I got a call from a dear friend the other day. She wanted to tag off on me to be sure she told me how much she cares about me. It was one of those calls I didn't mind taking. This is to say that there are plenty of calls that I do mind taking. This was no telemarketer. This was someone who had every right to call me and it made me just a little shameful for even asking, "Who is it?"
It is the time of our lives we find ourselves in, when even the good friends are calling to share news that isn't so good. Pending babies and wedding announcements are giving way to dire proclamations of disease, divorce and the biggest D: death. I liked the ones about babies. I felt proud about the ones that brought me into that bigger circle of friends generated by weddings. I'm not a big fan of that circle diminishing.
That's why this call was so unusual. It was generated by a call she had received from a friend of hers that came with an announcement of the Big C: Cancer. Her friend's husband was dying, and it set off a chain of emotions that brought her to the other end of my telephone line. She was calling, not to check up on me, but to make sure that she let me know how much she loved me.
I know. Suddenly we're in that AT&T/Stevie Wonder territory of commercial-grade sentimentality. That's not what this was. This was the pure stuff, from which that treacle was so callously distilled. So pure, in fact, that it caused my own sincerity defenses to spring into action. My impulse to reply with smart aleck was almost as intense as the wave of sweetness I was getting. Happily, the sincerity won out, and I was able to rein in those wiseacre impulses long enough to respond in kind, if not a little slowly. It was, in the words of my son, totally worth it.
It got me to thinking about "The Big Chill." All those old friends gathering together as the news changes from pleasant to less than. I used to sneer a little at this contrived situation, driven by Motown hits and trumped up connections between these old college buddies. Now it doesn't seem so trite. All of a sudden, Lawrence Kasdan seems to have locked in on a particular moment in time and put it on film. The soundtrack of my life is different, but many of those emotions ring true. I'm very lucky to be able to have that in real life. I'm very lucky to have friends like her. I'm very lucky to have her in my life.
There, that wasn't so hard, was it?
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Friday, February 21, 2014
Floridation
I'm sorry I didn't grow up in Florida for one reason: proximity to Disney World. It would have been awesome to be able to get on a bus and ride to the most magical place on earth whenever the mood struck me. A land of make-believe where excitement and adventure are around every corner. Of course, the same could be said for Florida itself.
But not in a good way. For now, I'll just skip that whole section about election fraud, missing ballots and voter disenfranchisement. I won't even make the Bieber association, even though it's as fresh as the Bieb's orange jumpsuit. Instead, I think the reason that I'm glad that I didn't grow up in Florida is that I might not have lived very long.
For one, I have been known to take a walk now and again. Sometimes I do this while wearing a jacket with a hood on it. In my youth, I was also known to imbibe periodically in a Skittle or two. Though I was raised with a great deal of respect for authority, I'm not sure how I would have reacted if an armed man started to chase me through a strange neighborhood. I might have ended up being shot by some overzealous member of that neighborhood's watch.
Or, perhaps more likely, I would have been killed for playing my music too loud. When I think about how I listened to my stereo, whether in my car or in my home, in those days the volume knob was pegged on "excessive." While I was blessed with very understanding parents, it was when I moved out that my habits began to impact those who were less understanding. I knew this because sometimes when the walls of my apartment were shaking, it wasn't the bass, but the pounding of my disturbed neighbor's fists on the other side. I wasn't shy about sharing my music tastes on my car stereo, either. Often at stop signs or red lights, I was discouraged by other drivers or pedestrians on the sidewalk from sharing my music tastes. That's not the way they do it in Florida, apparently.
In Jacksonville, the volume control is found at the end of a gun. Michael Dunn believed his life was in danger when he fired into a car full of teenagers back in 2012. He killed Jordan Davis, who will never be any older than seventeen. Mister Dunn was not convicted of that killing. Instead, a jury found him guilty of multiple counts of attempted murder. Dunn's defense was that he was "standing his ground." Prosecutors argued that he recklessly shot at the teens after complaining about the volume of their music in a convenience store parking lot.
Happily, this kind of thing almost never happens in Disney World.
But not in a good way. For now, I'll just skip that whole section about election fraud, missing ballots and voter disenfranchisement. I won't even make the Bieber association, even though it's as fresh as the Bieb's orange jumpsuit. Instead, I think the reason that I'm glad that I didn't grow up in Florida is that I might not have lived very long.
For one, I have been known to take a walk now and again. Sometimes I do this while wearing a jacket with a hood on it. In my youth, I was also known to imbibe periodically in a Skittle or two. Though I was raised with a great deal of respect for authority, I'm not sure how I would have reacted if an armed man started to chase me through a strange neighborhood. I might have ended up being shot by some overzealous member of that neighborhood's watch.
Or, perhaps more likely, I would have been killed for playing my music too loud. When I think about how I listened to my stereo, whether in my car or in my home, in those days the volume knob was pegged on "excessive." While I was blessed with very understanding parents, it was when I moved out that my habits began to impact those who were less understanding. I knew this because sometimes when the walls of my apartment were shaking, it wasn't the bass, but the pounding of my disturbed neighbor's fists on the other side. I wasn't shy about sharing my music tastes on my car stereo, either. Often at stop signs or red lights, I was discouraged by other drivers or pedestrians on the sidewalk from sharing my music tastes. That's not the way they do it in Florida, apparently.
In Jacksonville, the volume control is found at the end of a gun. Michael Dunn believed his life was in danger when he fired into a car full of teenagers back in 2012. He killed Jordan Davis, who will never be any older than seventeen. Mister Dunn was not convicted of that killing. Instead, a jury found him guilty of multiple counts of attempted murder. Dunn's defense was that he was "standing his ground." Prosecutors argued that he recklessly shot at the teens after complaining about the volume of their music in a convenience store parking lot.
Happily, this kind of thing almost never happens in Disney World.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Why It Should Matter
Ellen Page came out as gay last week. "I'm tired of hiding," she told a crowd at the Human Rights Campaign's Time to THRIVE Conference on Valentine's Day. She made the announcement "To help others have an easier and more hopeful time. Regardless, for
me I feel a personal obligation and a social responsibility." Thank you Ellen, that is very compassionate and responsible of you. But let's back up to that "hiding" part.
I am old enough to remember when "outing" wasn't such a voluntary thing. I remember when Rock Hudson "came out." It was 1985, and the secret shame that one of Hollywood's most dashing and virile leading men was dying of AIDS was a shock to the entire world, not just the film community that had kept that secret for decades. I remember the fear and outrage this announcement generated even as sexual preference was finally becoming something that could be discussed, albeit with that same potential for shame and anger that erupted when Mister Hudson found himself at the forefront of this very difficult cultural tipping point.
It was Rock Hudson that made it possible, for better or worse, to be gay and lead a public life. Announcing one's sexual preference became less of a promotional stunt, as many felt David Bowie's proclamation of his bisexuality in 1972. This may seem crass, but manipulation of public image is something at which David has always excelled. That celebrities may time or engineer the declarations of their personal lives sometimes feels a little disingenuous. As a white male heterosexual living in the United States in 2014, I feel comfortable making that assertion. That there is any kind of backlash or retribution for how consenting adults choose to carry on their lives behind closed doors or walking down the street should no longer be an issue in the twenty-first century.
And yet it is. Still. Al Gore's Internet is still full of "did you know?" hints and rumors. The game of "Who's Gay?" still gets played with regularity, primarily with celebrities and public figures. The most ironic part of this comes when we try to figure out if an actor is pretending to be something he or she is not. That's what actors do, after all. That we require of our movie stars and rock gods is an accounting of things that are none of our business is the real shame.
Now, on the eve of what could be another young person's career-defining moment, Missouri linebacker Michael Sam has chosen to come out and step into what may be some of the harshest light possible: The National Football League College Draft. What sort of athlete Sam is stopped being the question at the instant he declared himself gay. Can he drop into coverage? Can he manage the complexities of a 3-4 defense? Who cares when what we all really want to know about takes place not on the field but in the locker room. My guess is that over the next year Michael Sam will have plenty of time to consider whether he should have "stayed hidden." But that's where we are in 2014. The good news, whether you are a movie actor or barista, athlete or custodian, is this: It Gets Better.
I am old enough to remember when "outing" wasn't such a voluntary thing. I remember when Rock Hudson "came out." It was 1985, and the secret shame that one of Hollywood's most dashing and virile leading men was dying of AIDS was a shock to the entire world, not just the film community that had kept that secret for decades. I remember the fear and outrage this announcement generated even as sexual preference was finally becoming something that could be discussed, albeit with that same potential for shame and anger that erupted when Mister Hudson found himself at the forefront of this very difficult cultural tipping point.
It was Rock Hudson that made it possible, for better or worse, to be gay and lead a public life. Announcing one's sexual preference became less of a promotional stunt, as many felt David Bowie's proclamation of his bisexuality in 1972. This may seem crass, but manipulation of public image is something at which David has always excelled. That celebrities may time or engineer the declarations of their personal lives sometimes feels a little disingenuous. As a white male heterosexual living in the United States in 2014, I feel comfortable making that assertion. That there is any kind of backlash or retribution for how consenting adults choose to carry on their lives behind closed doors or walking down the street should no longer be an issue in the twenty-first century.
And yet it is. Still. Al Gore's Internet is still full of "did you know?" hints and rumors. The game of "Who's Gay?" still gets played with regularity, primarily with celebrities and public figures. The most ironic part of this comes when we try to figure out if an actor is pretending to be something he or she is not. That's what actors do, after all. That we require of our movie stars and rock gods is an accounting of things that are none of our business is the real shame.
Now, on the eve of what could be another young person's career-defining moment, Missouri linebacker Michael Sam has chosen to come out and step into what may be some of the harshest light possible: The National Football League College Draft. What sort of athlete Sam is stopped being the question at the instant he declared himself gay. Can he drop into coverage? Can he manage the complexities of a 3-4 defense? Who cares when what we all really want to know about takes place not on the field but in the locker room. My guess is that over the next year Michael Sam will have plenty of time to consider whether he should have "stayed hidden." But that's where we are in 2014. The good news, whether you are a movie actor or barista, athlete or custodian, is this: It Gets Better.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
What, Exactly, Is The Debate?
Sometimes it helps to have things explained to us as if we were ten years old. That's why it made such good sense to me that science educator and television personality Bill Nye was brought on to NBC's "Meet The Press" to describe the effects of global warming to congressperson Marsha Blackburn of Tennessee. Ms. Blackburn was interested in discussing the "cost/benefit analysis" of what has been happening to our planet over the past century. The Science Guy wanted to get The Politician Lady to consider that something needs to be done. Representative Blackburn suggested that the change from three hundred and twenty to four hundred parts per million was "very slight." Is there doubt about climate change? Or is there doubt about what we need to do about it?
Pacific Gas and Electric, the combined natural gas and electric utility provider for northern and central California has accepted its "responsibility to both manage its emissions and work constructively to advance policies that put our state and the country on a cost-effective path toward a low-carbon economy." Those words "cost-effective" and "economy" show up a lot in discussions about greenhouse gasses and carbon footprints. What will it cost to keep our planet inhabitable for generations to come?
It's not a surprise, really, that the House Committee for which Ms. Blackburn is vice-co-chair is called "Energy and Commerce." Those two ideas have been running hand in hand with each other since the birth of our nation. It is a law of physics that you can't get something for nothing, just as it is in economics. There is a cost to everything. I learned this when I was just a kid, reading Bill Peet's "Wump World." When the Pollutants showed up and turned the Wump's green and pleasant home into a paved-over ball of muck, I started to understand what was happening. That was when I was eight, and since then I have participated in an economy that sells opportunities to wreck and save the planet disproportionately. Recycled toilet paper costs more than brand new. I find that horrifyingly ironic, and I'm neither a scientist nor an economist.
Maybe that's because I'm a Wump.
Pacific Gas and Electric, the combined natural gas and electric utility provider for northern and central California has accepted its "responsibility to both manage its emissions and work constructively to advance policies that put our state and the country on a cost-effective path toward a low-carbon economy." Those words "cost-effective" and "economy" show up a lot in discussions about greenhouse gasses and carbon footprints. What will it cost to keep our planet inhabitable for generations to come?
It's not a surprise, really, that the House Committee for which Ms. Blackburn is vice-co-chair is called "Energy and Commerce." Those two ideas have been running hand in hand with each other since the birth of our nation. It is a law of physics that you can't get something for nothing, just as it is in economics. There is a cost to everything. I learned this when I was just a kid, reading Bill Peet's "Wump World." When the Pollutants showed up and turned the Wump's green and pleasant home into a paved-over ball of muck, I started to understand what was happening. That was when I was eight, and since then I have participated in an economy that sells opportunities to wreck and save the planet disproportionately. Recycled toilet paper costs more than brand new. I find that horrifyingly ironic, and I'm neither a scientist nor an economist.
Maybe that's because I'm a Wump.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Very Dry
The past week or two around the Bay Area would not give anyone the impression that we are in the midst of a drought. A presidential-visit-of-concern-type drought. We have had rain. We have had snow. We have started to get our collective hopes up.
On the other side of the country, it's cold. It's wet. It's downright inhospitable. So much so that newly minted New York Mayor Bill de Blasio took some heat where there wasn't much for keeping schools open in a blizzard. Other school districts in the northeast will probably have to keep their kids coming back into June or later to make up for the missed time this winter's storms have created. Kids in Manhattan are trudging to school in snow up to ten inches.
Meanwhile, out here in the arid wastes of California, I have students coming up to me with feat in their eyes wondering how we can expect them to go outside and play when there is a little mist in the air. We should be celebrating ever drop of water, every bit of moisture. They have started to measure rain in tenths of an inch. We are all relieved to hear that our reservoirs are at sixty-three percent of their capacity. At my house we have begun to keep the stopper in the drain during showers to keep track of how much water we are using. If it gets up over your toes, it's too much.
Still, I can't help but remember that everything is a cycle. My good friend and science teacher from back in my younger days used to remind us all, starting with third graders, that the water we are drinking has been around a long time. Since the dinosaurs. It takes a while for most third graders to make the connection, but since everything evaporates and eventually comes back down to earth, those raindrops and snowflakes may have once made a circuit through a brachiosaurus. Makes those ten inches of snow seem a little more ominous all of a sudden.
On the other side of the country, it's cold. It's wet. It's downright inhospitable. So much so that newly minted New York Mayor Bill de Blasio took some heat where there wasn't much for keeping schools open in a blizzard. Other school districts in the northeast will probably have to keep their kids coming back into June or later to make up for the missed time this winter's storms have created. Kids in Manhattan are trudging to school in snow up to ten inches.
Meanwhile, out here in the arid wastes of California, I have students coming up to me with feat in their eyes wondering how we can expect them to go outside and play when there is a little mist in the air. We should be celebrating ever drop of water, every bit of moisture. They have started to measure rain in tenths of an inch. We are all relieved to hear that our reservoirs are at sixty-three percent of their capacity. At my house we have begun to keep the stopper in the drain during showers to keep track of how much water we are using. If it gets up over your toes, it's too much.
Still, I can't help but remember that everything is a cycle. My good friend and science teacher from back in my younger days used to remind us all, starting with third graders, that the water we are drinking has been around a long time. Since the dinosaurs. It takes a while for most third graders to make the connection, but since everything evaporates and eventually comes back down to earth, those raindrops and snowflakes may have once made a circuit through a brachiosaurus. Makes those ten inches of snow seem a little more ominous all of a sudden.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Legocy
It happened in a rush, a rush that had taken what seemed like forever. My son packed up all his Legos from underneath his bed and carted them down to our basement. This move wasn't the surprise. It had been in the wind for some time, but the action came in a rush. All those blocks, wheels, rods, and tiny men were shoveled somewhat unceremoniously into boxes and suddenly they were part of the past.
This isn't to say that they will be forgotten. A great many of the Lego sets I played with as a kid were preserved in my mother's house, as mothers and their houses will do. I fully expect that some or all of the bricks that found their way out of my son's room will rest comfortably beneath us, as so much of our family's past does. Still, this was part of his life from the time he fell in love with trains and before he switched fascinations to cars. He built trains. He built cars. And starships and houses and forts and machines that only he understood. That didn't mean that he wouldn't take the time to explain them to his parents. We were treated to extensive presentations on his latest creations, including the painstaking details that he included in every build.
Most of these creations came from long periods spent in the Lego Lab, underneath his bed. When he was very small, we raised up his bed so that he could have room below to work on projects, to stretch out, to relax. Year after year, birthdays, Christmases, and assorted occasions brought more Lego to our home, and joined the ever-expandng pile. We worked, or more honestly, my wife worked to control the swelling mass of tiny pieces, separating them into ever-smaller categories of plastic bits. It was mother's idea to make the son's creative process smoother by making those little gears and sprockets and tubes easier to find. After years of attempting to stem the tide, we surrendered to this rule: Legos must remain under the bed. Completed models could be brought out for display, but the flood needed to be contained in the shadow of the bed above. When we cleaned his room, we dusted and swept right up to that line, kicking the odd brick or wheel back into the dark recesses.
All this time, he never stopped building. Not with the frequency or duration that he used to, but there weren't too many months that went by without him finding some expression in Lego. Until the calendar turned to February 2014. The Saturday before the Super Bowl, he took it upon himself to shut it down. The Lego Lab was closed, and the forwarding address was downstairs. There are a few remnants: a Bionicle here, a twelve-cylinder engine there. These will remain. Other bits and pieces may resurface in time, but the Lego sea has receded. All those late nights or early mornings when I cursed the tiny plastic shard that found its way into my bare foot were over.
I don't remember who said it, but when I went to ask my son why it was finally time, I think we both knew the answer. We both knew that a young man at this age starts to fancy himself more of a bachelor. Bachelors have bean bag chairs and lava lamps in the little nook under their beds. They don't have piles of Lego. Not if they want to entertain young women in that space. Even if this notion is the purest form of teenaged boy fantasy, it was time for him to move on. Unless there was a daydream of constructing a perfect Lego mate from the toys of his youth. If he changes his mind, all those parts are still in the basement.
This isn't to say that they will be forgotten. A great many of the Lego sets I played with as a kid were preserved in my mother's house, as mothers and their houses will do. I fully expect that some or all of the bricks that found their way out of my son's room will rest comfortably beneath us, as so much of our family's past does. Still, this was part of his life from the time he fell in love with trains and before he switched fascinations to cars. He built trains. He built cars. And starships and houses and forts and machines that only he understood. That didn't mean that he wouldn't take the time to explain them to his parents. We were treated to extensive presentations on his latest creations, including the painstaking details that he included in every build.
Most of these creations came from long periods spent in the Lego Lab, underneath his bed. When he was very small, we raised up his bed so that he could have room below to work on projects, to stretch out, to relax. Year after year, birthdays, Christmases, and assorted occasions brought more Lego to our home, and joined the ever-expandng pile. We worked, or more honestly, my wife worked to control the swelling mass of tiny pieces, separating them into ever-smaller categories of plastic bits. It was mother's idea to make the son's creative process smoother by making those little gears and sprockets and tubes easier to find. After years of attempting to stem the tide, we surrendered to this rule: Legos must remain under the bed. Completed models could be brought out for display, but the flood needed to be contained in the shadow of the bed above. When we cleaned his room, we dusted and swept right up to that line, kicking the odd brick or wheel back into the dark recesses.
All this time, he never stopped building. Not with the frequency or duration that he used to, but there weren't too many months that went by without him finding some expression in Lego. Until the calendar turned to February 2014. The Saturday before the Super Bowl, he took it upon himself to shut it down. The Lego Lab was closed, and the forwarding address was downstairs. There are a few remnants: a Bionicle here, a twelve-cylinder engine there. These will remain. Other bits and pieces may resurface in time, but the Lego sea has receded. All those late nights or early mornings when I cursed the tiny plastic shard that found its way into my bare foot were over.
I don't remember who said it, but when I went to ask my son why it was finally time, I think we both knew the answer. We both knew that a young man at this age starts to fancy himself more of a bachelor. Bachelors have bean bag chairs and lava lamps in the little nook under their beds. They don't have piles of Lego. Not if they want to entertain young women in that space. Even if this notion is the purest form of teenaged boy fantasy, it was time for him to move on. Unless there was a daydream of constructing a perfect Lego mate from the toys of his youth. If he changes his mind, all those parts are still in the basement.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Woo
John Keating once suggested to his class of young, impressionable boys that language was not invented, as one of his students timidly suggested to communicate, but rather to woo women. There are plenty of reasons to disagree with this, primarily since my intent in writing this blog is to get words out of my head that seem to need their space and freedom. My wooing days are, for the most part, over now. I do try and keep my poetic license up to date, and I have been known to put a sentence or two together now and again to get the embers of my true love's heart burning. Without the actual heartburn, if possible.
This week at school, I have been attempting to drag poetry from the hearts and minds of third, fourth and fifth graders. When prodded, most every one of them could come up with this chestnut: "Roses are red, violets are blue. Sugar is sweet and so are you." This came after painstakingly working through the mechanics of rhyme. It's not the first letter or sound that matters, it's the last. Even so, many found it perplexing that "good" and "food" were not a rhyming pair. I wrote several examples on the board, but the majority of my students surrendered to the inevitable observation about the colors of various flowers and the relative level of saccharin found in your basic household sweetener.
Maybe what was missing was a muse. Someone for whom they could compose a sonnet, or at least a couplet. Most of the kids made Valentines for their parents. A few for their grandparents. They understood that the limits of their composition would hardly be noticed by this audience. There was one fifth grade boy who kept his work very quietly to himself. He made a very pretty background on which he could place his verse, but was completely stumped when it came time to write. "Mister Caven," he whispered, "what rhymes with 'love?'"
I gave him a flurry of suggestions, not wanting to tip the scales in any one direction: of, glove, dove, above, subversive. I left him to stew and continued on my rounds, watching as the number of red roses and blue violets threatened to dull my senses to the point of paralysis. When I finally returned to my quiet little friend, I saw that he had inscribed the name of one of the girls in his class at the top of his carefully drawn by wholly inaccurate heart. Inside he had written two words: "Love" and "Shove."
"What do you think, Mister Caven?"
I had seen the two of them, the intended recipient of his card and her suitor, racing about the playground in recent weeks, alternately shrieking at one another and then pulling on the other's backpack or colliding as they made their awkward and desperate lunge into line. I told him that I figured he had single-handedly epitomized fifth grade romance. I printed it out for him and wished him luck.
This week at school, I have been attempting to drag poetry from the hearts and minds of third, fourth and fifth graders. When prodded, most every one of them could come up with this chestnut: "Roses are red, violets are blue. Sugar is sweet and so are you." This came after painstakingly working through the mechanics of rhyme. It's not the first letter or sound that matters, it's the last. Even so, many found it perplexing that "good" and "food" were not a rhyming pair. I wrote several examples on the board, but the majority of my students surrendered to the inevitable observation about the colors of various flowers and the relative level of saccharin found in your basic household sweetener.
Maybe what was missing was a muse. Someone for whom they could compose a sonnet, or at least a couplet. Most of the kids made Valentines for their parents. A few for their grandparents. They understood that the limits of their composition would hardly be noticed by this audience. There was one fifth grade boy who kept his work very quietly to himself. He made a very pretty background on which he could place his verse, but was completely stumped when it came time to write. "Mister Caven," he whispered, "what rhymes with 'love?'"
I gave him a flurry of suggestions, not wanting to tip the scales in any one direction: of, glove, dove, above, subversive. I left him to stew and continued on my rounds, watching as the number of red roses and blue violets threatened to dull my senses to the point of paralysis. When I finally returned to my quiet little friend, I saw that he had inscribed the name of one of the girls in his class at the top of his carefully drawn by wholly inaccurate heart. Inside he had written two words: "Love" and "Shove."
"What do you think, Mister Caven?"
I had seen the two of them, the intended recipient of his card and her suitor, racing about the playground in recent weeks, alternately shrieking at one another and then pulling on the other's backpack or colliding as they made their awkward and desperate lunge into line. I told him that I figured he had single-handedly epitomized fifth grade romance. I printed it out for him and wished him luck.
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