The Third Place

Wouldn't you like to get away?

I listened to this story on NPR a few weeks back, and it started me thinking. Ever since my child was small, I’ve lamented our family not having someplace else we belong. We don’t go to church. My son didn’t play sports. Once he left elementary school, we never really had a third place (the place other than work or home) where we belonged. We were sorely lacking in what is traditionally called community. Likeminded friends always laughed about making a liberal church that met every weekend to discuss art, politics, and the like, but that never officially materialized. Sure, we had friends and were lucky enough to have some property out of town to get away to, but there was no other location to ground us as a family communally.

This has been at the forefront of my mind over the past few weeks—ways to get people to connect and come together. So many friends are in a horrified state of paralysis, not knowing what to do or function. I know we fit firmly in the white lady, suburban activist category. And, collectively, we haven’t gotten a lot of love lately.

Most of my friends participate more than the average Jane. They volunteer. Run campaigns. Even run for office sometimes. A handful work full-time for organizations that really make a difference. We all care, but for the most part, we are all comfortable. Thanks to this election, some of them are forming their own views. It’s a slight splintering, but a splintering nonetheless. Disenfranchised and disappointed. It is easy to roll over and not think about stuff when you feel this way. Or crawl into your comfortable ball and defend what you have, to hell with everyone else. I don’t want to be this way, and I am actively working to fight it. I’m trying to reach out more. Make sure my friends know they are not alone. That the work they are doing is valid and good and matters even if it is just getting by.

These past six months have been one of the few times in my life where I’ve decided to focus mainly on myself. I don’t have great self-esteem. Never have. I know I am doing too much, but then I beat myself up that I’m not doing enough. But since July, I have hunkered down and plowed through despite the voices in my head that run a constant storm on repeat of not good enough, you look like an ass, stop making a fool of yourself, etc. The other day, my husband was shocked when, as he was falling asleep, he heard me utter, “I hate everyone”, out of nowhere and for no apparent reason.

“What was that?” he asked, stunned.

“I said that out loud?”

After which, I had to explain that when I am in full circling-the-drain mode, thinking everyone hates me, that I suck, etc., the only way for me to shut it down is by internally exclaiming that I HATE EVERYONE. It’s my little mantra that lets me shut the naysaying voices of doubt down in my head. What I am really saying to myself isn’t really that I hate everyone. It’s me convincing myself that what other people think of me doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t. Sort of. It’s me telling myself to shut the hell up and stop doubting everything. It’s an endless gyration of cheerleading and gawd you suck at everything. (It’s probably me hating myself, too, but moving on.)

In addition, waiting for word on MFAs is causing a toxic cycle of email refreshing and self-loathing that is in no way fun. On paper, I know someone will need to take a BIG chance on me. The bulk of these fully-funded programs take four people out of hundreds and hundreds that apply. So, my odds are not good. And I know my personal statement didn’t say enough, wasn’t good enough, didn’t show enough. Fuck.

I HATE EVERYONE.

I have five backup plans in place in case graduate school isn’t in the cards for me. The first being just to take those two years and write. Try and get my book published and write two more. But when you want and want and work towards something for years, the disappointment will be real. As the inevitable rejections loom, I’m leaning into that possibility.

In American Lit class, we’ve been reading Hemingway, and when you read Hemingway, you talk about courage—a lot. If you are a living, breathing, creative soul, the guy is relatable. He makes me feel like a hero even when I know I’m not.

“The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.”

Isn’t that the fucking magic of books, or really any art/history/knowledge? It makes you feel like you see the world and are seen. It makes you believe in whatever the hell it is we are doing in this life. It makes you want to commune with people and ideas. It makes you want to find a third place where you don’t have to sit inside your head making mantras that are as suffocating and corrosive as they are effective.

It makes you believe that if you have courage, everything else will fall in place.

Don’t give up. Everyone. I love you.