Two of Wands

Two of Wands Playlist

In the Rider Waite Colman Smith deck, the Two of Wands depicts a man standing on the roof of a castle-like structure with a wand in one hand, and a globe in the other. A second wand is affixed to the castle beside him. He surveys the landscape— rolling green hills and a snaking river, deciding where to go next. When you receive the Two of Wands in a reading, you may be contemplating some travel of your own. This card suggests that you get out of your comfort zone and see things from a new perspective. 

I’ve always longed for reinvention. When I attended sleep away camp as a kid, I inexplicably told everyone my name was Cricket, and for four summers, I was Cricket to a group of girls in New Hampshire who were never the wiser.

When I was fifteen years old, I spent a month over the summer in an educational language program living with a family in France. The point of the program, ostensibly, was to hone my French speaking skills by immersing myself in a French-speaking family. I imagined smoking cigarettes, drinking wine, eating copious amounts of cheese and baguettes in Paris and haunting the discotecques and cafes where Fitzgerald had once gotten wasted. While I spent a couple of days in Paris with the ten other girls in the program at the beginning of the summer to get acclimated, we were soon moved to a suburb of La Rochelle where almost no one spoke English. I was embedded in a non-English speaking family that included a fifteen and nineteen year old boy. That summer I got a fresh perspective, but less so on the French language. I learned a number of valuable lessons about myself, self-invention, and men. 

Upon arriving, my new French maman offered to take me on a bike ride to show me around town. The bike I was to use belonged to one of her sons and was too large for me, but I was way too much of a people pleaser to say anything. I hadn’t ridden a bicycle in literal years, and despite what people say, it’s not as easy as it looks. I bumbled around on the thing, falling off multiple times, while the family shot me sympathetic and then, increasingly concerned glances. I was not representing America well. The first thing I learned was: I don’t look cool on a bike.

Next, I discovered that fifteen in France is approximately twelve in America. My fifteen year old French frere was my age, but he was awkward around girls and felt like an enfant to me. His older brother, Michael, however, hovered over me from the moment I arrived, eager to introduce me to his friends. Michael had learned some rudimentary English in school, and from watching reruns of Friends, and his understanding of American teen girls seemed to be that we were insatiable sluts. He was very welcoming.

Reading my journal from that time, it's clear that I had slutty aspirations even if my track record was defiantly prude. Historically, I’d been both boy crazy and completely awkward, with a penchant for falling for guys who barely knew I existed. At this point, I had spent a full year at boarding school, and, as I’d done every single school year since Kindergarten, I began the year with a reinvention plan that completely failed. At home in my public school, I was a known entity, a goody-two shoes who told her parents all her secrets. I made friends with a handful of popular girls in eighth grade, and I spent most of my freshman year of high school following them around. These girls referred to the time before I was friends with them as my “dark years,” and I delighted in their desire to make me over as one of them.  The popular boys never caught on to my increasing social value. They tolerated my presence, but I was an invisible hanger-on, a social ghost, certainly not a person worthy of kissing (or whatever else it would take to be an early 2000s slut).

My new friends were far more experienced with the sexual bases, frequently talking about who had fingered who, who was starting to have sex, who was rounding “sloppy second” (licking a boob, or having their boobs licked) or “sloppy thirds” (mouth stuff, you get the idea). I had my first kiss at fourteen years old with one of my friends’ ex-boyfriends, something I was pressured into (though I didn't put up much resistance) by the other girls who immediately told the friend who’s ex I was “macking on.” When I told this boy who worked at a pet store and played Blink 182 on the guitar that this was my first kiss, he looked deeply into my eyes and said, “I could tell.” We made out for a bit, and then he went home, and my friends hounded me for details. Ultimately I disappointed them with the news that though they had left us in the basement for an hour, I hadn’t “blown” him. Connecticut in the early 2000s, friends, let’s not go back there.

I showed up to boarding school excited to shed my good girl persona, eager for a clean slate with the boys in this establishment who wouldn’t know how inexperienced I was or how quickly I liked to call my parents when people were drinking. Though I’d been called Eli my entire life, in boarding school I introduced myself as “Eliza,” ready to embrace a kind of femininity that I had long shunned. I befriended a fifteen year old drug dealer who was kicked out two months into school for dealing ecstasy, and I pined for the oldest boy in my class who had a thick beard and was super kind to me (a real improvement over the boys at home) but who had absolutely no interest in kissing me. After a few months of smoking pot behind the Rite Aid in town and getting drunk at my friends’ houses on the weekend, I could no longer curb my desire to please teachers and belong to choral groups. Eventually I ended up exactly where I’d started — a virgin with a burgeoning college resume and absolutely no romantic prospects.

But that was all about to change when I boarded a plane with nine other girls headed to France. Though every single time I had ever tried to reinvent myself in the past had eventually failed, this was a different situation. France was a foreign country, none of these girls knew me at all, and I only had to stay in character for a month. To be clear, my desire was always to change for real, to be transformed by the experience into a girl who was lithe and sexy and mysterious and interesting to men. I didn’t think of it as lying. I was hoping for magic. I yearned to shape shift.

So there I was in a suburb outside La Rochelle, a seaside city on the west coast of France, that has been, according to Wikipedia, “a center for fishing and trade since the 12th century.” I had to rely on 19 year old Michael if I wanted to go anywhere or do anything, especially because the bike had been such a spectacular failure. Michael was thrilled with this arrangement, and he was eager for me to bring my American friends along, so he could choose among them at his leisure.

Among the group of American girls, I was delighted to find that many of them were far less sexually and alcoholically experienced than I was. These were a bunch of fifteen and sixteen year olds on an educational summer trip, most of them were exactly the kind of person I was pretending not to be. I quickly established myself as the guitar wielding drinker, a tough girl who wrote sad songs and wasn’t afraid to kiss boys. It was thrilling. I got a sticker that said “La Mer est notre Mere” (The ocean is our mother) and slapped it on my guitar. I bought a poncho that smelled like patchouli and I said yes when Michael asked if I wanted to smoke hash. Who was this girl? I hardly knew her. She was iconic.

I made friends with a girl from Vermont named Abby, who spelled her name “Abi” (it’s possible she was trying that out for the summer just like I was trying out my new poncho persona). She taught me how to properly condition my hair, and we bought matching jellies. I taught multiple girls how to drink (or, I guess, I pressured a bunch of teens to underage drink with me). Many of them had never had a sip of alcohol! I was suddenly the corrupting force I’d always longed to be. Finally, I was the bad girl.

The girls marveled at the ease with which I drank and enjoyed beer. They couldn’t believe how confident I was when I ordered wine at restaurants. When we spent a day at the beach, I was the first one to pull my top off and run into the water. Who was this person and what had she done with all of my shame? We spent hours drunk in the surf, drinking beers and rolling around in the mud topless, calling each other “Desperado” for some reason, and getting crispy in the sun.

In America, I was invisible to boys, but in France, Michael and his friends wouldn’t leave me alone. At first, I reveled in the attention I had never gotten from an American boy in my entire life.

On July 1, 2001 I wrote in my journal:

I just had the most fun ever with Michael (the older one). He is so cool. I was tres surprised when he invited me to go out with him and his friends. I met all of his friends and every one of them was hot. EVERY SINGLE ONE! We had so much fun, driving around, meeting people, going to a bar for a drink, etc. I'm so proud of myself because I didn't smoke. Michael is such a sweet heart and he said that for the next three weeks, we are going to spend all of our time together.

Just to note, I was even lying to myself here – I never smoked, so being proud of myself for not smoking is a bit like being proud of myself for not climbing Mt. Everest. The next day, I broke down the hotness level of each of Michael's friends in my journal:

Seb: short for Sebastian. He is so cute and he loves Blink 182. He's the one I think I like the most because he is so sympathetic to me being an idiot. And when I played him two of my songs, he said that they were so good that he almost cried.
Pierre: The hottest of the whole group. He has a girlfriend in England who he said he hoped is "the one." He speaks perfect English, and helps me a lot. He looks American, and beautiful, just gorgeous.
Thomas: So cute, very funny and goofy. He asked me if I would drink tonight because it is his birthday. SO CUTE!
Sylvain: He has red hair. I don't know him that well but we went swimming in his pool today. I didn't really want to show my ugly body, but his mom walked out of the house topless and that was enough for me. His sister is very sweet.

A couple of pages later, I wrote:

LATER: It's 3:53AM so I must go to bed. The party was very fun. I like how close the French people are. Thomas was all over me the entire time, but I really like Seb. I was sort of snuggling with Seb which was nice. Michael asked me what I thought of Seb, and I said I liked him. He was like, "Beaucoup?" "Oui" - moi. I asked him why he asked and he said because Seb feels the same way. I just hope Michael doesn't care. I don't think he does. I mean, I don't even know what's happening. D'accord, bonne nuit!

July 3, 2001:

Now I'm all confused. I thought that Thomas was only all over me because he was defloncer (wasted), but au contraire, he was all over me today as well. He and Seb had better work this out. I know that they are like bros, and I would never stand in the way of that.

I was proud of myself today. We went to the beach and I sat in my bathing suit (with pants on), that is so unlike me. I love the French kissing thing. I think it really brings people together, and I like that the guys kiss each other. First, they shake hands though (you know, to assert their masculinity).

I taught the guys the word "baked" today, because they taught me "defloncer." They are obsessed with my song "Break Free." It's so cute. I think I've sang it like fifteen times today. They love it. Seb and Michael made me write out the words so they could sing along. They don't know what it means but c'est pas grave (it's not a big deal). I love the kissing thing. I know I already said that, but I LOVE IT!

SIDE NOTE: Michael is the biggest pothead I have ever met in my entire life. I taught him a bunch of words like "weed," "cashed," and "housed." You should see this kid, seriously. Il est defloncer tous le temps. He is so much fun, I love hanging out with him and his friends. Thomas doesn't speak a lot of English and the little he does speak, he doesn't really know what it means, so he always says, "Yes, but good afternoon!" It amuses me greatly, but he stalks me which is scary.

July 4, 2001

I had fun today. Aurora, Seb, Michael, Abby and I went bowling which I hate, but whatever. Then we went to Sylvain's house and pretty much sat around and talked while some of them smoked up, which is something they do all the time. Hey, by the way, Happy 4th of July. That's another thing that's making me homesick. By the way, I WANT PIERRE! So hot! So so so HOT! He's so sweet and hot and he speaks English. I WANT HIM!!! Unfortunately, he has a girlfriend. Grrrr! He cheated on her last night though. He did really well on his tests which determine if you can go to college or not, so he partied til like 7:30 in the morning. He was so drunk and the girl he hooked up with has a boyfriend. He was so upset. He's SO HOT! And to see him all sad made me want to cry. My French is improving. A demain!

July 5, 2001

Oh God! Okay, Seb officially wants me. Yesterday Michael told me that Seb was wondering if I had a boyfriend, and Sylvain told Aurora. Damn! He's so cute, but I'm really not into having a French boyfriend. I just want to have fun and hang out while I'm here. Unless it was Pierre, I'm like, "Hell no!" I feel bad, though, because I totally led him on. Plus Michael hovers over me like a freaking eagle so it would just be weird. Michael had to work today. He's really kind of getting on my nerves because I can't do anything without him. He gets off work at 9:30 tonight. I really hope he wants to go out because I hate sitting at home. It just makes me homesick. I'm so happy he can drive and that he has cool friends, because I think I would die if I didn't have anything to do.

Michael wants Abby. He asked her to give him another kiss when she left, and I asked him if he was happy (because earlier I was really mad at him for being such a stupid pothead) and he was like, "Now that she kissed me, I'm happy." Then later, he was like, "Does Abby have a boyfriend?" I was like, Oh God, here we go again. He was like, "I think she is very beautiful." AHHHHHH! Then, he proceeds to say, "And Seb thinks the same about you." AHHHHH! At least this way, Abby can hang out with us more. Aurora wants Sylvain, who's so cute. She's so cute too, she just needs a push to get her personality going. Abby wants to kill her though. I still want Pierre, who (from my present knowledge) still has a stupid girlfriend.

Things started to get weird pretty quickly, and all of the bravado and posturing I was doing was catching up with me.

July 6, 2001:

Michael and his mom were arguing about me and I didn't really understand why. It was something about the weekend. So I asked and apparently I was supposed to go to Michael's friend's house for the WHOLE WEEKEND! I was like, "Oh hell no!" So I told them I was going to stay here. Abby, Seb, and I went to see Pearl Harbor in French tonight. I understood it really well, but then again, I've already seen it.

July 7, 2001

I can't wait til Michael leaves for the weekend. He is so sleazy it seems like. I mean, he is probably really smooth with all the French girls, but it just comes off as greasy with me and Abby. Of course, Rachel ate it up. He fed her the same lines he's fed Abby and me. She was like, "It was so sweet that he asked me if he could smoke." I was like, "Oh, did he say, 'Will it bother you if I smoke?'" She was like, "Yeah, how did you know?" I freaking taught him that! I'm like, shut up.

A couple days ago, Michael took some pot out of his pocket, but it was wrapped in aluminum foil so it looked like pocket trash or something. He was like, "What do you call this?" And I was like, "I don't know, junk?" And was like "Oh yes, like junkie!" I gave him a weird look and sort of forgot about it. Now the whole freaking group refers to pot as junk. I think I've started a new slang word in France. Nice!

Okay, Seb just came to the house to see if I wanted to come out with him or something. SO FRIGHTENING! We've moved past it being sweet to him being a complete stalker. This trip is really making me realize that I am so independent. I hate being carted around and having absolutely no control over my life. Even though I told Seb that I would rather read than hang out with him, he is taking me out tonight, and there is nothing I can do about it. He is such a STALKER, and I give him so many hints but he is completely relentless. I give him absolutely no attention and still he swarms me. I just wish the guys could just be friends with me. I think besides the fact that Pierre is SO HOT, he is attractive to me because he is aloof and isn't all over me.

Drastic times call for drastic measures and I'm bringing a pic of me and John to show "Abby" my "boyfriend." I feel bad, because I already said I didn't have a boyfriend, and now I'm taking it back, but I'll just be like, "it's not official." GOD! I just wish he would leave me alone.

Later, that night, I updated my journal about my night out with Seb:

So, Seb picked me up and he was like, "Je doit parler a toi" (I must talk to you). Oh God. So he proceeds to tell me that he's in love with me (what?!) Anyway, I was like, "I actually have a boyfriend." (Even though I don't). Actually he was like, "Tu m'aimes?" (Do you like me?) And I was like, "Je t'aime bien" (I like you fine), and he was like, "Tu m'aimes beaucoup ou un peu?" (Do you like me a lot or a little). So I was like, "un peu" which was mean, but I needed to get the point across. He was then like, "I want to die." I was like, "um, no you don't. You don't even know me." He was like, "It was like a flash and I knew." Ugh.

After that, everything changed for me. When Michael got home from the weekend, he turned on me. Suddenly, there wasn't enough room in his car for me to come out with him.

July 8, 2001

Okay, I'm crying maitenant. Fucking Michael just waltzed in at 9:30 and I thought I was going to go out with them, but he was like, "There isn't room in the car." What kind of fucking excuse is that? So now he hates me or something and I'm sitting home alone. I'm so upset. I have SEVENTEEN FUCKING DAYS LEFT! What the hell am I supposed to do? They all loved me like five minutes ago What happened?

So, I officially hate Michael. After he left, Seb brought Abby and Aurora over chez moi, and the fuckface came back. Abby and I talked for awhile, then we all went to Sylvain's where Michael proceeded to give me the silent treatment (for God knows or cares what reason). Then Abby and I were talking to Pierre, because he was really sad about his girlfriend, and the motherfucker comes up to me and is like, "Let's go," and he proceeds to snap his fingers at me like I am some kind of dog. WHAT AN A-HOLE! I'll just have to deal with seventeen more days of expensive torture. This really sucks, unfortunately.

One afternoon, Michael and I were in the car together and he started speeding faster and faster, taking the curves so abruptly that two of the tires briefly left the ground and for a moment, my life flashed before my eyes. “Are you scared?” he asked me in French, strangely gleeful. I didn’t know what answer would make him stop. I haven’t thought about this day in twenty years.

Lonely and confused, I wrote an apology note to Michael (apologizing for what exactly? For not fucking his friend?) in the best French I could muster. The letter was almost two pages and it took me hours to write. In it, I explained that I didn’t understand what he was angry with me about and that if there was anything I did that upset him, I was sorry.  I slipped the letter under his bedroom door and waited. The next morning, I received his response: he returned the letter to me with all of my grammatical errors corrected in red pen.

I had gotten what I wanted — fawning attention from a boy — and it ruined everything. Michael was mean from then on, and I tried my best to stay away from him and the rest of his shitty friends. Though in another journal entry, I wrote glowing praise for a boy named Julien who played a dijeridoo, which I apparently thought was super fucking hot.

For the rest of the summer, I hung out with the American girls, reveling in their drama with various French boys. One of the American girls narced on her French family for growing marijuana, and she was removed from that home and placed in another. There were pairs of new best friends, and petty teenage squabbles, just as there were at home.

I drank and wrote bad songs on my guitar. I went to the beach, I put more stickers on my guitar. I avoided Michael, and got into French pop music and rap. I ate goat cheese for the first time, and started looking forward to the cheese course that accompanied every meal instead of dessert. Things were different in France, and they were also the same. I was me in both places. Even if the French me was a little more daring, she was still only fifteen. She wanted to make out, but not badly enough that she’d do it with someone who scared her. She liked being a bad influence for once in her life, but she also couldn’t help playing the songs she’d written for her new friends. Anyone who heard the music I was writing back then could not be fooled into thinking I was some kind of rebel. Eventually, I let most of those girls get to know a version of me who looked a lot like the real me.

The two of wands offers an opportunity to look at things from a new angle. It suggests that you push yourself out of your comfort zone, have an adventure, take a risk.

Wands are all about creativity and passion. And because wands are the suit of fire, there is an intensity to the feelings associated with this suit. When you get wands, you’re in a fruitful and creative moment, you’re on the precipice of exciting new ideas and inspiration, you’re in a flow state. But there’s an edge to wands as well — a sense of thrill and sometimes danger. Wands are more impulsive than they are thoughtful. Impulse is important in the creative process (and in life!), but it can be dangerous. Wands come with a warning. It’s time to get a fresh perspective, but you might not always like what you find when you get there. Even if the outcome is positive, it’s unlikely to be exactly what you expected, because fire is unpredictable. Just like life.