When I was younger, I used to wish I had grown up in the 1960s instead of growing up in the 1970s. My brothers, 6 and 9 years older than me, turned me onto the Beatles and the Stones and, to some degree, the Who. My 2 female cousins, 9 and 11 years older, gave me hand-me-down tie-dye shirts and fringed leather belts and worn bell-bottom jeans adorned with patches of peace signs and rainbows. I had a black-light poster on my bedroom wall with the words "Make Love Not War" in the shape of a peace sign. I'm sure I didn't know the true meaning of that phrase; I just thought it meant people should be nice to each other and not go to war.
I was 7 or 8 years old and I wanted to be a hippie. My brothers and my cousins thought it was cute -- or maybe annoying -- but I was serious. Hippies listened to that cool music and wore those great clothes. If I were 10 years older I'd be a good hippie, I just knew it. I'd grow my hair long and iron it straight and wear a headband, maybe with a daisy tucked behind my ear. I'd sit in the middle of Central Park and recite poetry and smoke pot and go behind a bush and exercise my right to free love, and maybe I'd take a hit of acid and dance naked in the rain on the Great Lawn. I'd give a cop the peace sign just to piss him off. I'd go to rallies and yell things like "Stop police brutality!"
Yeah, those demonstrations. I wanted to be a part of that too, something bigger than myself. I wanted to be an activist, to make a difference, to protest against the war and racism and segregation, and fight for feminism and reproductive freedom, even though I really didn't know exactly what all those things were. I just knew people were speaking out against injustices, questioning the authority of our government. It would have been so cool to be right in the middle of that, maybe even get arrested.
As I got older I realized that although those demonstrations brought about great change that made things better for this country, it wasn't fun or cool. It was a fascinating and pivotal and important time, but it wasn't an easy ride. So many ideas borne out of love for this country and a yearning for peace and equality turned to anger and hate and escalated to all-out violence. Good intentions got twisted and the results were bullets and fire bombs. People died. This wasn't supposed to happen, this cruel irony of peace turning to violence.
We The People challenged the establishment out of what we believed was necessity. We risked dividing our country for what we thought would be a greater good. But it was a long time before the divisiveness was healed. Some of it still isn't. It's easy for me to say now, nearly 40 years later, that it was worth it, because even though I was alive, I didn't really live through it. I didn't experience it. And for a long time that made me sad.
Now I may get to experience some of the tumult I missed the first time around, and it's terrifying. We're becoming a nation divided. There is anger and fear and ignorance at every turn. It's been there, under the surface, maybe still from the '60s, maybe even from before that, but it's different now. This time it's being fueled, not stifled, by our government. And it's getting out of control.
There is a powerful man breeding ignorance and divisiveness, instilling fear in this nation -- fear that is unfounded, fear that he knows is unfounded -- in a desperate quest for even more power. Elected officials are riling crowds and creating a great divide that we are all sure to fall into if something doesn't change. They've condoned by their silence the ignorance and hatred and potentially explosive violence that could very well be the end result of these subtly sown seeds of fear. It seems to be gaining a life of its own, and only now is this powerful man making a weak attempt to ease his conscience and avoid the moral accountability if someone ends up dead because of it. Would that also be for the greater good?
It's hard to believe what I'm seeing and hearing. It's truly surreal. And truly frightening. Because as much as we would love to cling to the belief that "That couldn't happen again," it could, and it might. If it hasn't already. We're not as far removed from that divisiveness as we'd like to think.
Right now, the campaign itself is on the back burner for me. So is the fact that in 20 years I might retire to a nice double-wide cardboard box, covered in newspapers for warmth and eating ouf of a Dumpster. Because that's 20 years from now. Today is what worries me.
For a long time I was sad that I missed the radical '60s. But here I am. It's 2008. I am 42 years old. I am sitting my living room alone, crying, afraid that I might actually get to witness fear and frustration turn to social unrest and then into outright violence. I really don't want to be a hippie.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
"Never forget"? How can we?
I see it on T-shirts and bumper stickers at least 3-4 times a week. The shirts are dark blue and there's usually an image of some kind of badge, no doubt to make people think they are authorized by the fire department or police department, and not made by some fly-by-night scumbag who printed them in his basement to make a quick buck off a national tragedy. The date is always huge, with the eleven replaced by an image of the towers, like some cutesy marketing tie-in.
When my alarm clock goes off at 7:14 every weekday morning, I usually hear a snippet from a top 40 song, or the morning zoo DJ doing a phone scam or traffic report. This morning the first words I heard were, "...when the towers came down." I hit the snooze immediately and 9 minutes later I heard the strains of what sounded like a country ballad with the words "survive" and "guilty" and I again turned it off before I could hear more. Looks like I won't be listening to streaming music at my desk until at least 10:00, when the morbid "festivities" are over. I looked out the window and felt grateful that it was cloudy and looked like it might rain; there will be no chance for anyone to say, "It was a bright, sunny September day, just like today."
For the last week the local news stations have been pushing their "live coverage starting at 8 a.m." The ringing of the bells at 8:45 and 9:03, the reading of the names, speeches by local and national politicians, by friends and families. The candles and banners all part of a maudlin, drawn-out "tribute." The media descends on this scene and devours it, making it even more of a circus, a creepy live-action version of "Dirty Laundry." Get the widow on the set. The survivors come together to mourn and cry and relive that day over and over until it becomes sick game of one-upmanship: "I heard about it first." "I saw them come down." "I heard that body hit Father Judge." Then next week they'll all go back to fighting about a memorial and park and a museum and what shows "respect" and what doesn't, what the victims are "entitled" to, and whose family gets their name in the paper this time, as if he who screams the loudest was affected the most.
We were all affected. The entire country. Some more than others, obviously. In these parts everybody has a story of where they were, who they lost, who got out, who would have been there but called in sick or missed their train. And we shared them with anyone who would listen. It was therapeutic in the beginning. It helped us on the path to start healing. But now we're stuck. I don't know if it's the whole country; my perception is skewed by being right in the middle of it. But as a community, at least, seven years later we are definitely stuck.
Giuliani saved this city. He was a hero and a champion. I can't imagine how anyone else could have done a better job in that freakish aftermath. But he's stuck too. Worse, he's keeping the country stuck, and afraid, and angry, and it's all for selfish motivations. Rudy did great things for this city before and after the tragedy, but his time has passed. Bloomberg is living in the now: It's time to move on.
I don't want to forget. We shouldn't forget. And honestly, how could we? Even if there is never another memorial service, never another newscast replaying those horrific images. We simply won't forget. And we don't need T-shirts to tell us.
When my alarm clock goes off at 7:14 every weekday morning, I usually hear a snippet from a top 40 song, or the morning zoo DJ doing a phone scam or traffic report. This morning the first words I heard were, "...when the towers came down." I hit the snooze immediately and 9 minutes later I heard the strains of what sounded like a country ballad with the words "survive" and "guilty" and I again turned it off before I could hear more. Looks like I won't be listening to streaming music at my desk until at least 10:00, when the morbid "festivities" are over. I looked out the window and felt grateful that it was cloudy and looked like it might rain; there will be no chance for anyone to say, "It was a bright, sunny September day, just like today."
For the last week the local news stations have been pushing their "live coverage starting at 8 a.m." The ringing of the bells at 8:45 and 9:03, the reading of the names, speeches by local and national politicians, by friends and families. The candles and banners all part of a maudlin, drawn-out "tribute." The media descends on this scene and devours it, making it even more of a circus, a creepy live-action version of "Dirty Laundry." Get the widow on the set. The survivors come together to mourn and cry and relive that day over and over until it becomes sick game of one-upmanship: "I heard about it first." "I saw them come down." "I heard that body hit Father Judge." Then next week they'll all go back to fighting about a memorial and park and a museum and what shows "respect" and what doesn't, what the victims are "entitled" to, and whose family gets their name in the paper this time, as if he who screams the loudest was affected the most.
We were all affected. The entire country. Some more than others, obviously. In these parts everybody has a story of where they were, who they lost, who got out, who would have been there but called in sick or missed their train. And we shared them with anyone who would listen. It was therapeutic in the beginning. It helped us on the path to start healing. But now we're stuck. I don't know if it's the whole country; my perception is skewed by being right in the middle of it. But as a community, at least, seven years later we are definitely stuck.
Giuliani saved this city. He was a hero and a champion. I can't imagine how anyone else could have done a better job in that freakish aftermath. But he's stuck too. Worse, he's keeping the country stuck, and afraid, and angry, and it's all for selfish motivations. Rudy did great things for this city before and after the tragedy, but his time has passed. Bloomberg is living in the now: It's time to move on.
I don't want to forget. We shouldn't forget. And honestly, how could we? Even if there is never another memorial service, never another newscast replaying those horrific images. We simply won't forget. And we don't need T-shirts to tell us.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
I coulda been a contender
Well, maybe not then, but definitely now. So I guess I should say I could be a contender. If I wanted to be. But I won't be. I've past my prime for a major title and the window for opportunity is permanently closed, and that's OK. All is how it should be. Whether I was in shape all along and didn't realize or I developed the skills and footwork along the way, it doesn't matter. It's just nice to know I have it in me now. For a minute I thought of it as wasted talent, but it just means I saved my strength and I'll still be standing later on. I don't need to be inside the ring. I'll be ready in the corner with water and smelling salts, and it's enough to know I'll be able to help someone else go the distance.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
all wet
Am I drowning in debt or drowning in ignorance? And if I'm saved from one, will even it matter as the other fills my lungs, my body, every last cell and suffocates me from the inside?
Monday, July 21, 2008
dog paddle
I can't keep up. And you've never asked me to. And I know you would never expect me to. And I know that I can't. So I quietly accept it and just try to be gracious. For the most part I'm actually glad you're so far ahead. It means I don't have to swim as far or as fast, and that you're clearing the way for both of us. I'm tired of being the one who had to do all the work while everyone else just floated on their backs and enjoyed the scenery. And for now I know it's OK to kinda swim in your path, follow behind. But I'm starting to flail a bit. Not a lot, but it's getting harder to keep up.
If I start to really struggle I know I'll still be OK. No one will let me drown. I have a hard time asking for help, but I know I'm smart enough to ask for a hand when I need it and not get sucked down by a riptide. The life guards will be more than happy to throw me a line. And I know I'll be invited into your life boat, and eventually we'll drift on over to that little island where we'll relax on the beach, sitting under a palm tree, watching the waves crash up on the sand -- but I also know that won't be for a little while. I can see the island but it's not as close as it sometimes seems. So while I'm out here swimming on my own, for now, I want to be able to keep my head above water. I may have to take a break and tread for a minute or two, and I'm fine with that. I know you'll always keep me in your sights and not leave me behind.
It's not always easy swimming on my own. But I'm kicking as hard as I can.
If I start to really struggle I know I'll still be OK. No one will let me drown. I have a hard time asking for help, but I know I'm smart enough to ask for a hand when I need it and not get sucked down by a riptide. The life guards will be more than happy to throw me a line. And I know I'll be invited into your life boat, and eventually we'll drift on over to that little island where we'll relax on the beach, sitting under a palm tree, watching the waves crash up on the sand -- but I also know that won't be for a little while. I can see the island but it's not as close as it sometimes seems. So while I'm out here swimming on my own, for now, I want to be able to keep my head above water. I may have to take a break and tread for a minute or two, and I'm fine with that. I know you'll always keep me in your sights and not leave me behind.
It's not always easy swimming on my own. But I'm kicking as hard as I can.
Friday, June 6, 2008
osmosis
I haven't been through the same pain, grief, and loss as some. I've had my share of different kinds, and I've come through (I realize now) stronger and better able to cope with the next crisis. And I've had my experiences with short-term "appreciation" after a tragedy. You think, "If I get through this, I will never be petty or small again. I'll be grateful for the little things and remember every day how short life is." Like when people in New York were so pleasant and courteous and patient with each other in the fall of 2001. Reaching out to strangers, smiling, letting people in front of them at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. It was like a whole new city. Until it wasn't anymore.
But now I feel gratitude and an appreciation for life and the little things in a way that I've never felt before. Not in a big grandiose way, after some disturbing event, where I'm compelled to move to the opposite end of the spectrum in an effort to neutralize the pain. Not that I have to shout it in the streets and analyze it in my head until it doesn't mean anything anymore. But I find myself smiling in places and situations that seem ... unusual. Being quietly grateful from my gut for something that's pretty trivial on the surface. Like sitting in a movie theater. Or husking corn. Or grocery shopping. It's really not the places, now that I think about it, but the people in those places. I am more thankful for a short-term plane ride or a trip to the mall than I ever thought I could be.
Nothing specific has happened to cause this shift. Just being around people who are grateful, who have known great loss and can still appreciate everything in their lives, has somehow instilled in me a new gratitude. It's a long-term effect from constant exposure to the ultimate in appreciation for what you have, not despair over what you don't.
And I like it. I like that fluttery feeling in my chest when I catch myself realizing how lucky I am. I like the odd look from strangers who catch me smiling unconsciously for no apparent reason. Most of all, I like that I like my life. It's a nice change of pace.
But now I feel gratitude and an appreciation for life and the little things in a way that I've never felt before. Not in a big grandiose way, after some disturbing event, where I'm compelled to move to the opposite end of the spectrum in an effort to neutralize the pain. Not that I have to shout it in the streets and analyze it in my head until it doesn't mean anything anymore. But I find myself smiling in places and situations that seem ... unusual. Being quietly grateful from my gut for something that's pretty trivial on the surface. Like sitting in a movie theater. Or husking corn. Or grocery shopping. It's really not the places, now that I think about it, but the people in those places. I am more thankful for a short-term plane ride or a trip to the mall than I ever thought I could be.
Nothing specific has happened to cause this shift. Just being around people who are grateful, who have known great loss and can still appreciate everything in their lives, has somehow instilled in me a new gratitude. It's a long-term effect from constant exposure to the ultimate in appreciation for what you have, not despair over what you don't.
And I like it. I like that fluttery feeling in my chest when I catch myself realizing how lucky I am. I like the odd look from strangers who catch me smiling unconsciously for no apparent reason. Most of all, I like that I like my life. It's a nice change of pace.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
...like a hole in the head
That's how much 14th Street needs another video/electronics store. Yet another place to buy fell-off-the-back-of-a-truck DVD players and "rebuilt" iPod knock-offs for cheap that will last until about a week after the store goes out of business. Another place that sells bootleg movies up front and adult movies behind a black curtain in the back corner. Another place with so many "sale" and "buy it now" signs in the window that you can't see inside. Another place that entices the young mothers to spend their welfare checks on the latest and greatest "cool-as-shit" toys before they can waste it on another tattoo or some ghetto-gold earrings or diapers and milk. Yeah, that kid definitely needs a new Wii more than he needs new shoes.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
things I’ll leave behind
Sleeping as late as I want to on a weekend. A veggie burger and a bag of Baked Doritos for dinner. Three nights in a row! My laptop next to me on the couch as I watch "The Office" or "American Idol" while flipping back to the Rangers game on commercials. Jewelry strewn all over the top of the dresser. About 80 pairs of shoes and boots in the closet, and some on the floor next to my bed. Walking back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom after a shower completely naked. Napping on the couch for 2 hours on Sunday afternoon with Court TV on for background noise. Changing into my PJs the minute I get home from work because I don't have to leave the apartment until the next morning. The trash/recycling room right across the hall. Bathroom spritz-and-dry for wrinkled clothes at the last minute. Spending money on whatever I want, maybe a seventh pair of black sandals (because really, they are all different!) and not explaining myself. Waiting until I need underwear to do laundry. And no stairs to carry it up or down. Eating half a sleeve (or more) of Girl Scout cookies in one sitting. On-site dry cleaning. Sushi, Mexican, Italian, and pub food all within a block. Cleaning in spurts. Holding onto catalogs that I know I'll never order from. Silence and solitude whenever I want it.
Silence and solitude when I really don't want it. That's enough to offset the laundry and the cookies and the sushi and the catalogs and the PJs several times over.
The shoes are a tough call!
Silence and solitude when I really don't want it. That's enough to offset the laundry and the cookies and the sushi and the catalogs and the PJs several times over.
The shoes are a tough call!
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
answers
Seems I'm not blind. It's light, I'm safe, and the numbers add up. There are still hurdles -- some pretty big -- but I don't have to navigate them alone. And taken slowly and deliberately, this marathon will be worth more than a thousand sprints. More difficult and more challenging, but definitely the payoff I'm looking for. Guess I'll have to train on the Spanish Steps.
Ciao.
Ciao.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
none so blind as she who will not see
Am I really living in the light? Or do I have my eyes closed so tightly that I can't see I'm still in the dark? Is it really my soft place to fall? Or have I insulated myself so tightly from reality that I can't feel the pain when I crash to the floor? Do I really have lucky numbers? Or am I using fuzzy math to ensure I don't end up on the wrong side of the balance sheet?
I won't know until I open my eyes, throw off that blanket, and take a hard, close look at that bottom line. You can't judge others' fears until you face your own.
I won't know until I open my eyes, throw off that blanket, and take a hard, close look at that bottom line. You can't judge others' fears until you face your own.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
fear and loathing on staten island
Well, maybe not loathing. There's caution, a bit of skepticism, a touch of dismissal, possibly a dash of disdain, too (though I admit, that last one could be my own paranoia). But the fear is definitely there. Fear of what I represent: the idea that you, too, could be replaced someday.
I see it in your eyes. It's not always easy to see because you won't make eye contact with me -- sometimes you don't even look at me -- but I know it's there. "If her shoes can be filled, can mine?" So you reduce the entire idea of me to runner-up, place-holder, a consolation prize that doesn't really count, because of your own irrational, selfish fears.
But it's not about filling shoes. It's not even about her. And it's certainly not about you. It's about life and loss and acceptance and not judging people and situations you know nothing about. It might be a temporary comfort to your ego to believe that no one could love your family, or worse, be loved by them, bring them happiness the way you could. But if you couldn't, would you deny them that love, comfort, support, and security because it's coming from someone else? Are you really that selfish? If only you knew a fraction of what you think you know.
You think you need to "protect" them, even if only in your head, from the vamp who just might swoop in and take over. You don't want to imagine that the people who love you could go on to live full, happy lives with only pictures and memories of you to make it through. But now you have to imagine it, see it, and believe it. It's standing in front of you; it's having lunch with your daughters or picking them up from the movies; it's holding his hand or sitting a little too close to him for your comfort at the dance recital. It's me, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry your friend is dead, but I'm not sorry I'm here, and neither is he.
So accept me. Have the guts to look me in the eye, make conversation and be pleasant when he's not looking, not because you have to, just because you want to be nice, because I could possibly be a decent person who wants nothing more than to love this family. And because there but for the grace of whatever you believe in goes your own family.
I hope that I would, in my heart of hearts, truly want my love to find another to share his life and not mourn and deify me until the day he dies. I hope that I wouldn't begrudge him happiness after I was gone. How egocentric is it to believe that he could only be happy with me, that I would take to the grave with me his very reason to live? How selfish to expect him to be alone for the rest of his life?
To borrow phrasing from FDR, I guess the only thing you have to fear is the woman who will swoop in and take over your family. So keep living in the darkness of fear. We'll be out here in the light, living, period.
I see it in your eyes. It's not always easy to see because you won't make eye contact with me -- sometimes you don't even look at me -- but I know it's there. "If her shoes can be filled, can mine?" So you reduce the entire idea of me to runner-up, place-holder, a consolation prize that doesn't really count, because of your own irrational, selfish fears.
But it's not about filling shoes. It's not even about her. And it's certainly not about you. It's about life and loss and acceptance and not judging people and situations you know nothing about. It might be a temporary comfort to your ego to believe that no one could love your family, or worse, be loved by them, bring them happiness the way you could. But if you couldn't, would you deny them that love, comfort, support, and security because it's coming from someone else? Are you really that selfish? If only you knew a fraction of what you think you know.
You think you need to "protect" them, even if only in your head, from the vamp who just might swoop in and take over. You don't want to imagine that the people who love you could go on to live full, happy lives with only pictures and memories of you to make it through. But now you have to imagine it, see it, and believe it. It's standing in front of you; it's having lunch with your daughters or picking them up from the movies; it's holding his hand or sitting a little too close to him for your comfort at the dance recital. It's me, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry your friend is dead, but I'm not sorry I'm here, and neither is he.
So accept me. Have the guts to look me in the eye, make conversation and be pleasant when he's not looking, not because you have to, just because you want to be nice, because I could possibly be a decent person who wants nothing more than to love this family. And because there but for the grace of whatever you believe in goes your own family.
I hope that I would, in my heart of hearts, truly want my love to find another to share his life and not mourn and deify me until the day he dies. I hope that I wouldn't begrudge him happiness after I was gone. How egocentric is it to believe that he could only be happy with me, that I would take to the grave with me his very reason to live? How selfish to expect him to be alone for the rest of his life?
To borrow phrasing from FDR, I guess the only thing you have to fear is the woman who will swoop in and take over your family. So keep living in the darkness of fear. We'll be out here in the light, living, period.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
the best laid plans
I didn't plan to love you. I never thought it would happen. It just didn't seem to be in the cards for me, and I was OK with that. I'd accepted my fate with no self-pity, no regrets, just gratitude that I was moving forward slowly but surely, only slightly worse for the wear but quite a bit smarter. I was finally able to pull my life together, make sense of it, and things were going along fine. No hassles, no expectations.
Then I met you. I wasn't sure at first. I'd traveled this road before and I was afraid to head down there again. Let's just keep things casual, nothing serious. This can work without a lot of fanfare. But you pulled me in. How could I not want to get to know you better, be a bigger part of your world? And you seemed willing to let me in. Only a little at first. We're all recovering from something, and caution is an underrated defense.
But time passed and our guards came down. I watched as our lives became slowly intertwined, even if you didn't realize it. I felt it in the little things -- a smile, a look, a laugh. And I started to relax. And now you've relaxed. There's a comfort level on both sides that I never imagined.
Now every day I feel a little closer to you, I fall in love with you a little more. The days when I thought I could keep you at a distance are barely a memory. The idea of a pseudo-commitment to you seems ludicrous. I didn't think I had it in me to love you. But I'm happy to say I was wrong. You've brought so much to my life and you probably don't even know it. Some day, when the time is right, I'll tell you how much you mean to me. Both of you.
Then I met you. I wasn't sure at first. I'd traveled this road before and I was afraid to head down there again. Let's just keep things casual, nothing serious. This can work without a lot of fanfare. But you pulled me in. How could I not want to get to know you better, be a bigger part of your world? And you seemed willing to let me in. Only a little at first. We're all recovering from something, and caution is an underrated defense.
But time passed and our guards came down. I watched as our lives became slowly intertwined, even if you didn't realize it. I felt it in the little things -- a smile, a look, a laugh. And I started to relax. And now you've relaxed. There's a comfort level on both sides that I never imagined.
Now every day I feel a little closer to you, I fall in love with you a little more. The days when I thought I could keep you at a distance are barely a memory. The idea of a pseudo-commitment to you seems ludicrous. I didn't think I had it in me to love you. But I'm happy to say I was wrong. You've brought so much to my life and you probably don't even know it. Some day, when the time is right, I'll tell you how much you mean to me. Both of you.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
remember me?
I wish I could have known you better. Or maybe not. Then I'd probably miss you more. And maybe the loss would have been harder for you if we'd been closer. I wouldn't want that. I wonder how you are from time to time. Clearly, or else I wouldn't be dreaming about you. I wonder what story you were told about why I was suddenly gone from your lives. And if it even mattered to you.
I wonder if you'll remember me years from now. That's a little selfish, but I can't help thinking about it. I don't expect you to look me up when you get out of college, just maybe have a fleeting memory and think, "Oh, yeah, I remember her. She gave me a souvenir penny from the Crayola factory." Or, "Her parents made me an Easter basket." Then again you might think, "She's the reason I didn't get to spend a lot of time with my father."
It's OK. I couldn't blame you for thinking that, or even if you think that now. You were little girls. But I can blame him. I couldn't see it at the time, but my god, how selfish he was. The smugness and sense of entitlement, expecting things to go smoothly just because he wanted them to. And the criticism when they didn't. He certainly didn't break a sweat fostering the relationships between us. I was an adult, too. I could have made an effort. But honestly, I didn't know how. My gut told me he wasn't doing us any favors with his methods. I knew it wasn't good, but I didn't know how to change it. What did I know about kids? Nothing, really. And what little I thought I knew he disregarded, simply because I'd never given birth, apparently a criterion for understanding children. Maybe this is all no excuse, but it's the truth.
I know now how things should have happened, or at least one scenario that would have helped us get on better, might have even endeared us to each other. Maybe on some level he didn't want that, wanted to keep things separate in a freakish way to maintain control, remain at the helm of two separate ships instead of risking what he would perceive as a mutiny if the crew actually weren't always at odds. That, or he was thoroughly delusional and ignorant. What a choice! I hope your senses of self are strong enough to overcome having such a selfish prick as a parental figure.
I hope your lives go well, that you thrive and prosper and travel smooth roads, the ones you've chosen for yourselves and not had laid out for you by one trying to live vicariously. And I hope if you do remember me, it's with some bit of fondness, at least one nice memory. If you can't, I'd rather you forget me altogether.
I wonder if you'll remember me years from now. That's a little selfish, but I can't help thinking about it. I don't expect you to look me up when you get out of college, just maybe have a fleeting memory and think, "Oh, yeah, I remember her. She gave me a souvenir penny from the Crayola factory." Or, "Her parents made me an Easter basket." Then again you might think, "She's the reason I didn't get to spend a lot of time with my father."
It's OK. I couldn't blame you for thinking that, or even if you think that now. You were little girls. But I can blame him. I couldn't see it at the time, but my god, how selfish he was. The smugness and sense of entitlement, expecting things to go smoothly just because he wanted them to. And the criticism when they didn't. He certainly didn't break a sweat fostering the relationships between us. I was an adult, too. I could have made an effort. But honestly, I didn't know how. My gut told me he wasn't doing us any favors with his methods. I knew it wasn't good, but I didn't know how to change it. What did I know about kids? Nothing, really. And what little I thought I knew he disregarded, simply because I'd never given birth, apparently a criterion for understanding children. Maybe this is all no excuse, but it's the truth.
I know now how things should have happened, or at least one scenario that would have helped us get on better, might have even endeared us to each other. Maybe on some level he didn't want that, wanted to keep things separate in a freakish way to maintain control, remain at the helm of two separate ships instead of risking what he would perceive as a mutiny if the crew actually weren't always at odds. That, or he was thoroughly delusional and ignorant. What a choice! I hope your senses of self are strong enough to overcome having such a selfish prick as a parental figure.
I hope your lives go well, that you thrive and prosper and travel smooth roads, the ones you've chosen for yourselves and not had laid out for you by one trying to live vicariously. And I hope if you do remember me, it's with some bit of fondness, at least one nice memory. If you can't, I'd rather you forget me altogether.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
faces
I walk 14th, from 6th over to 8th and up to 15th. Lots of the same faces. I don't see them all every day, but every day I see at least one.
When I worked in Union Square the same thing happened: I'd see the same faces on my morning commute. Not sure why it didn't happen in the afternoon. I guess people's schedules are more "routine" earlier in the day. There was the skinny punk guy walking west on 15th Street, pale-faced and always dressed in skin-tight, narrow-to-the-ankle black jeans. And the woman by Au Bon Pain walking her Dalmatian-Chihuahua. That wasn't really the mix, but that's what it looked like: a white Chihuahua body with black spots, like a Dalmatian. I stopped to pet him once and the woman was friendly and eager to talk about her dog, but when I saw her 2 days later she looked right through me. Hey, I wasn’t looking for a new BFF, but what's wrong with being able to smile at someone a few times a week?
Anyway, now I'm on the west side and it's the same story, just different players. On the south side of the street there's mom and son and dog, coming out the door next to Spoon, maybe on the way to school. When summer comes I'll see if they’re still around or if they decide to sleep in. If I cross to the north there's Speedwalker Guy, in his black and silver Lycra pants, swinging his arms with feverish intent, lost behind his sunglasses and in the sounds of his iPod. Across 7th, about halfway down, past the framing store, I walk closer to the curb to avoid the fumes of Smokey Smokerson, who's leaning on the fence next to the Irish pub, puffing away. Then there's the girl with one leg. Seriously. One leg. A messenger bag is slung across her chest as she glides quickly up 14th on crutches. She never looks annoyed or put out, just makes her way to wherever she's going, with no sign of difficulty. Is she as OK with it as she looks, just playing the hand she was dealt, or is she a fountain of anger inside, mad at the world for the hassle she has no choice but to deal with every day? Either way, I should probably walk in her shoe for a day when I feel like taking the L out of sheer laziness. Then there's the crew of homeless on the corner of 8th Avenue, outside Associated Supermarkets. They laugh and joke (and approach random commuters for spare change, of course), like they're just a bunch of friends hanging out for the morning. A few have cardboard signs scrawled with a shorter-than-Reader's Digest version of how they ended up here. They're somewhat sheltered for now, under the scaffold, but what happens when the construction is finished? Maybe they'll find another corner.
Then there are people I see twice in one day. The woman in a leopard miniskirt and no stockings in the middle of January. It HAD to be 20 degrees. Did she not know the temperature when she left the apartment this morning? What would posses someone to dress that way in that weather? I like my fashion fine, but not at the cost of frostbite. I saw her on my way back to the PATH that night and laughed to myself. Did she notice me too, think it was funny to see the same person in the middle of, like, 8 million 9 hours later? I get a kick out of that.
I wonder if anyone looks for me in the morning. I could be Skechers Girl. Mock if you must, but I manage my way up the paper-littered PATH stairs and around cracked sidewalks much better and faster than High Heels at all Costs Fashion Chick. And my investments by the pair remain unscathed in my Franco Sarto tote bag, with my lunch and my Metro Card and the auto-close umbrella that I carry every day. Oh, and the small bottle of water I keep just in case I ever again feel like I'm going to pass out on the train. That's the kind of thing you only let happen once!
So, faces. And timing. That's a big factor. Which faces I see depends on whether I get my usual train or if I’m running late -- or, rarely, early. Who would I see if I had to be in the office at 8:30? Or not until 10:00? Another whole cast of New York characters with all-new stories that I could make up in my head.
When I worked in Union Square the same thing happened: I'd see the same faces on my morning commute. Not sure why it didn't happen in the afternoon. I guess people's schedules are more "routine" earlier in the day. There was the skinny punk guy walking west on 15th Street, pale-faced and always dressed in skin-tight, narrow-to-the-ankle black jeans. And the woman by Au Bon Pain walking her Dalmatian-Chihuahua. That wasn't really the mix, but that's what it looked like: a white Chihuahua body with black spots, like a Dalmatian. I stopped to pet him once and the woman was friendly and eager to talk about her dog, but when I saw her 2 days later she looked right through me. Hey, I wasn’t looking for a new BFF, but what's wrong with being able to smile at someone a few times a week?
Anyway, now I'm on the west side and it's the same story, just different players. On the south side of the street there's mom and son and dog, coming out the door next to Spoon, maybe on the way to school. When summer comes I'll see if they’re still around or if they decide to sleep in. If I cross to the north there's Speedwalker Guy, in his black and silver Lycra pants, swinging his arms with feverish intent, lost behind his sunglasses and in the sounds of his iPod. Across 7th, about halfway down, past the framing store, I walk closer to the curb to avoid the fumes of Smokey Smokerson, who's leaning on the fence next to the Irish pub, puffing away. Then there's the girl with one leg. Seriously. One leg. A messenger bag is slung across her chest as she glides quickly up 14th on crutches. She never looks annoyed or put out, just makes her way to wherever she's going, with no sign of difficulty. Is she as OK with it as she looks, just playing the hand she was dealt, or is she a fountain of anger inside, mad at the world for the hassle she has no choice but to deal with every day? Either way, I should probably walk in her shoe for a day when I feel like taking the L out of sheer laziness. Then there's the crew of homeless on the corner of 8th Avenue, outside Associated Supermarkets. They laugh and joke (and approach random commuters for spare change, of course), like they're just a bunch of friends hanging out for the morning. A few have cardboard signs scrawled with a shorter-than-Reader's Digest version of how they ended up here. They're somewhat sheltered for now, under the scaffold, but what happens when the construction is finished? Maybe they'll find another corner.
Then there are people I see twice in one day. The woman in a leopard miniskirt and no stockings in the middle of January. It HAD to be 20 degrees. Did she not know the temperature when she left the apartment this morning? What would posses someone to dress that way in that weather? I like my fashion fine, but not at the cost of frostbite. I saw her on my way back to the PATH that night and laughed to myself. Did she notice me too, think it was funny to see the same person in the middle of, like, 8 million 9 hours later? I get a kick out of that.
I wonder if anyone looks for me in the morning. I could be Skechers Girl. Mock if you must, but I manage my way up the paper-littered PATH stairs and around cracked sidewalks much better and faster than High Heels at all Costs Fashion Chick. And my investments by the pair remain unscathed in my Franco Sarto tote bag, with my lunch and my Metro Card and the auto-close umbrella that I carry every day. Oh, and the small bottle of water I keep just in case I ever again feel like I'm going to pass out on the train. That's the kind of thing you only let happen once!
So, faces. And timing. That's a big factor. Which faces I see depends on whether I get my usual train or if I’m running late -- or, rarely, early. Who would I see if I had to be in the office at 8:30? Or not until 10:00? Another whole cast of New York characters with all-new stories that I could make up in my head.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
my soft place to fall
A house I never would have chosen in a town whose name made me cringe. Floral prints and lacy table runners and enough wood to choke a horse. Ack! Art and statues I'd never buy -- angels and flowers and country landscapes. Talking about granite counters and science projects to people I couldn't imagine I'd have anything in common with.
There are dog hairs on my sweater and slobber on my hand. Not a real knife or a fresh vegetable in sight. (OK, maybe a tomato in the summer.) High-tech gadgets abound; TVs outnumber people 2 to 1, iPods 3 to 1. And there's not nearly enough closet space, I fear, to one day accommodate all my shoes.
But the couch, which is still most definitely not my taste, is soft and welcoming; the four legs that curl up on my own two bring me comfort, those brown eyes tell me she's happy I'm here and she feels safe in my lap. (Sucka!) The photos on that damn dark wood table show faces I've come to love. I try to imagine how I'll feel when my picture is among them.
I walk in to no fanfare. It's not a big deal that I'm there. And that's a good thing. There's diet soda in the basement and Splenda in the cabinet. And there's (almost) always a bottle of white chilling on the refrigerator door. I help myself to pretzels and Baby Bels, knowing there will always be enough for me. I'm even offered the occasional chicken nugget.
I can go there with a heavy heart and walk out with my head high, my load lighter. There's no judgment, no lectures, no grudges. Just love. And light. And acceptance.
It's my soft place to fall.
There are dog hairs on my sweater and slobber on my hand. Not a real knife or a fresh vegetable in sight. (OK, maybe a tomato in the summer.) High-tech gadgets abound; TVs outnumber people 2 to 1, iPods 3 to 1. And there's not nearly enough closet space, I fear, to one day accommodate all my shoes.
But the couch, which is still most definitely not my taste, is soft and welcoming; the four legs that curl up on my own two bring me comfort, those brown eyes tell me she's happy I'm here and she feels safe in my lap. (Sucka!) The photos on that damn dark wood table show faces I've come to love. I try to imagine how I'll feel when my picture is among them.
I walk in to no fanfare. It's not a big deal that I'm there. And that's a good thing. There's diet soda in the basement and Splenda in the cabinet. And there's (almost) always a bottle of white chilling on the refrigerator door. I help myself to pretzels and Baby Bels, knowing there will always be enough for me. I'm even offered the occasional chicken nugget.
I can go there with a heavy heart and walk out with my head high, my load lighter. There's no judgment, no lectures, no grudges. Just love. And light. And acceptance.
It's my soft place to fall.
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