Bio

Born in Northern California in the late 70s, I relocated with my mother and stepfather to Southeast Michigan and grew up in a small town just south of Ann Arbor named Milan, famous for its federal prison and local dragway races. Growing up, I was mortified to be trapped in such a small town, knowing everyone on every corner, and have only recently grown to appreciate that sense of community.

I was originally destined to be a musician – a vocalist, actually. My mother, a choir director, had me singing in front of a church congregation by age five, and I continued my music studies through elementary and junior high, with a spot on an international choir that toured Europe, music camp, a small part in an all-school musical, and placements in local and regional choirs.

High school was entertaining, as most people will tell you. I continued to pursue music, and developed an interest in photography, writing, and editing. At my junior year of high school, I joined a small vocal ensemble to compete and audition for a regional choir. Once we were awarded a spot in regionals, it was expected that we would compete for placement in the state choir. Upon hearing that I was happy with just the regional accomplishment, and not interested in pursuing the state level, my choir teacher told me I would never succeed in music, and I took him at his word.

Though I applied to a number of colleges, I chose Western Michigan University, funny enough, for their music program. I figured if I ever changed my mind about music, at least I wouldn’t have to go far. I originally decided on a Public Relations major within the Communications department, but during my junior year, while studying abroad in Australia, I enrolled in a Public Relations course and found myself quite dismayed by the course outline. I left the class, rescheduled for a graphic design course, and never went back. When I arrived back in Kalamazoo after my study abroad, I changed my degree from Public Relations to a more general Communications Studies major and a Graphic Arts minor. When visiting my old, crotchety graduation advisor during my senior year, he told me he expected to see me back in a few years since I “wouldn’t be able to get a job with this degree.” I told him I’d be back when I was more successful than he was.

Grief, Part 1

My mother, bless her heart, always tells me to “drop to my knees and pray” when I’m upset or angry. She believes in the power of God, a mysterious invisible character we’re taught to believe leads us through life, placing obstacles in our path and guiding us through the good and bad times of every day.

I had a solid belief in God. A proud member of the United Church of Christ since my earliest of years, I spent many Sundays (and choir-rehearsal Wednesdays) at our local church. My mother, the congregation choir director, was a prominent figure in our church, friendly with even the cursed of congregation members. As a young child, I grew up in our church, babysat by awkward teens who would develop into mothers of their own, bouncing from surrogate grandparent to surrogate grandparent at each sermon. The church became a second home, a source of comfort for me.

I continued my faith throughout my school years, faithfully arriving each Saturday morning for two years in order to fulfill my confirmation duties. My classmates, an assortment of misfits from local schools, joked and snickered when we practiced for our formal confirmation ceremony at the closing of the confirmation studies. Our wine “glasses”, they teased, would work perfectly for shots of alcohol after confirmation. I gathered we weren’t the first to figure this out.