New Rules

“Were you scared?” I asked her.

“Well, maybe a little. But the good news is, I thought, is that I was in the computer room, which is waaaaaaaay at the back of the school, and I figured that if anyone got into the school, he probably wouldn’t get all the way back to us there, so we were probably fine.” 

She went on: “We hid under the computer tables, which was gross because people stick their gum under there. So we had to lie there and stare at old gum. So I pulled out a book and started to read so I wouldn’t have to stare at the gum.” 

And a little later: “My teacher didn’t get underneath anything though. She just kept walking around. Shouldn’t she be safe too?”

I agreed with her that yes, her teacher should be safe too.

This is the conversation I had with my daughter recently, after her school experienced a lock down. The episode was brief: the lockdown was triggered not by anything dangerous happening at the school but by police activity in the neighborhood. It was a routine precautionary procedure, and was resolved quickly. However, the automatic text that went out to families only said: Lockdown at XX School. Receiving that text was anything but routine.

Tallulah is 12. When I was twelve, I was thinking about music, goofing around with my friends, and circling the clothes I liked in catalogues. I was not calculating the likelihood that I would get shot at school or picturing in my head what might happen to my teacher if she didn’t duck down under the tables with me, my classmates, and the old wads of gum.

I wish she didn’t have to think like that. I wish this were not normal for her. She was incredibly matter of fact when she was describing her predictions that a gunman wouldn’t make it to where she was huddled underneath the gum. That hurt a little to hear.

Sometimes, I feel a little hopeless about the gun debate in our country. It seems so obvious to me, a bleeding heart liberal, that the answer is gun control, but I know that for many conservatives the answer is more guns. It feels like never the twain shall meet, and we will only ever be angry with each other for not seeing the world the way we do. The problem with the gun debate is the same problem we are having with every policy debate: we cannot listen to the people on the other side. We demonize the people on the other side. That is what needs to stop.

I think we need a massive, communal reset, with new rules. Here are a few suggestions:

• Don’t say anything mean about the people you disagree with.
• Talk to people you disagree with. Ask a minimum of 10 questions to learn more about them personally and about why they hold certain views.
• If you’ve never talked with someone on the other side of an opinion you hold strongly, see if you can change that.
• If you have never met an immigrant, a Muslim, a rural voter, a gun rights enthusiast, a tax and spend liberal, a trickle down conservative, or anyone else you think of as “other,” if you’ve never tried to understand their point of view, put that on your bucket list instead of a trip to Bali. Or maybe in addition to.

What makes a difference in any person’s life? What makes a difference in yours? Relationships. Connection. Community. Expression. Being known. Those are the things that transform individual people, individual hearts. Those are the things that make us peaceful. That is where every policy debate needs to begin, with seeking community and connection. We may not agree (um…we definitely don’t agree). But we can still talk to each other, hear each other’s stories, and put ourselves in each other’s shoes. I think that’s what’s missing in our civic lives these days.

These are just random, somewhat weary thoughts as I think about the Tree of Life and the grocery store in Kentucky, and I worry about what is happening all around me. My daughter is safe, for now; but I’m scared that tomorrow, or the next day, or next year, she won’t be. I’m trying not to lose faith in this country, but it’s hard. 

Who wants to talk? Who wants to listen?

Repost: Life & Death

I first posted this piece in 2011.  Since then, my family has experienced quite a bit of grief and loss.  There are some lessons we need to learn and relearn every day of our lives.  This, I think, is one:

* * *

My son asked me the other day how long it takes to get over the death of someone you love.  There is inherent hope in that question, that getting over loss is possible, that everything will be OK at some point in the future.  I didn't want to answer him, because...well...who wants to tell a child that there are things you never get over?  But I answered.  I told him that you never get over a death, that you always miss the person you love, and no one and nothing ever can take his (or her) place in your life.  It's also possible, I told him, to go on and live a wonderful, full and happy life, to meet other people that you end up loving very much, to be joyful and to enjoy your life to the fullest.  But you don't get over death.  You don't ever go back to the way you were before a person you love dies.

My other son asked me questions today about 9/11.  He asked how it was possible for a small plane to bring down a building as big as the World Trade Center.  He had it in his head that the terrorists who flew into buildings that day were in small two or three seater planes, and had just taken off from wherever and flown to their targets.  I watched his face as I explained that no, actually, the planes were as big as the one he flew on to his cousin's wedding, that the terrorists were not the only people on board, that there were passengers on those planes as well.

Then he asked me about the field in Pennsylvania: why did the terrorists want to crash into a field?  Again, I watched his face as I explained that they actually wanted to hit another building, perhaps the U. S. Congress, and that some of the passengers fought back and caused the plane to crash into a field, and that by doing that, they saved the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who would have been killed had the plane reached its target.

I cannot describe the look on his face when I explained those things to him.  Horror, disbelief, rejection.  Rejection comes close.  He didn't want to know this about the world, I could tell.  He thought he knew the story of 9/11 -- I thought he did too.  But the details, as one learns them and lets them sink in, are freshly tortuous each time, for each person.  I watched those details torture him today.

And I felt like the hijackers were making me hurt my son by showing him that these things are possible, that people can really do unspeakable things, and that people are faced with impossible choices.

He couldn't respond to me in words.  He had no more questions.  He just sat there, looking stricken and sick, and we kept driving, on to the field where he would be playing in a soccer game in another hour.

* * *

9/11 gave us devastation, pain, suffering.

9/11 gave us dust covered faces and falling bodies.

9/11 gave us goodbye voicemails.

9/11 gave us a scorched Pennsylvania field.

9/11 gave us widows and orphans, and 3000 unfillable holes.

9/11 gave us sorrow.

9/11 gave me, gave Rick and me, something else, too.  9/11, five years later, gave us the deepest, fiercest kind of love, the strongest and best thing two people can produce together, 9/11 gave us Little T, in all her defiant and radiant glory.

She turns 5 as the country marks 10.  She'll wake up tomorrow overjoyed that this is her day, that she was born, that she is to be celebrated, even as the country wakes up to remember, soberly, lives that were lost to dust and steel 10 years ago.  She sees tomorrow as the greatest day ever in the history of the universe, because this is a kid who loves life like few people ever will.

When she said good night to me tonight, she asked about her Fruit Loops, since we let the kids eat sugary cereal on their birthdays.  I told her I still needed to go to the store and buy them, and she asked if I would be going tonight, or tomorrow morning very early.  When I told her I wasn't sure yet, she said, in that crazy cartoon voice of hers: 

"Well, if you leave tonight, and you think I'm asleep, and you leave without giving me a hug or a kiss?  Well, you can still hug and kiss me, even if I'm asleep, because I really don't ever want you to leave without giving me a hug and a kiss.  And sometimes, when I wake up and your car is gone, I think you should have given me a hug and kiss before you left."

And then she hugged me, with her strong and spindly arms and legs, and I felt her small frame pressed against mine, and I felt her smooth cheek, and I thought to myself there is nothing as purely good as the hug of a little kid.

She is --  all of my children are -- my hope that love will triumph over the evil done on 9/11 and the pain and suffering that reverberate out from that day.  She reverberates too: a resounding and repeating song of grabbing life with both hands, jumping in with abandon, and hanging on for the laughter filled ride.  

9/11/01 and 9/11/06 have given me the very same thing, namely this lesson:  hug and kiss the people you love, each and every time you leave them.  

* * *

My Own Little Renaissance

I went for a walk today after work.  I really didn't want to.  I was torn between passing the time before picking up my daughter from soccer practice by (a) stopping at the local taqueria and having a beer or (b) getting. in. my. steps.  

(If you say those last four words like you're the Economics Teacher from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, you will capture something of my feeling about going for a walk.)

But walk I did.  I made the smarter choice.  I'm glad I did, but I'm also struck by just how hard it was to make that choice.  It was, like, super hard.  Like, teenager who can't get out of bed hard.  Like, tween who doesn't want to take a shower hard.  Like, toddler who doesn't want to hold hands across the street or do anything else remotely reasonable hard.  Made me feel very wimpy.

But I digress.  This post isn't about my walk, but about something I've discovered recently, which I was reminded of on my walk.  Here's what I have discovered: There is so very much I do not know.

Put another way: There is so very much to learn about in the world.  And this is a cause of great excitement for me, almost as if I am having a little renaissance of my own, in which the world is opening up to me, new ideas are pouring into my brain, new knowledge is layering on top of the foundations I've built so far in my life.  And I LIKE IT!

I am kind of excited about discovering how much there is to learn, and feeling hopeful about the process of adding new and different information to my life.  There are so many books and articles to read, and people to ask questions of, and things to contemplate.  Here are some of the great things I've learned lately:

• I learned that Bob Dylan went through a fundamentalist, evangelical Christian stage.  HAD NO IDEA.  Fascinating.

• I learned about Zora Neale Hurston's ethnography work, notably her work to interview and document the words of Cudjo Lewis, the last survivor of the last known slave ship from Africa, which landed illegally in the US in 1860.  This story is remarkable not only for the story of Cudjo in his own words, but for the story of why her book about him, completed in 1931, has not been published before now.
  
  
  
• I learned that there is a very cool little agricultural oasis, right in the middle of Berkeley, called the Urban Adamah. I walked past it on my walk, and surely would still not know of its existence had I opted for that IPA I'm still hankering for. My walk took me into a sweet little wooded path, behind buildings and alongside a creek, and eventually, the path meandered along one side of this little oasis. I spied winding pathways, vegetable gardens, a round building probably used for retreats, benches, canopies, fields, cool earthy looking projects...and nary a soul in sight. I walked around the front of the property to find out the name of this very peaceful, soulful-looking place.  And then I consulted The Google: Urban Adamah is described on its website as "an educational farm and community center that integrates the practices of Jewish tradition, sustainable agriculture, mindfulness and social action to build loving, just and sustainable communities."  I thought it was super ironic that they also have big NO TRESPASSING signs posted in several places and high fences all the way around it...but it looked absolutely peaceful and mindful.  I'm happy to live in a world where places like this exist, even if I won't ever be able to trespass there.  And yes, I would like to.  

• I learned, no joke, that my great grandparents lived in a house in San Francisco in the very early 1900's, and they lost their house in the 1906 earthquake and great fire.  They lost their house, and my great-grandmother's brother lost his business: a bar at 1st and Mission.  HAD NO IDEA.  I've lived my whole life knowing about that earthquake and the fire that destroyed nearly the entire City, and never knew I had a close personal connection to it.  I also did not know there were bars in the family, before my mom and dad were the original proprietors of Murphy's Pub in Sonoma. 
 
• I learned that in 1966, my father had front row balcony tickets to a London performance of Swan Lake, featuring Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn.  Epic.  Absolutely epic.

And those are just the things that popped into my mind in the last 10 minutes!  Those last two have me pretty much wanting to corner my dad, stick a recording device in front of him, and pepper him with questions.  There is so much to learn in the world, and in my own family.  

I'm excited to know that I will always learn new things for as long as I live; as my friend Lori says,  "Just TRY to get through a day without learning something: it's not possible!"  I'm grateful that I went on that walk today: I learned something new and am reminded of how much awaits me.

Pretty sure I can learn something from a good IPA too, but that will be for another day.

What have you learned lately?

Teenage Girls Are Awesome: Here's Why

 simpler time: before they were
so confused about me. 

When she was around eleven or twelve, my middle daughter once threw her arms around, pulled me in tight and close, and yelled in my ear, "GET AWAY FROM ME."  There was a beat of silence between us before we cracked up.  We both enjoyed the absurdity of that tortured pre-teen moment.

She’s speeding towards 14 now, and she still does some version of the "push-me-pull-me" dance on a regular basis.  Sometimes, she comes up to me and encircles me with her arms while trying not to touch me.  Or she’ll grab my arm and fling it away.  Repeatedly.  While squawking.  Basically, she’s confused.

I have three daughters, so opportunities for absurdity abound. Today at the 9am Mass, I took a chance with Daughter #1, who is 15: I put my arm around her.  Mothers around the world know what a foolhardy mission this could have been, to open myself up to ninja level rejection and scorn like that.

But lo, a miracle occurred, and she let my arm stay where I had so boldly placed it.  She even snuggled in.  We sat there for a few minutes, listening to what can only be described as an interminable homily, with at least one of us grateful for a few extended moments of closeness.  I reveled in the sweetness, and even believed that maybe she didn’t think I was quite as cringe-worthy as usual.  And then, she raised her head from my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said plainly: "Your presence is irritating me, and I don't know why."  Having spoken her piece, she put her head back on my shoulder.   And again, there was a beat of silence between us before the pew shook with suppressed giggles.

There it was, a simple truth.  We both knew it: she just decided to put it out there.

I remember being a teenage girl.  In between giggles, I told her: "It's OK.  I remember being 15.  I know what that feels like."

But here's where she differs from Teenage Me: she put her head back on my shoulder and left it there.  She felt that mother-daughter confusion, named it, and stayed right there with me anyway.  And like her sister before her, she found humor in that confusion, and let the laughter flow.

The moment lingered.  It felt as if her funny, edgy words had cast a spell over us.  I tried not to breath or move, hoping to stay there with her for as long as possible.

* * *

I was not nearly so gracious about my conflicted feelings towards my own mother, and I certainly could not find humor in them.  I am almost 50, and while I have known for a while that Teenage Me was grossly unfair to my mom, it's only recently that I wonder what that must have been like for her.  I can't ask her: she died this past November.  I can't tell her I'm sorry I was a jerk.  I will never know if she felt the slings and arrows I silently volleyed in her direction when I was 15.  Did she feel me shudder when she pulled her shirt down tight over her hips?  Did she realize that school clothes shopping with her felt like having a disease?  How did I go from falling asleep in her lap to running laps to get away?

I wonder if she ever saw her daughters, my sister and I, wrestling with our Feelings About Mom in the same the way I see my own daughters doing today.  While there are many times I am discouraged by their scorn, or weary from reminding myself that they aren't even human yet and their scathing opinion of me matters not, lately I have started seeing their vitriol, coupled with their need for me, as something else: The Truth about All Relationships.

I am beginning to suspect that the hormonal tsunami that is a teenage girl is the most honest source of truth about love and family.  We love the people we love, and they simultaneously drive us painfully crazy.  We want them, and we want to flee from them, all at once.  We are terrified by and drawn to intimacy.  Teenage girls are just more honest about it than the rest of us.

In those brief, conflicted and funny moments with my daughters, that honesty feels like the greatest gift I have ever been given.

Perhaps it would be wise to be grateful for their confusion and for the way they express it.  Sooner than I can imagine, they will be settled young women who don’t cringe when I touch them and whose eyes have stopped rolling around like pinballs when I speak.  Sooner than I want, the tension and strife will have packed their bags and moved out, leaving echoes of “what if” in their wake.

The tsunami will subside.

The absurdity will be gone.

These too, I will miss one day.