Read Online I Don't Want to Be Crazy by Samantha Schutz - Free Book Online

neighborhood is chic,
with high-end clothing stores on my block
like Yves Saint Laurent and Miu Miu.
As Laurence and I walk around the neighborhood
she shows me all the little shops:
the bakery just downstairs,
the cheese shop, the butcher shop.
    It is adorable how each type of food
has its own store.
My body is exhausted from the flight,
but inside I am buzzing.
    Later in the day,
her two sons come home.
Augustin is thirteen and Alexis is sixteen
and I finally understand
what Laurence was trying to tell me about Alexis.
He is handicapped.
He has a prosthetic hand
and a blank look on his face.
    When the boys are not staring at me,
they are talking fast, not enunciating,
and using so much slang that it is useless
to try to understand them.
    I am surprised at how calm I am
while I sit in a room
with complete strangers
speaking a different language
and all I can manage to say is quoi? and oui,
like a parrot with poor vocabulary.
    That night I meet Laurence’s daughter.
Phyllis is only a few years older
than me and she speaks nearly fluent English.
Knowing that she’ll be around
to help me is such a relief.
    Nate and I talked today.
He’s been in Spain since the fall semester.
We talked for a long time
about how being out of our neighborhood
and away from his family has changed him.
He’s opening up
and learning to be himself.
    Nate will only be in Spain for one more week
and all I want to do is go and see him.
If I don’t see him now,
I won’t see him for another five months.
But it’s too soon.
There are too many things happening in Paris
and I’m not even sure he wants me there.
    Rebecca and I
and a few other girls
are shopping near my apartment.
It’s colder now that the sun has set
and I leave them in a café
to go home and get a heavier jacket.
    On my way home
I take a wrong turn and get lost.
I ask people where rue du Cherche-Midi is.
I know I can’t be more than a few blocks away,
but no one knows.
How could no one know where it is?
Is it my accent?
Am I not making any sense?
    I go into a men’s clothing store.
I am nearly in tears.
I say,
very simply
and with my best accent,
that I am lost,
that I am looking for rue du Cherche-Midi.
They put up their hands
and tell me how sorry they are.
    I haven’t managed to memorize
my family’s eight-digit telephone number
so I can’t even call someone to come and get me.
I will not cry on the streets of Paris.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
    I have started to settle into my new routine.
I don’t feel like a tourist.
There is no time.
I am taking classes in French language and culture
and teaching English conversation at a high school.
On Wednesdays I get to be an artist.
I put on ratty jeans and take the metro
to the western edge of the city
for a photography class in the morning
and then go to the eastern edge
for painting in the afternoon.
The metro that connects the two
stays aboveground most of the way
and it is the longest
and most beautiful commute I have ever had.
    I have had very little anxiety and panic
because the fear is real.
I feel dumb
because I cannot express myself in words.
I’ve become mute.
If I stop paying attention for even a second,
I lose all understanding.
    I am so easily frustrated here—
like when I was little
and my dad tried to help me with math.
All I wanted to do was scream,
jump out of my skin
and away from the kitchen table,
but taking photos
and exploring the city by myself
makes me feel human—
makes me feel calm.
My photos let me show other people how I see.
That’s all I ever wanted.
    Painting class is not going well.
I look up at the model,
hold up my paintbrush to get the proportions,
and try to paint her on the page,
but I can’t get my hand to create
what I see in front of me.
My portrait makes this beautiful woman
look orange and lumpy.
    On the metro going home,
all I can think about is
how what I create and what I do
is not good enough.
I turn up my CD player loud
for the first time in a long time.
I could never do