Family History: My Mother’s Doctor is a Roselli

Mom with Dr. Eric Roselli at the Cleveland Clinic

Mom called me the other day. “Greig,” she said. “I met your cousin.” She had been in Cleveland, Ohio to visit an aortic specialist. Mom has been battling an auto-immune disorder for a decade now. The latest development has been an inflammation of her aorta which doctors have told her point to a possible aneurysm. So my mom and older brother went to see Dr. Eric Roselli. Dr. Roselli will perform surgery on her sometime in September. So I asked my mom how she knows for sure Dr. Roselli is my cousin. The surname “Roselli” is not uncommon among Italian Americans. Lake Michigan is, according to legend, filled with Roselli’s attached to cement shoes. And in the Vatican City, one can find examples of the work of Cosimo Roselli.
    Mom had a hunch; there was a connection with this particular Roselli because she told me she had a feeling he was related. She said, ”So when I asked him to tell his story he said his grandfather Ercole (Hercules in Italian) emigrated from Italy and he had had a brother named Joseph.” Mom said her eyes lit up. My grandfather, Joseph, emigrated from Italy in 1923. He had a brother named Ercole. They were separated after my grandfather came to the United States after the death of his mother and they didn’t see each other for decades until they were finally reunited as adults. The stories matched! My grandfather, when he emigrated, lived in Detroit. He was a young man, and eventually, he moved to Louisiana. Ercole finally settled in Detroit too and stayed there. So if both stories corroborate - my father and Dr. Roselli are first cousins.
    Dr. Roselli’s father is my father’s uncle. We both share a common paternal grandfather. And this Dr. Roselli will take care of my mom (who is a Roselli by marriage). Mom kept the surname even after she divorced my father twenty-five years ago. I guess she liked the name! And she was raising my two brothers and me, so it made it more comfortable when she was dealing with stuff related to us kids. She never changed the name. So this story is really about my mom who is a cancer survivor, and now she’s battling this recent inflammation of her artery. She’ll have surgery done, and the chances are good she’ll come out of it with a clean bill of health. You've got the Roselli’s on your side!

I've written about family history on my blog - check out related articles here.

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Mental Health Check: Writing Soothes the Rumble of Anxiety

Today, I'm thinking about anxiety, creativity, and the need for the self to reach out to the other. And I give a shout-out to the most relaxing video game ever!

It’s March. That time of year when living things churn. That time of year when upturned dirt gives off a familiar, redolent odor. Winter dirt is inert. Summer dirt bakes. Fall dirt is wet. Spring dirt! - now that's the stuff. Waking up this morning, I relished the fact that I had an hour to get ready. Time went by quickly, though. I brushed my teeth, jumped into the shower. I sometimes need to tell myself "relax". It's a feeling of anxiety I've had for a long time. If I don't attend to it, my anxiety just rumbles underneath. I guess for everyone anxiety ripples differently. For me, it's a quiet destructive force. I'm not sure why. It's that slow rumble I feel when I want to concentrate and create but can't. For example. Right now. Creativity is shredded by anxiety - more like bully-whipped. To write. To create. I must feel free. I have to feel sympathetic with my own being. Otherwise, I enact a kind of bad-faith dance with the world. I don't know how to use my power. I feel unsure. So, writing is my go-to salve. I fumble for words, for a means to codify that feeling of unrest. Writing is a kind of organizing of experience. Without it, experience is just there - out there. I reign it in. 

Today, I went outside during recess. Two kids I know were dribbling a soccer ball. I joined in. Let myself feel free. Allowed myself to kick a ball around. It felt good. The last layer of ice was melting on the pavement - from last week's snow. The sun felt warm. But I was dressed for cold - a blue hoodie draped over a buttoned up shirt and khakis. I could have been in a tee-shirt and shorts and happy. Give it a few weeks. There's cold still in the air.

Walking home after school today I ran into a student of mine. He's a pianist. He'll be a Senior next year. He was jogging with a friend and we both stopped when we noticed each other. We talked about high school, homework and the latest update to "City Buildit" - you would only know what I'm talking about if you play city simulation games on a mobile device. It's madly calming. That and "Cats are Cute". Try it if you haven't played it. I left my former student feeling proud of him and happy we had had a serendipitous meet-up. I'll go to his piano concert later this month. I've marked it on my calendar. It's Springtime. It's that season. 

I feel better already. Anxiety is less a rumble and more an underlying (and slightly undulating) condition of my being. What will tomorrow bring?

Here is my list of things to do when you're feeling anxious and don't have time (or money) to take a day off:

• Go off your routine a bit. Eat lunch outside if you're normally inside.
• Get out of your head.
• Feel the anxiety. Take a deep breath. Drink a cold, refreshing glass of water.
• Do your job standing up.
• Avoid stress. Avoid people who heighten your stress.
• Notice your triggers.
• Write it out.
• Notice your destructive thoughts and actions.
• Take a walk around the block.
• Be okay with minor hiccups and failure.
• Don't take your anxiety out on others.
• Actively listen to others. I notice when I let myself listen to other people it helps soothe my brain because I'm offsetting the mental energy I'd otherwise put on myself.

Sometimes the anxiety is there right in your face and you can't just pray it away. I was in a room filled with Sixth Graders this morning (who were loud) for my first period class. Before I told them to be quiet I allowed myself to feel how I was feeling. I could tell I was anxious. That little self-realization didn't make the anxiety go away but I was able to better deal with the situation.

I hope you enjoy reading stuff on this website. Leave a comment if you like. I'd like to know how you deal with anxiety in your life.

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On Being Unfinished: Reflection On Starting Something You Never Completed

Michelangelo never finished this sculpture of a
crouching boy intended for a decoration in the
Medici Chapel of San Lorenzo in Florence.
source: wikimedia 

Reflection: How many times have you started something you never finished? Probably a lot. And what does “Being Unfinished” say about you?
The Unfinished Professional (For me that's being a teacher)
As a teacher, I start projects I never finish. I have a folder on Google Drive of several unfinished projects. There is a unit on Charlotte's Web I haven't yet completed and my Google Keep is filled with ideas I have not yet implemented. I have tests that are half-completed. I have units that are missing chapters. I have lesson plans that are missing lessons; and, I have piles of unsorted papers on my desk. I have projects without rubrics and I have rubrics without projects (really). I have quizzes I never graded, assignments I never checked, units I never finished. In my mind there is an imaginary Google Drive folder that contains all of the lessons, rubrics, tests, and quizzes I'll ever need. Will this  imaginary folder ever become reality?

The Unfinished Person (For me that's being a bit creative)
My unfinished teaching bleeds into my unfinished creative life, too. There are books I never finished reading and unfinished puzzles lying on the floor of my closet. I have a coloring book from my childhood that has two or three pages colored. I bought an adult coloring book for Christmas (A gift to myself) but I never started it. It's quite beautiful, really. The pages are a display of black lines and clear, empty spaces. I have one-hundred pages of a novel I was trying to write last Summer that still sits unfinished in a Manila envelope in my desk's third drawer. Work often brings me dread because I am caught thinking of work I have not finished. There are letters I want to write to friends and emails that have gone unsent (I am embarrassed to show you my drafts folder). But, what does being unfinished really say about a person?

Having unfinished projects probably means:

• You are always thinking
• You enjoy work but dread it at the same time
• You like to be creative
• You enjoy the process
• You are a maker
• You are productive
• You are seldom bored
• You value ideas
• You keep to-do lists
• You have a TON of FINISHED projects 

Consider:
Think about the projects you have completed. What do they say about you? What projects have you started that have gone unfinished? Do you judge yourself more harshly than you judge others? Let us know in the comments.

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On Carnival Wins, the Ephemeral Nature of Childhood Toys, and Short-Term Goals: It ain't pretty!

Who can relate? I can!

I sometimes wish I could pull a tape of tickets out of a machine and win. Win big. Don't you? It's an analogy. The analogy is something like this. Just like playing games at the arcade hall will garner you tickets (that win big!), once you go home you put the toy away; you forget about it. How many carnival game toys have you won and treasured? None. But I bet when you won that damn thing you were as hot as dry ice. You were stone cold happy. Winning a stuffed bear at the shoot out booth or scoring some plastic dinosaur from the crane game made you goofy happy. And you loved it. Sure. I remember going to the parish fair (we call state counties parishes in Louisiana) and feeling like I had won it all when my dad gave me a crisp twenty dollar bill and instructed me to play some games. I won a bouncy ball and a stuffed lizard. It was euphoric. I was so mad crazy over winning games I remember once my aunt took me to the arcade with my brother and we spent way too much money playing Smash TV. Quarters into tokens. Tokens add up. So do quarters. I took a recent troupe of students (I am a teacher) on an end-of-the-year trip to Dave & Busters. Those kids were as happy as the proverbial pigs in slop with their hard-earned won trophies. Plastic guns; plasticine bears; laughy taffy; yo-yos and other knick-knacks and treasuries that sure did seem like treasuries to them. I was just happy that they were serving lunch for the adults too; we got to eat crap-food on a Tuesday. Priceless.

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Reflection: Another Year Goes Away and a New Year Begins

Sometimes life is like a circle. I could go on and give examples - and I will - but I feel like E.B. White did it best in an essay he wrote about circus performers.
      It’s been a while since I closely read the essay but I remember its thesis poignantly. Time is like a circle. White focuses his writing on one performer specifically who takes command of the circus ring. He notices she is in counterbalance to another performer, older, who is also in the ring. White imagines the younger performer is at the crest of her career, illuminating and graceful yet the other performer is also she - less graceful and aging. That’s what I remember. White manages to place an idea of recurrence - of repeating and twinning that resonates with me even now. Perhaps it’s because it’s the beginning of a new year - 2019 and I just recently celebrated a birthday. In a year from now, I’ll celebrate forty years on earth. I’ve been out of school long enough to miss it and I’ve been working just long enough to see myself getting better at what I do - but I can see my older, aged twin on the other side of the circle. He waves at me but I can’t figure out if he’s happy or not.  If I zoom in too much on the daily details of my life it’s all a bunch of minutiae - picking up the trash, sipping a cup of coffee, placing dirty clothes in the hamper. And if I zoom out a bit more - like in that book - where each page is a zoom-out or zoom in of the universe - I see bigger picture things like how much time I spent teaching or how much time I spent writing. And if I zoom out even further I see myself as a generation among generations, and further out too I’m a speck - not even significant. Yet this is what amazes me about human beings. We are persistent in our urgency to slam into the earth some smattering of meaning. And it feels worth it when I’m introspective and desperate when I’m barraged by life’s demands - yet it’s a life. At the start again. So - happy New Year.

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A Roselli Family Christmas Photo Circa 1995: "Run for Your Life!"

A Roselli family photograph from a Christmas morning (ca. 1995) in Southern Louisiana.

Merry Christmas! In the tradition of a truly Americanized holiday, my brothers and I tear into our gifts on Christmas morning. I love how my younger brother (pictured front and center wears a tee-shirt that reads "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!". Upon closer inspection, the shirt is from a fundraiser for the local Episcopal School.

My older brother and I, pictured on the right, seem a little more subdued (or just really tired). We had a ritual in our family that every year one person was picked to be Santa Claus - which meant you had to go and find everyone's gift one at a time and deliver them. I am thinking, in the year this picture was taken, all of us were playing Santa Claus?

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With the Ubiquity of Electronic Devices That Can Seamlessly Stream Any Content Folks Are Going to Digital Media for All Their Heartache Problems

I went to the bank today to cash a money order. There was a twenty-person long line. I almost bailed on the line but I decided to wait it out. "Twenty-minute wait - right? I can do it." 

I was amused by a tween who was sitting in the windowsill intent on his Smartphone. He was watching an animated video with a voiceover. The voice was a woman's. She was talking about a breakup with her boyfriend. He had delivered the news through a long text *animation of a long text*. She was heartbroken *animation of a heart breaking in two*. The voiceover was very adult sounding and since the tween hadn't plugged in his earbuds the volume was audible. He never looked up from his screen. Watching the tween watching his phone it was like he was externalizing his inner turmoil for everyone to see and hear. The voiceover was so audible and the tween's intent stare so intense - it was the muse-en-scene of a performance piece. Maybe the tween had had a recent breakup with a girl and in his confusion and heartache, he googled YouTube videos related to breaking up. He wasn't reading an article in a magazine nor was he talking to a friend - he was watching a video that he and I and everyone in the damn line could hear. By the time I reached the cashier and scooped up my money - I turned around to see if he was still sitting in the windowsill. It was empty. So long fellow. I hope time heals a broken heart.

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Image Source: The Mix

Do You Have a Comfort Pose?

My Comfort Pose. It's called chin-tucked-in-a-turtleneck pose.

I guess most people have their "comfort" pose. It's that posture one comports to when feeling the need to be comforted, protected. For me, it's pulling my shirt neatly over my chin - and just under my lips, so I can nibble the fabric. It makes me feel safe - especially if I want to feel protected.

I have several comfort poses, actually. Some I've abandoned. Others I’ve kept on. In high school, for example, I carried books close to my chest. All the time. No matter where I was I had a hunky book attached to me. I don't traverse the traffic of my adult life in exactly the same way. Now, I go to my books. I keep them around. I put them in satchels or in the bathroom. I'm a teacher so I've taken to creating a space in my classroom where I showcase books. It’s a professional showcase. But it’s also for comfort.

Most of us want to be comforted so we tend to comfort ourselves in the absence of other's care. And with others, we play with the scripts that comforted us and we play around with what works - and abandon what doesn't.

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Hey! What's your comfort pose? I'd love to know in the comments.

Is Brainstorming Ideas a Good Idea in the Middle of the Night?

image credit: Roy Lichenstein c. 1986

I feel like my best ideas come to me in the middle of the night. Or, I'm like "Oh my God! I left the baby on the bus!"

I try to get a good night's sleep. I have a ritual for bedtime. I turn the curtains and turn on the white noise machine. Sometimes I take a Melatonin tablet. Sleep comes easily enough. I'm a deep sleeper but when I wake up I'm awake. It's one o'clock in the morning I'll wake up with a start. If it's a school night I automatically think of something school related. While I don't advise it, I keep my mobile phone next to my bed. Once I use it - it's a death knell to sleep. My brain starts whirring and I start to input ideas into my Google Keep app (I also like Day One Journal).

The last couple of nights I've woken up with lyrics from the Scissor Sisters stuck in my head. It's not uncommon for me to browse my Amazon.com purchases. Yes, I know. I hate that I do that. It's nervous energy. Once when I was sick in bed I wrote up an entire emergency lesson plan so my substitute teacher would have something to do for my students.

I wasn't always this way. As a kid and as a teen I went to sleep before eleven o'clock and woke up at quarter past six in the morning. I had a bus to catch! Times were simpler then; or, more accurately, I think when you're young you're preternaturally ignorant to the ways of the world. It's the paradox of youth. Young people are so into themselves that they've inoculated themselves to certain things. It's partly because adults have constructed a world - a youth culture - to protect them. It's not to say youth are not stressed but there's a qualitative difference between being a dependent and then becoming a tax-paying adult.

Throwback Thursday: Greig is Poolside Wearing Floaties (Sometime in the Late 1980s)

Throwback Thursday: I'm pretty sure this photograph was taken in Pensacola, Florida (or maybe it's Destin). I remember this vacation well because as you can see, I'm learning to swim. I can still feel the chafing effect of the floaties on my skin - mixed with the chlorinated water. Also, that bag of Ruffles ® Sour Cream & Onion potato chips were all mine!

If you look closely, someone's hands (maybe mom’s hands) have inserted itself into the photograph. I'm thinking that's the hand that feeds you; or, someone is requesting that I relinquish my bag of potato chips.

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The American Holiday The Fourth of July (Alternatively, Independence Day)

Mountain Laurel (Kalmia Latifolia) I found
on a hiking trail in the Catskills.

As I sit on my tuffet (a hard, wooden chair I use as my writing chair), I raise a glass of ice-cold filtered water poured from a bonafide Brita dispenser, and make a few stray comments:

***

• It is hot, and humid in New York City. I hope you have air-conditioning - if not, get yourself to a New York City cooling center.
• I am thinking of setting off some fireworks in the middle of the street and yelling, "I am from Louisiana!"
• Nationalism is deeply taught in this country so I find myself humming patriotic tunes and feeling nostalgic about the colors red, white, and blue.
• Last year, I did stake out a spot in Sunset Park with my buddy Anthony Charles to watch the Macy's Fireworks display.
• This year, supposedly, I could go to Long Island City - but I am thinking of just staying home and watching BBC adaptations of Terry Pratchett novels.

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Planespotting at the Planeview Park in Queens

From a bench in Planeview Park spectators watch commercial jets take place and land at La Guardia Airport in Queens.

***

Today, I took the Q47 bus in Queens to the Marine Air Terminal at La Guardia International Airport. The bus line meanders through East Elmhurst, a neighborhood of detached homes north of Northern Boulevard that conforms to the crescent shape of the Grand Central Parkway. Considering that a busy airport abuts the neighborhood, it's a relatively quiet place for New York City. Along the route, I notice small neighborhood parks, a centrally located shopping mall (which is home to Cannelle Patisserie, one of the best bakeries in the city). The bus crosses Astoria Boulevard and terminates at the airport terminal. If you have never been to the Marine Air Terminal, it's worth a visit even if you are not scheduled for a flight.  The building marks the first structure on the site of the airport when commercial flights were chartered seaplanes (yes, these planes landed in Bowery Bay). Inside the terminal, look up, and take pleasure in a 360° mural detailing humanity's contributions to technology. It's a lightly traveled terminal; however, it is good to note that there are rather clean bathrooms at the entrance and a small café (at which I did not have lunch). I felt like exploring more of the airport's grounds and remembered a place where one can watch planes take off and land on one of the airport's two landing strips. So I walked along a security fence that borders the strip and watched a few commercial jets take off. Apparently, my presence invoked the curiosity of the Port Authority security task force because within minutes I noticed a police van pull up and a security officer said, "Hey. This is a restricted area. We would like it if you didn't stand here." I said meekly that I liked watching the planes take off and land. The guy was unmoved by my sudden confession of loving planes. For a brief moment, I had this terrible thought that he may think I am doing something suspicious. Before I had a chance to speak, he gave a half-apology and said, "Yeah. But you make the guys nervous. You know." I acquiesced to his gentle command to remove myself and asked him where I could safely watch the planes. That's how I found out about the Planeview Park. "Just walk that way," the guy said, pointing in the direction of the expressway. "I think there is a park on the other side of the Grand Central Parkway."

Photos: Jackson Heights Queens Pride Parade (2018)

I captured a few pictures while participating in the local gay pride parade in Jackson Heights, a neighborhood in the New York City borough of Queens.

A guy with a rainbow flag in front of the United States Post Office in Jackson Heights for the Gay Pride Parade.

I love parades because capturing faces in the crowd is so easy. A man waves a pride flag in front of the post office on 37th Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens.

A boy wearing baby blue clogs and a rainbow cape dances on 37th Avenue in Queens.

Click the jump to see more photos from the Queens Pride parade.

Listicle: 10 Things I’ll Miss about Brooklyn

So I’m outta Brooklyn.

After packing up the car2go* Smart Fortwo, here is a list of ten things I’ll miss about living in the Sunset Park neighborhood of Brooklyn.

(N.B. The following list is South Brooklyn oriented):

N.B. You can move out of Brooklyn with the help of a Smart car. #car2go

10. Watching cruise ships arrive in New York Harbor from my bedroom window

9. Getting off at the Atlantic Avenue stop in downtown Brooklyn to do some urban exploring

8. Chatting up Peter at Melody Lanes

7. Talking with the handsome neighborhood guys who promenade Fourth Avenue on a Saturday night

6. Taking the express train at 36th Street - a world of wonder awaits

5. Getting my cheap cinema fix at either Alpine or Cobble Hill Cinemas

4. All the fantastic, smart people (whom I consider friends) I shared an apartment within the last eight years - I’m talking about you, boo.

3. Shopping on Eighth Avenue - they’ve got Louisiana boiled crayfish and hot pot. What more could I want?

2. Picking up my patron hold requests and chatting with Coquille at the Sunset Park branch of the Brooklyn Public Library

1. Hanging out with my squirrel friends at the Wash Depot

So — Sayonara, Brooklyn - you’re the fourth largest city in the United States (if you were your own city) - and damn girl, I’m going to miss your style.

Is my list bougie? Inform me in the comments.

*car2go is an on-demand on-the-hour rental car company.

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Save Me From Drowning My Creativity

"The Drowning Metaphor in Dreams" - What does it mean?

The Courage to Write
I’ve found the courage to write about my past. Looking back, however, is painful. I think the gods were smart when they cursed those who turned back. Orpheus lost his lady when he turned back to look at her in Hades. Some ancient Hebrews turned to salt when they looked back at the smoldering city of Sodom. An old adage, “Never look back,” reinforces the idea that one must push forward. The common turn of advice is, "Don't dwell on the past." Turning back and looking back seem to have negative consequences. But if psychology has taught me anything, it’s the idea that nothing ever truly goes away. It’s there, the bits and pieces, past loves and perceived let-downs. It must be that time - Spring - when that which was dead struggles to come back to life.

Under the Table and Dreaming 
Last night, I had a dream. I was witness to a drowning. The scene was a leafy layered lake. A body was found in the water. It was a disturbing dream. Straight out of Hamlet - Ophelia’s been drowned. But after thinking about it for a bit -the dream made sense. I was thinking of drowning too literally. I had to think psychologically. Since I’ve been thinking about the past a lot lately, my psyche has become unsettled. That which was drowned comes to the surface. I guess that’s why another old adage - “drown your sorrows” - seems apt. I’d been drowning my sorrows - which makes sense when I think of my behaviors as of late. Something sunken rises again to the surface. So for me - what’s been unearthed? What has drowned? I feel like I’ve stifled my creativity. And for me to get it back I have to take care of that side of myself. Call it self-care. 

Taking Care of the Self — "Self Care, Yes, Momma!"
So it was a snow day. And I took care of myself. And I realized that one major problem I have is creating and planning my weekly classroom activities. Call it lesson plans or whatever. I go to sit and work. But nothing comes out of me. I’m drowned. To come up for air, what do I do? It’s a problem because my success depends on my ability to be creative. If I can’t successfully accomplish that then I’m truly sunk, and sunken. So I’m swimming to the surface, looking to get my magic back. What’s holding me back? Well - for one, the hierarchy of work holds me back. To be free to create you need “a room of one’s own” and inspiration to produce. That’s what I call incubation time. It’s important because without reflecting on my process, I feel like I am running on empty. That’s a self-defeating thought. It’s those thoughts that lead me to feel drowned.

Drawing Upon a Positive Mental Image
So I light upon a mental image of my success - from the past - and I build from there. What’s my image? It’s an image I have from a class I taught - near the beginning of my career - and the students were busy preparing a project - and everyone knew what they were doing. I am holding onto that image and hoping I can recreate that same modicum of "drive" for the last quarter of school. I need to find a project that will give our class a lift. Lift us from the Winter doldrums - to use the Spring as metaphor: put a spring in our step. Hope does spring eternal.

Ayuda, Me! 
Do any of you, readers, have any ideas? Help me not drown.

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How I Learned to Love Solitude and Why I Am No Longer a Benedictine Monk

I am going through old papers, tossing out papers, and boxing up books so I can move out of my apartment on April first.

Saint Joseph Abbey Church in St. Benedict, Louisiana

I realized I could not find any photographs of me as Brother Bede. I used to be a Benedictine monk. But the traces of that life are quickly receding.

Leaving a Monastery 
When I left Saint Joseph Abbey - a Benedictine monastery in Saint Benedict, Louisiana - I was twenty-eight years old (and six months). In my life as a monk, I was Brother Bede. I baked bread once or twice a week with my fellow monks, I went to daily prayers, ate with my community at the common table, worked in our college library - and I was a graduate student at the local university. That was nine years ago (and eight months, roughly).

As a monk, you are told: "To work is to pray." So I grew up in this dispensation. We were told that we were monks first. Our work was just something we did as part of our religious identity. If I was baking bread, or if I was studying Latin, I was merely living out my life of prayer and work. I was a monk. So don't complain.

The Life of the Monk
Life in the monastery followed a trajectory. And there were different stages of my life there. Depending on how you count the years, I was first a seminary student - I was called a scholastic. Then I was a postulant, then a novice, then a monk in temporary vows, then a monk in solemn vows - all for a total of ten years. 

I had just graduated from high school when I joined the seminary. It's crazy to think that was twenty years ago. In May, I am going to Louisiana to celebrate my high school reunion. But I probably won't visit the abbey where I gave ten years of my life - formative years (if you want to put it that way.)

I fantasize that when I tell people I was a monk, they think I lived in a stone hut, spoke to no one and ate bone stew and hard bread. The truth is my life as a monk was at the same time innocuous and magical. Life follows a scheduled rhythm in a monastery. Vigils, Morning prayers, Mass, Evening prayers, and Compline. Monks were assigned jobs. And for the most part, we went through our day praying, eating together, and performing our tasks.

Why did I Join?
People often ask me why I joined a monastery. What was going through my head? And then they ask me why I left the monastery. And people seem to be pretty curious about the whole process. For me - I wanted to be a priest or a monk from an early age. I can remember pretending to celebrate Mass with Ritz style crackers while my brothers complained (they'd rather play other games). When I was in High School, I was very much into Catholicism - and I made it pretty well known that I wanted to join the seminary when I graduated.

Read more about why I became celibate after the jump . . .

TBT: Sixth Grade Field Trip to the Folsom Global Wildlife Center in Saint Tammany Parish, Louisiana

Joshua Newell, third from left; Greig - fourth from left - Holla!; James Porsche, last man to the right

Greig's Sixth Grade Field Trip to the Global Wildlife Center in Folsom, Louisiana 

(Circa 1990s)

The Global Wildlife Center is a nature park in Folsom, approximately fifty-three miles north of New Orleans. The park is nestled in the piney woods of Saint Tammany Parish - and, it boasts a menagerie of zebra, oxen, goats, and other "wild beasts".

I don't remember much about this field trip - except that I was sporting my nifty, all plasticine Nintendo brand spectacles and a jean jacket. I have no idea how we got this picture taken - but hey - and check out Josh Newell - my best buddy from the day; he is the one holding the pair of binoculars. 

Can anyone remind me of who's who in this pic? The names are on the tip of my tongue.

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Subway Diary: That Time I was Struck by a Man on the F Train

Riding the F*#) train one morning . . .

So, I was just sitting next to a mother and her son on a chock-full F train this morning. The mom and son were talking about the "fake poetry" posters that have been splayed about subway cars as of late - a marketing ploy by the Internet start-up PolicyGenius (they compare life insurance policies - *boring*). Noticing the rapport between the two of them, I laughed and acknowledged that I also found the ads a bit twee and said, "I know how you feel. Fake poetry. It hurts my heart." The kid wanted to get out of his seat and explore the other posters, but the mom pulled him back.

Suddenly, Out of Nowhere
At that moment, a man appeared in front of me, a white, middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, a bit harried, and in sweats, said to me, "I have something for you. It's your turn next." And he struck me in the face. Unprovoked. I did not know the man nor did I expressly notice him in the car until that moment. The woman and the child immediately got up and huddled in the corner and, I said, "That man just hit me." The train pulled into the 63rd street station and, I got off - and so did the woman and the child - I heard someone say they were calling the police. We three went up to the upper level to escape. The woman asked if I was OK and I told her I was an English teacher on my way to work - and that I was worried I'd be late. I then texted Ms. S and wrote, "A man just hit me on the train unprovoked." After a few beats, the nice woman who had become my reluctant protector told me she was an English teacher, too. I started to cry. I think she was worried about her son about to witness a grown man have a nervous breakdown so, she gingerly asked, "Do you want a moment alone?" I said "Yes," and the woman smiled at me warmly. I felt comforted. As I watched her go, I wondered if she would look me up later and we would figure out why this random act of violence occurred.

Getting the Heck Out of Dodge
I figured it was safe so I went back down to the lower level and, the same F train was still lingering in the station. The conductor, the guy who sits in the middle car and announces the train stops, noticed me and said, "They apprehended that guy who hit you and, the police are looking for you." I did not want to deal with the fallout - and I was also relieved that the police had caught the guy, so I just got on the train. And I went to work. I felt shook all day - like a mild shock had invaded my system. Mr. V made tea. Doc consoled me and, Ms. S hung out with my first-period class. Mr. H told me his own story of subway assault and Mr. G. said I should try to get the violent men thrown behind bars. I am just relieved that the man did not have a knife or a sharp object. So. What's the moral of the story: stay alert but don't let one man's crazy act of violence ruin your life.

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That Day I Spoke to Margaux Hemingway When I Was Twelve Years Old

A Woman's Secret (1992)

It was Summer. I think. Somewhere around 1992 - I'm not sure. Mom and Dad were still together - and we were driving through Madisonville, Louisiana. The town hugs the Tchefuncte River - dotted with wood-paneled houses, an abandoned lighthouse, a swing bridge, a dozen churches, a feed store, seafood restaurants galore, and a Piggly Wiggly - not to mention a scenic riverfront landscape and an old Southern feel. A whitewashed stately two-story building houses the public library. And Higgins boats - the amphibious assault vehicles used to storm the beaches of Normandy - were assembled not too far from town. 

Swing Bridge in Madisonville © 2016 Kim Chatelain

We were driving through that day - like we usually did when I was growing up. Dad liked to take long road trips through the backwoods. So it was nothing unusual. We stopped at the Tchefuncte Feed & Seed on Louisiana Highway 21 (locally called Covington Street). The road is a nondescript stretch of highway - however, it is an unusual bend of the road, turning left and right as it stretches along - basically connecting the town of Mandeville (where I lived at the time) to the town of Covington. So it gets a fair amount of traffic.

Holy Moly! That's Madisonville, Louisiana on the silver screen!

I don't remember who noticed it was a film shoot. It may have been Dad. But we parked our car across the street in the Hibernia National Bank parking lot. We stepped outside the car and there was Margaux Hemingway stepping out of a Mercedes Benz right before our eyes! "Shhhh!" my dad said. "They're filming a movie." We stood there for about an hour watching what I soon learned was the incredibly boring process of filming a movie. In that time, waiting, we parsed that it was a "European director" filming a movie in the United States and the actress was Margaux Hemingway! I never felt so proud to be a Louisiana boy witnessing movie-making in action! Damn. 

I'm almost certain that's a real Madisonville cop!

Being all of twelve and considering myself an astute cinephile, I blurted out to Dad, "Hey, Dad. That's Margaux Hemingway! She starred in the Superman movie!" Not really knowing what the hell I was talking about I somehow managed to knock on the camper trailer where supposedly Margaux was staying. Her handler answered and told us to leave her alone. But I persisted. Finally, Margaux Hemingway stepped out and greeted us with a plastic grin. The girl was none too pleased that a couple of local oglers wanted to talk to her. "Hey!" I gushed. "You're Margaux Hemingway! I loved you in the Superman movie!"

Halloween Costume (circa late 1990s)

Greig dressed as a scary D.C. lobbyist OR tricky Dick

Halloween Shenanigans
I don't dress up for Halloween anymore. The last time was a few years ago - I was a wizard.

However, I found this darling picture of me from back in the day - I was dressed up as either a crooked political lobbyist from the bowels of some Washington, D.C. think tank or I am just basically your standard Richard Nixon - except I look pretty ragged.

Peace out, dudes! And happy All Hallows Eve!

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