Tuesday, May 24th brought one of the biggest rejections I have ever experienced in my seventeen years of beautiful life. I was walking confidently around my school’s campus when I ran into the teacher that delivered to me news I had desperately hoped would be good. Stopping me, she informed me of a fact that shattered my upbeat mood. My heart began to melt in my chest, tears began to well in my eyes and as I tried to restrain my tears, I walked away from where she stood, her words ringing in my ears, “You are just not good enough.”

The tears streamed down my face—vulnerable and raw. For the next week the looming feeling of not good enough hung over my head like a storm cloud. I found myself jealous of the people who were deemed “good enough”. I sit here tonight at my keyboard, trying to capture the words swirling around my head.

Someone great once said, “Cling to what is good.”

It could have been from the Bible or one of those philosophers I can barely pronounce the name of; I’m not entirely sure and it really doesn’t matter. What matters is that it is sound advice, wherever it came from.

As I sit here, typing furiously away, thinking about how words are nothing more than pretty window dressings unless they can be put into action. No matter how colorful the poster, or how lovely the script, or even more relevant, how ugly the sentences that commonly come out of our mouths; words mean nothing. That is unless they slip under the surface and touch a human heart.

The word cling is visceral for me. I think this is because I’ve clung both mentally and physically in my life. It’s almost as if I can touch the word. I know not only what it means to reach or hold, but to cling to something, or occasionally someone. That thought alone is powerful enough to jump start my pulse and even make me cry while memories flood my mind.

“Cling to what is good.”

What a lovely string of words. There’s no hurt in that phrase, it’s simple and it’s doable.

Today as I write to you, my faithful readers, the insignificance of last week’s problems become more and more apparent to me, despite their—at the time—importance. The truth is the words that teacher said to me hurt, yet they are not significant. I can assure you though, they stung like the everyday shots I have to give myself to live. I felt the poke and pinch of every word that tumbled out for her mouth.

I take multiple shots a day—I am a type one diabetic and it’s just a part of my life now. Every shot before I became a diabetic took place at my pediatrician’s office—the ones you get when you are five. I remember looking up at my mom—tearyeyed, my lip quivering, and asking her in a soft whimper, “Mama, will it hurt?”

Of course the inevitable, “Yes. Just squeeze my finger” filled my ears.

Eleven years later I gave myself my first shot as a diabetic. After I did it the nurse asked if I would like a band-aid. Wiping my tears away, I said no. The nurse then so kindly reassured, “It will all be okay.” More distinctively this past week, I was not okay.

It was hard for me to type those last words. My fiercely independent side wants to say, “I’m fine! In fact, I’m finer than fine! Fine as fine can be, really!” I want to pretend that I can handle this rejection on my own and that I don’t need anyone to console my pain and ease the hurt of from what that teacher said. So let me just say it again: I am not okay. I am not fine; and right now, I simply yearn to feel loved (quality time, anyone?). And no, band-aids will not help.

You see readers, I never understood the reasoning behind getting a band-aid after a shot. I hated when the quick shot was over and I had to look down and see Elmo staring back with a big grin… (no thank you).

I don’t see the sense in covering up the hurt, because when that cool sting of alcohol hits and the nurse—or now I— start counting to three, I don’t care how animated the happy dance is; I am going to feel the pain. I deal with this shot business on a daily basis, and I can assure you, it has not gotten any easier. Honestly, I don’t expect it to. I know it’s going to hurt every time.

I don’t know about you, but our desire as humans to make everything look pretty is so pointless and ridiculous to me. Our desire for band-aids often mask the uncomfortable to the point of trivializing the importance—the weight certain aches deserve.

Today is Memorial Day.

It is not a day to celebrate our veterans or to wave our flags. Those days are Veteran’s Day and the Fourth of July. Today is a day for recognizing the sacrifice for which our family, friends and acquaintances have paid the ultimate price.

It has everything to do with death and nothing to do with party games. One day out of three hundred and sixty five when we are called upon to pause, reflect and remember the men and women that have lost their lives, often in unimaginable circumstances, for the service of our country.

That should hurt, and it should be uncomfortable. It should be like the shots I endure or the words I was reluctant to accept at the beginning of the week. There is sadness in our world that no amount of band-aids can cover up. If we don’t face it, own it, and maybe give it a few minutes of thought, I think we forget.

Something meant as a day of remembrance turns into another day at the circus, complete with clowns and opportunities to sell bags of peanuts at 30% off.

“Happy Memorial Day Weekend?”

No. This weekend is for the families that have lost a person at their table, his warm hug, or the sound of her laughter. I hope and pray that you cling to the good today, that you find peace in your memories and love with your friends and family. To the men and women currently in harm’s way, God’s speed, be safe and know you have my respect and eternal gratitude.

Maveners, even though I’m telling you to focus your eyes and hearts on something other than your afternoon BBQ or the sale you went to this weekend, I’m sure you must be cooking up something special—a family potluck, summer BBQ, a swim party, a beach campout—whatever it is, here’s to you. Today, Uptown Maven is featuring a summer favorite and an all-American classic, The Burger.

Memorial Day, the traditional time for all American families to grill their own hotdogs and hamburgers. The Burger, America’s quintessential comfort food, can now be enjoyed in an impossibly endless number of ways.There’s no denying the hamburger is a timeless American staple and national icon—a symbol of patriotism and celebration. Western burgers, Hawaiian style burgers, burgers made of ostrich, vegetarian style burgers, you name it, Americans are eating it. In honor of (drum roll please…) National Hamburger Month here are my Memorial Day fixes from this year and past years that I have BBQ’d up.

 

So readers, It’s here where I sit reflecting upon all I have gone through this week. My struggles do not compare to the struggles of the soldiers who have sacrificed their lives. Those soldiers were denied resources, water, food, and most importantly the love of their families, yet they still remained determined. To me, that shows how selfless true heroes are. I look up to those soldiers—this week especially. I will be courageous and strong no matter what words may strike me down because that is what those amazing men and women do. I will stand tall through the hurt, and I will cling to what is good.

Keep on clinging Maveners, and oh hey… how would you like yours cooked? Medium rare?

Uptown Maven