Without kids to micromanage and playing the Hebraic persuasion card to avoid Christmas excess and hubbub I find, for once, a dearth of personal problems to moan about. So, instead, although the insightful and pessimistic Himself will undoubtedly find my observations simplistic and Pollyanna-ish, I'll tell you what's wrong with the world. First of all, I don't wake up in a cold sweat worrying about the national deficit. We take on huge debt when we purchase a home but if we if we manage our money wisely and keep the property in decent condition this is inevitably a good investment. Often the equity homeowners have in a property help their kids purchase their own homes. We shouldn't be so terrified about investing in our children and their children.
Having faith in future generations' ability to manage the debt they inherit does not mean at all that we shouldn't aspire to bust up the oligarchy and make sure that the super rich pay their fair share of taxes. It's time to figure out an end to the political Catch 22 that makes it impossible for any candidate to prevail without big bucks from groups or individuals buying largesse for their own special interests. There was a modest proposition on the California ballot two years ago that outlined experimental public funding for a small number of state elections. Big business made sure this didn't pass. But a smattering of grass roots campaigns have been successful even though the causes were not friendly to monied special interests. If a clear explanation of why publicly funded elections would be preferable and how they would work was widely disseminated I imagine that most voters would see the light. Particularly if the public was reminded that over 2 billion dollars were spent by the Obama and Romney campaigns.
I'm not sure how one would go about organizing a grassroots organizing campaign to promote compassion. I was saddened but also fascinated that a ballot initiative to abolish capital punishment in California did not pass. The initiative was of course underfunded and the one TV spot they were able to pony up for was the testimony of a former death row inmate who'd been exonerated by virtue of DNA evidence. I saw the spot and knew immediately that a simple graphic stating only that the death penalty costs California 184 million dollars a year would have been much more effective.
Romney was caught off the record attributing his loss to ne'er-do-wells trying to protect their free stuff. It is remarkable how much disdain many of our wealthy have for the less fortunate. Most western European countries have pretty much eliminated poverty and yet the rich are still rich (enough). We awoke and discovered that manufacturing has dried up in the U.S. Our educational system has declined and even if it were properly funded there is no real clear vision as to what we should be actually educating people to do. Even with Obamacare, health services, particularly mental heath, will be limited not only because of exorbitant costs but also a shortage of providers. Approximately 53% of recent college graduates are underemployed or unemployed yet there are kids failing in schools, people sleeping in the streets and thousands languishing in prisons. Technology indeed has eliminated many jobs but we've done little to redirect our workforce towards work that augments technology and requires compassion and creativity.
Spud's school is unable to afford a language instructor so he has to take Spanish independently from an online program offered by Brigham Young University. It is terrible and while he might be able to eke out the course credits he needs, he will never be comfortable speaking a word of Spanish. Technology creates wonderful possibilities for education but research on how it can be used effectively is pathetically underfunded. Teacher training hasn't really kept pace with technological advances and the integration of computers into the classroom does not necessarily correlate with better instruction.
We don't need our kids at home in the summer to harvest our crops. We live decades longer then the denizens of the 18th century yet we still ascribe to their educational model. Teachers are viewed by many as coddled babysitters. Why does high school have to arbitrarily end at age 18? Why are those who are failed by our traditional system and seek remediation at adult school programs deemed less worthy of having a subsidized education than younger kids?
Human resources are being shamefully squandered. It's time to rethink what education should mean in the 21st century. How do we build a workforce that is proficient in the specific people skills that elude technology? How can we envision educational priorities that actually support making people's lives better instead of making things? Romney isn't the only American who writes off the struggling as lacking in character. No one sets out to fail but we conflate success with wealth and define values as that in which we personally believe. The educated among us scrape and claw and adroitly work the system on behalf of our own children. Is it any wonder that the children of less sophisticated parents, stuck in an archaic labyrinth simply give up? We take the lazy way out when we presuppose a lack of character. When there actually is a lack of character we need the courage and compassion to take that on too. We have the resources. We just need to allocate better and keep in mind that there are deficits a lot more scary than monetary.
I'm one of those moms who worked the system on behalf of my own kids. I feel shame when I admit that this was inevitably at the expense of others. I would have done nothing differently but atone with tiny contributions towards a future when there is enough to go around. My older son loves college and I believe he will use what he learns there to do well in the world. Spuds too seems to be panning out in the mensch department. He will likely attend Bard College which is pretty hoity toity and has a mile long list of illustrious faculty and alums. Himself and I got a little squirmy in this rarefied atmosphere of the parents session until the provost addressed the school's commitment to social responsibility. “We are,” she explained, “a private institution dedicated to the public good.” It seemed then to be a better fit.
Wishing you all some quality time with those you love and also out in the world during this season when we remember miracles.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Special Edition
Call me smug and superior but I feel thankful every single day. Thanksgiving is just the year's best opportunity to quantify my thankfulness with off the charts caloric value. I get up early to start cooking and set the table. We’re having a small gathering this year. The kids will linger around the kitchen, trying to snatch a taste of something when I’m not looking. Much of the menu can't be prepared in advance and I’m in the steam of it all day. I go upstairs to shower before the guest arrive. The explosive aroma doesn't really hit me until I return to the kitchen. The kids grouse about peeling potatoes but it is pro forma. The potato job signifies that the meal is imminent. Spuds (the tuber—not the boy) will be boiled, pushed through a ricer and then slathered with cream and butter, just like my mother taught me. Although, if he doesn't clean up his friggin' room it might be tuber AND boy.
My mom was only interested in dessert. She started clearing plates when you were only a few bites in. At my house we take our time, don’t save room for dessert, but eat it anyway. Perhaps my mom behaved badly at every Thanksgiving she attended at my house because she missed getting well deserved accolades for food well prepared. I do love it when every dish comes out perfectly and people eat happily. I have retired after twelve years running concessions for Children’s Theater. I am disappointed when my offer to help out for a night or two is rebuffed. When I attend the play myself and notice that the concessions set up has a completely different face, I annoy Himself with a litany of criticisms. I do not miss the work, which is tantamount to setting up a small business twice a year, but I do miss being appreciated.
The essay submitted with Spud's college applications described Luke, a boy at school who was considered troublesome. Staff and students kept their distance. Spuds discovered Luke’s extraordinarily sophisticated tastes in music. Luke had a great ear and his observations were articulate. They burned CDs for each other and shared music magazines. Spuds wrote in his college admission essay that the “can’t judge a book by its cover” revelation about Luke was influential in his creation of believable teenage characters for a play he wrote under the aegis of a teen playwriting mentorship.
The good news from Bard letter comes in thick red folder with gold embossed “Congratulations.” Spud's play debuts the following night. He is anxious, having missed a number of rehearsals due to his trip to New York. Opening night at the children’s theater is fraught anyway with the high anxiety of fifty teenagers and their parents. Spuds is to perform in the one act he’s written and also star in another one act that's being presented. Just before curtain Spuds gets a text message informing him that Luke is dead, a suicide. Spuds gets through his performance. I am so devastated by his loss that when he gets home I am ineffectual and as broken up as he is.
Spuds attended the funerals of both of his grandfathers. He was old enough to remember both of them. He was truly saddened by these deaths but neither was a surprise. Old men dying fits in with the universal order. The loss of a 16 year old friend due to suicide is Spud's first real slap of how truly fucked up the world can be. Spuds delivers a eulogy. He paints a warm portrait of the troubled boy. He notes that his essay about Luke was probably instrumental in cinching his own admission to college. He concludes that he will benefit from the positive force of his friendship with Luke for the rest of his life. I cannot imagine anything better for the young man’s parents to hear but I don't imagine that they are able to drink it in. The Unitarian minister, a Garrison Keiller sound-alike, tells me the Spud’s tribute to Luke was beautiful. He sighs then and wipes his brow. “God, how I hate this.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and looks me hard in the eye. “Keep him close,” he admonishes.
Spuds might not be with us next Thanksgiving as most kids fly home from the East Coast for Christmas break. Two round trips will likely not be feasible. Number one son is bringing a college friend from Connecticut, a freshman, and probably away from his own family for the first time. I want the kids to grow up and have their own lives. But even before the death of Spud's friend I never feel completely settled and at ease unless both of them are physically present. I don't expect to recover from my near constant fretting about the sprats. My mother in her final days forgot my name but even her rotting brain didn't lose the sense memory of her love for me. Her ramblings grew more and more inchoate but whenever I kissed her goodbye she said, “drive carefully,” loudly and clearly.
I interpreted my mother's constant fretting about my safety and well being as a lack of confidence in my ability to navigate the world. My kids become more and more effective navigators. They even demonstrate occasionally that they've actually absorbed stuff I taught them. The minister reminded me to keep them close. Inevitably my opportunities for physical proximity will diminish. I know from my own experience that the expression of my incessant worry will be construed as a lack of faith in their competence. I try to keep my trap shut. I text them a lot.
My brain refuses to shift into neutral and I can't fall asleep. There is rustling downstairs. It is past midnight. The kids and a bunch of friends are in the kitchen making quesadillas. One of the girls is a freshman and has been on campus since August. “It's so nice to be in a house,” she says. “It's great to have real food.” The kids are sweet. I love how easy they are with each other. Even Spuds, who has been so shaken, laughs with his brother and kids around. I can't bottle this but through force of will I'll turn off the “what if?” voice I've honed for fifty five years. I understand and the kids are starting to learn, the world's horrifying capacity for random fucked-upness. I was a few years older than Luke when I felt the weight of a world that had no love for me. I took a couple fistfuls of pills but providentially a friend found me. I woke up a week later in a hospital. Even then it took years to feel fortunate to have miraculously awakened. I will think of Luke's family while I put the finishing touches on our meal. The world is capricious. Folly. Bad luck. Tragedy. Love. Miracles. Our thankfulness today is ratcheted up by pounds of butter, pints of cream, and a full house.
Wishing you happiness.
Friday, November 9, 2012
That Time of Month
Not writing weekly is maddeningly
frustrating and thrillingly liberating. How can I appreciate my life
if I don't spend every waking moment mining it for inspiration? How
can I appreciate my life if I DO spend every waking moment
mining it for inspiration? I worry that the rhythm of devoting most
of Thursday and Friday writing is lost now that I've pared down from
weekly to monthly postings. Any breach in my rigid self-imposed
discipline, be it keeping the house tidy, eating sensibly, walking
daily or writing 2000 words a week, suggests always that all is lost.
My house will appear on Hoarders. I'll become one of those ladies
so obese that they have to hoist her out of bed with a forklift. My
brain will turn to such jelly that I won't even be able to compose a
shopping list.
Today is my mother's 92nd
birthday. She has been dead now for two years. I was on the Ventura
Freeway on my way from a meeting. The owner of the board and care
called and said that Mom was unresponsive. I didn't get that this
was a euphemism. I thought Mom was just lethargic. I said that I was
busy but would stop by tomorrow. After her condition was described
more bluntly I went to the office. It took me about 15 minutes to
make arrangements for cremation and the scattering of ashes at sea.
I told the petite ladies at the board and care that they could keep
Mom's clothes. My friend Richard stopped by and picked up a small
box of photos and knickknacks. I brought flowers and cookies over to
the board and care a couple of times. And that was it.
I've spent many thousands of words
memorializing my complicated relationship with my mom. She was always
proud of me but seldom for things that I was proud about myself. I
wonder how she would feel about the manuscript I recently completed.
This material is what I consider my inheritance. My mother would
likely take exception to my characterization of her as being vain and
bitter. But she would revel too to know how much delight I took in
her mordant humor. She would be happy and perhaps surprised to learn
how very indelibly she is etched on every facet of who I am.
Spuds has applied for an unusual
“Immediate Decision” program at Bard College in New York's Hudson
Valley. Applicants visit the campus, attend a seminar, are
interviewed by an admission counselor and then are notified of their
acceptance or rejection within 48 hours. We spring for a trip and
arrive in Hurricane Sandy ravaged New York. We rent a car and travel
to a bed and breakfast on a pond a couple miles from Bard. Spuds is
aware that we are taking a big financial risk although we do try not
to rub his nose in it. I explain to him too that it is much easier
to be judged myself than to see my kid on the threshold of judgment.
He is patient when we yammer on about his interview strategy and
readings he was to complete for the seminar. I think back now on how
insane we must have been and marvel at the boy's patience.
When Number One Son flew the coop I
didn't take it well. He returned from his first year of college and
spent an incredibly indolent summer during most of which I felt like
throttling him. Nevertheless, when he packed up and took off for his
sophomore year I wept when I returned home and the dinner table was
set for only three. My eldest is only an hour away from home but
Spuds is determined to move across the continent. We help him with
his college essays and pay for tutoring to prep him for the ACT test.
We travel to New York for the “Immediate Decision” program. I
have given my all to help my kid get what he wants. I have never
once forgotten though that I don't want him to go.
The school is spectacular. The faculty
is renowned. The information session is fascinating. Himself
completed his undergraduate work at Loyola, directly in the LAX
flight path. Redlands, my own Alma Mater, is not without charm but
one has to do far less ferreting there at Bard to drink in the beauty
of the environs. If there were a time machine we'd both apply for
admission at Bard ourselves, rather than tipping Kennedy off to skip
Dallas or killing Hitler. If we are obnoxious before the interview,
the things we whisper during and after border on despicable. “Most
of the kids are white. There are way more girls. A lot of the kids
from California canceled because of the storm. The East Indian girl
looks sullen. I hope the admission counselor notices the mom who's
wearing real fur.”
Spuds meets a friend from L.A. at the
student center. Himself and I wander the campus. Trees still bear
red and yellow leaves. The Performing Arts Building is a shimmering
Frank Gehry design. The Economics Department is housed in a turn of
the century manor. We kill some time in the art gallery. There is
an exhibit of student work called “Anti-Establishment” and
another of agitprop work by an apparently well known artist. Except
for a poor work study student, who sits in one of the galleries
reading aloud as part of an exhibit, the museum is pretty empty.
This is good because Himself and I are reminded of SNL's “Sprockets”
and are both unable to contain derisive laughter. This is the memory
we agree to file away in the event that Spuds is rejected for
admission.
Having sprung for fare to New York we
spend a few days in a microscopic Lower Eastside Apartment. The
close proximity to Russ and Daughters, the purveyors of smoked
fish; Yonah Schimmel's Knish Bakery; and Economy Candy is
practically my undoing (note forklift concerns above.) We revisit
the nearby Tenement Museum. We were there in 1992 when it first
opened and we are amazed by the ambitious expansion. Building codes
changed in the 1930s and fireproofing was required. Tenement owners
in many cases were able to generate sufficient income from street
level storefronts and opted not to make these improvements.
Residential tenants were evicted and apartments boarded up. The
building at 97 Orchard Street was built in 1863 and through the years
housed over 6000 different immigrants. Through census records and
other research, the lives of several families have been reconstructed
and their apartments recreated. My mother lived around the corner on
Delancey Street in early childhood. We visit the apartment of a
Jewish tailor named Levine. This was my grandmother's maiden name.
I know this is a very common Jewish last name but still it makes me
feel somehow very connected.
The Museum of the City of New York has
a video presentation that traces the city from the infamous $24 in
trinkets trade to the present. All compressed into 20 minutes. When
I'm not watching Honey Boo Boo I try to imagine the scope of the
universe and the beginning and end of time. I struggle with the
notion of infinity but neither can I envision any limits to time and
space. My forebears walked this same island of Manhattan. My
youngest son yearns for these same streets. I have only a glimmer of
what went before. I am overwhelmed by the thought of what will come
later. Where do I fit when I cannot conceive of a beginning or an
end?
Half a pound of Norwegian smoked salmon
and a kasha knish distract me from my existential morass. We manage
to catch a plane home minutes before a second storm hits and all
flights are canceled. I am jet lagged and wake up at 3 in the
morning, unable to get back to sleep. I return to the office and
learn that the production company we rent half of the building to is
moving out. An audiobook I've had on reserve from the library for
over six months finally arrives. I eagerly stick in the first disc
to discover that the CD player in my car has bit the dust. The
trigger for my car alarm disintegrates in my hand.
Spuds meets me at the door. The mail
has just arrived. He is accepted to Bard. I sob and wail while I
lug in groceries. Himself whispers to Spuds, “Mom's freaking out.
Just steer clear of her a while.” Spuds will most likely be
heading east in about nine months. He will make visits to Manhattan
and while he has yet to develop a taste for smoked fish or knishes,
he will undoubtedly walk the same streets as his grandma and her
parents and their parents, if not to visit the Tenement Museum, to
stock up at Economy Candy.
I prepare him a special omelet the
morning after the good news from Bard. I slice turkey bacon into
long strips and spell out “BARD” on top. It doesn't come out like
I wanted it to but he takes a picture of it. He looks at the crudely
formed letters and then at me. “You're lucky I didn't get into
Wesleyan.”
Friday, October 5, 2012
When I Was Not Writing
I don't know about you, but I missed
me. After having done so weekly for about six years, three weeks
have now passed since I've written here. My decision to scale down
the blog from weekly to monthly was ostensibly to allow more time for
other writing projects. But, except for a couple of postcards, the
additional writing I'd envisioned is, as of yet, unwritten. My usual
writing days have been spent in Hawaii and then in a dental chair
having some teeth yanked. Despite having good excuses it does feel
weird not to conclude each Friday by posting a piece of writing.
I bring a manuscript about my family on
the plane and get through about a hundred pages of a final edit.
I've done lots of piecework but it has been many months since I
considered these 160 pages as a whole book. When the plane lands at
the Lihue airport I feel the presence of my parents and sister more
than I have in a long time. Our trip is to join my niece Cari in
celebrating the successful completion of a grueling course of chemo
and radio therapy for the treatment of breast cancer. She has rented
a large comfortable house right on the ocean, and very eager to
please us, has carefully planned an itinerary. Cari is the daughter
of my sister Sheri. She was adopted and raised by another family and
came back into our lives about thirty years ago. She lives in Gold
Rush Country and we only see her and husband Mike a couple times a
year. Their daughter Marlene and Kevin join us in Kauai. Now that
both of my parents and sister are gone and other relatives have
drifted away, my kids, Cari, and Marlene are the only blood relatives
I have in my life. I step off the plane with the tale of my parents
and sister very fresh and then spend a concentrated few days with my
sister's daughter and granddaughter.
Cari and Marlene have felt like family
for a long time but it is nearly Gothic, how thrown together in a
big house this intensifies. How right it feels to be with people
whose mealtime conversation is devoted mainly to planning the next
meal. I am hard on my sister Sheri in my manuscript and the time
with Cari inspires some adjustments. Sheri loved to eat and she
loved to drive. Where I am more conservative and timid, like my Mom,
Sheri lived to have fun. There were many times she'd swoop down on
Fulton Avenue and rescue me. We'd have a meal and drive around. I
am a terrible car passenger, always pounding an imaginary brake until
my leg is numb. Sheri, however was an incredibly confident driver.
I was always safe when she was behind the wheel. I don't think I'd
ever driven with Cari. She's rents a ginormous van and takes us all
around the island. She maneuvers it expertly, just like her birth
mother Sheri. How grateful I am to have been able to sit in the
backseat and totally chill, cruising through some of the most
beautiful scenery the planet has to offer.
Himself has covered the Hawaii trip in
exquisite detail on his own blog so I haven't much to add except for
my own take on the epic kayak trip. We discover we've been enrolled
for a prepaid excursion. Himself, having always had a fear of
sunshine is stricken and in a state of grim resignation.
Anticipating that during five days in Hawaii, particularly as
house-guests, it will be difficult for him to avoid the sun as
assiduously as he does at home, I purchase Neutrogena 100 SPF
Sunblock for him. My beloved pessimist is convinced that the lotion
will prove ineffective and he will be hospitalized on life support
with third degree burns. Just to make clear that Himself holds no
hegemony on neurosis in our relationship, I have a lifelong aversion
to any physical activity other than walking on a flat, smooth surface
and also to wearing a bathing suit.
Our kayak trip and waterfall hike has
been advertised as fine for toddlers and grandmas. My niece Marlene
is more than a little pregnant but this too apparently is no
counter-indication. The kayaks are unloaded at the pier.
Instructions on piloting a kayak are delivered at a speed that would
have give a run for the money to that fast talking guy who did the
old Fed Ex commercials.
Marlene and I relieve our (pregnant and
old, respectively) bladders and some of the kayaks have already
launched when we return to the pier. Cari and Mike have already
embarked. Instantly, they capsize. The kayak floats down the river
and Cari and Mike, up to their necks, tread water. A staff member on
the pier muses, “Gosh, we haven't had one tip over in about six
weeks.” Marlene's husband Kevin reports, that for him, the image of
the calamity that's most resonant is the expression on my face.
Himself confesses to me later, that despite his concern about Cari
and Mike getting dumped into the river, he harbors a ray of hope that
now the whole mission will now be aborted. I am absolutely on the
same page.
Cari and Mike are intrepid and
undaunted though. I am not being hyperbolic and it has been borne
out by experience, again and again; I am the least coordinated
person on the planet. Himself, for all his intellectual nimbleness,
comes in second. Cari and Mike, who are at least cheerful and
enthusiastic about the activity, can't manage to stay afloat. We are
so fucking doomed. My inner voice screams, “Moron, just bow out now
and you won't die,” but we are guests and I am determined to be a
good sport. I am in a bathing suit (God bless Land's End for
designing a suit bottom that is closer in design to shorts, not one
of those skirt things that bisect your thighs at their flabbiest
point) and about to get into a kayak. We have been instructed that
the heavier person needs to sit in the back and take responsibility
for steering. Guess who that is. Every aspect of this situation is
tantamount on the humiliation scale to farting loudly at the
communion rail. Himself, who does not pride himself on his athletic
prowess and is still almost catatonic in the anticipation of fatal
sunburn, is equally glum.
We are guided into the kayak and handed
an oar. The little bit of instruction we were able to absorb is
mostly misheard and I have the impression that only a portion of the
oar is to be immersed in the water. We are stuck in the bushes a
number of times. Voices are raised. A fellow kayaker instructs us
how to brake. Then, we brake repeatedly and are never able recover
any sort of momentum. Marlene and Kevin glide ahead of us. Very
soon the six other kayaks in the group have long passed and are out
of sight. Only Cari and Mike are behind us, under the close
supervision of the leader. They capsize two more times. Cari begs
to be allowed to swim and is refused. Mike ends up riding with the
leader and Cari and her kayak are towed behind. They are much
better sports than we would have been.
The plan is that the brief kayak trip
is followed by a short hike to a waterfall. The river seems endless
and when we finally reach the trail the other kayakers have been
waiting about an hour. The waterfall stroll is actually through
pretty dense jungle and requires wading over slippery rocks to cross,
what the same people who invited toddlers and grannies refer to as, a
“stream.” Again, we are at the end of the pack and require a
disproportionate amount of the leader's attention. The leader is a
native. She has no body fat that I can discern and is barefoot. I
hate her. I suggest on the ride home that anyone so buff and
beautiful must be stupid. I am corrected by Mike and Cari, who
having spent a lot of time with her as she propelled them up and down
the river, learn that by day she teaches Algebra and Music. Two
other things I suck at. My antipathy exceeds hated.
The waterfall trek is five miles round
trip. Due to klutz-related delays the picnic/waterfall swim portion
of the journey is abridged although I do manage to make it over some
very treacherous rocks and swim a bit under a waterfall. Himself
stays on the shore, drinks a beer and applies another heavy slather
of sunblock. The swimming hole risk is totally gratuitous and I am
emboldened by having taken the plunge. On the hike back to the river
I keep up with the pack by following a young guy and mirroring his
every step. Helen Reddy belts “I Am Woman” in the back of my
mind.
There are headwinds and the kayak trip
back down the river is arduous. We have learned however how to work
in rhythm and as exhausting as the return journey is, there are fewer
terrifying moments this leg.. We even relax enough to take in the
spectacular scenery. We remain behind the others and toward the end
fatigue sets in. The pier comes into view and by then we are just
too exhausted to steer. The rest of the group think we backed the
kayak into the slot on purpose but it is just dumb luck we make it
there at all. We never would have agreed to participate in this
trip if we'd known what was entailed. But having survived and
actually pretty much enjoyed the experience, is a memory I will
always cherish. Plus, the sunblock is 100% effective as Himself is
still as pasty as ever.
The rest of the trip is less dramatic,
having survived the ordeal we happily succumb to good food and
beautiful scenery. I return to spend two days in the office and then
travel to Loma Linda to have some teeth extracted. This is a few
miles from Joe College's college and he is my designated caregiver.
He drives me to my motel, fills my prescriptions and picks up
provisions for a liquid diet. I am acutely aware of the role reversal
and delighted by his graciousness and competence but I keep my trap
shut. The boy hates it when I blather on about stuff like that. I
spend two nights at the motel. One night actually would have
sufficed but as I am unable to wear a front tooth flipper for two
days so I decide to lay low. The second day the boy and I do some
shopping in Redlands where missing front teeth are less conspicuous.
I guess one good thing about not
writing so regularly is that there's more to write about when I do.
And when I was not writing I spent time with Cari and her family. I
am reminded that the turmoil and grief my sister caused shouldn't
overshadow what I loved about her. And when I was not writing
Himself and I rowed in rhythm and traversed the jungle, all without
sunburn. And when I wasn't writing I was nursed and cared for by my
own son. And when I wasn't writing I felt so incredibly lucky that I
couldn't wait to return to my keyboard here and express my gratitude.
Shabbat Shalom
Note: Himself is always scrupulous about crediting photos and artwork he uses. I am too lazy but I will note the photograph I used above, and so many other wonderful family photographs we've treasured over many years, was taken by the talented Mike Maginot.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Accentuate the Obvious
It's a Loma Linda week. My last
appointment at the Implant Clinic at the School of Dentistry was
comprised of a long photo session. My mouth was pried open with
metal hooks and it seems like every one of my teeth was photographed
from several different angles. Then I got to pose full face,
smiling, pouting and baring my teeth for several dozen pictures.
Anna, my lovely Spanish dentist is sensitive to my vanity and
apologized for needing to take a number of photographs of me without
my fake plastic front tooth. The Mammy Yokum series. This week each
of my teeth is analyzed for gum recession and how profusely each
tooth bleeds when poked with a sharp instrument. The patient in the
next room blathers on in detail about his dental history including
where each service was performed and what it cost. “That molar was
crowned in Honolulu in 1973. It cost $600.00. Then in 1994 I had to
have it done again in Tucson. That ran me almost a grand.” He
attempts fruitlessly to explain to his dentist the meaning of the
expression “third time's a charm.” My own dentist is quick on the
uptake when I introduce her to the English expression “windbag.”
“It's a good match,” she says. “That dentist is from Taiwan
and he barely knows a word of English.” Other than dissing her
colleagues and their patients, we talk about food, as I do also with
Nick, my regular dentist. Anna, in fact is a hardcore foodie, having
driven to Las Vegas and back in a single evening for what she reports
was an outstanding dinner. Nick is very eager for Anna to call him.
Not to discuss my treatment plan but so she can tell him the name of
the restaurant.
I schedule some extractions for the end
of the month. I will be unable to wear my fake front tooth for a
couple of days so I will be hiding out at a motel in Redlands with
Joe College ministering to me. Anna also drops the bomb that after
the actual implants are placed I will be unable to wear fake tooth
for at least two weeks. Seeing that I am starting to blubber she
promises to try to figure out some sort of fake apparatus that won't
interfere with the implants. If that fails I'm considering going
Muslim for a couple of weeks.
Dismissed from the dental school I text
Joe College to warn him that I'm on my way to campus. I arrive to
find his room spotless. Last year's roommate's mom sent a maid down
from Pasadena every week but apparently the boy is now managing on
his own. The dorm itself is incredibly funky, built in the 1920s and
last renovated in the 1970s but there's a good vibe. Most of the kids
keep their doors open and wander amiably in and out of each others
rooms.
The boy chooses a Thai restaurant
that's not particularly good but it's the designated establishment
for taking parents. We had an up and down summer due chiefly to the
boy's under-occupation. Now however something about being with him,
on what is now his turf, improves the quality of our interaction. We
are far from the scene of his childhood and free of this baggage
there is a pleasant ease between us. My soon to be 20 year old son
is an adult, albeit a young adult. I feel no compulsion to parent
him and can sit back and just enjoy who he is.
Joe College takes me to place that
makes ice cream on the spot using liquid nitrogen. Redlands, utterly
instant mashed potatoes, canned gravy and Republican during my tenure
there, now has little pockets of hipness. Lest I think it's San
Francisco, the boy takes me to the largest thrift store I have ever
seen. It's the size of several football fields and well organized.
We are both thrift store aficionados but the huge array of
merchandise is sad and charmless. The cavernous store evokes the
Redlands of my college years and also the essence of the true
Redlands, despite the liquid nitrogen, as it is now. There are still
blocks of lovely Victorian and 1930s Spanish houses but the orange
groves of my own college years have been bulldozed and replaced by
acres of identical stucco homes, many now in foreclosure. The boy
keeps his eye on the clock. I drop him back on campus and he trots
off on time for his afternoon class with my leftover ice cream.
The next night Himself is working.
Spuds has a hard schedule and I think he needs a little midweek
treat, my rationale for being too lazy to cook dinner. I read on
Yelp about a Georgian restaurant in Glendale and we both study the
menu online and decide to give it a shot. It's in a strip mall but
there's a colorful paint job and lots of folk-art. The only other
party is a group of middle aged men who get up between courses to go
outside to smoke in the parking lot. The place is run by two middle
aged men and a young waitress all of whom are either using their
cellphones or smoking in the parking lot when not directly involved
in serving food. The waitress teeters on impossibly high heels. She
hands us the menus and asks if I speak Russian. “No.”
“Armenian?” “No.” She looks annoyed. “Is that OK?” I
ask. “Yes. OK,” she says without much conviction. “To drink?”
“Diet soda?” “No.” “OK, just water then.” Spuds asks,
“Coke?” and she shakes her head. One of the men seems to have a
slightly better command of English so I verify with him that there is
absolutely no soda. I think about explaining that soda has a huge
profit margin. I also think about offering to teach them English. I
think a lot of stuff but I've learned to keep my mouth shut.
The food is actually delicious although
Spuds gets his entree about twenty minutes before I get mine and he
gets my rice and I get his french fries. We are given some
complimentary potato salad which I command Spuds not to let me eat
much of so he polishes it off dutifully. Spuds notes that the menu
is written in flawless English so we think maybe that there are
English speaking employees on duty for the more busy weekends. The
waitress is flummoxed when I attempt to pay in cash and I can see
through the window to the kitchen that there is high tension with
regard to making change. Some would probably have found the whole
experience crazy making but Spuds and I aren't in a hurry. The
enjoyment of the food for us is actually enhanced by the
authenticity. Five miles from home but it feels like we've spent an
hour in Georgia except for there I imagine people can smoke inside
restaurants. So it's kind of the best of both worlds.
I elevate myself from empty nest morass
with the realization that my time with the kids will improve in
quality as it diminishes in quantity. My other epiphany as a new
Jewish year begins is that after six years of writing here
religiously it is time to redirect my energies. I love this format
and can't imagine abandoning it all together but I'm going to reduce
my postings here to once a month. I've proven to myself that I have
the self discipline required of a productive writer. The blog is a
fantastic format for me because I can sort stuff out. I'm able to
weave together disparate ideas into weird sense. Now it's time for
the final purge necessary to complete a full length manuscript that's
been dogging me for nearly two years. Then I hope to use what I've
honed by blogging to take on some more focused non-fiction essays.
Plus I have a couple short stories outlined. And of course there's
the novel which I'd better get started on while I can still form
cogent thoughts.
It always surprises and delights me to
tell someone something and get the response “I know. I read your
blog.” It's those folks who read weekly, or even once in a while,
who make me feel becoming a real writer is within my reach. Next
year at Rosh Hashanah Spuds will be away at college. I hope by the
time he goes my immersion in writing will fill some of the gaps left
by my transition out of the hands-on mom phase of my life. I can't
imagine ever not missing the kids but I will always be buoyed by
knowing how much fun it is to be with them now that they require less
full throttle mothering. It's time to really write now that I can't
use the kids' neediness as an excuse not to.
It is strange to think about not
posting here every Friday and returning home eager to read Himself's
response. Often people intimate that they enjoy Himself's comments
more than the blog itself. “It's so obvious how much he loves
you,” they say. In a time of transition this brings me back to
what is constant and solid. The house will be quiet and I might
become so frustrated by a spate of rejection letters that I retreat
to re-runs of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. I have let myself down so
many times and even after posting at least 1000 words every week for
over six years I still don't entirely trust myself to persevere.
But even if my grand writer's life I envision doesn't come to
fruition, I am loved obviously.
Look for the first of my now monthly
posts the first week of October. May you be inscribed upon the book
of life for a good year.
Shabbat Shalom and L'Shana Tova
Friday, September 7, 2012
Turn on Future Street
After more than twenty years of
marriage Himself and I have a list of subjects we know better than to
talk about. I usually don't broach these topics here at Casamurphy
either. Knowing the political predilections of most of the mutual
friends who read this, I protect Himself from their censure. However,
because it is a good illustration of our half empty/half full
dichotomy, I will provide a single example. I am watching a program
about the ease with which automatic weapons can be purchased from
unlicensed dealers at gun shows and the attenuate carnage that
results when these guns are smuggled into Mexico. Himself has
sequestered himself in his office during the recent heatwave. It is
the coolest room in the house and as it is the end of his teaching
quarter he has legitimate reason to hole up there. I guess a
squabble is better than no attention at all so when he comes up for a
snack, anticipating the response, I posit, “You don't really give a
rat's ass about gun control, do you?”
I get the answer I expect. The culture
is just too far gone. It won't make a difference. Outlawing weapons
will just lead to a greater black market and probably even exacerbate
the violence. I relent that this may be the short term result. But,
I add that, despite the immediate consequences, at least giving lip
service to getting automatic weapons out of distribution might serve
to shape a vision for future generations. European countries with
strict gun control laws experience far less violence than we do in
the U.S. It's not like they don't have their own blood soaked
histories, but a conscious decision was made to change the mindset a
generation ago and it worked. He shrugs, finishes a tangerine and
skulks back to the basement. He knows that his pessimism keeps me on
my toes and that he'd actually hate it if my outlook were as dark as
his own.
Bored, with the kids at the FYF
festival and Himself sequestered in his office, I accompany a friend
to see Robot and Frank Coincidentally, this film, as well as two
novels I'm reading, “Arcadia” by Lauren Groff and “True
Believers” by Kurt Anderson are all set in the not very distant
future. All three works are too character driven fall into the
category of speculative fiction but there are hints about what the
world might be like a few years down the pike. In Arcadia, a
character stricken with ALS uses a device that can simulate speech
based on the movement of her eyes. In Robot and Frank, a robot
replaces a home health care assistant. Both of these technologies
are actually in development now and these fictions suggest how life
improving these and other technological advances will likely become.
The two novels and the film also
suggest that our dependence on technology will compromise the quality
of human interaction. Himself would be all over this. Plus throw in
invasion of privacy, identity theft and cyber-warfare. As stoked as
I am about the promise of the new I admit I'm sometimes disturbed to
find myself forgetting that Siri is not a real person. And when I
ask her to find a nearby Von's Market the stupid bitch keeps trying
to direct me to a bail bondsman.
My dad caressed his infant grandson's
head and whispered, “I wonder what you will see in your lifetime.”
The kids are totally nonplussed by advances in technology. My boys
don't want to hear about black and white TVs and only seven channels.
They mistakenly read a subtext of criticism, and complaint about how
much easier they have it, into my awe at the modern world. In truth,
I don't think they really have it that much easier. The economy was
more stable when I was their age. Himself and I both applied to a
single college to which we were accepted and subsequently attended.
Now the stakes seem way higher and the process requires spread sheets
and professional intervention. Our college educations pretty much
guaranteed us work of some sort. My kids' educations insure them
nothing but debt.
When there was nothing I liked on TV, I
was too lazy to go outside and didn't have anything I felt like
reading I was, for better or worse, alone with my thoughts. I
complained about being bored all the time. My cousin and I had an
exchange that was so frequent it became a comedy routine. “Whaddaya
wanna do?” “I dunno. Whaddaya wanna do?” With so much
stimulation available on immediate demand I don't remember either of
my kids ever whining about boredom. They do have social interactions
but don't have to aggressively seek them out because they connect via
social media and have infinite entertainment options. Are they ever,
I wonder, just lost in their own thoughts?
Given the polarity of their folks, my
kids are coming up in the best of times and the worst of times. I
think that ultimately technology will make the world a better place.
Himself sees Armageddon around every corner. Like my dad, I wonder
what the kids will see in their lifetimes. I worry for them. We both
do. But our divided partnership is united in our sureness that no
matter what, our kids are good. This fills us both with optimism. I
drive down Cypress Avenue and need to cut over to San Fernando before
it turns into Eagle Rock Blvd. There are two streets where it is
easy to turn. One is Division and the other is Future. Division is
a little quicker but I always choose Future.
Friday, August 31, 2012
The Motherboy Dance
Both of my kids still eagerly
anticipate the arrival of summer. I have grown out of this myself.
Still, Labor Day always comes with a kernel of sorrow that the
promise of another summer has gone unfulfilled. Joe College packs
his stuff, five boxes of vinyl records, a turntable and a few
garments, and returns to school. He has discussed the possibility of
living off campus. He is intrigued but Himself and I tell him that
he will have his whole life to worry about running a household so
there's no reason to rush into it unnecessarily. I struggle all
summer not to lash out in disgust at his indolence but when I return
from work the day he's left, I weep a little. He is indeed returning
home this weekend for a music festival but nevertheless, I get caught
up in the symbolism and the knowing that each leaving brings me
closer to the final one.
The night before Joe College returns to
school I tell him that the dinner plan is up to him. Instead of
dining out he requests a steak (which no one else in the household
eats) and mashed potatoes. I sear the steak to a perfect medium
rare. I press the potatoes through a ricer until my hand aches. My
mother taught me to melt butter and then gradually heat it with
whipping cream and I present a big bowl of perfect fluffy spuds.
Spuds (the son, not the potatoes) needs to rush out and Himself is
working. This leaves Joe College in charge of clean up. I sweat in a
hot kitchen making foods I don't eat, so last night or not, he can
clean the friggin' kitchen. Despite the obvious pleasure he has
taken in his repast, he is not enthusiastic about the attendant KP.
He has inherited from his father an uncanny ability to convey disgust
through body language and facial expression. I mention that his
distaste for kitchen chores is perhaps a good example of why he's not
ready to live off campus. My recollection of this comment is that it
is stated mildly but perhaps my irritation at his monopolization of
couch and television all summer has seeped through. The boy explodes.
I am so gobsmacked that I am unable now
to accurately recount the entire profane exchange but the gist of
what the boy says is “Do not mother me!” and my fumbling,
inarticulate response is to the effect that this is my job and that
he will be better for it. The words “fuck” and “lazy” figure
in the conversation but I do not recall the exact context. The boy
stomps off to the basement and slams the door. Our plan has been to
watch Breaking Bad together. I watch it by myself but crank up the
volume extra loud so that he is well aware that I am watching without
him.
He calls before he hits the road the
next day. He says it's been a rough summer, returning to the
parental home after a year of quasi independence. The “mothering”
thing is troublesome he says but he doesn't want to leave with ill
will. It's not me, he says. He apologizes. I acknowledge the
weirdness of this in-between time. I am proud of him for reaching
out. I am disappointed in myself for behaving so childishly.
While writing this I get a call from
the boy in Redlands. His debit card has mysteriously disappeared
from his wallet. He is broke and his meal plan doesn't kick in for a
few days. I give him the number to call the credit union so he can
cancel the missing card and order a new one. I tell him there's
nothing else I can do and that he'll have to borrow some money from
one of his friends until his card is replaced. He's waiting for me
to yell at him but I don't. My calmness unsettles him more than if
I'd gone off.. I refuse to remonstrate him so he makes himself feel
more like an asshole than I ever could have. Undoubtedly there will
be more screw ups but his reaction suggests some maturation and the
experience perhaps will lead him toward increased mindfulness.
I recall a humiliating incident that
never made it into the manuscript I am completing. I am sitting at
the special 6th grade table, under a big umbrella at
Riverside Drive Elementary School. The conversation is lagging so I
mention that my mother has just been prescribed glasses. One of the
girls snarls, “Who cares? You're always going on about your
mother.” The other girls taunt me. “Mama's girl! Mama's girl!”
I was at the center of my own kids'
universe for so long. They are becoming themselves now. More and
more they will be called upon to take on the adult world. I shift
from the role of dictator to adviser but they're at an age when any
authoritative voice can feel grating and belittling. There is huge
internal and external pressure not to be a Mama's boy. The inevitable
detachment is always fraught. The summer is really over and in less
than a year Spuds will leave us too, most likely for the East Coast.
My boys will require less of me and fend more and more for
themselves. It takes real maturity not to conflate dependence with
love. I'm working on it.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Blubber Soul
When I was growing up there weren't many other fat teenagers. Now I
see fat girls all over. Fat jokes are still OK. Obesity, in popular
culture, seems to be one of the few human conditions that is exempt
from the rules of political correctness. Still while there's lots of
evidence of fat bashing on TV, real life seems more accepting
of the overweight as there are so many more real fat people.
The obesity rate in the U.S. was about 17% in 1962. It's over 35%
now. Fat teens wear the same fashions as thin girls, have boyfriends
and get knocked up even. During high school I yearned for anything
other than the matronly apparel that was available in large sizes and
for a boyfriend. I would have known better however then to get
knocked up. Because nearly 1/3 of teenagers are obese these days
it's sort of Darwinian that sexual proclivities have adjusted to
compensate for the mathematical imperative of lowered standards.
Sadly, my own aesthetic,shaped by a lifetime of self hatred, hasn't
evolved. When I see a fat girl I think exactly the same unkind
thoughts that I always suspected people were thinking about me.
Especially if she's wearing shorts.
The why of skyrocketing obesity is controversial, as is the cause of
obesity in general. I know intellectually that karma is not a factor
but have trouble accepting this on an emotional level. Genetics,
brain chemistry and lifestyle all make good cases. In 1962 however
there were indeed far fewer fast food franchises, portions were
smaller and there were no drive-thrus. I drive home past a big
McDonalds on San Fernando Road. Usually the parking lot isn't very
full but the drive-through line overflows into the street. Gas is
more than four bucks a gallon but people will idle in line for twenty
minutes rather then get out of their friggin' cars. I managed to
get fat without drive-thrus and supersizes but I imagine that these
luxuries would have made me even fatter.
Theoretically, I laud the fat acceptance movement and find much of
their work affirming and comforting. Unfortunately, my own life as a
very fat person has conditioned me to look at a fat person and feel
pity, revulsion and moral superiority. When I see a fat woman at the
supermarket I always sneak a judgmental glance at the contents of her
shopping cart. “Coke! Ben and Jerry's! Milanos! Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. What
a weak and pathetic person you are. I bet that jumbo bag of M&Ms
won't even make it home...” I suspect too that very few advocates
for the Fat Acceptance movement, despite their professions of being
fat and happy, would reject a magic thinness pill.
I have not been thinner in my adult life than I am now. I am about
15 lbs from reaching my Weight Watchers' goal weight. I've been
dicking around with the same five pounds up and down for about three
months though. Weight Watchers encourages you to track what you eat
and ascribes a point system. I am lazy about tracking. I don't eat
anything, except perhaps a taste from someone's plate, blatantly
junky but I sometimes overdo it with “healthful” food. Weight
Watchers has also introduced a sophisticated sort of pedometer called
an Active Link which tracks activity level. The device costs about
$40 and the monitoring service is $5 a month. It's been quite hard
sell. I attend a weekly meeting with a group of girlfriends, all of
whom have had life long struggles with weight. We have all decided,
for different reasons, that we are not interested in purchasing the
Active Link. Meetings however for the past six weeks have revolved
around the product and the minutiae of operating it. I walk for at
least 8 hours every week. I don't want the damn contraption buzzing
at me every five minutes to remind me that I have a weight problem.
I've wasted enough of my life on that already.
I like our Weight Watcher's leader. She is smart and funny but she
toes the party line, an employee but also a sincere and true believer. She reminds us frequently that we can eat as
much fruit as we like. I don't buy this and weight gains on the weeks
when I have overindulged are a testament. I am shot down when I
mention this at a meeting. Our facilitator has lost only 30 lbs.
Chump change. She has no idea how very much fruit a person with a
history of super obesity can consume. I know that the Weight
Watchers Points Plus Plan is based on scientific investigation. I
suspect though that research subjects were overweight but not
morbidly obese. I further antagonize our leader, when after endless
discussions about the Active Link, she asks the group if anyone has
any questions about the device. The room is silent. I gleefully
high five my girlfriend. The leader's peripheral vision is way
better than I'd estimated. My punishment is another twenty minute
spiel about the Active Link.
One might wonder why I pay for my Weight Watchers membership and
slavishly attend the weekly meetings if I don't fully adhere to the
program. I go back and forth on this myself. I admit that breakfast
with the girls after the meeting is one of the major selling points.
I walk a lot. I consume, and enjoy, for the first time in my adult
life, breakfast. I eat what I like and eat frequently. I am not
completely cured but I have made headway with regard to mindless
eating. I may or may not buckle down for a couple of months to reach
the higher end of what Weight Watchers considers my ideal weight
range.
I struggle to straddle the line between being comfortably full vs.
too full. A lifetime of radical dieting makes this really
challenging. I worry sometimes about going completely out of
control and gaining back weight. My current regime is tolerable. I
don't have ESP but it seems realistic for me maintain my current
exercise and diet routine indefinitely. Because it's been a life long
pattern, I'm concerned that an even stricter routine might make me snap.
Maybe if I can keep it together within a five pound range I shouldn't
waste additional physic energy on my weight. So much of what I lost
out on in life was because I was fat and maybe it's OK to accept a
few extra pounds and get on with it.
The editor revising a manuscript advises me to downplay the family
saga and focus on the degradation I was subjected to as a fat person.
I tell him that I hate writing about this which convinces me that he
is right. Tapping out this current piece makes me uncomfortable.
Before my enrollment in Weight Watchers I ate a protein bar
mid-morning, in lieu of breakfast. The Think Thin is reputedly
developed by a bariatric surgeon. The bar is very low in calories
but loaded with enough protein power to produce a feeling of almost
uncomfortable fullness. The bar is filled with a coarse powdery
substance that tastes like glue and carob and coated with an
emollient intended to resemble chocolate only in appearance. I forced one of these down
every morning. I figured out pretty early on
that that filled me but didn't satisfy me and that as soon as the
fullness wore off I'd do some serious damage. Unfortunately they were
purchased at Costco so I had to choke down the whole big box before
swearing off the disgusting things. I see a mom, and her teenage
daughter who appears dangerously anorectic, at the protein bar
section of Fresh and Easy. The teen points her spindly arm at
the Think Thin bars. “Those are absolutely fantastic.” Anorexia
was never my problem but I used to wish it were. I have no worries
about becoming too thin. I do relate however to all of the girls and
women who undergo surgery, starve, binge, purge or exercise
themselves into a coma because they hate their bodies.
I've lived most of my life knowing that the first thing about me
people would register is “fat.” Now I am only about fifteen
pounds overweight so this is probably not the case. Of course, now
for the first time in my life when the quick read on me isn't “fat,”
it's “old”. This makes the quandary, about if staying thin will
seize as great a hold on my life as being fat did, even more
poignant. Obesity, I try to tell myself is not a due to a deficit in
character but a disease. But will being a slave to managing the
symptoms guarantee the best outcome? Will I really live longer if I
start tracking my food meticulously and hang a device that measures
my activity around my neck? Or will it just seem longer?
Friday, August 17, 2012
Writer's Splotch
I face the blank page at 11:18 Thursday
morning. Except for two or three vacations a year I post at least
1000 words every Friday before I leave the office. In an interview,
a writer I admire was talking about motivation. He said that he
completed his first novel by setting a deadline and deciding he'd
commit suicide if he hadn't finished the manuscript on schedule.
Personally, I won't eat dinner until this piece is posted, which for
me, is just about as extreme. Usually by Thursday morning the
lightening bolt has hit with the topic for my week's musings. Now
however I am forcing myself to write about not having anything to
write about. It is hot and my office is not air conditioned or even
ventilated. We are prone to blown fuses so I use only a tiny
personal fan clipped to my desk that blows hot air in my face and
causes the images on my computer screen to vibrate a bit. I have a
heat rash, and despite frequent colloidal oatmeal treatments, the
itch at times becomes unbearable. My body is a lattice work of red
splotches and scratches. The only place I am comfortable is immersed
in a cool bath with a thick paste of fine oatmeal slathered on my
skin.
Because I correspond weekly with three
prison inmates I feel obliged to appreciate how fortunate I am not to
live my life behind bars. I slap myself around when I begin the
descent into self pity. Often when I'm in the middle of a soul
deadening task it occurs to me how many others would envy my
drudgery. Now though even this sense of obligation can't lift me out
of my morass. I have another uncontrollable fit of scratching and
find tiny dots of blood seeping through my white top. I long to go
home and take a much higher than recommended dose of Benadryl and
crash but my colleague is on vacation so I'm stuck at the office.
Unfortunately it seems that everyone who might need stock footage is
on vacation too so there is nothing to distract me from writer's
block and unbearable itchiness. Plus there are no witnesses around
the office, except Rover, to prevent me from scratching and ruining a
perfectly nice peasant blouse.
I haven't been a student or even a
teacher for decades but I still get wistful and disappointed at
summer's end. In childhood the anticipation of summer is so blown
out of proportion that the fulfillment of expectation is nearly
impossible. Now summer means only not making the boy breakfast, yet
as I see kids return to the neighborhood schools I still sense the
sad undercurrent of unrealized promise. Spuds still has two weeks off
and is working on college applications and preparing to take the ACT
test again. He's returned to his tutoring job and is co-writing a
play. Joe College is in night owl mode, socializing with other home
from college kids into the wee hours. He returns to school in a
week. I resent his indolence now but when he goes I'll miss him
something fierce.
Himself and I spent some time up north
but neither kid has been anywhere this summer. The air conditioning
in the house isn't worth a damn so I decide on a weekend escape. My
criteria is cheap and well air conditioned and I find a great bargain
in Palm Springs. We stay at a Holiday Inn that's done over in
Pantone colors with retro desert flair. The air conditioning is
great and there is a poolside d.j. The kids swim and Himself and I
read in the room. We have a couple of good meals and no family
drama. I slaughter the kids at Scattagories and number one son
accepts his defeat rather ungraciously. “You just win because
you're so old.”
L.A. is just as hot when we return as
when we left. There is no maid to make my bed and leave fresh
towels. There is no restaurant in the lobby. I itch like crazy and
the oatmeal bath product I use leaves the tub gray and crusty. I
spend two hours in the steaming kitchen preparing a casserole with
salmon, kale, potatoes and onions. Himself gets a stricken look he
gets when he tastes something he dislikes. He says he can't control
this response but I'm skeptical. Number One son says, “You didn't
actually think we would like this, did you?” Spuds is silent but
takes one bite, silently rises and nukes for himself some leftover
chili.
Joe College has been commanded to at
least put an appearance at the office daily to help defray a bit the
expense pertinent to his education, transportation and existence.
This bores him although I do not take it personally, as this state
reflects his summer experience as a whole and not just the being
stuck at Mom's office part. He blows in and announces that his old
Volvo has failed the smog test twice. He is irate at having to take
it back to the mechanic and then for another smog check. I start to
say that this is a small price to pay for having a car, such as it
is, all expense paid. I stop myself. I wouldn't like going back to
for a third smog check either. I don't want to have a fight. I just
want him to get out so I can scratch in peace.
I am preparing to close the office and
return home to my gritty bathtub when Spuds calls. He's on his way
to his tutoring job and his car is acting up. He manages to make it
to the mechanic around the corner from my office and takes my car to
his job, stranding me at the office for another couple of hours. I
try to force myself to write instead of scratch. I actually make some
headway on a big manuscript I am struggling to revise. I come to a
natural stopping point and text Spuds to find out when he's coming to
fetch me. “Another hour,” he responds. I decide to comfort
myself with a New York Times Saturday crossword puzzle but find they
are no longer available free to subscribers of the paper. I switch
to the L.A. Times puzzles which are still free but you have to watch
a 30 second commercial for Ford Taurus before the crossword opens.
The L.A. Times puzzle only takes about 5 minutes. A new spot of rash
erupts on my back and I slide a ruler down my blouse.
Facebook seldom provides more than a
minute or two of distraction but this week I've been logging on way
more than usual. Writer Michael Santos was released, after 25 years
in prison, on Monday. Miraculously he has mastered an iPhone and is
posting pretty regularly from the free world. He's in a San
Francisco halfway house. He describes the sensation of walking down
the street as a man and not a prisoner for the first time. The wait
at the DMV office is three hours but the office closes before he has
time to take the driver's test. A Burger King Whopper is his first
restaurant experience. I know Santos only from having read his
writing but still I get a physical rush reading each of his postings.
The heatwave can't go on forever. I
imagine my itchiness will subside in a day or two. And if not, it's
the weekend so I'll have no compunction about altering my
consciousness. Maybe if I'm real doped up the kids will play
Scattagories with me again. If nothing else, Michael Santos is
starting an office job today and I can't wait to hear about how that
goes. Plus dithering around I've managed amass about 1314 words so I
can eat dinner.
Shabbat Shalom
Friday, August 10, 2012
Found and Lost
My friend Alan, an inmate at the
California Correctional Institute in Tehachapi writes that his life
is so monotonous that it is challenging for him to think of topics to
write me about. I send letters to him and two other inmates weekly.
It is difficult for me too sometimes to dredge up letter material
because, although by design and not circumstance, my own life is
just about as uneventful.
Michael Santos has been incarcerated in
federal prison for over twenty five years. He is due to be released
on Monday August 13. He was twenty three when his term began. He is
48 now. Santos has written eight books and is a contributor to the
Oxford Handbook on Sentencing and Corrections. He's completed
two masters degrees and was thwarted in finishing his PhD by prison
red tape. His wife posts his writings at the website
www.MichaelSantos.net. Santos chronicles his day-to- day activities,
the daily prison menu and his extraordinary exercise schedule. He
runs more than 20 miles daily and hasn't missed a day in many years.
In addition to his seminal writings about the criminal justice system
and guidance books about surviving incarceration he meticulously
chronicles every facet of prison life. These accounts demonstrate an
amazing self discipline that he's harnessed and enabled himself to
grow and flourish during twenty five years of confinement.
I haven't logged anywhere near the
mileage that Santos has but walking is integral to my own health and
sanity. I walk daily except I usually skip every 10th or
11th day. I take the same 3 ½ mile route Monday through
Friday. Our street becomes a dirt trail. I follow it to the end and
then ascend a steep incline to what the kids used to call “the top
of the world.” It's actually known as Kite Hill and once in a
while there really are kites. The view from one side is downtown
L.A., the rail yards, Dodger Stadium and the palms that surround it
and the Hollywood Hills. The panorama of Mount Washington, green and
dotted with cantilevered homes can be taken in from the other side of
the street. The ground is usually strewn with trash because, despite
the no parking signs, this is what my parents used to call a “make
out” spot. Most mornings there are beer bottles, marijuana
detritus, used condoms and fast food wrappers. I have mixed feelings
when I see discarded used condoms. I also scratch my head when some
of the empty beers are actually decent brands. You'd think someone
with a discerning palate and the wherewithal to buy good brew would
know better than to throw crap around, particularly in such a pretty
spot.
There was a decision to isolate Mount
Washington proper from the riffraff that assembles late at night on
Kite Hill. An iron gate has been installed. For the twenty years
we've lived in the area, the gate has been chained open, some free
thinking Mount Washingtonians unwilling apparently to create a gated
community. This shady street leads to San Rafael, the main drag. I
pass the stately Self Realization Fellowship Center, which used to be
the Mount Washington Hotel. Originally there was a funicular that
ran from there to Figueroa Blvd. SRF adherents wearing saris or long
skirts of the Orthodox Jewish persuasion sweep the sidewalks every
morning. The sweepers are always women. They do seem very peaceful
and self realized.
On the other side of San Rafael is the
Mount Washington Elementary School. There is a large modern library
and community center on the campus that was financed by neighborhood
efforts and named in honor of Jack and Denny Smith. Jack wrote for
the L.A. Times for 37 years. His daily column marked my transition
from kiddie to adult reading material. Based on his description of
his neighborhood, the verdant, quirky Mount Washington I decided at
age seven that this is where I wanted to live.
During the week I turn around in front
of the community bulletin board which usually has a lot of
pathetically optimistic fliers (coyotes...) about missing cats. On
Saturday and Sunday I continue on to the Seaview Loop. I pass a
number of modern case study houses, and also some unfortunate new
construction, to reach a trail that skirts the hillside. In clear
weather, Catalina is visible from several vantage points.
I recognize dogs and walkers. I notice
new cars and home improvements. Tuesday is trash day and I know
which neighbors are boozers or are slipshod about recycling. There
are people with shopping carts who trudge up the steepest hills and
rummage through recycling bins for cans and bottles. The dogs nearly
pull my arm out the socket when they see other dogs but are
indifferent to possums, skunks, and squirrels. Once I spot a deer.
I remind myself of my own good fortune, the childhood dream of living
in such a rustic area, just spitting distance from downtown,
realized. I do not vary my route for safety's sake. Sometimes I am
hyper-alert to my surroundings but often the rhythm of my steps lulls
me into a trance-like state and it is good that my route remains on
auto pilot.
On New Year's Day I find a laptop in a
case several yards from the top of Kite Hill. Halfway down the next
block there is a canvas bag with books and clothing. I assume
there's been a car break in and lug the computer and heavy bag of
books back home to do some forensic work. I find some invoices and
business cards in the laptop case and some bank statements in the bag
with the books. I surmise there was no car theft involved, just two
separate incidents of New Year's Eve drunkenness. I'm not home when
the laptop owner arrives to fetch it. Spuds says he's an old weird
guy with a ponytail, still befuddled at how the laptop ended up in
the street. He gives Spuds $10 which I let him keep, although I am
the one who dragged the thing home. The book bag has tacky coffee
table books with wizards and unicorns, and ever judgmental I
procrastinate about taking it back to the address on the bank
statement. If had been art I liked I probably would have been Johnny
on the spot about returning it. Walking one morning I notice a sign
on a telephone pole. “My book bag with art books was left beside
my car. Please return it. No questions asked.” I make Spuds
leave the bag on the door step at the crack of dawn, lest I be
caught, despite the promise of no questions.
A few weeks ago there is money, fives
and singles, scattered willy-nilly down middle of San Rafael. There
is no wallet or anything nearby to identify the possible owner of
what turns out to be $28 so I pocket it. My friend tells me that once
she found $500 on the street. She left a note on a nearby car saying
that if they'd lost some money they should contact her. A caller
soon reported having lost $500 and the money was returned. I tell
her she should have asked for the denominations because $500 might
have been a lucky guess. As hard as I try to convince myself
otherwise, I'm almost certain that I myself would have kept that
money too.
A few days later amidst the leavings of
what appears to have been a particularly raucous party night on Kite
Hill I find the California I.D of a young woman from El Monte. I
mail it off to her and don't bother with a return address. That she
may have moved or already replaced it is really of no concern to me.
I like to think that she is delighted to have it returned and
therefore avoid a long line at the DMV but I'll never know how it
played out. Addressing an envelope and springing 44 cents for a
postage stamp isn't as noble as returning $500 but I hope this made
the girl's life a bit easier and that if she returns to Kite Hill
that she cleans up after herself. Condoms and all.
Sometimes when I walk I am hyper-aware
of my surroundings and other times this is eclipsed by the voices in
my head. The route doesn't change and whatever my mindset, I strive
to keep the overwhelming vastness of the world at bay. Michael
Santos has run thousands of miles and I presume that the voice
inside, bidden by the rhythm of his feet, has led his mind to soar
beyond the confines of a prison camp. On Monday he will step out
into the vast world for the first time in over twenty-five years. I
have never met the man but I am elated and frightened for him. While
it is self imposed, the confined existence I've crafted for myself
comforts me. Freedom, the infinite vastness and possibility
overwhelms me. I wish Michael Santos all the best as he steps out
into a the big world that I struggle to keep small. From prison camp
to infinity. I pray he keeps on running.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Reality Blight
At a dinner party I confess that I love the reality show Teen Mom. Eyebrows go skyward and the host's college sophomore daughter
goes “ewww,” and then, “ick.” She seems completely repulsed
although when I go on to describe the tribulations of the young,
fertile and unwed it becomes apparent that she is more than a little
familiar with the show. Embarrassed, she confesses to seeing bits of
the program when her “roommate is watching.” Himself, who
thoroughly excoriates me for my addiction to reality shows, weighs in
that, yes indeed, Farrah is a bitch to her mom. Himself reddens when
the assembled turn to him in shock. The professional intellectual
squirms and mutters, “I hear it when she has it on.” The word
“she” is pronounced with a derisive edge. After making eye
contact with Himself and enunciating a request that he perform a
small household chore, I assume he is hearing impaired. I usually
end up doing it by myself. Nevertheless, he is not a auditorilly
challenged when it comes to the trevails of Maci and Amber.
There are so many reality shows that
there are sub-sub genres. From a production standpoint and in a
rotten economy with a zillion channels to fill, these shows are
cheaper to make. But they are indeed made because we do indeed watch. It started back in the 70s with An American
Family. I loved the show but there was a Margaret Mead quality and
PBS provenance that relegated it outside the realm of popular
entertainment. During the writer's strike of 1989, the show Cops,
the first successful mainstream reality show debuted and opened the
floodgates.
There are very few facets of society
that haven't been realitized. Even the technology shunning
Hutterite sect has its own show. It's on the National Geographic
Channel. The erstwhile bastion of intellectual edification has
become quite the bottom feeder. The Hutterites don't have televisions
although some of the sects, called colonies, have some cellphones and
limited Internet access. The young folks have uncannily nailed the
reality show convention. Nineteen year old Claudia is the colony
rebel. She wants to wear modern clothes, date “English” (as
non-Hutterites are called) boys and not be manacled to woman's work.
She is sort of the Hutterite Paris Hilton and she plays to the
camera. The older colonists are stiff and wooden. They repeat a
mantra flatly. “You can't work with the men Claudia” More
fascinating to me than the video of the Hutterites interacting in
front of the camera is the obvious cynicism of the show's creators.
A lot of reality programming
capitalizes on hard economic times. There are at least two shows that
are set in pawn shops. Storage Wars is about the auction of
lockers that have gone into rental arrears. Most of the units are
chock a block with possessions, lost to auction speculators, because
the owners are unable to keep up payments, which run about
$50 per month. There is never a nod to the irony that this default
on personal belongings has spawned such a profitable hit show.
Operation Repo stays on only when I have my hands in meatloaf and am
unable to change the channel. The show, by the way, has become a
huge international franchise. It's such an enormous hit because the
vehicle is never wrested from a mom driving her kids to school or
some poor schlemiel trying to get to work. Cars are taken from the
reprehensible, snotty debutantes and arrogant Hollywood types.
Justice is served. Schadenfreude apparently translates well into
every language.
The thirst for immersion into the lives
of every day people seems insatiable. Movies and fictional
television are escapist entertainment. Actors are more beautiful,
better dressed, wittier than any creature of the real world. People
spend far more time on-line or in front of the television than
engaged in social interaction. The digital age has fomented a
pervasive loneliness and we yearn to connect with real people. And
it is comforting to companion with those who are less beautiful, less
well dressed, highly stupid and who appear on camera to be
staggeringly bereft of self awareness.
Which brings me to two favorite shows
and a pending spin-off which are controversial, and I guess
despicable because they involve children. Nevertheless, when channel
surfing, Dance Moms and Toddlers and Tiaras trump all. I haven't
watched any of the real housewife shows but I presume the boozing,
sniping dance moms are cut from the same cloth. The daughters study
at the Abby Lee Dance Studio, Abby Lee herself being a 300 lb
harridan who heaps abuse on mothers and dancers alike. We forgive the
mothers a bit for forcing their daughters to endure this. When the
moms aren't going at each other they unite against Abby. On every
episode the moms exact a comeuppance and Miss Abby is somehow
humiliated. Nevertheless, Miss Abby's girls almost always beat the rival Candy
Apples in competition so her tyranny is endured. While the moms on
Toddlers and Tiaras are more low rent than the dance moms, the show
actually springs for some music rights. Miss Abby's girls go through
their paces to public domain production music while the toddlers rock
it to Beyonce and Madonna tunes.
There are about ten reality shows I
keep an eye on. Even though TLC ostensibly stands for “The
Learning Channel” Toddlers and Tiaras is lower on the food chain
than even Hoarders, perhaps even Animal Hoarders. This week though I
learn of a spin-off that will make Toddlers and Tiaras seem like
Proust. Here Comes Honey Boo Boo focuses on kiddie pageant queen,
Alana Thompson, a stand out out on the last season of the show. The
pudgy contestant swills a concoction of Mountain Dew and Red Bull
that her mom refers to as “go-go juice” and is animated, to say
the least, for the judges. Mom defends her use of the energy
beverage. Most of the other kids get Pixie Stix, which are referred
to as pageant crack, but Alana, it is reported,consumed fourteen with
no sign of improved vivacity.
Here Comes Honey Boo Boo follows not
just Alana, but the whole family. Certain motifs seem to be
effective for reality show success. Poetic justice- like when the
mean girl gets her corvette repo-ed-is is good. People also like to
watch fat people. Really fat people. This makes other really fat
people feel less freakish and less fat people feel thinner. I don't
know how Honey Boo Boo is going to employ the device of justice being
served but this family gives Biggest Loser a run for the money. As insurance that the non-severely brain-damaged viewers will feel
superior to the Honey Boo Boo family, there are lots of arm farts, butt
jokes and genuine mud wallowing.
I wish that this genre of television
hadn't early on been dubbed “Reality TV” My kids frequently
instruct me that the shows I watch are all faked. What kind of moron
do they think I am? Maybe we wouldn't look down our noses so much if
it were called“Manipulative TV” It's real life playing out a
fantasy of itself in front of a camera. Everyone is acting. Most of
the characters aren't very good actors. But it is fascinating to
watch people create characters based on their selves. The choice to
indulge in such exhibitionism is very telling. Who, with an iota of
decency, would attempt to convince a fat family to wallow in mud?
What, short of the threat of torture by starvation, would convince a
fat family to wallow in mud?
There is a self righteous gratification
that comes from being embarrassed for another human being. I am embarrassed for myself, having typed here several times. "Honey Boo Boo." Despite
the association with ickiness, this genre's day will come. There is
an art to this manipulation of reality. No cover is blown when we acknowledge the cunning, relying on non-professional actors
no less, this manipulation requires. It takes is a special editor to
manipulate the manipulation to its best effect. Just like in
fictional TV, it's about character, tone, arc and setting. Even the
most naïve viewers see the artifice. There's karmic justice and
beau-coup blubber. Still, reality TV studies will inevitably become
part of the cannon. Then maybe my family won't give me so much grief
about watching crap.
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