There's a Lifetime Right in Front of You

"Don't Lie," Vampire Weekend

 Sawyer James

August 1st, 2013

8 pounds, 15 ounces; 20.5 inches

Dear Sawyer,

You're here. You made it; you're alive...you're breathing and eating and sleeping and crying and living in this great big world, with us. For so long you were here but...not. You traveled with me, sang with me, ate with me. You listened to math lessons and parent conferences. You road-tripped up and down the California coast, chasing jellyfish in San Diego and tasting Thai food in Walnut Creek. You breathed, fish-like, underwater and grew ears, toenails, lungs, and a heart. You hiccuped and thumped from the inside out, asserting your presence even before we laid eyes on your sweet face.

I've loved you since you were nothing more than a distant idea, a future hope kept in the confines of my heart. I've loved you since you were a whispered name in the middle of the night. I fell in love with you when you were smaller than the line on the plastic stick that assured us of your being. But now, I'm full of a new love that can't be categorized or quantified. I was overcome with an emotion that came surging into existence when you took your first breath of air, and it was only then I was even able to begin to comprehend the love a parent has for a child.

My son, there's so much I wish and want for you in this life. I have so many dreams and expectations, and I spend quiet hours thinking about who and what and where you'll be. This letter, if I'm being honest, is as much for me as it is for you.

I hope you are good to the people who love you, because they're worth it. I hope you hug, visit, celebrate with, and vent to these individuals often. I hope you call/text/write back, and preferably in a more timely manner than your mother does. Life is busy and scattered and it's so easy to lose track of people you care about, and I sincerely wish you will always, on some level, be aware of how many people consider you one of their Most Important. Not everyone is as lucky.

I hope you love to learn. On top of being your mom I'm also an educator, so it probably goes without saying that I want school to be important to you. But I hope you love to learn in addition to that. I hope you are curious and full of questions; I look forward to the days when I fall into bed exhausted from your echoed "Why?" I hope you aren't quite satisfied with the "good enough" answer, and instead turn to your own devices to figure out and decipher your brain's puzzles on your own.

I hope you read everything you can get your hands on. Read picture books and young adult books and classics and New York Times bestsellers and obscure recommendations from friends. Read magazines. Read articles people email you-- trust that they were worth emailing in the first place. Recognize that your reading repertoire defines a piece of you-- there's no substitute for spending hours immersed in someone else's written characters, opinions, and plot lines. Reading gives you an invisible power that nothing else can, so do your best to carve out a slice of your day to do just that.

I hope you are a traveler and an explorer. I envision you SCUBA-diving in Bali, trekking through Arizona's Antelope Canyon, snapping photographs of Angkor Wat at sunrise, and trekking through the Pacific Northwest. I want you to experience cultures, languages, and handshakes both foreign and intimidating-- not because I wish you unease, but because it's important to feel unsettled and out of place every so often. It reminds us that we're merely human, and while it's easy to believe everything we know and have is The Best, it's also easy to forget just how much else is out there.

I hope you are brave...in a quiet sense as well as a fighting one. I want you to stand up for your friends and your convictions. I want you to take risks and face people and places and ideas that scare you. I want you to know when vocalizing your stance is important, but I also want you to recognize when the most courageous choice is to hold your tongue; to accept and to compromise-- because whether you like it or not, sometimes you'll have to and it will be hard.

I hope you do what you can to see the best in people. Remember that it's impossible to know what someone's day week year life looks like from his personal vantage point; it's impossible to truly put yourself in his proverbial shoes. Trust that most people, for lack of a better term, "mean well"-- their intentions are well-thought out and their objectives clean. Realistically though, throughout your life, you will come across some people who seem like they aren't very interested in the pursuits, journeys, and successes of others. Be bigger than them. I hope you try very hard to be happy for others, even if it means you didn't score the goal or get the raise or find your soulmate. Remember jealousy is a human trait-- you'll experience it, too-- but even in its presence, you can still applaud the accomplishments and happiness of others. Your own happiness stems from your ability to recognize and celebrate the same trait in the people around you.

I hope you remember that as long as you're following your heart and your instincts, you have no reason to dwell on what others think of you or your decisions. I struggle with this, and I very much wish I was better at rising above judgment or comparisons instead of constantly trying to please, impress, and agree with people around me. It's a losing battle anyway...and part of what's lost is your own voice. Just because your friend wouldn't have made the same decision doesn't mean you shouldn't have. However, the balance between compromise and self-sacrifice can sometimes be hard to gauge- do you best to recognize the difference.

I hope you are open-minded. Everyone won't always agree with you (that's okay!) and in their heads they are just as "right" as you believe you are. I hope you do your best to worry as little as possible-- so many of our worries are trivial or unchangeable anyway. I struggle with this in certain chapters of my life, too, and I hope you are better at recognizing when worry is silly and unnecessary.

I hope you have a childhood as enviable as I believe mine was. I hope you face Space Mountain at Disneyland, even though it's dark and fast and scary. I hope you believe in magic and pirates and good deeds and paying it forward. I hope you pick up trash that isn't yours--not all the time, but sometimes-- because you believe (despite all of the evidence to the contrary) that you can leave the world a little bit better of a place than you found it. I hope you overturn rocks in tidepools and marvel at even the tiniest sea creatures underneath. I hope you have barefoot lemonade stands in our front yard. I hope you are a good friend. I hope you love animals with wild abandon. I hope you floss.

Your entire life (your ENTIRE life!) is ahead of you. Skinned knees, lost teeth, training wheels, pillow forts, first kisses... you have a soaringly stark canvas to paint-- it's entirely yours. I feel like the luckiest person in the entire world to have been granted a front-row seat to the making of your masterpiece. You may not be able to quite yet hold a pen, but you are already a brilliant artist. Shine bright, my son.

With more love than I could ever even begin to put on paper,

Mama

Hello babies. Welcome to Earth. 

It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. 

It's round and wet and crowded. 

On the outside, babies, you've got a hundred years here. 

There's only one rule that I know of, babies-- 

God damn it, you've got to be kind.

-Kurt Vonnegut

From Dirty Paws and the Creatures of Snow

"Dirty Paws," Of Monsters and Men

Over the course of this pregnancy, many people have asked whether or not I've had dreams leading me to predict the gender of our baby. "I just knew I was carrying a girl," some will say. "I had pink-frosted cupcake dreams and could see the floral nursery before an ultrasound ever revealed the sex."

I've had exactly two pregnancy-related dreams. Neither, by any means, have exposed a sneak peek into the gender of our child.  Both, however, have managed to thoroughly freak me out and make me want to avoid dream-analysis at all costs. Window into my psyche or not; I think I'd prefer NOT to know the meaning behind these two illusions.

In the first dream, I gave birth to what I can only classify as a gremlin. The rat/bear/monkey hybrid leaped off the delivery table, scampered down the hospital corridor, and flung its horrifying body sideways up the wall. It finally stopped moving in the corner between the wall and ceiling, hovering bat-like against the white plaster. Being the ever-handy husband that he is, Tim "caught" the creature, swaddled it up in a baby blanket, and loaded it into the car. We took it home and proceeded to "care" for it until I woke up, confused and heart-thumping.

My second dream took place in the doctor's office, during a routine prenatal visit. "Congratulations!" my doctor announced excitedly, re-entering the room clutching my hospital charts (which, as a sidenote, do not actually exist anymore as everything is now digitized). "You're pregnant again!" Clearly, my look of confusion prompted him to continue. "This is not uncommon. It's what's known as an Overlap Pregnancy. You'll give birth to your first baby in a few months, and then a few months later you'll give birth to the second."

I have no idea how to interpret either of these scenarios. Furthermore, I have absolutely zero inclination as to whether we are about to have a son or a daughter (let's hope my Mother's Intuition kicks in once baby is here). Regardless, Tim and I could not be more excited about the impending adventure, and are counting the days until we get to meet our little boy or girl. Or gremlin.

Guess I'll Just Close My Eyes

"Say it Ain't So," Weezer

Every year before reading the most famous novel in the world with my high school juniors, I used to give background information about F. Scott Fitzgerald, the 1920s, and the novel itself. Most kids had some idea of prohibition and Al Capone; flapper dresses and the “Roarin’ 20s.” The actual plot of The Great Gatsby, though cleverly drawn out and climatic, wasn’t anything they hadn’t heard before, I’d tell them. Sure, in the 1920s, a novel that included murder, suicide, underground mob activity, and cheating spouses was certainly a novelty. However, let’s face it: most of my students, by 17, had seen FAR more violence and gratuitousness on television, in the movies, and for some, unfortunately, in their real lives. I’m pretty confident it isn’t the simple plot content that keeps Gatsby in constant circulation among American classrooms. Furthermore, though my teaching focus DID contain quite a bit of exploration regarding the idea of the American dream, the ability (or inability) to conjure the past, and the danger of inexorably high expectations, I am convinced one of the biggest reasons high school English teachers keep returning to this particular text has much to do with Fitzgerald’s language itself. I know this isn’t the first time I’ve used this space to praise his writing brilliance, but no matter how I phrase it, I don’t know that there’s any way to do Fitzgerald justice. He truly had a magnificent ability to interweave symbolism, sensory imagery, and perfectly subtle parallels.

As fans of Fitzgerald know, he led a short and troubled life. Portions of The Great Gatsby must be autobiographical, although more so in the details than in the larger character actions. Fitzgerald wanted Gatsby to be perfect, and spent a good deal of time proposing and considering a variety of titles before he settled, somewhat unsettlingly, on The Great Gatsby. Not surprisingly, then, he was also adamant that the cover be more than just ordinary. The original cover art was completed by Spanish artist Francis Cugat, ironically before Fitzgerald had even written the novel’s final words. Fitzgerald purposely included subtle allusions to the cover throughout his prized text. As bold moves often do, the cover choice initially garnered a variety of mixed emotions, including Ernest Hemingway’s loud distaste (now immortalized in his A Moveable Feast).

Whether homage to Dr. T.J. Eckleberg, Coney Island, or Daisy herself (the “girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs” of New York), Gatsby’s original cover art is both beautiful and unique. Saturated in symbolism, it’s too important-- too intentional-- to even consider NOT including as the image gracing the cover. The idea that alternate versions exist-- that artists and publishers in subsequent years have deemed themselves worthy to discount and replace something so hauntingly meaningful and perfect already-- is irritating to say the least. Therefore, when I found out about the latest cover (based entirely on the most recent film adaptation and plastered with Leonardo DiCaprio's handsome albeit completely unnecessary face), my heart sank for a second. Replacing Cugat's cover with another artistic creation is one thing-- stupid, yes; but also hopefully well-intentioned and at least somewhat creative. But a posed picture from a movie? Please. While not quite as bad as the scholars idiots who attempt, year after year, to have the n-word omitted from Huck Finn, there is a part of me that views this new cover as a skewed form of censorship. I used to spend over an hour analyzing, discussing, and writing about the cover art with my 11th graders...the color scheme, the number of tears, the muddled lights, the female nudes basking in the center of the intentionally drooping irises...how could you not stop for a second to appreciate and interpret the intricacies that exist in the piece?

I have a huge and hand-painted replica of the original Gatsby cover framed in my bedroom (a gift created by a former student!) as a daily reminder of the power Fitzgerald's words. Regardless of the fact it's due to the movie's concurrent release, I am undoubtedly thrilled to hear The Great Gatsby may very well be one of the top-selling books of 2013: it says a hell of a lot more about American culture and society than last year's embarrassing 50 Shades of Grey debacle. Yet despite that, it's hard to swallow a new and movie-based cover enveloping one of the greatest staples of American literature, especially one whose original "wrapping" is so specific and time-honored. Changing the packaging doesn't change the content, therefore publishers do potential new (and old!) fans a disservice by disguising the product. Perhaps, though, it's fate's timely way of ironically demonstrating one of Gatsby's themes: flashiness and novelty and wealth, despite all kinds of evidence to the contrary, are fantastically successful forms of bait. Only, in the case of purchasing the flashy new book, the end-prize will most certainly NOT be fleeting or empty-- a promise that, unfortunately, can't be said for Fitzgerald's characters.

 

Mend the Heart from the Sea and the Sand

"Sunshine," Matisyahu

On Monday of this week, I taught a social studies lesson. Because I teach 5th grade, I teach American history...lucky for me, considering it's the history I'm most drawn to. Reading about Christopher Columbus, Thomas Jefferson, the Bill of Rights, the First Continental Congress, the Boston Tea Party...it's hard not to feel a surge of respect and patriotism, a rooting of rebellion towards the original colonists. Despite everything--everything--, there is a lot of good here-- good people, good places, good intentions, good acts, good food, good life-- that makes it hard not to be proud to be an American.

On Monday of this week, I taught a social studies lesson. My students learned about the events leading up to July 4th, 1776-- the day the colonists officially declared independence from Great Britain. We ended the lesson reading about Paul Revere's ride ("The British are coming!" my students chanted) and the "shot heard 'round the world," which began the Battles of Lexington and Concord and, ultimately, the American Revolution. 

"No one knows who fired that shot," I told my class. "We aren't sure whether it was a colonist or a British solider. What we do know is that it started a battle that led to a revolution that ultimately gave our country its independence."

*          *          *          *

On Monday of this week, our country celebrated Patriot's Day, a day that commemorates the Battles of Lexington and Concord. The celebration itself is a little bit of a conundrum, because in some ways the recognition memorializes death and violence and war. But in others, the observance pays tribute to a necessary type of rebellion, a revolt that brought our country its voice and its freedom. And while I understand the roots of this country stem from violent rebellion, it's hard to explain that to a class of 10-and-11-year-olds. Young and full of mixed emotions due to muddled messages regarding weapons and gun laws in the wake of recent events, my class is full of children who believe war is bad and guns are bad and why do we celebrate a battle where lots of people died? Violence is a scary thing, especially in today's society, and it's an especially tricky thing to explain to children. 

On Monday of this week, in a city as celebrated and as American as they come, an act of horrific violence swept the streets of Boston. The act killed three, physically injured hundreds, and sent millions across the country into an emotional upheaval of horror, sickness, and questioning faith. In the face of such an unsettling and indescribable tragedy, it's hard to find goodness and light and conviction. And yet, despite everything, Americans rallied across the country to stand together in a time where hundreds felt broken and lost. Athletes, having finished their own marathons mere minutes before, continued running to hospitals to donate their own blood. People donated rooms, rides, and couches to strangers. Restaurants donated food, water, and places of refuge.

On Monday of this week, I was reminded, yet again, of the disgustingly inhumane actions some people are capable of carrying out. My heart was heavy trying to even fathom the sadness, anger, and disbelief faced by thousands. But despite everything--everything--, I was reminded of something that transcended the revulsion and cowardice of the bombings. On Monday of this week, I was reminded, yet again, of the indelible power that is the human spirit. Americans--especially Bostonians-- are a gritty and hearty people whose capacities extend much deeper than terrorism. We are a people whose roots lie in standing up for each other, uniting in the face of unfairness, and banding together for a brighter future in spite of every atrocity or roadblock that might stand in the way.

On Monday of this week, I was reminded, yet again, that despite everything--everything--, I'm still so proud to call this country mine.

And it happened again tonight, watching the Boston Bruins resume their season with this opening national anthem:

“I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives.  

I like to see a man live so that his place will be proud of him.”

-Abraham Lincoln

We Belong in This Forever

"A Matter of Time," The Killers

Sometimes in the midst of some really, really good months, you just get tossed a few of those less-than-stellar weeks. Those kind of weeks that are achingly overwhelming. That prove the age-old cliche: 24 are just not enough hours to cover all of it. That there is such a thing as a breaking point, and reaching it more than once in a day is not, in fact, impossible. The kind of days, weeks that aren't beautifully cured by Van Morrison and a glass of wine; a good book and a 20 dollar bill surprisingly retrieved from the back pocket of last year's jeans.

The Killers have an awesome song (The Killers have dozens of awesome songs) called "A Dustland Fairytale," and in it Brandon Flowers bemoans, "Moon River, what'd you do to me?" Because...right?! "Dream maker...you heart breaker...wherever you're going, I'm going your way." But...what about the times I'm not? What if (when) it inevitably turns out I don't want to go your way, and instead stubbornness or principle override compromise? What then, Andy Williams? Two drifters, in theory, off to see the world is a nice little picturesque dream, but the reality is that responsibility and money and foundation and stability have to come into play at some point. (And as a side note, does the word drifter really have that great of a connotation, anyway?)

More often than not, these kind of days present a delicate kind of clarity, as they invariably provoke both conversation and reflection-- maybe painful, maybe touching, always honest, definitely necessary. Because some of the beauty really is in the contradiction and the cracks. The hardware and armor created and needed to sustain a lasting relationship are built just as much from the arguments and the confusion as they are from the celebrations and successes. Because isn't it true that in order for anything to really know it's worth, it must first be proven that the thing itself can break?

Whether we want to admit it or not, life is messy. Sometimes we get let down, and people or ideas or situations don't meet our expectations. Sometimes our expectations are unrealistic or unfair, and we allow ourselves to believe it's not our fault anyway. Deflecting blame is so easy. But then, in one of those compulsory moments of self-reflection, we're able to actually peek inside our own selves for a bit-- stir around in that little autonomous pool and actually think about motives and reactions. And I'm reminded how imperfect and flawed my own words and responses; motive and reactions are.

And then, like always, the not-so-good days are fleeting and over. We spend hours talking and laughing. And laying in bed listening to so much good music, and he suddenly he says he knows the song for the baby. And he plays it, loud.

Be still
Wild and young
Long may your innocence reign
Like shells on the shore
And may your limits be unknown
And may your efforts be your own

In sickness and in health. In good times and in bad. In joy as well as in sorrow. How lucky am I are we?

I was born to catch dragons in their dens

And pick flowers

To tell tales and laugh away the morning

To drift and dream like a lazy stream

And walk barefoot across sunshine days.

 

...

I was born to love a man wrapped in sunshine

And dressed in fog

To make a pact on a high hill

Ratified centuries ago by the sun

To walk together through sunshine days and foggy nights.

 

-James Kavanaugh

Block Rockin' Beats

The Chemical Brothers

My favorites of 2010, favorites of 2011, and now my top ten twelve favorite albums of 2012. Just so much good stuff:

1. Muse: The 2nd Law
Favorite Songs: "Explorers," "Big Freeze," and "Panic Station"

2. John Mayer: Born and Raised
Favorite Songs: "Queen of California," "Born and Raised," and "A Face to Call Home"

3. Kendrick Lamar: good kid, m.A.A.d. city
Favorite Songs: "Sing About Me, I'm Dying of Thirst" and "m.A.A.d. city"

4. The Killers: Battle Born 
Favorite Songs: "Battle Born, "Here With Me," and "Runaways"

 
5. The Lumineers: The Lumineers
Favorite Songs: "Ho Hey" and "Stubborn Love"

6. The Shins: Port of Morrow
Favorite Songs: "Simple Song," "40 Mark Strasse," and "Pariah King"

7. Swedish House Mafia: Until Now
Favorite Songs: "Beating of My Heart," "You Got the Love," and "In My Mind"

8. Of Monsters and Men: My Head is an Animal
Favorite Songs: "Mountain Sound" and "Little Talks"

9. The Smashing Pumpkins: Oceania
Favorite Songs: "One Diamond, One Heart" and "Pinwheels"

10.  Passion Pit: Gossamer
Favorite Songs: "Carried Away," "Take a Walk," and "Cry Like a Ghost"

11. Imagine Dragons: Continued Silence
Favorite Songs: "Demons," "It's Time," and "On Top of the World"

12. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros: Here
Favorite Songs: "Man on Fire," "One Love to Another," and "That's What's Up"

The Privilege is Mine

"There is A Light that Never Goes Out," The Smiths

"I hate reading," my defiant, angry, lost, confused, lonely students said.

"I just don't get into books."

"There are so many other things I could be doing."

"Reading is just....lame."

So many arguments, stemming from a similar place. So many furrowed brows, crossed arms, made-up minds. Kids who believed English wasn't for them, and this would be another class to sit through. Another place to wait for the bell to ring; to tick away minutes. A place to warm a seat and stare ahead, quietly sliding under the radar and letting another worthless high school day idle by.

Sometimes Gatsby was enough to pull them out of the fog. A verity of silly, over-dramatized voices. A soap-opera-saga in print; a high school fairytale gone wrong. The bleak outcome of an otherwise perfect leader; the perfect irony of perfection that never quite was. Other times, Catcher pulled them from the dark abyss, and Holden became the hero to grasp at, learn from, emulate. His intellect captivating; his drawn lies compelling enough to listen to. Still other times, Poe's edge and craze and madness was enough to relate; to breathe and soak in. A heavy load to carry, but not alone. Poe gets it, they'd reason. His life sucked.  Been there, dude.

But sometimes, none of that could do it. Classics may they be, the characters were a little outdated...unrelatable...stale. How can I see Daisy as a rebel, they said, when she hasn't even done anything really that bad? You think Holden would be my friend, they'd argue, when he doesn't even swear?

And I'd get it. Perhaps not entirely, but still. Abuse, drugs, pregnancy, loss, divorce, death, alienation, suicide, depression...all very real hurdles in the painful lives of some of my teens. And as much as I loved (love!) Jay Gatsby's tragic demise and Sam Hamilton's award-winning speeches, it wasn't enough for those kids. Because some kids needed a grittier hero. A character to look up to whose life was shaken and scarred; imperfect and mangled. A protagonist who didn't always quite fit that title; whose words and actions and motives were sometimes off or wrong or ill-intentioned. A character who didn't hit the home run or ace the SATs or become student council representative...but who was okay anyway. A character who made it, barely, and came out on the other side with enough voice and reason to be alive.

For those special kids, I recommended The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

Because sometimes artistic cinema gets it right, the novel was released as a film recently, and I had the chance to see it last night. The novel's author, Stephen Chbosky, also wrote the screenplay and adapted the film, which is most certainly the reason the movie version plays as well as it does. I haven't read the the novel in over five years, yet last night's film brought every sentence back into my mind like whiplash, plummeting the perfectly placed teenage anguish and despair back into the forefront of my brain. As devastatingly genuine as much of the film's content is, I couldn't help but think back to the number of students who had claimed they'd been "saved," in one way or another, by Chbosky's tale.

"You shouldn't let the kids read that," one particular colleague said.

"It's pretty graphic," said another.

"Raw."

"Inappropriate. Entirely."

But my team-teacher and I did. With parent permission after a detailed account of the book's contents, of course, but still. Because in all honesty, the content in the novel, in many cases, didn't hold a finger to the life events encompassing my students who needed the book the most. And (some) inappropriate content aside, it's hard to tell a kid to stop reading.

And I'll never regret it. This week alone, I've received almost a dozen emails from former students, claiming the long-lasting effect of the novel have re-washed over them since the release of the movie.

"It was my favorite book, ever," she wrote.

"I'm so thankful you gave me a copy."

"I've read it four times since my junior year, and every time something new is there."

"That book saved my life."

                                  *                *                *                *                *                *

It is one of my deepest hopes that books continue to have a profound effect on me until my deathbed. I hope I will forever find titles that challenge my views and force me to see things in a different way. To remind me that I'm not alone; to convince me the world is a bigger place than I sometimes feel it is. But in this moment, I hope that Charlie and his friends continue to change and help and save the lives of teenagers all the time; every day.

"Sometimes, I look outside, and I think that a lot of other people have seen this snow before. Just like I think that a lot of other people have read those books before. And listened to those songs. I wonder how they feel tonight." 

"I walk around the school hallways and look at the people. I look at the teachers and wonder why they're here. If they like their jobs. Or us. And I wonder how smart they were when they were fifteen. Not in a mean way. In a curious way. It's like looking at all the students and wondering who's had their heart broken that day, and how they are able to cope with having three quizzes and a book report due on top of that. Or wondering who did the heart breaking. And wondering why."

"So I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we'll never know most of them. But even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them." 

"We were just there together. And that was enough."

Love Always, Charlie