My heart hurts.

 

Comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.

I think it’s time to talk about Oklahoma City.

I’ve been thinking about doing this for a while. This weekend, I stopped by my favorite city to tell it hi, briefly, which is the only time I see it now.

 

Oklahoma City is my favorite place in the world.

 

In this post, I’m going to tell you why. I’m probably going to cry, which is all right.

 

Sometimes tears are good.

 

--

I took my first newspaper class in high school in 1999, when I was a freshman.

 

To say that I struggled in college is an understatement. College for me was 2003-2008, and in that time, I went to three schools. I don’t even know how many crappy minimum wage jobs I worked.

 

I was a punk in college. I knew that journalism was what I wanted to do, and I didn’t understand why I had to work jobs I didn’t want to work and why I had to take classes I didn’t want to take to do journalism full-time.

 

I get it now. I get that you have to work for what you want, and I understand that you have to go through bad times to get to the good stuff.

 

Back then, 2003 to 2007 Monica was a punk. College was the first time that I failed, and I didn’t know how to be a failure. It was completely new to me, someone who graduated high school with a 3.7 GPA and took honors and AP classes.

 

College sucked.

 

In the summer of 2007, that all changed. I applied for an internship in the biggest, most badass city that I’d ever visited, and I got that job.

 

I moved to Oklahoma City by myself, to start an internship at the newspaper, The Oklahoman. I got lost trying to find my apartment complex. Everything I owned fit into the back of my car.

 

When I finally did find my apartment, and moved my stuff in, I was too scared to venture outside to a grocery store or a fast-food restaurant for food. The big city was too intimidating to me.

 

I stood in my new apartment that night, alone and hungry, and if I remember right, I cried.

 

Welcome to the real world, 2007 Monica.

 

I was terrified.

 

--

 

The only thing I remember about that first day is how much we walked. They took us everywhere, all over the huge building (I worked on the seventh floor), and they a photo of the interns, all dressed up.

 

I still have that photo.

 

--

I remember meeting each intern and asking where they lived and where they went to school. There were some impressive hometowns: Oklahoma City, Dallas and Chicago, to name a few.

 

The schools were even more impressive: The University of Oklahoma, Texas, Missouri.

 

And then there’s little me, from a no-name town who went to a no-name school. Also, did I mention that I went to three schools in five years?

 

Oklahoma City was the first time that I was surrounded by people who had the same passion as me. It was the first time that I got paid for what I loved to do.

 

It was the first time that I realized that I struggled in college for a reason, and that this would be the start of the rest of my life.

 

Oklahoma City was the first time I realized that I could do what I loved for a living. It was the first time that I realized that I could have a career, instead of just a mundane job that I hated.

 

--

 

I remember a lot of things about that summer. And there’s probably a few alcohol induced things that I don’t remember, too.

 

2007 Monica liked to party.

 

I remember feeling so fancy when we went to the downtown bars on the Fourth of July. I remember looking up at the stars that night, and thinking, ‘Damn, this is what happy feels like.’

 

I remember wearing heels to work. I got my heel caught in the elevator and tripped in front of everyone I was trying to impress.

 

Another intern tripped and spilled an entire glass of whiskey later that night, and I remember no one made fun of me after that.

 

At least I didn’t waste whiskey when I fell on my face.

 

Mostly, I remember realizing that all the other interns were just as scared as I was that entire summer.

 

When someone bought donuts on the floor above us, my intern buddy and I talked about going up and getting some for breakfast.

 

We didn’t. We were too scared to.

 

Now that I’m nice and old, I can spot an intern a mile away. I recognize the fear behind their eyes, and I sympathize with that.

 

I understand that.

 

I think it’s hilarious.

 

--

 

I mostly wrote weather stories that summer. I did cover some other things, though. I wrote about an execution. A story about local food. But mostly, just weather.

 

I remember getting my first (and only) page one. I still have it, and I need to get a frame for it.

 

Also, when I die, no one is going to want a newspaper from 2007 with my byline on the front page. Please, whoever oversees my arrangements, just bury me with it.

 

Anyway, I remember I had my story in pieces on my computer screen. Quotes here and there, some notes, sure, but it was not finished and polished yet.

 

My editor came up behind me, read my screen, and then asked me to send him what I had. I wanted time to finish it, but he wanted it immediately.

 

I sent it, and then went over to his desk.

 

I watched as he edited my words. I remember looking at his fingers, and then at his screen, and then back at his fingers.

 

I remember thinking, holy shit. This man’s got magic in his fingers.

 

That was the first time that I realized that all writing is better when it’s edited. I used to think I’d make it as a writer when my work didn’t need an editor.

 

I was wrong.

 

Writers always need editors.

 

--

 

I associate Oklahoma City with the love that I felt there.

 

Oklahoma City is like a long-lost friend that you haven’t seen in a while. That city is like greeting a loved one at the airport and hugging them so hard you never want to let go.

 

Oklahoma City was my first love.

--

 

I remember going to a kickball game that the full-time reporters played on. Interns were not allowed to be on the team, but we went to watch. (I’m pretty sure we just wanted to suck up to get a bar invite after.)

 

I told one of the reporters that the other interns went to bigger schools than me. I fessed up to her that I was on my third school and was going to be a ‘super senior’ come graduation time.

 

Her response: No one cares. Your past doesn’t matter now that you’re here. The only thing that matters is your future.

 

--

Oklahoma City was everything that I ever wanted. It was the biggest city that I’d ever visited or lived in. To 2007 Monica, it was the fanciest place that I’d ever seen.

 

I’ve since grown up and have visited some other cool cities. Namely, New Orleans, Nashville, Denver and Washington D.C.

 

But there’s something about the feeling that I get when I pass through OKC.

 

I went back over the weekend to visit, briefly. After spending some time in Tulsa, I paid the dumb $5 fee (cash or check only, no debit or credit, because Oklahoma is Oklahoma) to drive over to OKC, and I stopped at the Memorial.

 

I bought an Oklahoman along the way.

 

I grew up going to Oklahoma City. It’s as much a part of me as Kansas is a part of me.

 

When the bombing happened, I clipped out newspaper stories and kept them. I read them over and over.

 

I grew up to work around those reporters whose bylines I used to read when I was little.

 

I love that city more than I love anything else in my life. That city gave me confidence, friends, and a sense of belonging that until then, I’d not felt before.

 

It also gave me a lot of alcohol and Guitar Hero, too.

 

I wasn’t myself in college because I didn’t fit in anywhere. In Oklahoma City, I found myself. I drank rum, played Guitar Hero, found friends I loved like family and learned that strong people lift each other up, not tear each other down.

 

It was an incredible two months.

 

--

 

When I lived in OKC that summer, I always went to the Memorial at night. When the security guard approached me, he told me that nighttime was his favorite time to be there, too.

 

I would explain the Memorial, but many of you have probably already seen it. If you haven’t, you can Google the particulars.

 

On Sunday morning, I went and spent about an hour there on my way back to Kansas.

 

I picked up a wrapper from the water and put it in my pocket. I touched the water, the gates, and the back of one of the chairs.

 

I wondered why I was touching everything a few days ago, but it felt right, so I kept doing it.

 

Now I know why­. My love language is touch. I can’t do much to heal anyone’s pain, but I can offer a loving touch during my time there.

 

I looked at the chair that I touched, took note of the name, and said a little prayer.

 

Comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity is what the Memorial offers its visitors. Those words are etched on the gates.

 

The bombing happened in 1995, when I was nine years old. The Memorial was finished in 2000 when I was in high school. We went to the site when I was little, when there was just a chain link fence around it.

 

Little did I know back then that Oklahoma City would offer me just what the Memorial promises to visitors: Comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.

 

Oklahoma City was the first time I felt like I belonged somewhere. It felt like I was meant to be there, and that I had earned my spot at the table.

 

I love you, Oklahoma City.

 

I always have and I always will.

Irritated, but not worried.

I think my favorite part of this weekend is always going to be this: Dad and daughter are walking down the street in the Power & Light District in Kansas City. 

There’s snow and ice on the ground, and they’ve just witnessed one of the greatest concerts ever (I’m biased, though).

To top off that feeling, a few paramedics walk by, wheeling a guy on a gurney who’s obviously had too much to drink.

I asked my Dad if he thought the guy was alive.

My Dad’s response: Look at the paramedics and the expression on their faces. They look irritated, but not worried. 

That means the guy is alive, but just drunk and passed out, my Dad said. Like, passed out cold, not moving an inch.

Dead drunk.

Damn, dude. You did not plan your drinking out well. 

When my Dad and I were recapping our trip, I declared the drunk guy getting escorted to an ambulance after the show as my favorite part.

I’ve never seen that before at a show.

Also, I hope he’s okay. I thought about him today, and that huge ER bill he’s going to get for getting drunk.

That’s a bad day.

—

This weekend I attended my 14th and 15th Eric Church concerts, and I can honestly say it’s the first time the scene above has played out in front of me.

Kansas City likes to party. 

My Denver and Colorado loving soul hates this, but now that I live near Kansas City (kind of), it’s time that I need to start…embracing it. 

Tolerating it.

Liking it.

Maybe?

Kansas City gave me one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to. It gave me time with my Dad, which is muy bueno.

My Dad has never been to Church. At one point, he told me that he would never go with me, because he “likes rock, not country.”

Well, Dad, I have a secret to tell you.

After the show, my Dad and I talked in Power & Light.

That’s not country, my Dad said. What is that? What do you call that? Rock?

Also, from my Dad: “No wonder he doesn’t win any awards. He doesn’t fit in anywhere.”

🤣

One more Dad comment: He liked two songs that had screaming guitars. Dueling guitars. 

Me: That’s literally every song. 🤷‍♀️

Last week, part three

I had the best week ever last week, and I’m writing this down because I don’t want to forget it.

I found myself sitting in a room with some pretty big names at a workshop last week in Wichita.

I grew up reading The Wichita Eagle. I knew when I was little that I wanted to be a newspaper reporter when I grew up. I looked up to the reporters at The Eagle, and I read their stories and their blogs.

I made some right decisions in my life, as it turns out. I was a newspaper reporter for 3.5 years after college, which was 11 years ago. I still freelance sometimes, and last week I was invited to a journalism workshop in Wichita.

In the blink of an eye, I went from being a lost college student wondering if I’d ever graduate to being in the same room as Pulitzer Prize nominated journalists.

I am not going to say that I am their equal, because I am not worthy of that distinction. I’m not even sure I’m worthy of being in the same building as them, but for one day, we all attended the same workshop and talked journalism.

I do not deserve to be sitting at that table, but I will damn sure try to keep up with them. 

When I mentioned that I interned in Oklahoma City, they knew some of the reporters I worked with. 

The world is a lot smaller than you think it is.

The imposter syndrome is real, guys. I don’t even know how this situation happened, but while it was happening, I made sure to look around at all of the knowledge and wisdom around me and appreciate the hell out of it.

Also, I know this is weird, but I’m going to say it anyway. I wish there was a way to capture all of their knowledge— suck it out of their head, if you will— and just let it live on forever and ever.

Amen.

These people are incredible. That day was the first day that I realized that I was sitting in the same room as my heroes. I will never forget it. 

The point is the poetry.

Part of my last post described what a great week I had last week.

I want to expand on that a bit.

I went to a poetry slam in nearby big city. I looked it up online, and I read over the rules pretty good. Attending a poetry slam is something that I’ve always wanted to do.

I got there early, and I felt pretty confident that I was going to read. I introverted for a little bit in a really cute coffee shop, and I got to know the space around me.

The energy was there, my confidence was commendable, and I decided to go for it. 

The guy beside me: You know you’re going to give us money to judge you, right?

Yes, sir. I am aware of that. 

Let’s roll.

I went last in the first round, and I realized pretty quickly that I had to change my tactics. I saved my best poem for last, and I had to whip that one out first. Everyone else’s work smoked me.

My best work is someone else’s worst? Are you kidding me? 

I can’t even begin to explain how beautiful that two hours of my life was. 

I feel like I saw color for the first time after living my life in black and white.

My first poem kept up with the big city kids. It got an 8.5 out of 10. 

(They score you in front of you, which isn’t intimidating at all. 🤷‍♀️)

But I’m not sure if I’m worthy of that score. Sigh.

Guys, I want to learn how to do that. I don’t even know how to explain the magic that I felt in the room that night. 

My life made sense and my life was perfect.

I’m going to learn how to do that - how to share the worst parts of life in a way that’s so beautiful and melodic, you just want to approach the poet after and cry with them and hug them and tell them that everything is going to be okay. 

I’m going to learn how to be vulnerable. 

I’m not exaggerating when I say that I laughed and then cried. I cheered, clapped, snapped and said whatever was on my mind.

It was the happiest two hours of my life. It was the most beautiful writing that I’ve ever heard read out loud.

Like the moderator said: The point is the poetry. 

And that poetry was beautiful.

I wanna dance with somebody.

I’ve had the best week ever.

I’m going to start off with last night, when I went to a concert in my hometown with my bff.

I wasn’t a huge Chris Janson fan before, but I am now. When I bought those concert tickets three days ago, I really just wanted to go to a concert with my bestie. 😎

So Chris comes on stage, a man who literally has 0 percent body fat, and my bestie’s response, a few beers in at that point: “Look at that thigh gap. He’s obviously never pushed out two children.”

😆

It was a perfect night. Ray Fulcher was excellent, and we got to hear Shane Profitt, who has ONE song on Spotify.

I love finding new people. 😍

And, the night was kind of weird. Chris Janson rocked a Whitney Houston song, which I never imagined working in my head, but it totally did.

It was so great. 

And we got Piano Man and some Journey, along with some Lynyrd Skynyrd.

From Chris Janson? 

Let’s not even count the number of times Eric Church was mentioned - not by me, but by Chris and Ray. 

Okay, by me, too.

It was a great night. 

Other highlights: 

- Chris Janson moo’ed at us. Kansas, cows. I get it. I’ve never been moo’ed at a concert. 🤣

- My bff: “His wife is so lucky.” 

- Oh, I want to dance with somebody. 💃 With somebody who loves me!

- I sang that Whitney Houston song like I was Joanna Cotten, guys. I nailed it. 😉

- As per tradition, my parents and I went and found the tour bus before the show, and I bought a shirt afterwards. It’s my tradition, and it will live on. 

- My BFF and I, along with other friends, went to a Chris Cagle concert in high school. We were in the front row. According to BFF, one of the guitar players wasn’t wearing shoes, and I was really bothered by the fact that he was barefoot. I remember that concert, and I even wrote about it in my journal. I do not remember the barefoot guitar player, though.

That’s what friends are for - to remember the stupid stuff you did 20 years ago. 👍

It was a lovely dream.

Love

Dreams

Cozy sleeps

Red like his wine

And the cherry in my drink

It was a lovely dream

Gold

Like the ring I wanted

but never got

Summer

Drunk music

Loud as we could get it

A flask in the neighbor’s yard

Laughter

Breakfasts

Road trips

Meeting his family

Him meeting mine

Blue

Like his eyes

In the summer skies

Brown

Like my knee high boots

He asked me to wear

Like coffee on my bedside table in the morning

And his couch

A pile of clothes on the floor

And I still want more

Football games on bar TVs

Rooting for purple, not orange

Kisses

Tongues and touches

Passion

Holding hands

And each other

Gentle touches

Cute clutches

Fall

Orange, red and yellow everywhere

A city starry night sky

Music downtown

Long walks, art, museums

Taking Ubers around town

Leaves on the ground

And then I was down

It was good while it was good, and then it wasn’t

It was alive

Until it wasn’t

White

Like his sheets

And the snow

And his lies

And all the times I tried

It felt like love

But it wasn’t

Could have spent forever with him

But won’t

Not love

Not passion

Not red or gold

Or purple or white or yellow

Black, like

Loneliness

Unfaithfulness

Unreturned messages

Love unappreciated and 

Unhindered

Staring at a wall

Wondering if he’ll call

or care at all

Or fall 

back in love

or lust

or whatever that was

Thinking about how fast time is moving

Without him

Missing him

Lies

Deceit 

Cold feet

Rejection

No affection

Sleeping on his pillow

It smells like him and he’s not here

Colors everywhere

All around me, yet all l I see is 

Grey

Cold and brokenness

Snow everywhere

Mud and muck

Gave him my all, gave him my best

How does love go from happy one day

to dead the next?

Goober

The world’s best 6-year-old, my little niece C, made me a bracelet last week.

She told me that she put two colors of each bead on the bracelet.

I was at work, glancing down at my wrist, when I noticed that there are three green beads. 

Surely she made a mistake, right? 

C’s favorite color is green. That little adorable goober put an extra green bead on my bracelet on purpose.

She’s brilliant, just like her aunt.