Why? because everyone is traceable these days. Hey if Israeli operative can be photographed prior to an assassination, then our lives are open to the world.
The truth is I am too stupid and I have too much to say that no one would voluntarily listen to, so I need a blog. Maybe I should call it my Blab or my Blah-Blah.
An option.
Hmmmm.
Recently, I have welcomed some friends to the unfortunate club of children who have lost parents.
The finality of it all. And the guilt that life must go on. I remember how hard it was to breathe sometimes.
What I don’t dare tell them is that after 7+ years, the snapshot I hold of you in my mind — white-haired wig, tennis sneakers, slacks, blouse (Dad didn’t like you in turtlenecks) and an Eddie Bauer or J. Crew woolen zip-up sweater — is getting a little vague and dimmed as time goes by. I have razor-sharp memories of many, many things — throughout the years and especially during the month before your death — but the sound of your voice, Mom, the sound of your voice, exists only in my imitation of what I remember of it. Has that become the memory and is your voice lost to me?
You are still a force in my life. I was recently at a company retreat and there were over 300 people I didn’t know. I just pretended to be you — the way you would walk into a room and find ways to meet and really talk with — well, up to then — strangers. My mantra, “just be Mom,” enables me to work the room but never like you, the master. You had a way (mine is diluted with Dad’s bluntness) of making people feel, as if when talking to you, no one else in the world existed and you had all the time in the world to chat. And they were right, you remembered everything and you were interested in them and what made them happy or sad and, if they seemed lonely, then — whether they liked it or not — they had to come to every holiday at our house. I feel that way, too, about people I meet, but sometimes my directness (ok, Dad’s genes again) turns them off.
To be fair to Dad, life in the fast-paced world of corporate law (and its diminishing economic rewards) make bluntness a relevant and useful tool. I try to do it á la Larry King (I know, I know, you stopped watching him once he started interviewing headline catchers and hangers-on), with a directness that is a little self-effacing but gets the point across. You see, Mom, I realize that since you died at an age a full 25 years younger than when your parents died, that I cannot rely on the fullness of time for people to come around. In truth, that is a cop-out. I am not as patient as you. And although I believe in the goodness of people and their senses of fundamental fairness, I have a more cynical streak. Since you died before the invasion of Iraq, you are just going to have to trust me that some Republicans and those who are leaders of the military-industrial complex are beyond redemption.
But then again you missed the heady days following Barack Hussein Obama’s election as the 44th President of the United States of America. That would have lifted your soul. The sheer promise of America in those moments would have made your eyes well with tears. He has been attacked and stymied at every turn, but, Mom, he is a transformational leader for our country and our generation. When I see the political machinations going on, I have to dig deep and believe as you that what is true and right will prevail.
Wow, after all of this, I guess you’re not so fuzzy after all. Even though the picture of you is getting fuzzy, you live on in my mind, my heart and my soul.
I really appreciate this talk. And I appreciate your stopping by in my dreams. When I am sick, could you remember to say, “my poor tsakele, if I could have it for you I would”? That always helped. Even your grandson needs to hear me say it “just like Grandma would’ve” when he is sick. And I totally get it. You never want your child to hurt even the teensiest bit. Maybe that is why you hang around, to ease our pain.
Ok, I am not ready to dive in the with the “G-d thing” but I believe that your life force abides. That’s as far as I am willing to go on the “everlasting” subject. You are going to have to win me over on that one. This is going to test your patience. (I was never the easy child.)
I love you. Now I am remembering that you did have a few cashmere turtlenecks, notwithstanding Dad’s preference otherwise, under your sweaters. (We still wear them.)
Love,
Me
I was at a company meeting and people were excited to have me on the various client teams because “we need diversity”. I realized they were talking about being a woman and I said, helpfully, that I satisfy two boxes. “Which other one?” “Gay,” I responded. Then I was asked if I wanted to join the GLBT affinity group. “No,” I said, “I am very comfortable being gay, and my only interest is satisfying client diversity requirements to get more business. But if you have a working mothers’ affinity group, that’d be great.”
So, I’m here, I’m queer, they are used to it, but they don’t get it.
Life is a journey. From birth to inescapable, uncheatable, death. We accept this cycle of life and the orderly progression from youth to elderly to . . . nothingness or life everlasting, depending on one’s view and religion.
But what breaks a person’s (my) heart is knowing — however tangentially — parents who must bury their children, and grandparents unable to comprehend or comfort their own grieving children. Since the 1950s, the death of a child breaks social and religious compacts, both having evolved from greater longevity and higher standards of living. Not long ago, parents buried children in this country all too often. Still, as a parent, I cannot imagine the pain and grief of those parents, just as I cannot imagine the pain and grief of parents of a girl recently found dead in her dorm room at college.
A life and future snuffed out and a family in tatters. And, depending on the cause of death, other young lives guilty for not preventing the loss or complicit in causing the loss. I look back on my college years and wonder how I survived the colossally stupid things I did. I think about the way I cavalierly put my life and limb at risk in crazy, drunken escapades in the snowy mountains of New Hampshire. And, yet, I survived. Why?
There is no rhyme or reason to who lives and who dies, who is born into riches and who is mired in poverty and who is blessed and who cursed. Yes, biblical and epic struggles between humans and G-d are unleashed again in times of gut-wrenching sadness.
It is part of the human condition, I believe, to become inured to the death tolls in far-away Iraq and the famine in parts of far-away Africa, but be heart-sick at the death of a child barely considered “kin”. Maybe because I am a parent. Maybe because it didn’t happen in a faraway place or under circumstances outside my experiences. Maybe because in the America of my hopes and dreams — and those of my parents and grandparents — things like this don’t happen. The “shining beacon to the world” (if that is still true) is a little dimmed by each such senseless death.
There are many riffs on this — political, sociological, religious — but the fact remains that a young life is lost. And that is just too much. And, maybe we ought to think about every life this way. But for right now, I am thinking locally not globally.
I only hope that the family of this young girl find some form of peace in their lifetimes.
It is funny how people give away private information about their kids without even knowing it.
I was at a meeting and we were talking about kids and dating and a colleague from the midwest said that her early-teens son was very friendly with girls but hadn’t decided on a girlfriend. Fine so far. Then she added, “but he is always out with them. If there are seven girls going to the movies, he’s the only guy.” Ok, ok, ok.
The difference between a New Yorker and a midwesterner is that we New Yorkers would know the implications of that fact pattern and would leave it to the son — and to time — to unravel the mysteries therein.
On Sunday night, we gathered for the usual family dinner. This time, we ate out, courtesy of Dad who stuck a crowbar in his wallet and sprung for the bill. It was my (older) sister’s 50th birthday. It was literally the least he could do. I did the least I could do as well by merely showing up. At least our son made a card.
Our son mentioned he would rather be watching the closing ceremonies of the Olympics. Ok, he doesn’t get the tact award. My cousin asked our son about what he saw and learned from watching the Olympics. He said that every night, he and I went over the sports that were too dangerous for him to try. My cousin asked what sport he could try and he answered, “curling”. My cousin leaned over and asked me in a sidebar, “how long do these prohibitions last?” to which I responded quite emphatically, “until I am DEAD!!”
Bottom line, my son will never make the skeleton or the luge team, as if they are sports anyway. They are kamikaze runs. Have you noticed that the winter sports are REALLY dangerous? Just ask any insurance agent whether some of these athletes can get life insurance. Ok, maybe Lloyd’s of London will insure these athletes. But then again, Lloyd’s insured the Argentine fleet against the British navy in that not-so-recent unpleasantness over the Falkland Islands. (Remind me why those islands mattered enough to risk lives?) Then again, Lloyd’s behavior seems quaint in the wake of the global economic collapse created by a few 25 year-old derivatives traders and short sellers. But I digress.
Curling isn’t really an option, either. It looks like “extreme housekeeping” with those hot iron and the brooms. And my son, a chip off the ol’ block that he is, knows gornischt (nothing) about housekeeping.
How do you know you’re getting older?
1. You are willing to spend a small fortune for an ounce of magic wrinkle-erasing moisturizer.
2. You pass by the General Nutrition Center and drop $150 on mind and body rejuvenating vitamin packets.
3. You see a picture of yourself and you say, “I don’t really look like that. I’m younger.” Which may make sense — if you are on a planet other than Earth.
Yep, I did all of these things. Maybe I just go for the full body lift. I am sure that I can get a good volume discount from some cut and paste doctor somewhere.
I recently flew to and from California. Years ago, the quality of ticket I purchased would have been in the “leisure traveler” section. Soon that name was too grand and the designation became “coach”. From there, it tumbled further down the slippery slope into “economy” class which meant no one cared if you had an aisle seat right next to the stinky bathroom. This trip has confirmed that the tumble has gone into free-fall and the proper designation is “cattle-car” class.
On the way there, parents separated from their children reached across strangers to hand their drooling children some bribe to try to stay quiet. Then the parents put on their Bose headphones — you know the ones that block out all sounds. Excuse me, but don’t you think that we — the poor strangers subjected to your whining progeny– deserve the headphones and you deserve to hear your children?
And I can’t forget the guy who pretended we were seated in first class by expanding his elbows not only into my personal space but in my very rib cage. (Really? Did you really not feel some resistance to your expansion, you creepy man?) I pulled down the tray table, put my pillow on it and then did a face plant into the pillow, so Mr. Strange-as-G-d-makes-us can elbow away.
On the way back, I took the red-eye and I was tired and aggravated. Already one guy held up an entire line of people to get his laptop out of his bag. And it was not my imagination — the seats were smaller. I am a little person and I felt like I was busting out of the seat. Also, someone (or more persons) took all of the space in my overhead bin. I was seated in the bulkhead so I had to stow everything. While the idiot man getting his computer held everyone up, I noticed someone adding a satchel to the luggage in my overhead bin. When I got to my row, I took the satchel and handed it back to the guy and said, “this is not going to work, I have no seats in front to stuff my bag under.” He took it and didn’t put up a fight.
And WHAT is with people not turning off their smart phones when asked? I was about to lunge at this young woman whose tweeting was obviously so profound and important that she could risk endangering us all. My colleague seated next to me stopped me so that I would not be arrested and carried off the plane in restraining gear.
And, $3 for earphones? Soon we are going to have to pay to use the restrooms.
Airplanes today are just gross and need to be upgraded for humane use.
Ok, I remember flying Air Myanmar. The planes seemed like demo models because they had indentations where the oxygen mask and the flight attendant button ought to have been. Also the seats flopped back and forth on take-off and landing. I sat next to a Buddhist monk so I felt safe. My friend was in a row with only one seat; the rest of the row was penned-in for some yaks who were also welcomed aboard in that way that only a repressive regime can welcome a visitor (“Good luck, if you have it”).
So, airplanes today aren’t the most inhumane I’ve experienced but I am going to save my pennies and investigate private plane service. I bet it costs about the same as first class, which isn’t even first class anymore.