This next week will mark the end of a crucial era: I quit my job working at the garment factory and will fully immerse myself in the BYU visual arts department.
My art teacher/ TA boss, Joe Ostraff, said he bow-hunted. When I expressed some surprise, he explained that he felt everyone who eats meat should be capable of killing and gutting animals so they can obtain a full awareness of what they are doing and assume some responsibility for it.
I completely agree with this, although I'd like to add that I feel the same way about manufacturing. I think every consumer should work in a manufacturing plant for just one day to appreciate what it means to be provided with cheap goods. It is back-breaking work, even when the circumstances are regulated and the pay is fair.
And even then, I will miss it.
Not the back-breaking labor-- although it allowed me the opportunity to prove to myself that I am a hard worker-- I will miss the company of my heroic and humble co-workers. The majority of women there are immigrants; strong women who support their families. They never had the opportunity for education because they were busy raising their children. These women are grateful, kind, and sincere despite the monotony if their lives. I will miss their influence.
I also regret leaving behind my reputation. I think more than anyone, these women know that I am tougher than nails and respect me accordingly. They've experienced my grit, endurance, and audacity in both physical and emotional turmoil for over 3 years. They've allowed me to cry on their shoulders and been quick to cheer me on in even my smallest triumphs. In some ways, I feel like I'm starting all over again.
On my plane ride to New York, I left my sketchbook in the seat pocket in front of me. My stomach felt sick when I realized it yesterday. This particular sketchbook contains every journal entry I ever wrote while I was married to the present. It includes every sketch I've ever posted on this blog. I've expressed on more than one occasion that if my house were burning down, I'd grab my sketchbooks and leave. They are a record of everything.
But in considering the loss of this particular sketchbook, maybe I can let it go. I can't think of anything that would would make me immediately more depressed than reading those entries from when I was married. I've only read them twice and they markedly altered my mood for the entire day.
I am a strong advocate of coming to terms with truth and the importance of acknowledging past events, but maybe something beyond my regular state of consciousness wanted me to leave that sketchbook that seat pocket. Maybe I've come to terms enough.
I unwrapped a new sketchbook today. One that I bought a long time ago, but had been saving. It's beautiful with thick, creamy paper and a shiny leather cover.
I can't wait to see what will fill its pages.
Welcome to Hollister, NYC. The muscly man pictured here is one of two models hired to stand outside the opening that wafts regular clouds of stinky perfume into the street. I've tripped over their flip flops as I dodge European-tourist-oglers to reach the door to my building (which is right next door.) 
