Letter to my brother that I have yet to mail

Dear Biggest Brother --

I'm writing this to remind you that you're a fucking awesome person, and that you are loved. I know you know that. But, I also know that you're like me and you need to hear it.

I know you've got your demons, but hell, who doesn't? I mean, shit, I logged damn near ten miles on the treadmill today, trying to outrun mine. It didn't work, but you know what? That's life, baby. We're all broken and scarred and fucked up in our own ways. The important thing, the thing to remember is: The past shapes who we are in the present, but we constantly evolve. Who I am, who you were ten, twelve, fifteen years ago, that's not who we are today. There's an easy way, always, but the fact that you're taking the good path, and that you're still swinging - brother, that speaks volumes about how good a person you truly are.

I don't know if you believe in past lives or whatever. Don't much care. I know like calls to like, and I've known since the moment I met you that you're the big brother that that shady, conniving bitch Fate tried to screw me out of having. So, sucks to be her, cuz as far as I'm concerned, everything happens for a reason, and the whole reason my big white Yankee ass landed in Austin in the first place wasn't cuz of some stupid chick-flick type misguided romantic bullshit notion of happily ever after. It was so I could finally meet my oversized, Godzilla meets Fezzig meets Stevie Ray Vaughan meets Peter Griffin, Princess Bride quoting, goofy-ass, bacon and twice baked potato loving, most amazingly awesome Biggest Brother. Sure, I did some awesome cooking, and made some pretty cool friends, but when it boils down to nothing, the best thing to happen to me the whole time I was down there was getting my new big brother. So you can bacon on that too.

The whole reason I'm writing all this and telling you all this? Like I said, I lost a brother already. And yeah, it was hard, and yeah, it still fucking hurts every single day. But February 20'th and 21'st are my permanent reminders that life is too fucking fragile and way too goddamned short to go through it without telling the people who mean the most to you just how much you care. And, like I said, I don't give a good goddamn - or a bad one, for that matter - whether we've got the same parents or not. You're just as much a part of my family as Jeni or Travie or Scotty-love or Diddy. And any time you need to talk, I'm here to listen, you know that. So quit apologizing. Cuz, darlin, you know damn well once shit's stable for you and I need to vent and make confession, I'm gonna be calling your big Texas ass. Okay?

You're a good man. You're a wonderful father to Bear, a kick-ass fiance to Natalie, the best big brother I could have ever hoped for, and you have a huge heart full of bacony sunshiney gold. And even though you might have done a few fucked up things back in the day, the fact that you didn't let it desensitize you, the fact that you're still loving and compassionate...well, shit, that makes you a good man too. Like I said, we've all got our demons. We've all got our scars. Yours happen to be worse than most people's, but you're strong, and you're a fighter, and the fact that you're keeping them at bay and providing for your family - that makes you one in a million.

You took the heat for me so many fucking times, deflected so many shitstorms away from me, kept me from toppling over from borderline to completely broken, and it meant - and still means - more than the world to me. And, you know what? If I didn't think you were a good person, I wouldn't have let you anywhere near my boys, because they're my heart and soul. They're the best part of me, walking around in their sturdy little wee-man bodies.

I know it's been hard for you, and that it's probably gonna be hard for a little while longer. But you've gotten this far already. Just keep fighting, brother, keep swinging, and remember that, no matter what, you've got five feet and 110 lbs of scrappy Irish midget up here in Central Michigan (aka Southern Canada to all y'all Texas people) that's got your back, no matter what. 100%, brother. Sending y'all hugs and loves till I can get down there in October to hug ya in person.

miss ya brother,

Megatron

(known in these parts as Little Bit, Shortstop, and Baby Girl)

What I want and what I have

What do I want?

More money, but that's a given. I took a massive paycut when I moved back to Michigan. The money I make is all right, but I should be making more. I shouldn't be working 70 hours a week to get a check equivalent to 38 hours' worth of Austin pay. But, after showing Chef Marc some little things he could do to help promote business better, I think that the money situation will improve soon.

Stability. I haven't had a whole lot of that in my crazy, chaotic life. I still don't have a permanent address, even though I've been back in this state for two months. Again, something I'm working on. A permanent address will help, along with a car (hopefully to be obtained in two and a half weeks with my non-bill paycheck). I already have a steady job, so that's the first step.

More time with my sons. Despite the fact that they only live five miles from me, I only get to see them once a week, due to their school and my work schedule. Hopefully that will also improve once I have a car. We shall see.

A boyfriend who actually acts like a boyfriend. I need someone who will text back, who can understand that I have depression issues, especially in February (anniversary of my brother Scotty's death is on Thursday, and it's already surrounding me in a black funk), who'll put forth just as much effort as I do, who will hold me and make me feel beautiful and safe, and who will be able to deal with the passion and the fire that I have burning inside me, and not just treat me like something to be placed on a shelf and admired from afar, or neglected until it's convenient for him. I need someone I can see more than once a week, who won't always take the passive route or the road of most convenience, who isn't scared to fight for me, and who will have my back because, Darwin knows, if I'm in a relationship with someone and I feel loved, you'd best believe I've got their back. I can't count how many times I got defensive toward my beloved big brother over the guy mentioned in the last post.

A car. Convenience and independence. I hate relying on anyone for anything, and it kills me asking for rides to the store and to and from work. I hate it. I know that "no man is an island," but I'll be damned if I can't be a nifty little peninsula.


What do I have?

I have passion. I have fire. I have determination. I have the vision to see what I'm capable of achieving, and the strength of will to do what it takes. I have the motivation to provide better for myself, to keep plugging away until I've obtained everything I want to achieve. I have a decided talent for cooking and baking, and the eye of an artist when it comes to plating. I have the ability to read a list of ingredients and be able to taste the finished product in my mind. I have a creativity that wasn't stifled with a culinary degree, but instead was nurtured by learning all my skills on the job. I have burns and scars that attest to my years in this industry, and a speed with a knife that backs up the testimony of every brown and white mark on my hands and arms. I have a thick-boned frame covered in muscle from all the gymnastics I have to do as a five-feet-tall woman in a professional kitchen set up for 5'10" men. I have the vocabulary of a well-educated sailor, and a tolerance for comments that would offend most people. I have a bit of a drawl from my year in Texas, and a bit of an Irish lilt that I believe is just genetic memory.

I have a stable residence for now. I have computer and Internet, and there is food in my belly. I have a steady job with coworkers who love me. I have the care and respect of the three chefs I work for. I have hazel eyes I inherited from my mother, broad shoulders from my father, and a crooked smile that is entirely my own. I have a working knowledge of "kitchen Spanish" and a taste in music almost as diverse as my circle of close friends, who can be found all over the country. I have an amazing amount of living I've packed into the last 30 years and 8 months.

I'm doing all right. If I could just kick this loneliness's ass, and maybe get a chance to talk to my Scotty one more time on the phone, just to tell him how much I've achieved in the almost-two years he's been gone, I'd be golden.

Austin

I have a love/hate relationship with Austin, Texas at the moment.

It's crazy how a town you only lived in for a year can affect such a sea change in your life. On one hand, I was totally on my own down there as far as not having the support system that I'd had for the first 29 years of my life in Michigan. As a result, I made a whole new life for myself, a new group of friends and family. I've always been self-reliant, independent to a fault, and two things I've never been in shortage of are passion and determination. I have so much fire raging inside me that it threatens to consume me at times. I fling myself headlong into walls that may never crumble, might not give way before five feet of redhaired Irish fury, but who's to say that they won't? That faint hope that they will is what keeps me going.

Austin is almost like a different planet. You meet someone once, and every time you see them after that it's as though you've known them for years. It's an open town, a friendly town. It forced me to let down my guard, to let people in, to open up, at first a little bit, and then a lot. I spread my wings and started truly soaring. I met my big brother there. I had moments of abject terror, crouched in a walk-in closet, clutching my phone, hiding and sending out an appeal to the universe that I'd be all right. I had moments of such sublime joy that it hurts to think about them. I've packed a lot of living into the past almost-31 years, and so much of it was done in the year I was there.

And now? Now I find myself back in Michigan. I miss Austin. I miss the warm weather, the way I could be alone without being lonely. I miss the friends, the family, the job I left behind. I miss being able to be myself without anyone hissing "freak" at me, or acting like I was some exotic unknown entity. I miss the spirit of love and acceptance that Austin prides itself on maintaining.

And I hate it at the same time. I hate that it stripped me of my ability to be self-sufficient. To need no company, to thrive in solitude and rely on no one but myself to achieve the goals I've set forth. I hate being dependent.

You see, there's a guy. (There's always a guy, isn't there?) There's a guy who made promises to me, cracked into the part of my heart I was so well-versed in protecting that no one had ever gotten in there before. He promised me a happily ever after, all of the things some sentimental part of me had always wanted and been overruled by the go-it-alone fighter part of me, what used to be my dominant nature. And I bought into it hardcore, believed it, tried going with the whole trust other people thing that Austin had convinced me was all right to do.

So here I am. The warmest it's been in two months is 45 degrees. Mostly, it's been cold and snowy. It gets dark early. I have a job, but at a severe paycut. I love most of my coworkers, but I'm working far harder than most of them. I look in the mirror every morning and can see the stress and labor etching into my face. My body protests every time I drag it out of bed, and my hands and forearms are covered with a cross-hatching of burns and scars and stippled with fresh bruises. In an ideal work environment, I have maybe 15 years left of peak performance in my industry. With the way I'm working now, I give it maybe 7 years, tops. I throw myself into it full force, partly because that's what I do. Mostly because I'm trying to distract myself from the fact that every night I come home to a narrow bed in a cold, dark room, to lie awake for hours, doze off, and then wake and do it all over again. To hope to see my kids on my day off, only to be disappointed on even that small request on more than a couple occasions.

I'm trying so hard to get hard again, to get that diamond shell back, the one that lets me shine at what I do without giving a shit what anyone else thinks, to stop seeking approval, to cease with needing affection so badly that I'm slamming headlong into my coworkers just to get a hug. To convince myself that scar tissue is stronger than the original skin, that yet another start-over is an opportunity to do things better, to rip my stupid heart from the sleeve of my hoodie and plant it back in my chest where it belongs, and to never hand it over again.

But I can't. Because in some way, the moment I released all the guards and walls and barriers growing up poor in a rich white town caused me to develop, they vanished and I can't get them back.

Fuck you, Austin, Texas. I miss you so.

An Introduction

I'm starting this new blog tonight. 

The title says "From Michigan to Austin and back again." You may be tempted, upon seeing that, to think that this is a travelogue of some sort. I'm sorry if it disappoints you, but it is not.

I'm a thirty year old, extremely short line cook, raised in the remotest region of northern Michigan, the tiny little splat of a town named Cross Village. I've lived all over this state - Petoskey, Mancelona, Conway, Levering, Topinabee, Mullett Lake, Cheboygan, Pellston, and Indian River. However, in 2011, I moved to Austin, Texas. I returned to Michigan a little over a year later, and find myself residing in Genesee County, best known for the town of Flint. I chose the name of my blog because that year had a profound impact on shaping who I am and what I do.

As I said, I'm a line cook. Food is my passion, my means of supporting myself, and one of the biggest driving factors in my life. I've attempted to hold other jobs, but I was born to work "back of the house." It suits my personality, my lifestyle, and everything about me.

My hands and forearms are covered in burn scars, knife scars, and occasionally bruises sustained in the line of duty. I will never have beautiful hands. I'm okay with that. I swear like a well-educated sailor. At times, I sound like a squeaky version of Gordon Ramsay. I'm also okay with that. I wear my (currently) bright red hair pulled back into two braids for work, and my hat that I wear on the line is a black baseball cap with a skull and crossbones embroidered on the front. I'm far more proficient with my knife than I am with social niceties. I saute far better than I flirt. I'm also okay with that.

My life is generally a controlled state of chaos. I work ridiculous hours, and am paid far less in this state than I was in Texas. I do miss the money. And there are days when I get extremely homesick for Austin. But I'm in Michigan for now, and I will make the most of it. 

When I am on the clock, I am cocky and loud. I will talk just as much smack as the guys do, and I will brag about my skills and ability. I never say anything I can't back up when I'm shit-talking, however. And after having proven that a few times, I'm rarely questioned.

Off the clock, I'm a different story. I have very low self-esteem, and terrible body image. I question the motivation behind any kind gesture aimed toward me. I'm terrible at accepting help, and worse at accepting gifts. I will give you the shirt off my back if I care about you, but if I dislike you, you most likely will not be acknowledged. I hate dressing up, and my favorite type of date night involves cheeseburgers and a few games of pool. 

I have two young sons, Matthew and Jonah. Matthew, my older son, is autistic. My younger son, Jonah, has ADHD. They are both the best and most beautiful creations I ever had a hand in participating. Due to my work schedule and the fact that their father and I are separated (never married), I only get to see them once a week. Those weekly visits are a big part of what keep me going, give me the strength to work 70-80 hours a week, and make me keep pushing myself to be better at what I do daily. They are my heart.

As I said, I'm extremely short - five feet tall exactly. I weigh around 115 lbs, a good portion of that muscle. I have ridiculously small feet, usually clad in socks and bistro-style Crocs, and I tend to prefer blue jeans and tee shirts layered over thermal shirts. I keep my (currently) red hair yanked back into either a bun or two braided pigtails, and the only makeup I ever wear is eyeliner and purple or green eyeshadow. My eyes are hazel and fluctuate in color between chocolate-brown and olive-green. My nose and pinky fingers are crooked, and I have high cheekbones.

This is me, and this is all the insight you'll get into who I am in this post. Believe me, you'll get more later.