If there is a heaven, this is what it would look like for my father.

The day my father died suddenly was the day fate handed me a lifetime membership in The Dead Dads Club. Everything shifted in my world, which had already turned on its axis 18 months earlier with the birth of my first child.

I like to think I grew up that year, that I became a better person as a result of these events.  I like to think once I change for the better, it is a permanent change. Just as all of life is fleeting, so is any state of being. One day I woke up to realize I am riding the same trajectory as my father.

Today, my post is on Mama Mary’s newly launched site, The Dead Dads Club. It is through this longtime endeavor of Mary’s that we met online four years ago. The site is a companion piece to her book, a compilation of essays from other members of the club. It’s  a club we all wish didn’t exist, to which diminishing membership would be a plus. But life is not like that. People come into our lives and they leave. Ours is not to know the when, where, and why, only to know that it is inevitable and we must stumble along the dark path from grief to healing.

Click on over and read for yourself. Thank you.

Trouble begins on the first page. A little boy in a costume, acting naughty, goes to his room without dinner. Then, strange things happen. Trunks and foliage sprout from the floorboards and bedpost, stretch skyward, knocking away walls and windows.  The ceiling retracts, exposing stars and clouds suspended above “the world all around.”

What luck: A private boat with his name on it sails him far away across a choppy sea to a land of monsters, which he tames with his staring trick. 

What an amazing — and scary — thing to have happen to your bedroom, especially when you are a kid in trouble. Nothing like that ever happened to me. The story reminded me of a time when I was young and I thought I’d have a solo adventure in the woods. When I was too far to run to safety or call for help, I heard the sloshing and branch-snapping of a large animal in the swamp. I stood still, heart bouncing in my chest, breathing heavily but quietly, until the sounds receded. Bear? Deer? Swamp monster? I’m sure I couldn’t tame it with my staring trick, but I did wish for a magic vehicle to sweep me away.

Much like that swamp encounter, my heart races as I thumb through the pages of “Where the Wild Things Are” ignoring the words at first in favor of drinking in the mesmerizing illustrations, which are neither too cheerful nor overly terrifying. As I sit cross-legged on the little carpet, I flip back to the beginning over and over, to carefully study the metamorphosis from tame to wild to tame again. I decide which monster is scariest: it’s a tie between the one with the rooster beak and the one with the bull horns.

There is danger but there also is power in this tale. I believe in monsters of all shapes. Some live in the shadows behind the attic door in my upstairs bedroom, others lurk under the bed. Some live in the bright light of day, visible to all, but only scary to me. I have no power.

It didn’t take long for someone else in the library that day to notice I was hoarding “Where the Wild Things Are.” He stomped over and demand I turn it over for his perusal. Reluctantly, I handed it to him and watched as a crowd of boys gathered around to follow Max’s journey. From that day on, it became a game of who’d get to the book first.

I’m sure I thought about Max’s adventure that night as I lay under covers, gazing at the sturdy walls, wondering if they had the potential to transform into something wild, or if my roof might retract to show the heavens.

I thought about it years later when I had my first child and the book was gifted to us. My little Girl from the West loved it so much she called it “Wild Rumpus.” I’d read it and we’d jump up and down in her room, roaring our terrible roars and gnashing our terrible teeth, making our own wild rumpus. I still have the framed print I made for her third birthday. It now hangs in our downstairs bath, an homage to the power of  imagination.  My husband, also a fan, brought to our marriage two copies of the book, along with soft cover collection of Sendak’s art.

So it was with surprise today that I learned Sendak died. I wasn’t sure I knew he was alive.  NPR aired an interview with Terry Gross from the ’80s.  He was a brusque, to-the-point kind of guy. I listened with pleasure and interest.  l liked how his mind worked, how he marched to a different beat.

A little reminder to us all: our children are wild and they have incredible imaginations. Let us tame the former to reasonable standards and the latter to no extent at all.

At the bus stop with a group of parents waiting for the big yellow bus to return, the topic of a classmate comes up. One of the parents learns of the puppy-love friendship between Girl from the East and the son of his best friend. We talk briefly about the boy, how he’s sweet and quirky. A future Conan O’Brien type, we say.

The bus squeals to a stop. The doors hiss open. Girl jumps out and races toward us.

Other parent, to Girl from the East: So, I hear you are friends with Little Conan.

Girl: Yeah, he’s really funny.

Other: Oh, he’s funny all right. That kid cracks me up.

Girl (through explosive giggles): I know. He always wants to touch and hug.

The other parent and I trade mouth agape, wide-eyed looks, turn to Girl and ask again: WHAT?

Girl: He’s always wanting to touch and hug.

Oh.

That kind of funny.

Here we go.

Time for the first of many, many, many talks.

_____

I laughed when that happened, but inside I knew that it is time to sit her down and have a talk about the right and wrong types of touching and hugging. It’s never too early. I need to show her that I am comfortable talking about these things. The hope is that she’ll feel comfortable enough to come to me with questions and concerns in this area. Make it clear to your kids and make a promise that you will keep that if they ever come to you with a report of something happening in the wrong touching/hugging category that you will act on it. You will not dismiss it in any way or call it a misunderstanding, an exaggeration, or an illusion. Good people will understand a parent’s concern. Better a few moments of embarassment than a lifetime of pain. We all know when something goes over the line. Kids know. We know.

Thank you.

——–

A first-grader's interpretation of me

The other day a friend sent me a link to Jimmie Dale Gilmore’s 2006 “This I Believe” essay on NPR. Gilmore writes of his struggle to overcome addiction and find peace. One line snagged that loose thread I always have trailing behind me:

“I basically managed to break my own heart.”

Until I read that line, I don’t think I ever acknowledged that I had done this to myself.

How do you break your own heart? Let me count the ways: Maybe you skip school on field day, where you qualified for three events, including relay; or you burn all your artwork and poetry in the fireplace and not submit it to the school’s creative publication; or fail to show up for your college graduation ceremony; or break up with the first guy who says he loves you; or walk away from honest, kind people and chase after projects and enigmas. You do it out of habit, believing you are diverting attention away from yourself. Really what you are doing is serving yourself before others in the most unloving way possible.

As Gilmore says: “It came as a great shock to discover that my real spiritual problem was not a product of the world’s condition, but of my own self-centeredness.”

Over and over I lost friendships and love interests because I couldn’t get past myself and this unnameable thing inside me. The worst part is I failed to see this. I’m still struggling.

The one thing I know now that I didn’t know then is that this stuff came from somewhere outside myself.  For the longest time I thought it hatched from a dark, unreachable pocket within me, almost like a partly formed twin. It must be so because all I ever heard was: We don’t know where she gets this stuff. Not from us, I’ll tell you that much.

Healing teaches that at some point you need to take responsibility for its long-term residency, no matter the terms of occupancy. You are the landlord. Issue an eviction notice.

Long before this knowledge, these inklings of wisdom, someone knew all about this unnameable thing. She watched. She kept quiet. She wept inside. One day many years later, she sat me down and told me everything (because she was tired of watching me do it all over again to myself) and said she was sorry she watched in silence. She was scared of consequences. She wanted to make up for all those years. So she loved me with all her heart. She put me above herself, the greatest gift anyone can give. I hold that love in a little box inside my heart, all that is left of her.

I am a woman of 47 years, a wife,  a mother, a survivor. I paid my way through college. I made a respectable if not modest place in the world for myself. I am old enough to know better but inside I’m still that skinny, hollow-eyed girl with the bull’s-eye on her back, the one who wasn’t pretty enough, smart enough, or anything enough to capture the attention of anyone with good intentions.

Tina Fey, in “A Mother’s Prayer for her Child,” implores: “May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty …”

Obviously, there is a connection between the unprotected, the damaged, and the predators, who will find that loose thread and pull you in.  It’s so easy to spot the damaged ones, the unprotected ones,  especially girls.  Maybe the kindly grocer didn’t see the mark on my back, but the wicked doctor did. Who would believe anything bad about a doctor  – back then?

I dreamed that when I grew up I would magically transform into a golden, blue-eyed goddess, an iridescent rain forest butterfly. I’d rise above.

You should be a writer, they said, you have such a wild imagination.

What was the truth? Where was the line between fact and face-saving fiction? Who knew anymore.

Year after year, sitting in one hard plastic chair after another, in one institutional counseling office after another, a middle-aged woman with red half-moon glasses or a balding man with the beginnings of a paunch and an IBM pocket protector, would lean in closer as if to count my blackheads, asking again and again:  “What is bothering you? Why are you fighting the world?” They’d ask, but I had no idea what to say. Were there words for such things? If so, did you say them out loud? I wasn’t fighting. I was hiding. I wanted to be let alone, ignored.  But this not knowing, this dark thing within, churned until it shaped a cold stone. It’s taken decades to chip away. It left a deep impression, one that cannot be smoothed away.  Sometimes I cannot resist the urge to run my fingers over its rough terrain.

Others taught me how to break my heart. Long after they were gone, I continued swinging the bat. At some point, I set down the bat and accepted the offer of healing balm. Books saved me. Writing saved me. Words in books opened a world of possibilities. If I couldn’t transform on the outside, I could decorate my insides any way I wanted. I could hatch a forest of butterflies within.

Every day, I continue to do so. Three years ago, I answered a call for help issued by the troubled local public school system. They needed volunteers for their literacy tutoring program. It hasn’t been easy. The conditions, the children, the system is a mess. The teachers are stretched to their breaking points. In spite of the obstacles, I keep at it.

Today,  I feel I have found my calling: I want to teach children how to read. Reading is power. Reading is hope. I don’t know what I’ll do, where I’ll end up, but I do know that reaching out to children in need feels right, the right-est anything has ever felt.

Week after week, building a bridge of trust, forging a bond, no matter how tenuous, you realize how vulnerable children are, how much power adults wield, how carefully you must tread. It’s dizzying how much trust children place in adults when they have no way of knowing what intentions lie within.

In his essay, Gilmore says:

“I finally discovered the beautiful, paradoxical truth that genuine concern for the welfare of others is the gateway to the only real satisfaction for myself. I cannot claim to consistently live up to this ideal, but it is with genuine gratitude that I can say I have come to believe the words of the Indian philosopher-poet Shantideva:

All the joy the world contains
Has come through wishing happiness for others.
All the misery in the world contains
Has come through wanting pleasure for oneself.”

Reading helps.
Writing helps.
Letting go of the self altogether helps most of all.

Did you know? Here we are midway through April already and I’ve been so busy with school and tutoring work and getting my Girl from the West ready for graduation and beyond that I’ve barely posted, nary had time to shed sunlight and sprinkle water on the seedlings nestled in my drafts folder.

Yet, in spite of the blossoms and beauty unfolding around me, it’s been a month of anguish. Since last fall I’ve written a series of posts that I don’t know what to do with: put in the book I started? post here? post somewhere else? save for my next therapy session?  All month I’ve read the poignant posts written by other survivors and supporters. I’ve thought about their words and stories, examined my resultant feelings, attempted to piece together the puzzle.

All this material, while important, is raw and a triggering mechanism. I’ve not yet reached that place where I can read or write about any kind of abuse situation without reliving it on some level and then shutting down. Not only do I put myself in a vulnerable spot, but I worry that I place my children in precarious places, too, when I am not fully present. It’s important to be present with your children.

Growing up in a household of present-but-absent parents, I know what it’s like to be figuratively bleeding out on the floor, with no one paying attention. Maybe you get handed a bandage, maybe you’re told it’s god’s punishment for something you did, or maybe you stop trying to get noticed, keep quiet, go find a bandage and tend to your own wound. I know what it’s like to gather the courage to speak to someone in charge, only to have that person wave you off as “overly imaginative.” I wondered: why don’t adults listen?

While I’m still learning how to ask, I am acutely aware of the walking wounded around me. I haven’t always had the courage to speak up about my life, but I’m not shy about calling the police or reporting to authorities when I see abusive behavior unfolding around me.

I did it when I saw a young man assaulting his girlfriend in my college apartment complex. I did it when the downstairs neighbors in that same building fought so loudly the walls shook. Earlier this school year I spoke up about some things that disturbed me with certain children at the school where I tutor. I’m not always thanked. My former neighbors retaliated. The teachers and administrators bristled at my remarks, suggesting I lacked the proper training, suggesting I was making judgments about their skills.

But I know what I know and I will continue overstep my bounds if I feel something is not right.  It if means I lose a job opportunity or a reference, so be it. I’d rather sleep at night knowing I did the right thing. I’d rather walk away red-faced, having misjudged a situation, than turn my back on a child who is wishing at least one grown up would pay attention and say something.

Meanwhile, during this month there are heartfelt posts blooming all over the Internet, little gardens of hope and healing hidden between all the bombast and trivia dominating the online world.

Writer Alexandra, also known as The Empress, writes  “A letter to those of you who grew up in dysfunctional homes.”

Thank you, Alexandra, for writing this letter. You are clearly farther along the road than I am. That is OK. It’s all a journey made one footstep forward and three back at a time. If you are beating yourself up over things that were done to you but not your fault (even if someone did a great job of convincing you it was your fault) this letter sets things straight.

Another blogger, From Tracie, dedicates her site to open and honest writing and advocacy. She also hosts monthly blog carnivals that focus on awareness, healing, and survivor stories.

There are many shades of April, but every day should be one of awareness and prevention. 

Object is much smaller than it appears

I found this unhatched robin’s egg on the lawn, abandoned for whatever reason. Being the person I am, I couldn’t walk away. I cupped my hand and carefully lifted the egg from the grass, nesting it on my palm for the short walk inside.  I set it in a small ceramic pinch bowl and considered it for a few minutes. Did the egg plummet from a nearby nest?  Is it a stolen egg dropped by a panicky, clumsy predator? Worst of all, did it pop out of the old girl while she was worm hunting?

The answers aren’t important. These past few weeks have been havoc on my patience and will. My husband answers my complaints of every day veering madly off course and what about all my plans and goals with ‘this is the stuff of life.’

Buck up, sister. I’m glad I have his voice of reason even if it sometimes makes me want to strangle until an egg pops out.

Sometimes it’s just too many lost eggs, too many scatter-brained middle-age mother moments, too many predators peering in the blinds, too many embarrassing moments when you’re worm hunting and something unexpected pops out of your back end.

Someone I met recently shared some potentially deal-breaking information with me. The kind of information that makes you think you jumped in too fast. It was personal, but necessary, information. This made me realize how much I judge, shape an opinion, decide the worthiness of someone,  and how much of it is based on appearances.

In this case: my opinion was very high because this man is always very well-dressed,  mild-mannered, eloquent, and impossibly polite by today’s standards. It’s as if he just stepped down from a Victorian-era hansom with top hat and walking stick in hand. I mean this in the most complimentary way. He always appears to be the epitome of the true gentle man.

Then, because we are considering working on a project together, we began talking via e-mail. There came a turning point, when he had to bare a small part of his soul, something only those who need to know know,  in order for me to gauge whether I could take on the project.  I didn’t see it coming. I’ll admit I had to take a deep breath and process.  I was thankful this happened virtually rather than face-to-face because my expression may have betrayed my feelings.

The man he is today is the result of a painful process involving grievous mistakes and inescapable consequences. There’s probably a lot more that I don’t know — but might if I sign on to this one. So, what now? Walk away? Proceed with caution but draw clear boundaries? Forge ahead without prejudice?

Would I have been less shocked if he was a slovenly, ill-mannered sort of person? Why did appearances play so heavily in this matter? How well do we know anyone in our lives?

This got me thinking about my life and how I seem to others. If you don’t know my back story, you could come up with any number of conclusions about me. I’ve heard them all. I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences. I could go to the same store dressed two different  ways and receive very different treatment. If I go in a skirt, makeup applied and hair styled, I get attention. If I go in paint-splattered pants, bare-faced, hair twisted in a clip, I’m ignored. I’m treated one way when I’m with my children at the park, quite another when I’m at a concert venue in high heels. Is this fair? Is this right? I don’t know but it’s the way of things.

Recently I gave up trying to be friends with someone. I thought we clicked, that we would be fast friends. At first I think we were, then something changed. I don’t know what I did; I can only assume I committed a deal breaker. Slowly it occurred to me that she was dumping me.

She started saying things like: I thought you hated (insert name of my favorite band/food/wine/restaurant.) so I didn’t ask/invite you.  She started recalling details about me that were not my story: that I had carpal tunnel syndrome, that I was a homebody who never liked to go out, that I contradicted myself.

It hit me then: She didn’t know me at all and really didn’t want to. She just reached a hand into the junk drawer of her brain and pulled out scraps to form her idea of me. She had already made up her mind.

Deal breaker.

Lost Lake, somewhere in Colorado

The first time I hiked in the mountains, I needed a break, so I laid on my back in an alpine meadow next to a melting snow cap. I was struck by the closeness of the sky, how it rushed toward my bare face, how the silence buzzed in my ears, how I could almost grab a handful of cloud and lick it like a tuft of cotton candy, how the dripping water formed shimmering ribbons coaxed away by gravity, gathering volume and speed, toward life below.

(I stole this from myself. I wrote it as a comment on another blog. Is that breaking some blogger bylaw?)

Monday morning walk to the bus stop. It's oddly warm and humid for mid-March in Michigan.

Did I ever tell you that produce is like porn to me? The colors, textures, shapes and the scent, oh the scent of earth and leaf.

Self portrait of a woman who needs more vitamin D in her diet.

How about this? I dress to please myself. There are a lot of these message cars and vans rolling around town and I'm not sure what to think. Freedom of speech at its finest, I suppose.

Give me Play-Doh, this is what you get.

Sign taped to the door of a used-book store in my neighborhood. Real books, damn straight! My husband and I debate this all the time. I win the argument with this one: Does a Kindle smell like a book? No. It never will. Case closed.

Roses aren't my favorite but these creamsicle colored ones look good enough to eat.

It was like going to a Led Zeppelin concert, except it was all girls -- and they were pretty hot. Oh, and some 20-something guys asked me to hang out with them. I didn't but, wow, best ego-boost in a long time.

I'm a sucker for this kind of cute art. It makes me happy. (Artist: Jason Gibner)

]]> http://www.middle-state.com/2012/03/24/a-week-in-pictures/feed/ 4 http://www.middle-state.com/2012/03/14/what-did-you-just-say/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=what-did-you-just-say http://www.middle-state.com/2012/03/14/what-did-you-just-say/#comments Thu, 15 Mar 2012 00:36:19 +0000 Middle State http://www.middle-state.com/?p=8055 Continue reading →]]>

People are made in China, too.

We all do it.

The brain issues the statement and the mouth broadcasts it faster than the censors can hit the bleep button.

Then, my dear, you are in the throes of an awkward moment.

Recently, I found myself on the receiving end of one while volunteering in Girl from the East’s kindergarten classroom.

In case you are new here, Girl from the East was born in China. She is an American citizen through adoption. She is the world to us.

Girl is six years old. We became a family in 2006 when she was just under 11 months old. Everyone who knows us well knows our dynamic. Although we cannot shield her from the ignorance and hate of the outside world, we are fortunate to travel in fairly educated and enlightened circles.

But when something changes, like starting a new school, we have to start fresh. We have to go through the shit — again.

So it came as a kick to the gut during a classroom holiday party when one of the volunteer parents uttered an insensitive statement for everyone to hear.

Apparently upset that the plastic glue bottle would not produce a dot of adhesive for him in a timely manner, he began banging the container on the craft table. Then, he stood up, handed the glue bottle to the teacher and said something close to this:

“Another useless piece of crap from China.”

OK. I know. We are in an election year. The anti-China rhetoric is blowing around like trash in the streets. We, especially those of us in the Rust Belt, gripe about the outsourcing of manufacturing to overseas factories. We all grumble that things are not made to last.  I’m just as upset about it as you are.

As I mentioned, my daughter was made in China, quite possibly to hard-working farmers, or severely overworked and under-compensated factory workers. It is not the fault of the collective overseas workforce that products are inferior. Look to the greedy corporations, suppliers and governments. Many of these factory workers travel hundreds of miles away from their home villages to earn wages to support their whole family. Some have children they never see.  It is an ugly situation and we all suffer the consequences of it through low-quality and sometimes tainted goods as well as job loss right here in the United States. It is a huge problem.

Please direct your anger where it belongs. Boycott products and companies that take part in these practices. Write letters. Start a movement. Please do not China bash, especially in front of my daughter or your children or anyone of Asian appearance.

Telling me, oh, I thought she was Korean, does not make it OK.

Our classroom is somewhat diverse. We have a racial and ethnic mix. Open bashing of any of the other races or ethnicities is unheard of in today’s hyper-sensitive school climates. Yet, China bashing is rampant.

My daughter is proud of her roots. She is too young to understand the complicated relationship between the United States and China (heck, I don’t get it, either.)  She is too young to understand things like Communism and the Cultural Revolution and emerging capitalism. She’s just a kid.

We teach her there are good and bad people in China. Good and bad businesses in the United States. We must take things on a case-by-case basis.

I haven’t forgotten that day or those words. I’m still wondering what to do. I started writing a proactive type of letter that could be distributed via the school’s weekly newsletter, but it doesn’t seem like enough.

Why didn’t I call him out? Why didn’t I pull him aside afterward? I’ve done that before to little satisfaction on anyone’s part. Perhaps I’m not the most diplomatic. Perhaps those who say such things are firm in their beliefs and are just twitching to engage in debate.  When I approached an offending parent at toddler play group a few years back, she vehemently stood behind her words, asserting that there is no correlation between statements of inferior products and the people of a nation. She suggested I grow thicker skin because the issue isn’t going away.

I’m not going anywhere, either. The day I held my Girl from the East for the first time was the day I knew I’d taken on an extra duties, ones that require added defense and offense for the inter-country adoption community.

So, please, take a moment to think about the source of your anger. Think about your audience. Think about the innocent people you might hurt with your uncensored remarks.

Thank you.