R.S. Evangelista

The sun rose with clouds covering its upward enclosure. Their hovering above can’t keep up with the break of the day. The fading orange softly utters an amen to another days beginning. I’m compelled to do the same. I’m on my way again, up in the air, traveling above a blanket of clouds now, the present soundtrack in my ears towards New York City. I haven’t been to this great city since 2002. And believe me, I’ve been trying to get there for some time now. I’m always putting out the idea to friends, hoping for a reason to make it.

Much of life changes over the course of a few years. To think for most of my upbringing, I was coming to visit year after year. My Grandparent’s home was an apartment in Forest Hills that my dad had spent most of his growing up years. I remember the overly-full stomach I had after every meal of oatmeal or pasta or pea soup. The upstairs was a couple of bedrooms, one of which hosted countless trophies of my father’s baseball glory days. He played college ball for St. John’s until he got hurt. There was a fire place on the main floor with photos of all of us grandkids scattered about on the sil. The couch in the living room was always covered with some plasticy material I can’t believe guests ever allowed, sitting near the windows facing the street. The
“dining room” was central, where the record player sang her tunes, leading to the kitchen with yellow wall paper making me feel at home.

But my favorite room was through the kitchen down to the basement. There was the antique smell, full of goodies, old collectibles from years of living, working and playing. For a kid like me it was perfect. And my brother and I would often create mischief and have Grandpa Benedito running down the stairs yelling at us in some Italian verbage. That of course only made us laugh and him more angry.

Since 2002, much of life has changed. My Grandpa has passed away. And in April of last year, Grandma Rose moved to Hilton Head  just 10 minutes away from my parents. My older cousin Laura and her husband have two children growing up. Cousin JP, just a month younger than I, lives in Manhattan working for the music industry. My Aunt and Uncle’s house was host to countless parties we attended, dressing up to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s.

I’ve not only graduated high school, but also college. Come May, I’ll have lived on the same street on the eastside of Atlanta for four years. My love for Atlanta has grown and grown and grown, rolling over from an ideal aspiration, to a pressing reality. I could spend the rest of my life there, live and die there, and not have any regrets.

Traveling is always more fulfilling and healthy if you know where home is. My roots have been sinking in to the city of Resurgence. But here I am on my way again, headed to another land. On Monday I’ll be touring around Upper Westside at Union Theological Seminary, the seminary of Columbia University. This could be my abode come September, taking classes on theology and culture.

Can I leave Atlanta, where too few people understand rootedness? Isn’t it true that Atlanta will be the same when I come back? I will be the one who’s changed. I don’t know if I want to let go of all the people I love, all of my places I stroll.

I guess I don’t have to answer these questions now. Let me enjoy my weekend retreat, my time with family amidst this great place, this cultural mecca of American society. We can tell stories, share in meals and remember our connectedness. Today I will leave my future behind me and enjoy the present. And when I return, the future will find its way in me once again.

The way the world goes:
Others taking control,
stashing off loads of information,
constant internalling,
creating barbed-wire fences
against our own knowledge.

We are reminded today
that people and interfaces
impose what holidays we celebrate,
what colors we wear
just by their subtleties.

I forfeit my choice,
my reason
for a saintly mindset
to drink a pint
and share a laugh,
because I want
authentic attitudes.

The line grows grey
and even today green
with confusion
like the Savannah river front.

Instead,
I reflect on friends
and loved ones
who are worth
every raised glass,
without someone
telling me
I have to listen.

For I need not
some morning reminder
to know who I love,
who I celebrate.
It just is.

Just the other day it struck me: Life is delicate. And I don’t just mean you could die at any moment, hit by a car sort of thing. No, I was thinking about people and love, circumstances and creation. I was thinking about my brother calling me on the phone and just wanting to share about some fishing trip down in Florida. Sometimes there’s more behind a phone call. I was thinking about lunch with a new friend on his porch just the other day. Simple.  It’s like the seeds we’re all softly setting in the dirt come this time of year.

Isn’t life delicate? People are so real, and often faced with the day to day grind, pent up and full of emotion on the inside. We’re all driving to and from work, or school, in and out of meetings, forgetting how delicate everyone else is.

I remember one night in particular. My buddy Chris and I were sitting at the light at 10th waiting to get on the interstate. And I looked over at the car next to me, only to see this young woman weeping, tears clearly falling from her eyes. My heart broke in that moment, and I wanted to reach out and touch her. The light turned green.

Yesterday evening our power went out at the house. It lasted from approximately 7 to 11PM. We were tempted to say, “Of course it would happen to us.” See, nobody else’s power went out. This was strange. We lit some candles, put on some hot water for tea and just waited.

Eventually in the evening, after trying to get a hold of our landlord, we decided to call Georgia Power. It was an automated service, but the woman actually attempted emotional responses. This was not only making me laugh, but it was sort of mind boggling. She tried to respond appropriately and effectively by helping my situation; checking numbers and offering solutions.

But what caught me most of all was our ending,

“You can just hang up the phone,” she said.

“Or say, goodbye.”

A real human being eventually showed up and diagnosed the problems. Our power returned shortly thereafter.