There is a house in my neighborhood that installed turf instead of planting grass. For some time, I’ve run past it and felt something. Uncomfortable, maybe. Itchy. I’ve told myself not to look at it, like avoiding the flattened, rotting carcasses of small animals who have been the victims of cars driving too fast to make that light or too reckless because of a nonsensical text message. I’ve forced myself to cross to the other side of the street, as I do when trash trucks have left putrid wavy streams in their wake. And still, I feel those plastic kelly green spikes in the deepest parts of my guts, pricking all my sensitive organs. I see their even lengths, a dead giveaway of their artificiality, if one hadn’t noticed the distinctive way in which the sunlight glints off their nylon heads, as if to scream: “that’s right, we’re fake and we’re here to stay.”
I think about how wasteful lawn maintenance is, how much energy and water it takes. I think about the careless idiots who forget to turn their sprinklers off during thunderstorms or those who don’t understand that a middle of the day onslaught is borderline useless (and an early morning drench is far more efficient). I think about how much time is spent scraping and blowing and collecting curling and crunchy leaves off the surface of a lawn, only to witness its seasonal demise a month or so later. I think about how much kinder this turf is, how it’s more environmentally friendly – needing substantially less hydration, if any at all. I think about how this family, these humans, can spend more time and resources on things that matter, time that would have been spent agonizing over this patch of earth.
And still, it scratches that space just between my shoulder blades and irritates my stomach lining. I have an irrational urge to press my palm into random bits, rendering handprints in odd spots, destroying the air of perfection and leaving them to ask: “who?” and “why?” Mostly because I don’t understand why I feel so disturbed.
I do know though, because of all the things I’ve felt lately, all the situations I’ve explored and all the ways in which I’ve examined my own disappointments and missteps. I know why it bothers me.
It’s different. That family, those humans, decided that in a row of conforming lawn patches, they were comfortable with divergence. They understood that the brightness and uniformity of length would draw attention- would spotlight how they made a unique choice, and they were okay with it. Or not, but they did it anyway.
And mostly, I’ve been that person, but also, I’ve allowed people to tell me that my differences are too much. I’ve permitted the people closest to me to tell me that I should tone it down and make it smaller and reduce it to something that feels more palatable. More normal. More of the same.
I’ve been politely asked to eat shit, because they are busy eating shit, and it feels better when everyone is sitting down at the table and shoveling the same excrement into their gaping mouths. If there is one person who looks down at their plate of steaming turds and says: “are you fucking kidding me?” then everyone must either question their own decisions or resolutely subscribe to the notion of ignorance. That’s uncomfortable- that choice, and it’s seemingly more comfortable to exist in a space where you push everyone to just do things the way that everyone else does.
In many ways, I’ve decided to be compliant. Sure, I rail against things, but as soon as I’m face to face with someone who tells me to take it down a notch, I do. And worse than burying my feelings is the way in which I self-punish later. I never should have said that. I wish I didn’t care. I hope next time I handle it differently. Often, I will try to explain myself to the person who is telling me that perhaps my feelings matter but also, I should do my best to make them not matter. I will plead my case whilst choking up. I always feel anxious and sad and betrayed, by them and also, by me.
And suddenly, Thanksgiving is upon us again. Yes, I know. It comes so quickly. Every year. And there is messaging about how to express one’s sincerest gratitude. Be gracious. Be appreciative. Be thoughtful. Consider your gripes and whines and issues in the face of what you really have. And I do. I have. And still, I feel like I’ve spent so long in a space of gratitude that I’ve lost myself. I’ve spent too many moments explaining that sure, I’m sad or mad or frustrated but also, so lucky. I have a good job, a roof over my head, friends, family, and some savings in the bank. I live in a place where opportunities present- culture and adventure. And, I have been able to muster the resources and bravery to participate in life in a meaningful way.
Instead of enjoining that notion to those already piled deep in my complicated soul, I used my thankfulness to eclipse my feelings. I leaned into all the instruction I had been provided. No, not just directions, but criticism. All the ways in which I have been told that my feelings could ruin something that would be perfect otherwise.
Grasp the silver lining, they say. Be the bigger person, they implore. Focus on the positive, they stress. Don’t destroy that thing with your feelings. Destroy your feelings to preserve that thing.
And I have. Many times. Too many times to count. I’ve bowed down in the face of guilt and solicitous behavior and all the pretending. I’ve told myself that it doesn’t really matter. That I don’t really matter. That it doesn’t pay to be different.
I’ve told myself that everyone else is more important. That status quo is more important. That there must be something wrong with ME.
There’s a reason why no one chooses turf.
Except that someone did, and I’ve seen it and now I can’t unsee it. I can’t forget their courage and fortitude and ‘I don’t give a fuck-ness.’ I can play the game. That I can do. I can nod my head and disengage and separate and isolate. But I won’t pretend that I don’t give a shit. I won’t beat myself up for my feelings. I won’t endlessly try and see the other side of everything, always. I won’t be the good girl to make them feel better. I won’t acknowledge that they understand when they don’t. I won’t call my feelings too much or too big. I won’t reach out when they don’t. I won’t ask when they won’t. I won’t sit at the table and eat shit with them. I won’t even tell them it’s okay if they are eating shit.
I will love bigger and harder as I always have, and the only way to do that is to live with that piece that makes other people squirm. That makes me the outsider. That makes them love me less.
The turf.
I am choosing to live with the turf.
And so, this morning I ran past the turf and breathed deeply, missing the scent of earth and dew, but relishing the smell of authenticity. And it hurt but also, it felt so damn good that I’m never going back.
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