest need of people who don’t know Jesus isn’t an outward morality—it’s forgiveness of their sins and a relationship with God. And though it’s been five years since I realized my own need, I am daily surprised by its depth. We don’t move past the gospel—I fall short of the glory of God every single day. If I forget that, I do so at my own peril.

“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. Blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup and the dish, and then the outside will also be clean.”
Matthew 23:25-26

I like my sugar with coffee and cream

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

When I arrived at O’Henry’s tonight[1], I expected to grab my usual gingerbread latte and sit anonymous at a table near the fireplace surround. I had work to do, articles to write, and the cozy coffee shop provides the perfect refuge from the distractions of home.

My actual experience wasn’t so different from my expectations, with one exception: I wasn’t so anonymous.

When I approached the counter, I was greeted with a smile of recognition from the middle aged man behind the counter. He commented that I looked different than usual with my hair pulled back, and I tried to conceal my surprise: have I really frequented this shop enough to be a familiar face?

It seems so. Though I must have made half a dozen stops by here since winter began, I was shocked when my counter conversation moved on to my recent departure from school.

In a city–even a state!–where I so often feel like a loner, it was a small blessing to be known, even slightly, in my favorite coffee shop.

[1] This wasn’t actually written tonight, but a while ago. I do that sometimes. Deal.