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

Today My Heart Swings

"The Heinrich Maneuver," Interpol

"What's a pendulum?" one of my students asked, looking ahead from where we had left off in the science book. "I like that word. It's cool."

"Pendulums are cool," I said. "It's basically a weight that hangs from a string. The weight is actually called a 'bob.' If you pull the bob to one side, it will swing back and forth until it eventually rests back at its center. What do you think eventually makes it stop swinging?"

"Gravity!" another called out proudly.

"Exactly! And you know who discovered the pendulum? Galileo. Remember when we talked about him?"

"Yeah. That guy with the huge beard."

          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

On Friday, I found out that, come August, I will officially begin a brand new teaching chapter of my life: Upper Elementary School. I am overwhelmingly excited, and absolutely could not be genuinely happier with the prospect of what's to come. I know this upcoming school year will be a wonderfully crazy whirlwind of chaotic organization and elementary bliss. I feel honored and lucky and ready.

It seems fitting then, that the night before I received this news, I attended Carlsbad High School's graduation. While I did teach one class of sophomores last year, 4 out of my 5 classes were 11th graders, and therefore members of the class of 2012. Friday morning interview or not, I wasn't about to miss watching this extraordinary group cross the stage and receive their diplomas. 

Being back on the Carlsbad campus was, in a word, bittersweet. According to the online dictionary, the definition of bittersweet is "pleasant but tinged with sadness," which is a spot-on way to describe how it felt to walk the eerily familiar halls of the 3000 building and peer through the windows of my former classroom. My logical mind, of course, understood why the colorful Lit. Circles posters no longer adorned the white walls, why the powerful East of Eden quotes didn't shine on the back whiteboards, and why the Lord of the Flies projects no longer grazed the ceiling on top of the storage cabinets. Nevertheless, I won't deny the tug on my heartstrings that escaped when I was offered visual proof of their non-existence. Later, sitting in the audience in anticipation offered a similar feeling of nostalgia. The culmination of hundreds and hundreds of hours of lectures and projects and chemistry labs and late nights and analysis and scientific calculators and prom dresses and let downs and field trips and broken hearts and first kisses and PowerPoint presentations and school plays and essays and and and was culminating in this; the glorious feeling of a high school graduation ceremony. A symbol of accomplishment; a closed chapter; a new, fresh start in the great big world of Real Life. And as I sat there, I'm certain I know why this one hit so close to home for me: While I absolutely am not certain what the future holds, there is a very real chance that I will never teach high school English again. For years, Steinbeck and Twain, Poe and Whitman, Thoreau and Angelou, Plath and Salinger were all the keynote speakers of my life, exploding off of pages and into ready hearts and minds. As my former students turned their tassels and closed a pivotal chapter in their lives, I may have very well been doing the same. And while change and transformation are expected and healthy and necessary, it doesn't change the fact they're also hard.

When you're a teacher, you're offered the rare chance to see life, every day, through the eyes of a variety of young people. Most of the time, their perspectives and perceptions haven't been marred or tainted by too much exposure to the atrocities and realities of the world, and instead they believe in luck and fairness and magic. Perhaps this is part of the reason that it's easy to love this profession-- whether we like it or not, we're surrounded by individuals who, more so than most anyone, sincerely believe in Possibility and Making a Difference and Brighter Tomorrows. It calls to mind for me, always, a passage from Robert McCammon's Boy's Life:

You know, I do believe in magic. I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic town, among magicians. Oh, most everybody else didn’t realize we lived in that web of magic, connected by silver filaments of chance and circumstance. But I knew it all along. When I was twelve years old, the world was my magic lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the past, the present and into the future. You probably did too; you just don’t recall it. See, this is my opinion: we all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God’s sake. And you know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad of what they’d allowed to wither in themselves.

After you go so far away from it, though, you can’t really get it back. You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When people get weepy at movies, it’s because in that dark theater the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they’re left feeling a little heartsad and not knowing why. When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust turning in a shaft of light take your attention from the world, when you listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are. For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm.

So today, armed with my own version of a magic lantern and--without any doubt in my mind--afoot in a magic town, I set out into this next official chapter of my professional life. I willingly (excitedly!) trade gothic poetry for Tuck Everlasting. Anticipating the Opposition paragraphs for photosynthesis. The Great Gatsby for the Math Superbowl. Whether 11th grader or 5th grader, teacher or student, adult or child, each one of us is, above all else, human...born with "whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us." How lucky am I, then, to be appointed the job of doing my damndest to prohibit those things from withering in the human spirit?

Life is a pendulum. Constantly in motion and centered around an invisible force much greater than ourselves. Sometimes it pulls us in one direction, and other times-- sometimes when we don't even see it coming-- it pulls us in another entirely, swinging us out of our comfort zones and blindly into the unknown. Never too far, but still far enough for us to catch our breaths and wonder at the sight of unfamiliarity and unexpected enchanted moments. And yet, always, we're forever brought back to center by that invisible and inescapable force--of fate, of faith, of coincidence...or maybe, even of magic: that inevitable foundation that offers support and, ultimately, guides us home.

The Show Goes On

Bruce Hornsby

One of my very best friends occasionally says, "Two arms, two legs," when she gets up in the morning. When I finally asked her about it's significance, she explained: "I learned it from my mom. Any time my siblings or I complained about something growing up, she'd remind me us that at least we had two arms and two legs. A number of people in the world weren't granted that gift." A beautiful look at perspective and gratefulness, I've adopted the habit of using this expression. Two arms, two legs. How lucky am I?

Yesterday while driving on the freeway, Tim pointed to the car in front of us and grinned.

"I like that bumper sticker," he said. "'Hope isn't hiring'." I didn't say anything, which led him to explain further. "You know, 'I hope I pass this test,' or 'I hope I get that job.' Hope's just not enough."

"I get it. Yeah, I like it, too," I said, although I didn't really mean it. Not then, anyway. To be honest, I wasn't even entirely listening to him, but instead involved in conversation in the backseat of the Yukon, squinting in the afternoon sun and ready for the glass of champagne awaiting me at the function we were heading to.

But today, I woke up thinking about that quote. Hope isn't hiring. A little cutting or abrasive, maybe, but certainly honest. "Hope is the thing with feathers," wrote Emily Dickinson, "that perches in the soul/ And sings the tune without the words,/And never stops at all." As flowery and poetic as that might be, I also think Dickinson's logic is highly misguided. People can prophesize or write about the beauty of hope all they want to, but the truth is hope alone can't really do anything at all. Real positive change and success comes directly from action and effort and perseverance.

I've been stressed about the future lately. Largely unknown, potentially bleak in the position I'm hoping for, and financially insecure, 2012.5 and beyond is a vast canvas of bare uncertainty. It's scary and unnerving. I spend a good deal of time--too much time--wishing I had more answers. Big parts of me want my life shaped now, and patience is a virtue my psyche hasn't quite mastered. But then, I came across this post, written a few years ago during a time when I was reevaluating life decisions and contemplating change. It made me remember that one of the many privileges of being human lies in the choices we make or don't make; in the actions we take or don't take, in the words we say or don't say, and in embracing the opportunities that grace our path...or forging ahead anyway when they don't. As scary as it is, and as ridiculously cheesy as it sounds, I'm the one person in charge of my future. It's entirely mine to mold or change or prove or break. And then Tom Petty's "Learning to Fly" suddenly came on the radio, and while I'm certainly not one to believe in signs, it was hard not to listen to the words in a different light:

Some say life will beat you down

Break your heart; steal your crown

So I've started out, for God knows where

I guess I'll know when I get there

I guess I will know when I get there. Or maybe I won't, because part of growing up is accepting the fact that you never truly get there, since there is nothing more than a metaphorical and euphemistic ideal that doesn't exist. Instead, hopefully you find happiness and fulfillment where you are, and learn to embrace each new definition are encompasses throughout the years. 

There are a million things I want to do and see and be and create and learn and explore in this life. I know I'm the sole artist of the canvas of my future, and by my last day on earth, I hope that artistic creation is a chaotic and worn-out masterpiece. But right now, some of the bare and whitest spots gleam a little too blankly for my taste; desperately yearning to be strewn haphazardly with color-- too darkly or too messily and outside of the lines. That white canvas is big and daunting and unknown, especially when I know it's the only one I get...no need to wait in line for an exchange; it doesn't exist. And whether I like it or not, the wheel of the world doesn't stop turning for anything or anyone. The date changes and moves hour by hour into the rest of my life.  The show goes on. And lucky for us, every single morning is one more chance to live and breathe in this great big world. To celebrate the beauty of the not-knowing. To rise and thank whatever gods may be for our unconquerable souls. Two arms, two legs. There is a crack in everything-- (That's how the light gets in).

It matters not how straight the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

Invictus; W.E. Henley

The Future's Calling

"It's Only Life," The Shins

"Presume not that I am the thing I was."

-William Shakespeare

...And I Really Meant It

"A Reminder," Radiohead

Yes I'd give my life

To lay my head tonight on a bed 

Of California stars 

I'd like to dream 

My troubles all away 

On a bed of California stars 

Jump up from my starbed 

Make another day 

Underneath my California stars 

So I'd give this world 

Just to dream a dream with you 

On our bed of California stars 

I'd like to rest my heavy head tonight 

On a bed of California stars 

I'd like to lay my weary bones tonight 

On a bed of California stars 

(Dream a dream with you)

- "California Stars," Wilco

"Starry Night Over the Rhone," Van Gogh

Your Class, Your Caste, Your Country, Sect, Your Name, or Your Tribe

"Four Winds," Bright Eyes

Dear Grandma, 

I have been thinking about you more than you know these last few weeks. Paul and I had the privilege of spending an afternoon with your brother, our great-Uncle Jim, two weeks ago, and it was one of the most humbling and powerful experiences I've had in awhile. There is virtually NOTHING in this world that can replace or compete with history and experience, and Uncle Jim is gloriously overflowing with both. While he constantly apologizes for forgetting information or confusing dates, his mind is, pardon the expression, a steel trap full of journeys and memories and adventures. It was perfectly ironic to hear him claim every few minutes, "I must be boring you two!" because truth be told? I honestly couldn't think of any better way to spend the afternoon. 

We didn't remember you weren't raised in California--we forgot you were born in Massachusetts. We learned from Uncle Jim that you moved to California, on a whim, somewhat rebelliously with him-- and then never looked back. Paul and I couldn't stop thinking about the idea that, if you hadn't done so (at 15, no less!) who knows whether or not we'd exist? What if you hadn't ever met our grandfather? Would our mother be alive? Would we? In what capacity? In what city? How different would our lives have played out? How much of our current bliss and comfort and familial pride would we know?

There’s a place in my heart that aches every so often because it's never physically known you. For my whole life, you've always been a happy idea; a beautiful memory in the eyes of my aunts and my mother. Lately, however, the idea of you—little details I simply couldn’t know; your laugh, your wrinkles, your hands—has been much more present in the forefront of my mind. In all honesty, I don’t know why. Well, that’s not entirely true—maybe I do. I've found myself reading my favorite blog with a touch of envy. The writer, a new mother for the fourth time, strategically places her children in front of her and her mother and grandmother behind, showcasing a legacy four generations deep for the staged photo. And it makes my heart hurt—selfishly, perhaps--to think that not only did I never know you, but you will never know my children. And of course, this makes me think about what this was like for my own mother, who never got to experience watching you hold her babies…

While my religious beliefs may be ever-changing and sometimes-murky, I am a spiritual person and I believe in God. I say this because I know your spirit is somewhere out there in this world or beyond it—maybe not in the form of another human, but certainly present and aware. I fervently believe this—just as I fervently believe you’ve had the privilege of watching your four daughters become self-sufficient, contributing, beautiful adults. Four women who have remained connected despite the inevitable hurdles—of distance, of pain, of stress—that often make even a simple phone call nearly impossible. Four women who have celebrated together—marriages, graduations, promotions, and pregnancies. Four women who have held each other up in the face of illness, addiction, heartbreak, and divorce. Four women who have raised their children—and each other—with a grain of salt and a hell of a lot of courage. I have to believe that whether or not you are here in physical person, you must be absolutely aware (and fantastically proud) of your tremendous living legacy.

The truth is, we're all lost and scared and learning to navigate the world, forever-- not in spite of, but in addition to the pitfalls and failures and disappointments. Our expectations change and opportunities pass. Our successes are beautifully scarred with the detours and wounds developed from the roads we took to get there. Our problems and obstacles become catalysts for a present and (hopefully inevitable) future we didn't even know was possible. And while these statements may be generally true for the vast population of Americans (of humans!), if the members of my living family tree pause to think about it, it's decisions you made and actions you took that created our current platform to live—to create and run and read and argue and stand up for ourselves and cry and laugh and be.

I wish I had known you, Grandma. I wish I had memories of eating popsicles on your porch and watching you laugh with my mother your daughter. I wish you would have been there to watch—no, to dance with—your brother across his living room three weeks ago. And I want you to know that just because we never had the opportunity to meet each other, your effect on my life is never, ever lost on me—that kind of presence runs a hell of a lot deeper than time and cancer. So I guess in a way, this letter is a thank you. For the beautiful, powerful, poetic, confusing, perfect chaos that is my life and my family. I may not always show it, but I am always, always, always grateful.

With tremendous respect, faith, and love,

Chelsea

Some people are your relatives 

but others are your ancestors, 

and you choose the ones you want to have as ancestors. 

You create yourself out of those values.


-Ralph Ellison

Sing it Loud and Sing it Strong

"Silvio," Bob Dylan

Last year in my Top Ten Albums of 2010 post, I spent a little time summarizing each disc and discussing why I thought it deserved a spot on the coveted list. This year, I don't really feel like doing that...perhaps due to my lengthy previous post on fall shows, or maybe because it took too much brain power last year to honestly try using words to do justice to these incredible accomplishments. Therefore, in absolutely no  particular order, my top ten albums of 2011:

1. Red Hot Chili Peppers: I'm With You
Favorite Songs: "Brendan's Death Song" and "Even You Brutus?"

2. Bon Iver: Bon Iver
Favorite Songs: "Calgary," "Beth/Rest," "Towers"

3. Bright Eyes: The People's Key
Favorite Songs: "Ladder Song," "One For You, One For Me"

4. Cold War Kids: Mine is Yours
Favorite Songs: "Royal Blue," "Finally Begin," "Louder Than Ever"

5. Drake: Take Care
Favorite Songs: "Crew Love" and "Headlines"

6. Jay-Z and Kanye West: Watch the Throne
Favorite Songs: "Who Gon Stop Me," "N****s in Paris," "No Church in the Wild"

7. Cut Copy: Zonoscope
Favorite Songs: "Need You Now" and "Where I'm Going"

8. My Morning Jacket: Circuital
Favorite Songs: "Outta My System," "Circuital, "Wonderful (The Way I Feel)," "Movin' Away"

9. Unwritten Law: Swan
Favorite Songs: "Nevermind," "Dark Dayz," "Sing," "Love Love Love," "On My Own"

10. Wilco: The Whole Love
Favorite Songs: "Born Alone," "Whole Love," "One Sunday Morning"

Music's Got Me Feeling So Free

"One More Time," Daft Punk

I love music. And while I won't dramatically and deceitfully say I couldn't live without it, I can say my life would be irrevocably changed--irrevocably less--if music wasn't a constant. I blast tunes into my earbuds while I'm getting ready in the morning (Red Hot Chili Peppers I'm With You is my current choice pick), my phone reverberates with my favorite jams when people I love call (the ever-romantic Chemical Brothers are a staple for Tim), and for most of my teaching career,  my classroom has been full of music at least 25% of any given school day. With the holidays quickly approaching here, Pandora Christmas is currently bookmarked on my MacBook, and I spend at least an hour or so a week perusing new releases and reading album reviews.

Some of my music-fanatic friends are perfectly content listening to music in the comfort of their own homes, cars, or offices. I'm sure I could be too, but the truth is I'm just a massive sucker for live shows. The experience of watching someone so utterly talented passionately sing and perform about life experiences so raw and personal and loud is virtually impossible to put on paper, but so completely sensational. Over the past three months, I have been lucky enough to catch some of my very favorite bands in some of my very favorite venues. The highlights:

Unwritten Law

Velvet Jones, Santa Barbara; September 7


A celebration

(About time)
A generation out of line (yeah)
The revolution's in everyone

I can't really explain my decade-long obsession with Unwritten Law. Point blank: They really aren't that great of a band; evident in their meager-at-best record sales and willingness to tour in less-than-stellar locations. Their lyrics are relatively standard and predictable, their sound is more pop-punk than true punk, and with the exception of Scott Russo (pictured above), their members change about as often as the seasons due to ill-timed fights, addictions, and (always my personal favorite) "creative differences." Additionally, they don't seem to "explore musically," as so many artists claim to do with each record. However, I can't seem to "shake" this band, nor do I want to. About twice a year I inevitably enter an Unwritten Law phase. Akin to a bear in an isolated albeit abridged hibernation, I listen to virtually nothing else for a week or two, remembering every nuance to every song and ruining the speakers in my poor Honda CRV. I've seen Unwritten Law 4-5 times live, although this show at Velvet Jones was easily the best yet. Tim and I arrived early and ended up in the front row of the small venue. Beers in hand and inches away from Unwritten Law's 14-year frontman, we got our "kicks under the neon lights" for a solid two hours. They played a full setlist complete with old favorites and new gems off of their latest release, Swan. Slightly (heavily?) intoxicated and blissfully happy in the spotlight, the members of their latest clan positively glowed. I'll be at as many future so-Cal shows as my wallet can handle, no questions asked.

Fleet Foxes

Santa Barbara County Bowl; September 13

After all is said and done I feel the same

All that I hoped would change within me stayed

Like a huddled moonlit exile, on the shore

Warming his hands a thousand years ago

It seems like America is obsessed with Fleet Foxes. Don't get me wrong; I think they're great. This was certainly a fun show, and I have to say their live music sound is close to flawless. Live, Fleet Foxes prove they are essentially the anti-thesis of processed and manufactured music-- their talent is raw and real. That being said, this wasn't my favorite show of the fall-- by a long shot. Perhaps that's because I saw some pretty kick-ass shows. Or perhaps it's because try as I might, I won't ever be the world's biggest Foxes fan. Whatever the case, Fleet Foxes are a noteworthy band that puts on a commendable show, and if given the choice again in an alternate-universe type fashion, I would most certainly go again. 

Bon Iver

The Shrine Auditorium, Los Angeles; September 19

Only love is all maroon

Lapping lakes like leery loons

Leaving rope burns--

Reddish ruse

Justin Vernon, the lead singer (and mastermind) behind Bon Iver, is a genius. I've never heard music quite like this, and I have no idea how to categorize it. Unbeknownst to me, the Monday night setlist included my two favorite songs back-to-back. The version of "Blood Bank" was raucous and louder than the album version, and the crowd gave a standing ovation at its close. Shocked by the response, the band only played a few notes of the much slower "Beth/Rest" next, before stopping altogether and claiming, without words, that they couldn't let the momentum and rush of "Blood Bank" fade. And even though that meant they were skipping one of the songs (I thought) would be a highlight of the show, I couldn't disagree. Seemingly unaware of his talent and magnitude, Vernon casually stood in the forefront of the stage and allowed his band to help him build "sonic cathedrals," as the LA Times so accurately dubbed the performance. Perhaps LA Weekly described the final moments of this performance, which ended with "The Wolves (Act 1 & 2)", best: "The echoes of our voices bounced off the walls and shook the foundations, repeating over and over again the cryptic refrain, "What might have been lost?" It was as if to give thanks for the fact that we are alive and lucky enough to be together in one place to sing with this band." 

Bright Eyes

Santa Barbara County Bowl; September 25

We must blend into the choir
Sing as static with the whole
We must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul
And in this endless race for property and privilege to be won
We must run, we must run, we must run

We must hang up in the belfry
Where the bats and moonlight laugh
We must stare into a crystal ball and only see the past
And in the caverns of tomorrow
With just our flashlights and our love
We must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge

In the hauntingly dark but craftily honest "Ladder Song," Bright Eyes' searingly genius frontman Conor Oberst laments he feels "estranged every now and then," claiming to be "tired of traitors always changing sides" and warning others they're "not alone in anything," because they aren't "unique in dying." It certainly isn't upbeat, and while perhaps intellectually and scientifically poignant, for the most part his lyrics are scathing and depressing. However, somehow Oberst manages to interpose the perfect combination of vulnerability and sensitivity into his songs, and on this particular night when he winningly whined, "I gotta get to the con-cert," I'm sure I wasn't the only audience member grinning giddily from ear-to-ear.

Styx

Santa Barbara County Bowl; October 4

I look to the sea
Reflections in the waves spark my memory
Some happy, some sad
I think of childhood friends and the dreams we had

We lived happily forever
So the story goes
But somehow we missed out on the pot of gold
But we'll try best that we can to carry on

Disclaimer: I was (formerly) not a Styx fan. One of my best friends in college used to blast Come Sail Away on repeat occasionally in the dorms, and I vaguely remember humming along non-commitedly. Additionally, I know my mom was a big Styx fan years ago, and so I've coincidentally heard her mention their name in passing. However, going into this show, I honestly viewed Styx as a washed-up opener for a much "greater" band. I couldn't have been more wrong. Styx was a tour de force of noise and lights and energy. They tore up the stage like young twenty-somethings, belting out every single note eerily on key and with an impressive-to-say-the-least vibrancy not usually lost on brand-new artist--but these guys have been around for decades. They went out with a bang, revving the audience up for the main event. 

Journey

Santa Barbara County Bowl; October 4

In the shadows of a golden age

A generation waits for dawn

Brave carry on

Bold and the strong

Ever since I was a thirteen-year-old with a copy of Journey's Greatest Hits in my hand, I've considered myself SOCOOL to like this band. I remember blasting "Wheel in the Sky" on repeat for about SIX MONTHS as a teenager, attempting to become a part of the "older, cooler" music crowd of a previous generation. Seeing Journey live was just as fun as you would expect, even with the added fact that Steve Perry has been replaced by Arnel Pineda-- (whose voice sounds like a carbon copy of the former lead singer's). Their 80's power-pop music is catchy, their phrases well-known, and their audience genuinely loves having a good time singing along with the band. The final song of the night was "Any Way You Want It," and every single person in the crowd (ushers included!) was dancing and singing along to every word. 

ALO (Animal Liberation Orchestra)

SoHo, Santa Barbara; October 31

The road is long and windy 

like a good mystery unfolding
It twists and turns in colorful subplots and sunburns and fake out endings
And sometimes my patience in the whole process starts bending

As I attempt to unravel the web 

by traversing and rehearsing and perversing 

along the doubt-laden extension chord thread of my life

The biggest bummer about this show was that the band didn't take the stage until really late. As a result, we didn't end up staying through the entire set-- a long day coupled with work the next day. Which was unfortunate-- this is a band who genuinely loves performing, and that attitude and energy is not lost on the audience. While I didn't know a ton of ALO songs, it was impossible not to enjoy their silliness and creativity. Sounding a little like a mix between Jack Johnson, G. Love, and the Dirty Heads, ALO impressed with their clean sound and light mood. 

My Morning Jacket

Gibson Amphitheatre, Los Angeles; December 5

I'm going where there ain't no fear
I'm going where the spirit is near
I'm going where the living is easy
And the people are kind
A new state of mind

I'm going where there ain't no police
I'm going where there ain't no disease
I'm going where there ain't no need
To escape from what is
Only spirits at ease

One of my best friends bought tickets to this show mere hours before they took the stage, and we sped down to Los Angeles on a Monday night with hardly a moment's notice. This was his sixth or seventh time seeing MMJ live, however it was my first, and they certainly didn't disappoint. MMJ performs with this unparalleled and almost ghostly ability to channel the likes of Led Zeppelin and Neil Young, but do so in a way that's uniquely their own-- the viewer never gets the impression the band is simply trying to re-create rock music of someone else's. Instead, it seems like MMJ wants to remold rock music in a way that fits them, and they genuinely-- but not desperately-- want their audience members to join them. This show was magnificent, and I'm rather ashamed that it was my first time seeing them live. I'm crossing my fingers in the hopes of seeing their name as a co-headliner at Coachella 2012. 

Watch the Throne: Jay-Z & Kanye West

Staples Center; December 12

I made "Jesus Walks" so I'm never going to hellCouture level flow, it's never going on saleLuxury rap, the Hermes of versesSophisticated ignorance, write my curses in cursiveI get it custom, you a customerYou ain't 'customed to going through CustomsYou ain't been nowhere, huh?
Not unlike most of the shows listed above, words just can't do justice to this masterpiece. Seeing Jay-Z and Kanye live, together, was a dream come true for me. Loud, abrasive, haunting, polished, and pure perfection, these Kings did nothing but throw diamonds and proudly display their well-deserved throne for over forty songs and three-plus hours. As the stage went dark after the final notes of the encore, Kanye's voice could be heard high above the soaring cheers. In true KW-arrogance-fashion, he laughed: "Sorry if this was your first concert. It's all downhill from here." As irritating as his love for himself and his music might be, I can't argue with that. I'll just let the setlist do the talking:
H.A.M., Who Gon' Stop Me, Otis, Welcome to the Jungle, Gotta Have It, Where I'm From, Jigga What, Jigga Who, Can't Tell Me Nothing, All Falls Down, Flashing Lights, Jesus Walks, Diamonds from Sierra Leone, Public Service Announcement, U Don't Know, Run This Town, Monster, Power, Made in America, New Day, Hard Knock Life, Izzo (HOVA), Empire State of Mind, Runaway, Heartless, Stronger, On to the Next One, Dirt Off Your Shoulder, I Just Wanna Love U, That's My Bitch, Good Life, Touch the Sky, All of the Lights, Big Pimpin', Gold Digger, 99 Problems, No Church in the Wild, Lift Off, N****s in Paris (times NINE!) Sidenote: This was quite honestly the quintessential prototype concert of my life. And if Yeezy and Hove had replaced "Public Service Announcement" with "Why I Love You" and "That's My Bitch" with "See Me Now"? Well, there's a chance I may have just dropped dead in the orchestra seating of Los Angeles's most famous stadium, because I was thisclose to doing so anyway...

"After silence, that which comes nearest to
expressing the inexpressible is music."
-Aldous Huxley