Damaged Goods: It's Like the Weather, by Lacey Lord

7/27/2019 Damaged Goods: It's Like the Weather, by Lacey Lord

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IT’S LIKE THE WEATHERBy: Lacey Lord



o my mother, my Nana, and the rest o my amily.Tank you or everything.



“Ihave cancer,” my mom says as she puts the car into driveand pulls out o the high school parking lot. As soon as my best riend, yler, and I got into the car, I could tell that

something was wrong.

I sit in the passenger seat o our beat-up Cavalier and stareahead in silence, watching the snowakes hit the road and melt. Anhour ago, I was sitting in school, writing essays or my college ap-plications. My mother and I had anticipated this moment rom thetime I started school. Everything that we had been working towardwas nally happening, but the excitement was shattered by thesethree words.

I can’t look at her. I don’t want to see the ear on her ace,the expression that would make what she has said a reality. My mother doesn’t get scared, but I could tell rom the way she had saidit that she was.

Instead, I look in the side mirror, watching yler’s reectionrom the backseat. We are both stone-aced and pale. Te secondseel like years as we make our way through town in silence.

I glance at the buildings as they pass, paying attention tothem or the rst time in a long time. I’ve lived in Scottsburg, Ind.,my whole lie, yet things never seem to change. Te same namesare on the same mailboxes, and the same problems and worriesplague the same people every generation. As we pass city hall, I



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think o Mayor Bill, the man who had been running things sincebeore I was born, greeting his constituents like amily. As we passthe library, I think o Martha, the librarian who had given me my

rst library card, checking out all o my books since that day. I ndmysel thinking o anything but the uncomortable silence in thecar and the bad news that is hanging over our heads.

We pass my Nana and Papaw’s house, where they havelived or 50 years. I wonder i they know that a second o their ourchildren has been diagnosed with cancer in her 40s. I ght o tears,knowing that i I cry, Mom will too.

I know I should say something. I should tell Mom thateverything will be alright. I should tell her that we will get throughthis together. But I don’t.

I expect her to tell me more about the diagnosis. I expecther to ask me i I’m alright, because I know she is worried about me

just as much as hersel. I expect her to tell me we will get throughthis. But she doesn’t.

As we pull into yler’s driveway to drop him o, he nally breaks the silence.

“I’ll see y’all tomorrow?” he asks.“Same time, same place,” Mom says. She smiles at him in an

eort to reassure us that she is ne.I wave at yler as he goes inside, and I turn to look at Mom

or the rst time since the words came out o her mouth.I ask her, “What now?”She sighs, puts the car into reverse, and says, “We have laun-

dry to do.”

* * *When something horrible happens, you expect the world to stop,

but it doesn’t. Aer the diagnosis, our lives continue just the sameas they did beore. I go to school, Mom still goes to work, and can-cer becomes a part o the background o our lives. Te only indica-tion that something has changed is that while I write a paper on theperiodic table o elements, she is getting a mix o elements pumpedinto her blood stream. While I check homework assignments o

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my to-do list, she checks o appointments and treatments.My mother’s appearance is the only measure o the cancer’s

eects. Over the course o two months, her skin tone changes to

and rom varying shades o yellow, and her hair slowly alls out. Weboth pretend the eects o chemo do not bother us, choosing in-stead to ocus on things we can control. I ocus my eorts on main-taining my GPA and doing well on the SAs, while Mom ocuses onpaying bills.

On a particularly sunny day in March, I arrive home romschool to nd a stack o mail on my bed. I casually pick up the pile,

expecting the usual credit card oers that had started coming in be-cause o my upcoming 18th birthday. I notice that Mom is watchingme careully.

I am shocked to nd two large envelopes, one rom BallState University and the other rom the University o Evansville.Te top two schools on my list have made a decision, and the mo-ment o truth is now. I have been waiting or this moment, but now that it’s here, it seems too soon.

I rip open the envelopes, scanning or the one sentence thatwill tell me everything I need to know. I am shocked when I see twosentences that start with “Congratulations!”

“Is it good news?” Mom asks hopeully, barely containinghersel.

“I got in,” I whisper, unable to process what I was reading.Mom pulls me into a hug as she tears up, saying, “I thought

so. I gured the big envelopes were a good sign. All that hard work has paid o.”

As she pulls away, I see a look on her ace that I have neverseen beore, but just as soon as the look crosses her ace, it is gone.Mom grabs her car keys, and says, “Let’s go tell Nana and Papaw.”

I slowly make my way to the door, still unable to believewhat is happening. I eel a twinge o excitement at the thought o telling my grandparents that I have made it. I have done what they have always hoped I would do. Tey have both worked so hard tomake the lives o their children better and less hopeless, to givetheir children and grandchildren the chance to live lie instead o

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living to work a thankless job. Tey wanted better or me, and whatthey have always wanted is nally happening. Teir granddaughteris going to college.

As I walk out the door, I hear Mom yelling to the neighborsacross the street, “She got in! She got in!”

Tey yell their congratulations. Beore Mom gets in the car,she says, “I’m so proud o you.”

Despite the terrible eects o cancer, despite the thoughtsand worries running through my mother’s head, my mother ishappy in this moment. For the rst time since she ound out her

diagnosis, she is smiling a genuine, careree smile. Te smile is socontagious I eel mysel smile too.

* * *I you were to ask my mother about the day she told me she hadcancer, she barely remembers it. All she remembers is my ace, my reaction. But i you were to ask about the day I got into college, shecan tell you the date, the time o day I came home, the color o theenvelopes, everything we said to each other, every minute detail.

Tough I didn’t know it at the time, my mother’s excite-ment was shadowed with sadness. She remembers that as the day itall became real. Tat day marked the ruition o our eorts, but italso marked the day it hit her that I would be leaving. And thoughshe didn’t realize it, it hit me too. In that moment, I realized thatlie was really going to change, and it terried me. Te envelopesin my hand were a bittersweet ticket out, a door to the rest o my lie. I was araid to leave my amily. I was araid to leave my home.I was araid o messing everything up. I I didn’t make it now, therewouldn’t be any more chances, and the hard work o the genera-tions beore me would have been or nothing.

I was also araid o leaving my mother behind. I worriedabout her health, but I tried not to let it dampen the excitement. Inthe brie moments I elt excited, I elt guilty or allowing mysel tocelebrate my uture departure, while my mother battles cancer.

With each chemo treatment, my mother’s physical andemotional condition gets worse, and I can tell that she is scared and




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tired. Each day, she gets up at 3 a.m. and goes to work as a custo-dian at Indiana University Southeast, a job that she has worked or15 years. Just like custodians everywhere, she is overworked and

underpaid. She took the job to ll the gap between a layo and a“good” job, but the good benets and steady pay kept her theremuch longer than she intended. As i cleaning toilets and collectingtrash are not bad enough, she gets to watch hundreds o studentspass by her every day, doing everything that they can not to becomeher.

Every last ounce o energy le in her rail rame aer treat-

ments is stolen rom her by the manual labor required to clean upaer college students. But she can’t take time o. She has no choicebut to keep hersel conscious through eight hours o work each day,because without her paycheck, we have nothing. On days when shehas a chemo treatment, she goes in or chemo at 8 a.m. and thengoes into work at 10 a.m.

In April, aer her third chemo treatment, Mom comeshome, turns the an toward her ace, and collapses onto the couch.Hal asleep, she tries to ask me how my day was.

As I answer, I watch beads o sweat spill down her ace. Tethought o my mother cleaning up aer other people in her condi-tion bothers me. As I think o all the lth she works with on a daily basis in her condition, it makes me angry. My mother should nothave to work in her condition. She deserves better than a dead-end

job that works her until she can’t work anymore. I am healthy, and Iam young. I should be working so she doesn’t have to.

Mom yawns and stretches her arms. She sighs, “I’m so gladyou’re going to college. You need to nd a good job that you love. Idon’t want you to end up like me.”

I have heard some orm o this speech since I started school

at 5 years old. “Find a job that makes you happy and gives you whatyou want out o lie,” she would say. All Mom wants or me is to livemy lie instead o working it away. Mom had dreams, but dreams donot pay or rent or ood or gas. She settled, but she doesn’t want meto.

Each time she tells me to nd my happiness, I push mysel

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orward to do as she says, but this time, it doesn’t seem right. I de-cide in this moment that I will put college o or at least a year, sothat I can take care o her.

Mom nods o, so I get up and cover her with a blanket. Asshe breathes slowly and evenly, I decide that I have made the rightdecision. Aer all, there is always next year. My dreams could wait.My mother needs me now. I just have to nd a way to tell her.

As each day passes aer my decision, I construct speechesin my head, hoping to nd the perect words to convey my determi-nation to stay. I have to convince her I am right. I know this con-

versation isn’t going to be easy. I try to nd the right time to tell her,but day aer day, the right time doesn’t come.

Aer a month o alse starts, I begin to worry that I won’tbe able to tell her at all. I could always just not go and let her cometo the conclusion, but that elt disrespectul and deceitul. At herourth chemo treatment in May, I study or my nal exams in thewaiting room, surrounded by textbooks and notebooks. Finally,Mom walks out o the treatment area, looking nauseous, her skingray and unnatural. I set aside my book and quickly walk to herside and grab her hand. We take a seat in the waiting room, wait-ing or the doctor to come speak with Mom so we can leave and gohome.

Mom stares into space in the direction o the clock. I cantell she is barely holding onto consciousness.

I ask, “How’re you eeling?” knowing the answer already.“How does it look like I’m eeling?” she retorts. She hates

being weak. My mom hates slowing down, hates having everyonedote on her.

“Is there anything you want me to do? Are you thirsty?” Iask, trying to be helpul even though I know I can’t do anything to

make her better.I get up to grab her some water, and as I sit back down, my thoughts return to telling her my plans.

“I don’t want to go to work tomorrow,” she says, barely ableto keep her eyes open.

“Ten don’t, Mom. You need to rest.”




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“I can’t. I have to go to work. I my check’s short, we’d be introuble.”

“Ten let me work or you,” I beg, hoping she will nally say

yes.“No. I will take care o mysel.”“I don’t want that. Mom, I’m going to put college o. At

least or a year. I hate that you have to work while you’re sick, and Iwant to work so you don’t have to.”

It takes her so long to respond that I have a hard time tellingi she is angry or just sick.

She musters up a resounding, “Hell. No. You are going tocollege in August, and i I hear a word otherwise you’ll be ndinganother place to live. I won’t have you skipping out on everythingyou worked or just to help me. I don’t want your money. Go toschool. I will take care o mysel.”

“But…”“No!” she interrupts. “You can’t put your lie on hold every

time something bad happens.”She begins to cough, so I grab a Kleenex.“Ok. Ok, ne. But i you need me to do that you will tell me,

right?”“I won’t. You are going to college, and you are going to get a

good job, and you are going to be happy.”I let the conversation end there, knowing not to push her.

As we wait or the doctor, I wonder how I’ll be able to leave my mom like this. Leaving would have been hard enough without herillness, but as much as it pains me to think it, I know she is right.

I’m not just going to college or me; I’m doing it or her andthe rest o my amily. College means more than just a piece o pa-per. It means that I have the opportunity to break the never-ending

cycle o crushed dreams and empty pockets that we inherited romour ancestors.With my mother’s words playing on repeat in my head, I be-

gin the transition to the next stage o my lie. With renewed vigor,I throw mysel into planning and organizing everything or my move to college. I ll out the paperwork, pack the boxes, and sort

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the things I want to keep rom the things I don’t. I talk to my amily to make sure that they will check on Mom and help her, even i shedoesn’t want them to. Amidst the planning and packing, it isn’t long

beore I am on my way to the University o Evansville.

* * *Minutes away rom campus, my ace begins to ache rom the akesmile plastered across it. Somewhere between the Evansville exitand the McDonald’s, my excitement disappeared. I am really goingto college, and I am really leaving my amily.

My mom, Nana and Papaw cannot contain their excite-ment. Tey point out anything interesting about the city in the lastmoments o our drive, like the stretch o the Ohio River that skirtsthe southern side o the city, the shops, the beautiul houses in thehistoric district. While they smile and point, I am doing all that Ican to hold mysel together, to not ruin this moment or them.

When we reach campus, all we can see are beautiul treesand buildings made o Indiana limestone. As we pull up beside theresidence hall, I can’t help but notice the cars parked along the road.All o them look new, and the people driving them look rich. I hadchosen the University o Evansville, a private university, because ithad one o the best psychology programs in the state. I hadn’t con-sidered that private meant rich.

My amily is ghting o tears as we stand in ront o my dorm, proud o me and the lie I could have. With the last o my bags in my hand, I tell them goodbye. I can’t do this. I smile and wave at them as Papaw care-ully navigates the busy street and begins the journey home. Eventhough Mom has been doing better, the thought o leaving her andbeing on my own terries me.

I shi my bags to one arm and slide my phone out o my pocket and into my hand, comorted by the act that they were onephone call away rom turning around and coming back, even i Iknow that is not an option.

I make my way up the stairs and into my new room. I nd anote on my bed. My new roommate le me a page ull o exclama-




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tion points and smiley aces, telling me that she was excited to meetme when she returned rom shopping with her parents. I should behappy right now.

I begin to unpack my things, but I stop when I hear a amil-iar knock at the door.

“Hey,” says my best riend, yler, as he plops himsel ontomy bed.

“Hey,” I reply, trying to keep him rom wrinkling the clothesI was putting away. “Did your mom leave?”

“Yes, bawling all over the place. She kept trying to get me

to buy more ood. We already bought out Walmart, and she doesn’tget paid again or two more weeks.”

I laughed and told him my mom had done the same thing.yler rolls over, and looks at me square in the ace, all traces

o his smile gone. I stare back, but neither o us says anything.yler sits up, so I sit next to him on the bed.A ew more moments o silence pass beore he sighs and

whispers, “Can you believe it?”“No.”“Me neither.”We stare at the wall in stunned silence, trying to accept that

we have made it. When we had received our acceptance letters toone o the best private schools in the state, neither o us could be-lieve it. Now we are here, but it isn’t any easier.

“I want to go home,” yler says.“Me too. Shouldn’t we be happy? I mean look at everybody.

Tey’re all having un,” I say, pulling the curtain back and gesturingat the line o students unpacking their vehicles. Most o them havedouble the amount o things I brought. One girl even had two carsto unload.

“It’s dierent or them,” yler says.His comment makes me think o home and my amily. Wedidn’t get here by ourselves. Every person beore us had paved theway or us to make it to this exact moment. I it weren’t or my mother and my grandparents, this never would have happened.It’s bizarre to think that I am attending a private university having

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come rom my community. I think o my Nana, and the rst time Ithought about the meaning o the word “poor.”

I was in the middle o stringing green beans, when the ques-

tion hit me.“Nana, how come you cook so good?”“Well,” she paused and stirred something on the stove,

“I grew up poor in ennessee. We had to cook everything romscratch. I we wanted cornbread, we didn’t make it rom a mix, likemost people do these days. Tere wasn’t a Walmart either. We had agarden.”

“Who taught you?”“My mother and my sisters. Tere were 10 o us kids.”“Tat’s a lot!” I tried to imagine having nine other kids

around to play with all day and couldn’t.“Yeah, well, it wasn’t so strange then.”I snapped the ends o o a green bean, and even at six years

old, I wondered how people ever lived without Walmart.“Nana, are we poor?”“Not like I used to be. We have enough. Don’t you think?”I nodded my head and went back to stringing beans, think-

ing we were pretty lucky.I knew then that our amily didn’t have money, but nobody

I knew had money. yler and his amily were no exception. Wheneveryone around you is poor, it is just a act o lie. In my Nana’skitchen at six years old, I knew things could be much worse, but Ithought we were doing pretty well. Being poor is like the weather.When it has been a part o your lie orever, it is not something youthink about. It is lie. You live it, live through it, and hope to seeanother day with a better orecast.

When Mom got sick, she still went to work, because she had

to. Now I have a chance to leave home, so I have to.“We have to stay,” I say, knowing that it would be easier saidthan done.

“I know,” he sighs. “So what now?“We have things to do.”




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* * *Over the next ew days, I try to nd my place in this home away rom home, which is hard to do when you have never le home

beore. I have to buy my textbooks, nd out where my classes are,and try not to embarrass mysel as I adjust to my new environment.I do my best to act like I know what I am doing, watching and try-ing to imitate the other kids who seem to have it all gured out. Onthe rst day o classes, I have no idea what to expect. I walk into theroom o my rst class, Psychology 100, 30 minutes early and grab aseat near the ront. I pull my textbook and my notebook out o my

backpack, and nervously wait or my proessor to come in the door.I’m the only one in the room until 15 minutes beore class,

when two girls in shirts with Greek letters on them sit down next tome. As they take a seat, I overhear their conversation.

“Are you going home this weekend?” one o them asks.“Yeah.”“Are you driving or am I?” she asks.As they make travel plans, I envy their reedom. I wish I

could just drive home whenever I want. I have no car, and my am-ily can’t aord to drive all the way rom home to pick me up on awhim. I constantly have to depend on other people. I can’t even goto the store when I want without nding someone else to drive me.I thought I would eel entirely independent in college, but I had notconsidered that my lack o a car would severely hinder my indepen-dence.

About ve minutes beore class, the proessor makes herway in and to the ront o the room. Once class begins, I relax. Teproessor quickly covers the syllabus and dives right into the rstlesson. She seems nice, and the class seems to work exactly like my honors classes in high school.

As she talks about the ways in which psychology is useul, Irealize that I am actually doing it. I am actually in college, learningthe things I need to learn to get a good job. Once I get that job, Ican aord a car and go wherever I want and not need to depend onanyone else or anything ever again.

Aer the proessor wraps up class, I pack up and head or

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my dorm. As I walk through campus, I look at the tall buildingsaround me. Te administration building looks like a castle with tur-rets and wrought iron ences. I eel a long way rom the cornelds

and woods that permeate my hometown. In just a ew short days,I have gone rom having nothing to do to having too much to do.From homework to socializing, I eel like my lie is on ast orward.I have had little time to process anything, and I discover that Ihaven’t thought about Mom in a ew days.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, disrupting my thoughts. Iglance at the I.D. and see that it is Mom. She always seems to know

when I’m thinking about her.“Hey, Mom,” I say, taking a seat on a concrete bench by the

ountain.“Hey. What’s up? I haven’t heard rom you today, so I

thought I’d see what you’re up to.”“I have a class at 2 p.m., and then a bunch o us are going to

see a play that the theater program is putting on.”“Oh, ok. So you still like your classes?“Yeah. Tey’re pretty cool. Tey aren’t very dierent rom

my classes in high school.”“How ‘bout the people?” she asks.“Tey’re good, too. I’m glad yler’s here with me though. I

don’t miss home as much when he’s around.”“I’m glad you guys are there together. I worry less. Oh, by

the way, I heard some news rom the doctor.”“Really? When did you go back? Last I heard they hadn’t

given you an appointment yet.”Mom had nished her last chemo treatment beore I le or

school, and the doctor had wanted to wait awhile beore runningtests again.

“I went last week. Te results are good,” she says casually.“Tey say I can ocially consider mysel in remission. Now, I justhave to go back once a month or six months or routine checkups.”

“Good!”“Yeah. No more chemical cocktails. So when do you want

me to come get you or all break?” she says, quickly shiing the o-




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cus o o her. Cancer is no longer relevant in her mind. It is already a thing o the past. All that matters is me and my uture.

“Mom, break isn’t or another month and a hal.”

“I know,” she says, “I just can’t wait.”Mom and I have been having a hard time not seeing each

other. It has been the two o us together or as long as I can remem-ber, and now we are going to have to be apart or months at a time.As we discuss plans or break, I realize that I am truly on my own.As much as my amily loves me, I have to do this on my own. I amin charge o my uture.

When we hang up, I get up and slowly walk in the directiono my dorm, reminding mysel that ailure is not an option.

* * *Soon classes pick up speed and homework piles up, and my daysand weeks begin to ade into each other. Te newness o collegewears o, and it begins to eel like I have been in college orever.Beore I know it, it is midterm and time or the required meetingwith my advisor.

“So,” my advisor says as she looks at my progress report, “Isee you’re doing pretty well in your classes. Tat makes my job to-day much easier. Since we don’t need to worry about grades, I guesswe can use today’s session to talk about your uture in psychology.”

“Ok,” I say nervously.I am araid to tell her that I haven’t thought much about

my uture in psychology. In act, I hadn’t thought about my uturemuch at all lately. For my entire lie, my uture was college. Andnow that I’m here, I don’t know what comes next.

“Well, rst, tell me about why you chose this eld,” she says.“Um, I, uh, I chose psychology, because I knew I didn’t want

to be a doctor or a teacher. When we researched careers in highschool, psychologists seemed to be doing pretty well, and I thoughtthe topics were interesting,” I say, eagerly waiting the moment whenthe questions would end.

“Oh, ok,” she says and smiles condescendingly. “Do youknow what you want to do aer college?”

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“No, I don’t. I know I should, but I don’t,” I say, diverting my eyes to the ground. Something tells me she won’t like that answer.

“Well, you don’t have to know right now, but rom what you

tell me, I’m concerned. You don’t seem to know what you want. Areyou sure you want to be a psychology major? I mean, we’d be gladto have you with your grades, but trust me — you don’t want towork a job just to make a paycheck. Money only makes you happy or so long. I suggest you take some time and gure out i you are inthe right place.”

I nod and gather my things, sensing the meeting is over.

As I head out o the Psychology oce, I realize that some-thing is not right. Something has not been right since I came toEvansville. My psychology classes have become work, and I ndmysel hating the thought o conducting social experiments orhelping people gure their lives when I can’t even gure out my own lie. I am becoming my mother.

While I love my mother and I want to be like her, I don’twant a lie o continuous letdowns and regrets. She doesn’t wantthat or me either. I can’t believe I have let mysel reach this point. Iam doing everything my mother told me not to. Something needs to change.

When I get back to my dorm, I grab my laptop, and set outto decide what to do next. I pull up the University o Evansville’swebsite and scan the list o majors and their requirements. Te ur-ther I move down the list, the more upset I eel. Evansville only has18 majors, and every major is so strenuous that switching wouldguarantee me an extra year. I would have to leave.

Te magnitude o these decisions makes me nauseous. Notonly do I have to nish my classes, but I have to reevaluate my en-

tire lie. My mom’s words play on repeat in my mind.I have to leave.I sit in the silence o my empty dorm room and stare at

the blank wall on the other side o the room. I remember all themonths o this I went through in high school. I remember all thetours o universities and the paperwork.




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I remember o all the universities I visited I liked Ball StateUniversity the most. As I think about my visit to Ball State, I recallthat the only reason I didn’t go was that Evansville’s psychology

program was better. I had to have the best I could get, but now I amnot going to be a Psychology major. Ball State has hundreds o ma-

jors to choose rom, and I remember eeling like I t in. Te moreI think about it, the more I realize that Ball State would be the bestchoice. I have to decide now.

I orce mysel to stop worrying about the right decision and

just make one. I pull up the website and ll out an application totranser, relieved to at least know where I am going. I pick up thephone and call my mother to plan my move, knowing she won’thesitate to tell me I am making the right decision.

* * *I move out o Evansville on the last day o nals week in December.

I grab a box and carry it out to the car, where Mom is wait-ing. As I throw it in the back, yler walks up with another box,one o his own. When I told yler I would be leaving, he decidedto take some time o o school and reevaluate his lie. Being away rom home had been much harder on him, and with me leaving, hedidn’t think he could handle it.

As we carry our things to the car, snow starts to all.“Hurry up, you guys. It’s reezing,” Mom says, starting the

car to warm her hands or a moment.“You sure about this? ‘Cause once you’re moved out, I’m not

moving you back in,” she laughs.“We’re sure,” I say, glancing at yler or reassurance.“Yeah. We’re sure. We’re done with my room, and we only

have one more trip or Lacey’s,” yler says and closes the door sothe cold won’t get in.We head up the stairs o my dorm room one last time. I

open my door and walk in. We grab the last o the boxes, close thedoor, and lock it.

I pull my nametag o the door and slide my key under the

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resident assistant’s door. Tis is it. I am ocially not a student hereanymore.

“You ready to head down?” yler asks.

“Yeah, let’s go.”When we reach the car, we slide the last items in the back-

seat and climb into the car.“Do we have everything? You ready?” Mom asks.“Let’s go,” I say, turning my head to look back at the resi-

dence hall one more time. “I’m ready.”As we leave the university, I eel relieved. I may not know

what I will be doing or the rest o my lie, but at least I know I amheading in the right direction.

I turn back around and turn the music up, ready to be homeor the holidays.

* * *Te spring semester begins ve weeks later, and I am once againstarting over. I move again into another dorm with another room-mate. Hopeully this time everything works out.

Once again, I have to nd my way to my classes and buy more books, and try not to get lost on campus; only this time I amcompletely alone. Tis time, I don’t have yler to rely on. A ew stu-dents rom my high school attend Ball State, but I don’t know many o them well.

Aer quickly moving my belongings into a nine-story resi-dence hall, I decide to take a walk on campus beore I have to ndmy rst class. Te campus here is much larger than the University o Evansville’s, and also much prettier. Each building looks dier-ent. I notice one o them is named aer David Letterman.

I take a seat on a bench by a ountain with a statue they

call Frog Baby. Soon, classes let out and hundreds o students spillout o the buildings. As they walk past, I realize they look like thepeople I went to high school with. Most kids are wearing sweatsand a sweatshirt instead o expensive designer clothes, like the kidsat Evansville did. I could ft in here.




17

Aer my rst day o classes, I eel relieved. I like all o my classes and proessors, and so ar Ball State seems to be the perectchoice. However, aer the excitement o the day is over, I nd my-

sel worrying once more about choosing a major. I am araid I willnever gure it out. I am araid that my experiences at Ball State willend the same way they did at Evansville.

Te next ew months blur into each other. Spring semesterpasses quickly, ull o interesting but unmemorable classes, andindecisive panic. I count down the days until summer break, andwhen it nally comes, I’m happy to go home or a ew months. I

need to get away rom college. I hope that going home will give methe perspective I need to make the right decision.

When I nally get home, I spend most o my time with my amily and riends, building memories up like credit or the roughspots in the next year.

yler picks me up one day in July. We haven’t made any plans, but then again we usually don’t. Aer doing a lap throughtown, yler pulls his car into a parking space at Lake Iola, a smallman-made lake in the middle o town. Te lake was made to give usall a place to walk or sit. We liked to sit and watch time pass.

yler opens the door and gets out to “roll” down his win-dow, an act that consisted o him peeling o the duct tape holding itup, grabbing the window rom each side, and pushing it down inchby inch.

We used to go or long rides on the back roads, drive untilwe met a road we hadn’t seen, windows rolled down to keep theheat at bay, and country music to soundtrack our thoughts. Tesedays, gas prices have orced us to settle or sitting still and staring atthe murky water o the lake, melting into the car seats in the soggy heat o June.

As yler slides back into the car, he asks, “So when doesschool start up again?”“Middle o August,” I say, knowing I should let him guide

the conversation.yler usually tries to avoid the subject, so I know he must

have something to say. All summer he had been agonizing over

Lacey Lord



18

returning to school and leaving home again.“Te deadline or going back is in two weeks, right?” he

asks.

I had been trying to convince him to go to Ball State withme. Aer all, we had toured the school together in high school, andhe liked it then.

“Yeah, that’s right.”“I have to tell you something,” he says, picking at the sun-

rotted steering wheel, head hung, avoiding my eyes. “I’m not goingto make that deadline.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to keep my rustration incheck.

“I can’t do it. School had its moments, but none o themwere in the classroom. I’m not smart enough, and I can’t be away rom home that oen. You saw that. I was a mess in Evansville.”

“But you…”“No,” he interrupts. “I’ve heard what you’ve had to say.

School’s just not or me, at least not right now.”“But your tuition is covered by your nancial aid. I you

don’t go back now, you’ll lose it. You’re going to regret that. I mean,you hate your jobs. You’ve said it yoursel. Don’t you want to likewhat you do? You deserve better.”

“Oh, and you like what you do?” he shoots back. “You’reawesome at school, and you still don’t know what you like to do. I you don’t have things gured out, how could I? What’s so wrongwith staying here and working a shitty job? It’s good enough oreveryone else.”

“yler, that’s not right and you know it.”“I just can’t do it. I thought I could, but I can’t. What’s so

bad about staying here? I’ve got my amily and two jobs. Many have

less. I’ll be okay.”As his last syllable settles in the car, I watch a little kid eedducks pieces o bread. Te smallest duck tries his best to snatchsome up beore the others orce him out o the way. Each time hecomes up empty handed. Finally, he just gives up and swims away in deeat.




19

yler was giving up, and there was nothing I could do aboutit. He is right. I don’t have things gured out. yler knows what hewants. Even though I know he is making the wrong decision, even

though I know he will regret it later, I am envious o his certainty.And so we sit and watch time pass.As the sun sets, I realize that this is as good as it will get

or yler. I he never leaves or gets a degree, he will be sitting andwatching lie pass beore his eyes. Yes, he will probably have a am-ily, but he will never nd ulllment working two terrible jobs orpennies. Tis could be me. yler and I have been riends since the

second grade, and his amily has the same background as mine. Wehave had the same opportunities, the same dreams, and now he isgiving up. I I don’t gure out my career soon, this will be me. Inthe July heat, I shiver at the thought.

***I return or another year at Ball State in August, but nothing seemsto change. My all classes are an assortment o required classes andpolitical science classes, which is the newest in a long line o experi-mental majors. Te new year stops seeming so new when I realizethat this all semester is just like the last. I try to keep my head up,deciding that next semester will be my ticket to enlightenment.I have ocially nished the university required courses, so nextsemester I can choose all o my classes.

When it comes time or Spring registration, I choose arandom assortment o classes rom a random assortment o de-partments in hopes o nding a path to ollow, but that too ends inailure. Tese classes also ail to inspire me, ail to give me the onething I want in lie at that moment, direction.

As April arrives, and the Spring semester o my sophomore

year is coming to a close, I realize that nothing I am doing is work-ing. Te problem isn’t Ball State. Te problem isn’t my classes.Te problem is me.One Friday in April, I wake up and instantly dread starting

the day. I lie or a minute and stare at the ceiling tiles. I give up.

Lacey Lord



20

Te stress o choosing a career is too much. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know i I can do this anymore. I don’t know i college is the right choice anymore. Te weight o the work o

generations is becoming too much to bear. I am ailing my mother,and it all is nally bringing me down. I have ailed. I am not worthy o their eorts. I can’t do this anymore. When I was younger, I wastold that getting into college would solve my problems, but now Irealize that all it did was change the problem.

I decide to stay in bed.I watch movies or most o the day, periodically watching

the clock or the moments when class begins and ends. I already regret not going.

Aer a day o wallowing in sel-pity, I orce mysel to get outo bed, sick o being idle. I grab my books and start doing home-work. Tis is obviously not going to work.

Te next day I reluctantly go to class, deciding to push my-sel to nish the last ew weeks o the semester. Each day that passeseels like another day wasted. As much as I love my school, I cannotwait to leave, counting down the days to every break and every visithome. I’m lost, and I don’t know i anyone can help me.

***Finally, summer break arrives and I get to go home and escape theweight o my decision or a while. But the relie doesn’t last long.As each day passes, my panic returns more and more, leaving meunhappy and distraught during my avorite time o year. Toughthe days eel like they drag, the summer passes quickly.

In late July, I sit, curled up on the couch in a patch o sun-light, holding “Crime and Punishment.” My thoughts keep wonder-ing back to my predicament.

Another year at Ball State has passed, and I have nothing toshow or it but some random credits and junior status.It is late July, and I have just weeks to decide what I want to

do with my lie. I cannot play the undecided game any longer. I Idid, I would not graduate on time, and my nancial aid would notallow or extra years o college.




21

All summer I had gone to the library every day to researchcareers and majors. My head was ull o numbers. Neuroscientistsmake an average o $75,000 per year, and there are around 20,000

neuroscientists in the nation this year. Ball State does not have aneuroscience program, but they do have a biology program. Ac-countants make an average o $60,000 per year, and there are morethan a million accountants in the nation. Ball State’s accountingprogram is well ranked. But the numbers give me nothing.

Tere’s no spark. I have no eureka moment, no clarity.And I still didn’t know what to do.

My thoughts continue in the same vain, circling back around a ew times beore I realize how sad this is. All o my collegeriends had picked a major and stuck with it rom the beginning.Many o them were on the career path they had chosen or them-selves as children.

What is wrong with me? Tis shouldn’t be this dicult. I actually like school, unlike

most o my riends. I always have, but I just can’t gure out what todo.

Mom sits on the couch, interrupting my thoughts.I realize that I have been in this mind trap or while, staring

into space, unable to read. I know this is bad, but I didn’t realize itwas bad enough to distract me rom a book. Tat never happens.

Seeing my ace, Mom asks, “What’s wrong?”“Nothing. Just thinking.”“Worrying, you mean,” she says with a look o concern.“I’m ne,” I say, orcing mysel to return to my book.Tat doesn’t work or long. I start to think about yler. He

was still working at the deli in the morning and Walmart in theaernoon, the same jobs he had been working since he quit school.

Sure, it was rough, and both jobs were soul-sucking, but he wasgetting a paycheck. Here I am, racking up debt and wasted time,because I’m lost.

For the rst time, I consider taking time o rom school.Aer all, I couldn’t aord to continue this way. Maybe i I took some time o and worked in the “real” world I would discover the

Lacey Lord



22

career that was right or me.Sighing in deeat, I look up at Mom. She is only watching

V, but I hesitate to disturb her. We have talked about this subject

so much, and it sounds the same every time.“Mom, I think I may need to take some time o,” I sigh.“I that’s what you think you need to do, then do it, but you

have a ew more weeks to decide. Tere has got to be somethingyou would like to do.”

“I have interests, not passions, Mom. I like everything, butlove nothing.”

“Tat’s not true,” she says with certainty, but I could tell thatshe wasn’t telling me everything that was on her mind.

“Do you know something I don’t?” I ask, interested in thenew direction o the conversation. Normally, she just tells me thatI’ll gure it out and that she has aith in me.

“I think it’s right in ront o your ace. I haven’t said any-thing, because I didn’t want you to think I was trying to tell youwhat to do.”

“What do you mean?”“Look down,” she says, gesturing to the book in my hands.

“You have had one o those in your hand since you were so young.I mean, what have you done all summer? When you want to learnmore about something, you go straight or a book. Whenever you’resitting still, you’re holding a book. Work with books or crying outloud. Why haven’t you considered that?”

“Mom, I can’t be an English major. You know how hard it isor English majors to nd a job? I don’t want to waste money andtime on a degree that doesn’t qualiy me or much. Besides, theones that do get a job don’t make much money.”

“Being as smart as you are and loving books as much as

you do, I don’t see how it could be a waste o time. And when didmoney become your priority? It’s never been that way beore. As orgetting a job, you’ll get one. You work too damn hard not to.”

“You make it sound so simple.”“Well, honey, in this case it is.”I glance down at “Crime and Punishment” and run my n-




23

ger over the raised type o the old, dusty book.Despite my obsession with books, I have never considered

working with them. Books aren’t work to me. Work is a means to a

paycheck. I can’t read or a living, but I decide to listen to my momand enroll in a literature course or the all.

* * *Tree weeks into Introduction to English Literature, we are as-signed Franz Kafa’s Metamorphosis. I am surprised to learn thatI am one o three students out o the entire class who didn’t read it

in high school. Te last ew weeks have been interesting. Tis isn’tthe only book on the course list that I have not read. So ar, the classwas all resh material and interesting discussions. I have never beenin a room with this many booklovers beore.

Te class settles down, and the proessor leads us right intodiscussion, throwing around ideas about the meanings behind thenarrative, questioning Kafa’s motive or choosing an insect and thedeeper signicance o metamorphosis.

As the discussion moves on to the role o the amily in themetamorphosis o the main character, I think o what my momsaid. Maybe I can do this or a living.

I dri back into the conversation and raise my hand.“Te amily is just as much a part o the metamorphosis as

the main character is. I he had metamorphosed somewhere otherthan home, would he have had the same experience? Would hehave even evolved into a ull-blown insect had the amily not alien-ated him? Would he have turned into an insect at all? I think theanswer to those questions is no.”

As the discussion moves on to Kafa’s personal lie, I returnto my thoughts. I I did decide to major in Literature and get a job

out o it, who is to say I would be good at it? I mean, most litera-ture students go on to get their doctorates and become proessors. Idon’t know i I can teach. I don’t even know i I would be able to a-ord a doctorate. Besides, there are only so many teaching positions.

Te proessor interrupts my thoughts as he stands up towrap up the discussion and announces that he will be returning our

Lacey Lord



24

rst written assignments. When I get mine, I ip to the back pageor the grade and comments. I got an A, but I am more interestedin what the proessor had to say. He had written: “You seem to

understand the texts very well, and you are great at synthesizing theinormation and analyzing its importance. Well done.”

I smile to mysel. Maybe I won’t be so bad at this aer all.I grab my backpack and walk out o the classroom, heading

or the English department to ll out a change o major orm. I eelas uncertain as ever, but somehow it eels right.

* * *Over winter break, I decide to take yler out or dinner to catchup. With our schedule, we had hardly spoken to each other in themonths I had been back at school. He is still working day and nightat Wal-Mart and the deli, trying to save up money or a car thatruns. I am juggling a ull course load and an internship so that I cangraduate on time.

We grab our usual table at the Chinese restaurant and pick at our ood in gaps in the conversation. yler catches me up on thesmall town events I had missed: babies born, breakups and arrests. Ihaven’t been home or months, but nothing has really changed.

“What have you been up to?” I ask.“Same ol’ same ol’,” he says and shrugs his shoulders. “It’s

Scottsburg. How’s school?”“School is good, actually. I love all o my classes, and I get to

work on some really cool projects. I’m working on an exhibit aboutKurt Vonnegut, an author rom Indiana,” I say.

It eels strange to hear those words coming out o my mouth, but it’s true. Since I changed my major, everything hasstarted to all into place. I have been given the opportunity to work

on two large projects, one about the lie and work o Kurt Vonnegutand the other a transmedia project with the Indiana State Museum.All o my literature courses are interesting, and o course, I love thebooks. I am busy, but it’s all worth it.

“So you chose a major?” he asks.“Yeah, I told you…” I start to say.“Oh yeah. Tat’s right. English,” yler interrupts, rolling his




25

eyes and smiling.“What’s so unny?” I ask, knowing he doesn’t take me seri-

ously. No one at home does when I tell them my major. English is a

waste o time and money in their eyes.I give yler a look, hoping he will move on soon. I’m tired

o having the same conversation over and over.“I’m just playing. I’m glad you nally made up your mind.

So what are you going to do with that?”I sigh. Tat dreaded question haunts me everywhere ago. It

used to be, “What’s your major?” For awhile, that was hard enough.

I thought nding the answer to that question would solve my prob-lem, but what I didn’t realize was that an answer to that question

just led to this one.I don’t have an answer, so I say, “Tere are lots o things I

could do.”“Yeah? Like what? What do you want to do?”Seeing that he’s not going to let me o the hook, I answer

honestly.“I don’t know.”

“Huh. I bet that’s killing you.”“Not as bad as beore. I’ll gure it out. I think.”“Whatever you do though, you’re not going to make much

are you? I saw a guy on V with a Ph. D in English, and he wasworking at McDonalds,” he says.

“Tat happens in every discipline though. Jobs are scarcethese days. Besides, I’m not doing it or the money.”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s the best choice, but i anyone canmake it work, I’m sure you can,” he says, trying to be supportive.

I know it sounds absurd to him. We grew up in a placewhere jobs are hard and terrible and scary. You hate them, but you

love to hate them, because that means you have one.He isn’t the rst to react this way. In act, his reaction ismuch better than many o the others I have received rom amily and riends. Te more I talk about my work, the more I eel somepeople pulling away. I eel a disconnection. Tey want to know what I’m doing and how I am, but they just don’t understand it.

Lacey Lord



26

I can now say, “I don’t know,” without cringing. I’m not entirely comortable not knowing, but I eel much less lost than I did a ew months ago.

As we nish our meal, the waitress brings us our check andortune cookies.

yler breaks open his ortune cookie, laughs, and says, “Ithink I got yours.”

He tosses the little strip o paper across the table. It reads:“You will succeed in your endeavors.”“I really hope that’s true,” I say, smiling at the thought.

***In the ollowing August, my classmates and I gather at the KurtVonnegut Memorial Library in Indianapolis to launch the nalproduct o the Kurt Vonnegut project. Seven months o hard work and dedication have paid o. People are nally seeing our work,and they seem to be as thrilled as we are.

I watch as one o the visitors plays around with my portiono the exhibit, smiling as he reads some o Vonnegut’s personal pa-pers and looks through photos o Vonnegut’s amily that had neverbeen released to the public beore.

I think about the project, thankul that I was able to be apart o it. I have held twenty-one dierent dras o SlaughterhouseFive in my hands. I have seen dras o stories that were nevernished, captured a handwritten love note to his rst wie on theiranniversary, and read and analyzed his entire body o work. Forseven months, I was immersed in Kurt Vonnegut’s lie, getting toknow him. Tat’s what we wanted or our project, to make thosewho experience it eel as though they have met Kurt.

He turns, catches my eye, and waves me over.

“Did you work on this?” he asks.“Yes, I did. What do you think?”“It’s wonderul. I could get lost in it. I have loved and stud-

ied Vonnegut or years, but I have never seen something so exten-sive and detailed and un. You’ve captured Kurt’s personality andphilosophy quite nicely. I eel like I know him personally.”




27

So this is it , I think to mysel. Tis is what it eels like to lovewhat you do.

“Tank you, so much,” I reply to the man and leave him to

read some more.At a loss or words, I go and sit in the replica o Kurt’s home

oce and library. I slide my ngers over the keys o the typewriter,and I type, “So it goes.”

At the end o the summer, Mom and I nish packing my

things to move back to school or my senior year. Aer ev-erything is loaded into the car, we lean against the side or a

moment and take in the sunlight.“I can’t believe this is your last year. o me, it seems like you

just started,” Mom says.“How do you think I eel?” I laugh. “I just started my major

a year ago.”“Just think, next year when we do this, you’ll be going

somewhere new,” she says.“I know. It’s strange.”“Where do you think you’ll end up?” she asks.“Most o the grad programs I’m looking at are out o state,

and the types o jobs I would want aren’t really around here either.So grad school or not, I think I’m going to have to move pretty ar.”

“Tere’s nothing in Louisville or Indianapolis?” she asks,hoping I’ll say there is an option close to home.

My mother is so supportive o everything I do, but I know moving ar away rom her will be hard on her. Tough she doesn’tseem to think so, it’ll be hard on me too.

“Tere are a ew things, but nothing I’m crazy about. I don’t

really know where I’m going to end up, but I know it probably won’tbe in Indiana. At least not or a ew years.”“Well, I just might have to move with you,” she jokes.It suddenly hits me that I can go anywhere and do anything.

I have absolutely no idea where I will be in a year. Te planner inme hates this, but I’m surprised to nd that I’m not scared. I’m sad

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28

that I will be arther rom my amily, but I’m excited at the thoughto a new beginning.

I don’t know what that new beginning will look like just yet,

but I’m starting to understand that I will always be uncertain aboutsomething. I don’t know i I’ll ever completely come to terms withit. I’m only just beginning to. Maybe I’ll nd some answers in thenext year, or maybe I’ll just nd more questions.

Lie is like the weather. It is messy, unpredictable, and un-certain, and as much as we like to play weatherman, we can neverreally know the orecast.

z



It’s Like the Weather by Lacey Lord is licensed under a Creative Com-mons-Atrribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

o view a copy o this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/

by-nc-sa/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street,Suite 300, San Francisco,Caliornia, 94105, USA. Permissions beyond thescope o this license may be available at http://www.thedudeman.net.

Photo by Laura Hartley, all rights reserved. See the original picture:http://www ickr com/photos/laurahartleyphotography/8521618951/

Documents

Damaged Goods: It's Like the Weather, by Lacey Lord