DYSFUNCTIONAL

I LOVE YOU, MOM

cgeist07 — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 00:29:58 +0000

In the streets of every city, there is struggle and hunger. People will fight, and hate. Others will get abandoned, and a few will live in ambivalence. That’s 1971. That’s war.

New York wasn’t safe, and neither was I.

Thank you for never giving up. You radiate Strength in every moment you live, even when you are at your weakest. You are my inspiration and my raison de vivre.

Your world may stop spinning, but the planet continues to orbit.

The New York Sky Line

cgeist07 — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 01:19:16 +0000

“Mom, are we every going back home?”

“Oh, Roger. You know this is our new home.”

“But, what about our old home?”

“Baby, you know we can’t go back. Mom doesn’t have enough money right now to afford our old home. This is our new home now.”

“Why did Dad do this to us? Why did he leave?”

“Your dad was sick, baby. He didn’t know if he could ever get better.”

“Is he homeless?”

“No, baby. I’m sure he’s fine wherever he is. You know God always protects.”

“Then why didn’t he protect us?”

“He is protecting us, every day. We just have to overcome this obstacle in order to be happier in the end. Now go to sleep. You have to wake up early for school tomorrow.”

Jennifer kissed her son, as he held her tightly.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

The truth is, Jennifer didn’t really know where her husband was. She had not heard from him in four years. Sometimes she would cry, but never in front of Georgina and Roger—not even when they were home.

She was holding strong for the children.

She’d walk through the streets of New York, and look at all the beautiful and horrible things—fancy hotels, luxurious Ives St Laurent Nehru jackets and then the beggars on the streets, and the articles on the newsstands. Tears would cascade down her face, and onto the ground. It felt so good to feel and more-so to express.

She was crying for New York.

Life isn’t easy

cgeist07 — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 01:14:16 +0000

Life isn’t easy. Never expect it to be, that’s the lesson I’ve learned. A lot of things have changed and disappeared, like the ring on my finger and my economical status. War seems to change many things.

Five years ago, I was living in an apartment in Greenwich, now I’m living in a loft with my two children. I have to work all day, whether at my job or at home. I tuck my kids into bed at night, and read The New York Times. New York isn’t the same it used to be, and neither am I.

War changes things, like the war between my husband and I or the war at Vietnam. It kills, scars, and destroys. Soldiers come back damaged, physically and emotionally. Mothers cry because their children don’t come back. It’s not safe, yet it is done for the sake of safety.

I kept my guard up, and I fought so hard. Even then, I submitted. I will forever be broken, damaged. So many things have changed. I am bare.

What good can come out of war?

I Love NY

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:49:00 +0000

No war is greater than that which destroys its creator, and divides us from ourselves. That’s war. War will destroy mankind. It will destroy a city, a nation, a people.

“I have been advised by the comptroller that the City of New York has insufficient cash on hand to meet debt obligations due today. This constitutes the default that we have struggled to avoid.”

Mayor Abraham Beam, 1975

“Each man reads his own meaning into New York.”

Meyer Berger

I Want All Of Them

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:44:54 +0000

It’s interesting to see how far women have come. Protesting for their rights, putting time and effort into their careers, being self-sustaining women—it’s incredible. I question if I have that capacity, even the potential.

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

I just want to be a good mother, and provide for my children. I work two jobs, as a waitress at the Deli on 32^nd and a part-time maid at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. There is nothing more elegant than the Waldorf-Astoria, rich in every detail. It’s a playground of marble and gold, with exquisite fabrics and fur. Ironic to think that outside of the hotel there is poverty and decay. The people are withering and New York is suffering, like those mothers receiving news of their dead sons lying on the jungles of Vietnam. It’s sad. Life is sad, yet the planet continues to orbit.

News

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:41:51 +0000

“During the 1970′s the United States underwent some profound changes. First a Vice President and then a President resigned under threat of impeachment. The Vietnam War continued to divide the country even after the Paris Peace Accords in January 1973 put an end to U.S. military participation in the war. Roe Vs. Wade legalized abortion. Crime increased despite Nixon’s pledge to make law and order a top priority of his president. Increased immigration followed passage of the Immigration Act of 1965, which reformed an earlier policy that favored western Europeans. People from Third World countries came to this country in search of economic betterment or to escape political repression. Women, minorities, and gays increasingly demanded full legal equality and privileges in society. Women expanded their involvement in politics. The proportion of women in state legislatures tripled.”

American Culture History, Charles Gillis

War

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:38:11 +0000

Start

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:33:33 +0000

It was December 12, 1970 when we packed our bags and left.

Leaving behind the apartment wasn’t easy. Memories were made, and now stood confined within those walls.

I’m sorry, my babies.

Walking into the loft, I knew it wasn’t home. The walls were bare, the floors rustic and concrete. The entire loft was filled will darkness, as if the windows let in black light. My first instinct was to paint, but it didn’t seem right. This wasn’t home, and there was no use in modeling it after what home was like. We had to start fresh, paint with colors of the future, not of the past.

Tired from the move in, I got the latest copy of the New York Times along with my favorite novel at the time, Love Story by Erich Segal, and took Georgina and Roger to Central Park. It was the first time I saw my kids laugh in months. Their smiles were not restricted to just their face; it filled their entire bodies with warmth. We had a great day. New York struggled and feared, but continued to live.

Dark Light

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:22:34 +0000

“Can you love me?”

“I can love you.”

“Will you love me?”

“Will you love yourself?”

The most powerful and destructive war is the one found within us all—the one that lies in the innermost creeks of our hearts and minds. No war is greater than that which destroys its creator. It divides us from ourselves. That’s war.

Jennifer never imagined war in her home. She never imagined poverty, hatred, destruction, and struggle nesting within the walls that kept her and her family safe. Wasn’t she safe?

It’s night and day—when truth is uncovered at a moment when it is least imaginable.

Wasn’t New York safe?

Memory

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:19:34 +0000

A young girl, age fourteen, neglected her identity, continued to live in fear, and walked by each second without conscientious purpose. She was told she was different, but she was created by a male and female, from a sperm and an egg, like every other being in the world. She did not care about purpose or knowing who she was, the girl only hoped to make it through each day. Her life was destined by her past; by her father’s past.

Father. He loved escaping the mundanity of reality, discovering a feeling so surreal from something he could access so easily. He loved escapades. He could not take control of his desire, and subsequently failed at being a husband, a son, a brother, a friend, but most significantly, he failed at being a father.

The girl was afraid of becoming the person he was, and she feared his overpowering addiction’s effect in her own life. She looked at her reflection in the mirror with an inexplicable sense of aversion. She saw the same large hazel eyes, curly dark hair, fair skin, and distinct nose. It was her father and everything he represented. Fear became an imperceptible force, and she believed to have no identity of her own.

She was I, Caroline Geist-Benitez

Georgina, must you live in fear?

Mirror, Mirror on the wall…

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:15:09 +0000

Think. Persevere.

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:10:22 +0000

A Changing World

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:06:27 +0000

“But Mom…I want that new outfit Sally Hagen’s mom got her! I’m sick of wearing the same blue jeans, they don’t even have rhinestones!”

“Georgina, you know I can’t afford ‘hot pants’ right now, and certainly no platform shoes from Biba. Maybe we can go over to 25th and buy some fabric next week.”

“I don’t want to make my own, Mom. I always make my own. Why can’t I just buy it like everyone else?”

“You know the answer to that question.”

“You are so selfish! Why did you ever marry some low-life like that, Mom? Why couldn’t I have had a real dad like Sally’s?”

“Don’t say things like that, Georgina.”

“No, Mom. I am going to say it. It’s not like I don’t think about it every day. Look at how it is, Mom? We moved out of our apartment because we couldn’t afford it, now we’re living in a loft. We can’t buy new clothes because you don’t have enough money. You spend your life walking through the city, reading the newspaper, working at two different places. What happened?”

“It isn’t easy, Georgina!”

“I hate him.”

Georgina ran past the front door, and slammed it shut. Jennifer couldn’t believe what her daughter had said, and stood stilly in front of a white, crisp wall with a golden mirror. Breathe in cool air, let out warm breath—she was exhausted. Her daughter was right.

What happened?

Out the Window

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:02:20 +0000

“Anyone can give up. It’s the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone else would understand if you fell apart, that’s true strength.”

Unknown Author

New York and I

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 21:59:16 +0000

New York struggled. Some days I would put on my gray jogging suit and leave the apartment to go for a stroll in the city. News of crime, drugs, violence, riots filled the stands of every newsvendor. Bankruptcy and poverty didn’t fall short, either.

Think of all the

Good times we had

A junkie steals, a mayor deals

Who knows what’s coming next

Traffic jams and greedy hands

Did you read it in the text

Of the daily news

The subway blues

How does your garden grow

And the strikes and the likes

All lined up in a row

Something is wrong here

It doesn’t belong here

People are locking themselves

Behind their own four walls

American City Suite, Cashman & West

New York feels my pain, and I feel hers. We are one.

Some days, I walk down the streets of New York from the West Village to Lexington, and think about him. Hurried people walk past me, homeless men beg on the streets, children chase each other, and everyone seems to have somewhere to go. What would life have been like if he stayed? Would we have been a family or would we have fallen apart?

“I thought we could run into each other, I thought we could have a beautiful reunion…it didn’t work.”

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Foer

Kiss

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 21:55:05 +0000

“Mom, I feel sick. I can’t go to school.”

“Roger, you’re not sick. I know you don’t want to go to school, but it’s time that you went back. There are a million and one things that will bring you down, but you need to pick yourself up and move forward.”

“But Mom…”

“I told you, baby, you’re going to school. Give me a kiss.”

Jennifer held her son close as he kissed her gently on the cheek. She wiped the tears off his eyes with a tissue, and watched little Roger carry his oversized, red backpack as he went through the doors of his school. She knew how much her son and daughter were struggling without their father. She saw it in their eyes. They used to be alive, illuminating with a vibrant blue hue. Their eyes were filled with the ocean and the sky, but now they were gray and lifeless. It was only when they cried that the ocean and the sky collided and became alive.

Cry, little children. Cry.

Remembering

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 21:52:04 +0000

“I’m sorry. I just don’t know if I can give you what you want, anymore.”

It was fall of 1969. With those words he picked up his suitcase, and walked away. I don’t know where he slept that night, or any of the nights after that. I don’t know if he ever passes by our apartment, or if he thinks about what he left behind. I don’t know if he dreams, or if he prays that maybe one day he will heal and the world will continue living as it was when everything was perfect. Or so it seemed.

I don’t know him anymore.

“I love you.”

I can’t help but look back and think about everything. Sometimes I feel like I think too much. Is there even such a thing?

It’s hard to explain, but sometimes the world is rotating, moving in existence, orbiting around me.

What good can come out of war?

Around, Around

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 21:47:57 +0000

Painting & Submitting

cgeist07 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 21:44:34 +0000

I sat staring at the blank wall; the one I stared at everyday since the age of three. Her smooth, cold surface stretched across the rectangular room, forming three other walls like her. The others were committed to art, glass, doors and wood, but this one was not. She held no commitment, only to herself.

She was single. She was strong. She was bare.

The white paint winked at the sun’s rays passing through the glass of the windows. The smell of morning was confined within the four walls, and the sunlight bounced off each angle. The wall stood alone, soaking each ray of sunlight, forming a shiny coat of reflection.

I looked at the blank wall straight in her eyes, challenged it to commit to me. I wanted her, but I needed my expression—a simple blemish in her perfect complexion to call mine. Her delicately hard surface, white and pure, wanted to be touched.

She did not put up a fight. She did not make a sound. She stood ready.

The rough bristles lightly caressed her surface, each strand marking its territory. A stroke of bright red smirked at the sunlight and she stood quietly in her defeat, long and white, showcasing her red mark.

She was single. She was strong. She was no longer bare.

Conquer, Caroline Geist-Benitez

Blog Post-Emblem

cgeist07 — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 04:45:54 +0000

Anecdote:

Growing up, I always felt very self-conscious about my nose. It was an awkward, long, round, Jewish nose. I felt there was nothing attractive about it. Given that I have attended Catholic private school since the age of six, I was often teased about looking Jewish when I was younger. My nose, in particular, was the object of ridicule and I hated it. Even worse I hated the person whom I had inherited it from: my biological father.

The mirror was my enemy. I hated myself a little more every time I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I stopped seeing Caroline, and I began to see my father. He was the person I thought to hate most; but as time went by, I started hating myself the most. I was my own enemy, and the mirror was a symbol of that because in the mirror I saw myself. I began to lose my identity; and instead I turned into him. It was like I wasn’t myself anymore. I had become him.

My parents would see me cry. They knew how ugly I felt, and decided to pay for a nose job when I was fifteen. I was ready for it. Like them, I thought I hated myself because of my imperfect, asymmetrical nose. But the problem was more than that. I hated him, and for that I hated myself. I was forever going to carry his blood, and carry his genes. I was to look like him for the rest of my life, and my nose represented that.

My father died when I was thirteen. I kept my feelings inside of me that day. I did not let anyone see me cry. When I came back home, I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were watery, my skin was blotchy, and my nose was red and swollen. I hated myself. I was so incredibly ugly. Even worse than being ugly, I was a replica of my father.

I took the mirror down from the wall. My body had been taken control by my rage. I grabbed the mirror, swung my arms, and threw it to the ground. It shattered into a million little pieces, spread throughout the floor of my room. The wall stood bare.

Career Resonance:

I am a Public Relations major, minoring in business. I want to work in the field of Broadcast Journalism, as well as publishing, given that my interests include news and writing. Different experiences have led me to this career path, specifically the hardships I have encountered—among them my self-consciousness during my childhood, and the struggles I underwent due to an absent father. These problems are common, and sometimes undermined. I want to write about them, and write about people who struggle as much or more than what I have struggled. This career will allow me to reach out to many people, and inform them of the different issues that are occurring today.