I can't sing.
But I do. All the time. Loud and proud and embarrassingly off-key.
In elementary school, I was relegated by Sister Thomas to the back row of the choir only partly due to my height. Mostly it was due to my lack of ability. In a sea of melodic Little Drummer Boys, I was a "Rum-Pum." I still loathe that song.
I had a Raggedy Ann & Andy portable record player on which I spun a bizarre collection of 45's and albums I scavenged from the recesses of our home. The 45's were mostly leftovers that my Aunt Rosie had passed along to my oldest sister. They included gems from Pat Boone, Chubby Checker and Elvis.
I still know all of the words to "Hot Diggity, Dog Ziggity, Boom - What You Do To Me" and "Dungaree Doll". I can blast out "Witch Doctor" like nobody's business, followed by "I want you, I need you, I -hi-hi-hi, lu-huv you...." in perfect imitation Elvis.
Interspersed among these 1950's gems were later additions, like "In A Gadda DaVida" and "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter" and "Love Potion Number 9," likely purchased and then forgotten by older brothers and sisters.
Puberty arrived and I began to listen, obsessively, to Tapestry by Carole King, and Bette Midler's The Divine Miss M, which I found in the treasure trove. Imagine the sight of me, hovering over my little portable record player, singing along to "You've Got a Friend" over, and over, and over. It was not healthy. And then I found The Beatles White Album, which was the perfect antidote.
Soon my paper route money allowed me to expand the collection. I loved Elton John and Abba, Jackson Browne and Pat Benatar, Blondie and Billy Idol. I purchased Dire Straits' debut album at Dick's Record Shop, in Ironton, Ohio. The prices at Hills' Department Store were lower, but the convenience of Dick's couldn't be beat, since I could bike there. I was there every chance I got, analyzing the wall where the Top 40 were displayed in that week's order. Each 45 rpm single cost about a buck.
In junior high and high school, when Father Gabis at St. Joe began the process of pulling together our annual Variety Show, I was tapped for comic relief between acts because, clearly, I wouldn't be singing. For acts requiring a larger chorus, I was allowed to hum. Yes, hum. At some point, my friend Sally convinced me that if I stood next to her (defiantly, because at 5'2" with a good voice, she was front-row worthy) and listened carefully, I could follow her alto.
Sally was an enthusiastic and encouraging vocal coach. Without regard to decorum, she'd break out in the middle of "Endless Love" (the lyrics of which were edited by Fr. Gabis to include Jesus as the object of said Endless Love) to shout: "YOU DID IT! You GOT it! I heard it!"
I beamed. I glowed. I sang! And when Sally was absent from chorus practice, I was sent to the back row, to hum once again.
When I got to college, upgraded but still portable stereo in tow, I discovered that not everyone was a fan of my eclectic collection, which now included both Alabama and Electric Light Orchestra. I spent my money on beer instead of records and relied on the jukebox and DJ's for musical variety. I came up with the cash to see A Flock of Seagulls when they came to campus, though. Oh, I ran, alright!
These were the days before karaoke in bars, so my friends and I sang along with whatever was playing and voted on songs with our quarters. Madonna, Prince, The Talking Heads and U2 appeared in my collection of cassettes - no more albums for me, now that I had a Walkman. Mix tapes were the romantic gesture of the '80's, truly, and I have been unable to part with my collection.
With every move, from dorm to dorm, apartment to apartment to apartment, my collection moved with me. At some point in the early '90's, I finally started buying CD's. Now, with a subscription music service, I don't buy anything. I create my own playlists for every conceivable occasion: birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, pizza night. I even create playlists for the characters in my novel.
My albums, now merged with Hombre's, wait patiently in the basement along with my cassettes and CD's. Like the well-loved Velveteen Rabbit, they are "real" and I can't bring myself to throw them away. Too many memories.
Though lacking in talent, I still sing anything and everything, everywhere: especially when driving. I've amused fellow road warriors for decades with my shameless in-car performances. It's my personal way of spreading the love.
I'm like a walking Wurlitzer. Put on a song and unless it's death metal or rap, there's a reasonably good chance I'll be singing right along. And probably dancing. And most definitely embarrassing my offspring.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Monday, March 9, 2015
It's There, Just Waiting
In our never-ending quest to simplify, simplify, simplify, we recently scaled back our telephone service. Since most people call us on our cell phones, eliminating the charges for call-waiting, three-way calling and voicemail seemed very logical. In the event someone called and needed to leave a message, we had an answering device on our telephone set itself, though I could not recall that we had ever used it. I dutifully recorded a message and pressed the "Answer On" button.
I arrived home this afternoon to see the "new message" light blinking. It was the pharmacy; a prescription was ready for pick up. And then I noticed we had 8 old messages.
How old, I wondered?
The first was from Purple Hearts; a pick up was scheduled on our street for next Friday. The machine announced that the message was recorded on Monday. But which Monday? Today is Monday. Hmm. A mystery. Delete.
Message number two was from the Bainbridge Library. A book reserved by B had come in. The machine announced that the message was recorded on Monday.
"Honey, did you reserve a book at the Bainbridge Library?" I called down the stairs from my office.
"I haven't reserved a book there in ages, Mom."
Not current. Delete.
Message number three was from a pharmacy we only used once, in 2010 or 2011, shortly after we moved and until I figured out that another was closer to home. Stale. Delete.
Message number four was from one of the kids' old friends, asking for our new address for a birthday party invite. Ancient. Delete.
Message number five began and my heart stopped.
"Hi Margaret, it's Dad," he began, his voice strong and clear.
He was calling from his cell phone, a South Carolina number I still know by heart, though it's been nearly three years since I've called it. He's still the only person who ever calls me Margaret.
"I wanted you to know I had to take your Mother to the hospital. "
Which time?
"She woke up this morning and her chest was so congested she could hardly breathe. She started coughing and couldn't catch her breath."
When was this? Was it up here, in Ohio, or back in South Carolina?
"She was coughing so hard she threw up."
Poor Mom!
"Her blood pressure was sky high. Maybe from all the coughing; I don't know. So I took her to the emergency room."
If he drove her and didn't call an ambulance, it had to be before his lung surgery.
"They started some antibiotics and took a sputum sample. They gave her something for her blood pressure, to bring it down."
I don't remember her having pneumonia in the last year or so. Or did she? Hmmm.
"They are going to keep her overnight. I'm sure she will be fine, but I wanted you to know."
Of course you did.
"I don't have her room number in front of me, so if you want to check on her, just call my cell phone."
Which hospital, Dad?
"Well, I better get off here and call the other kids. I have a whole list to go through. I'll keep you posted if anything changes."
You will; you always did.
"Tell the girls we said hello."
Always.
"Love you, Margaret."
I know, Dad; I know.
For a moment I just sat there, stunned. And then I pressed "save."
I don't know why. I don't know that I will ever be able to go back and listen to it again.
But still.
I know it's there, just waiting.
Just in case.
Just in case I ever want to hear his voice again.
I arrived home this afternoon to see the "new message" light blinking. It was the pharmacy; a prescription was ready for pick up. And then I noticed we had 8 old messages.
How old, I wondered?
The first was from Purple Hearts; a pick up was scheduled on our street for next Friday. The machine announced that the message was recorded on Monday. But which Monday? Today is Monday. Hmm. A mystery. Delete.
Message number two was from the Bainbridge Library. A book reserved by B had come in. The machine announced that the message was recorded on Monday.
"Honey, did you reserve a book at the Bainbridge Library?" I called down the stairs from my office.
"I haven't reserved a book there in ages, Mom."
Not current. Delete.
Message number three was from a pharmacy we only used once, in 2010 or 2011, shortly after we moved and until I figured out that another was closer to home. Stale. Delete.
Message number four was from one of the kids' old friends, asking for our new address for a birthday party invite. Ancient. Delete.
Message number five began and my heart stopped.
"Hi Margaret, it's Dad," he began, his voice strong and clear.
He was calling from his cell phone, a South Carolina number I still know by heart, though it's been nearly three years since I've called it. He's still the only person who ever calls me Margaret.
"I wanted you to know I had to take your Mother to the hospital. "
Which time?
"She woke up this morning and her chest was so congested she could hardly breathe. She started coughing and couldn't catch her breath."
When was this? Was it up here, in Ohio, or back in South Carolina?
"She was coughing so hard she threw up."
Poor Mom!
"Her blood pressure was sky high. Maybe from all the coughing; I don't know. So I took her to the emergency room."
If he drove her and didn't call an ambulance, it had to be before his lung surgery.
"They started some antibiotics and took a sputum sample. They gave her something for her blood pressure, to bring it down."
I don't remember her having pneumonia in the last year or so. Or did she? Hmmm.
"They are going to keep her overnight. I'm sure she will be fine, but I wanted you to know."
Of course you did.
"I don't have her room number in front of me, so if you want to check on her, just call my cell phone."
Which hospital, Dad?
"Well, I better get off here and call the other kids. I have a whole list to go through. I'll keep you posted if anything changes."
You will; you always did.
"Tell the girls we said hello."
Always.
"Love you, Margaret."
I know, Dad; I know.
For a moment I just sat there, stunned. And then I pressed "save."
I don't know why. I don't know that I will ever be able to go back and listen to it again.
But still.
I know it's there, just waiting.
Just in case.
Just in case I ever want to hear his voice again.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Necessary Awkwardness
For every stage my daughters go through, every life event they experience, I have a memory of myself at that very age and stage. I try very hard to meet them where they are, acknowledging their unique personalities, but I also try to recall where I was at that point and what might have helped me, in case they can't articulate what they need.
We have talked about menses openly and regularly (ha!) since they were in elementary school. I wanted them to be comfortable and knowledgeable. Unashamed. I wanted them to feel competent to care for themselves. Nobody did that for me and they wouldn't know to ask. I've taught them to track their cycles and to carry spare supplies. When they find themselves unaccountably emotional, I gently remind them to check the calendar. Might that be why they are feeling this way?
We have talked about sex. Not in a titillating way, but in a matter-of-fact way. The mechanics are old news around here. They knew about egg and sperm long ago. They have known how the baby "gets out" for what seems like forever. They were curious and interested and so I explained it all to them. We use no euphemisms in our house. We name the parts accurately. I have always acknowledged (out loud) that they may be attracted to someone of either gender or they may be attracted to both genders and it's all perfectly normal.
For quite a few years, that was enough. A couple of years ago, I realized it was time for a different kind of sex talk. The sex talk I wish I had been given. The sex talk that might have prevented some of my own bad experiences.
My first boyfriend, when I was 13 and in 7th grade, was a 17 year old junior in high school. Our paper routes were adjacent, so we walked many miles together every afternoon for a few months. As time progressed, many of those walks ended in make-out sessions that I was completely unprepared for. He gave me attention and made me feel special, so I went along with it for a while. We broke up before things got too far out of hand, but not before I had a neck covered in hickeys that I tried in vain to cover with make-up. I truly had no idea how it happened. I thought he was just kissing me. I don't recall either of my parents commenting about it, though how it could have escaped their notice I don't know. I was the talk of St. Joe's for months.
So, instead of the mechanics of sex, now we talk more about the feelings. We talk about having crushes. We talk about how overwhelming it can feel when you really, really like someone and you want them to like you back. I have spoken to them about how nice it feels to be physically close to someone you care about, but how that does not have to result in intercourse. There are many, many ways to be close and to express love and affection. One act does not necessarily lead to another. There is no time-table or standard progression and anyone who tells them there is, is lying.
My daughters know that they own their own bodies. They and only they decide who - boy or girl - touches them, where, and when. They must respect the boundaries of others, as well, if they are more physical than the other person is comfortable with.
I try to teach them to pay attention to their instincts. How does a person make them feel? Do they feel respected and cared for? Do they feel pushed, rushed or manipulated? Are they having fun? There are allowances to be made for adolescent awkwardness in flirting and in communication, surely, but if they are always feeling like they are defending themselves or arguing about why they do not want to do something, that should be a warning sign. If a situation makes them uncomfortable, they have a special code to text me so I can retrieve them without embarrassment.
I tell them about a couple of my high school boyfriends: big, muscular boys who were like octopi the minute the lights dimmed in the movie theater. I tell them how it felt to be constantly wrestling with those boys; that I thought it was normal. I tell them they don't have to put up with that. They can just get up, walk out and call me. It's not okay to be treated that way, but nobody ever told me that. Nobody ever told me that I could set a boundary and expect it to be honored. And so I tell them.
We talk about how our culture teaches boys that they are expected to push girls for sex, but often the boys may not really want to do it. They may not feel ready, but they are feeling pressure from their friends. Maybe some boys don't have anyone telling them the truth: that sex is only good when it is fully, joyfully consensual. I don't want to scare them, but I tell them anyway.
We don't have these talks all at once, but in bits and pieces, and most importantly, often with Hombre. We touch on it during car rides or waiting in the drop off line at school. Maybe if I see something on TV or hear a song on the radio that brings it to mind. My girls are embarrassed, more so now than when they were younger, as the implications are far more real now that they are in middle and high school. They roll their eyes and tell me that I am "awkward." I probably am, but I don't care. I want them to know what to expect and to feel like they can handle it.
I worry and yet, as I watch my eldest walk out the door to the waiting car of her first date, I find I am mostly concerned about his driving skills.
We have talked about menses openly and regularly (ha!) since they were in elementary school. I wanted them to be comfortable and knowledgeable. Unashamed. I wanted them to feel competent to care for themselves. Nobody did that for me and they wouldn't know to ask. I've taught them to track their cycles and to carry spare supplies. When they find themselves unaccountably emotional, I gently remind them to check the calendar. Might that be why they are feeling this way?
We have talked about sex. Not in a titillating way, but in a matter-of-fact way. The mechanics are old news around here. They knew about egg and sperm long ago. They have known how the baby "gets out" for what seems like forever. They were curious and interested and so I explained it all to them. We use no euphemisms in our house. We name the parts accurately. I have always acknowledged (out loud) that they may be attracted to someone of either gender or they may be attracted to both genders and it's all perfectly normal.
For quite a few years, that was enough. A couple of years ago, I realized it was time for a different kind of sex talk. The sex talk I wish I had been given. The sex talk that might have prevented some of my own bad experiences.
My first boyfriend, when I was 13 and in 7th grade, was a 17 year old junior in high school. Our paper routes were adjacent, so we walked many miles together every afternoon for a few months. As time progressed, many of those walks ended in make-out sessions that I was completely unprepared for. He gave me attention and made me feel special, so I went along with it for a while. We broke up before things got too far out of hand, but not before I had a neck covered in hickeys that I tried in vain to cover with make-up. I truly had no idea how it happened. I thought he was just kissing me. I don't recall either of my parents commenting about it, though how it could have escaped their notice I don't know. I was the talk of St. Joe's for months.
So, instead of the mechanics of sex, now we talk more about the feelings. We talk about having crushes. We talk about how overwhelming it can feel when you really, really like someone and you want them to like you back. I have spoken to them about how nice it feels to be physically close to someone you care about, but how that does not have to result in intercourse. There are many, many ways to be close and to express love and affection. One act does not necessarily lead to another. There is no time-table or standard progression and anyone who tells them there is, is lying.
My daughters know that they own their own bodies. They and only they decide who - boy or girl - touches them, where, and when. They must respect the boundaries of others, as well, if they are more physical than the other person is comfortable with.
I try to teach them to pay attention to their instincts. How does a person make them feel? Do they feel respected and cared for? Do they feel pushed, rushed or manipulated? Are they having fun? There are allowances to be made for adolescent awkwardness in flirting and in communication, surely, but if they are always feeling like they are defending themselves or arguing about why they do not want to do something, that should be a warning sign. If a situation makes them uncomfortable, they have a special code to text me so I can retrieve them without embarrassment.
I tell them about a couple of my high school boyfriends: big, muscular boys who were like octopi the minute the lights dimmed in the movie theater. I tell them how it felt to be constantly wrestling with those boys; that I thought it was normal. I tell them they don't have to put up with that. They can just get up, walk out and call me. It's not okay to be treated that way, but nobody ever told me that. Nobody ever told me that I could set a boundary and expect it to be honored. And so I tell them.
We talk about how our culture teaches boys that they are expected to push girls for sex, but often the boys may not really want to do it. They may not feel ready, but they are feeling pressure from their friends. Maybe some boys don't have anyone telling them the truth: that sex is only good when it is fully, joyfully consensual. I don't want to scare them, but I tell them anyway.
We don't have these talks all at once, but in bits and pieces, and most importantly, often with Hombre. We touch on it during car rides or waiting in the drop off line at school. Maybe if I see something on TV or hear a song on the radio that brings it to mind. My girls are embarrassed, more so now than when they were younger, as the implications are far more real now that they are in middle and high school. They roll their eyes and tell me that I am "awkward." I probably am, but I don't care. I want them to know what to expect and to feel like they can handle it.
I worry and yet, as I watch my eldest walk out the door to the waiting car of her first date, I find I am mostly concerned about his driving skills.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
What Would You Do If You Had No Fear?
I have turned a corner and I'm never going back. I am now fully "in" my 50's. What does that look like? Pretty goddamn terrific, if you ask me.
At my birthday last year, I had started working out and lost some weight. I was feeling good. I was excited about life and where it might take me in the next year. I was feeling bold and brassy and ready to try all kinds of stuff. I put away once and for all my worries about what other people thought.
My motto for the year was, "What would you do if you had no fear?"
Here's what happened.
I put my writing out there and for the first time, submitted an essay to another site and it was published!
I got another piercing. Yup, I'm bad-ass.
I bought a bikini. For the first time since 1987. I wore it, in public, jiggly middle and all, and you know what? No one laughed. In fact, I don't think anyone really cared.
I took off said bikini on a nude beach. It was awesome. I went back the next day and did it again. I felt breezes in places I have never felt breezes and I guarantee I'll do it again.
When our house caught fire, I held it together and kept the family on track and myself moving forward. In the worst winter of recent record.
I attended my first pagan, witchy fire circle. It was inspiring and heart-opening.
I created my first ever vision board. It was fun and thought provoking and I think I'll do it every year.
I rode the wave-rider at Kalahari. I made a spectacle of myself and laughed and laughed and laughed.
I sent my baby girl to her first winter formal, shaking my head that this could be happening.
I had a poem and photo published.
I entered a poetry contest. I did not win. Not even honorable mention. I lived.
I watched with pride and tears as my eldest child soared to new heights in Science Olympiad, earning medals at both the regional and state levels.
I became a Master Gardener after attending 72 hours of classes, performing 50 hours of volunteer work and taking a gazillion question test. I remembered a bit of high school Latin in the process.
I was diagnosed with skin cancer and had a chunk of my back removed.
I gave myself a black eye trying to launch into crow in yoga class. More importantly, I went back after that and tried again.
I quit coloring my hair. I discovered just how much silver was lurking in there. (A LOT.)
I had lunch in Quebec, visited three new states and the Almanzo Wilder homestead with my wonderful family.
I enjoyed the hell out of my girlfriends.
I paddle-boarded for the first time.
I did a high ropes course that scared the bejesus out of me and cheered for my daughters who went higher than I did and my Hombre who did the Black Diamond course.
I started running again for the first time since 1998 and completed a 5k with my daughter and good friends.
I went rock climbing for the first time.
I wrote a novel.
I got my first free-lance writing gig.
And then there was all the normal stuff, the bits of everyday life that glued these highlights together. The mortar between the big bricks I laid down this year.
As I stand back and look at my 50th year, a couple of things stand out.
First, we really are the architects of our own lives. We make choices every day about not just what we do but how we do it: with enthusiasm and verve or with obligation and dread. Laundry is never fun, but with loud music to sing to, it becomes infinitely more tolerable. Life is a lot more fun when you just put yourself out there. I had forgotten that.
Second, our lives impact others in ways we can't even imagine. I thought I was just trucking along, doing the best I could, until my daughters expressed their admiration for me. Sure, I wanted to set a good example, but that wasn't my main intent this past year. The surprise result was that they became emboldened, too, and sought out new challenges for themselves: Power of the Pen and the high school bowling team. The high ropes course and the paddle board. The 5k. They are cooking meals for the family and learned how to do the laundry to support my writing schedule.
The support and positive comments I received from friends and family regarding my adventures all year long were so humbling. I use Facebook as sort of journal of what I'm up to. I try to be a little witty and entertaining, but I'm not fishing for anything when I post. Nothing surprised me as much as the enthusiastic support I received as I posted my daily word counts during NaNoWriMo. I was doing it to hold myself accountable. I learned that my friends were paying attention and they cared.
I'm digging this mid-century modern thing. I think 51 will be just as awesome as 50 was. I'm never looking back to those days when I listened to the shoulds and the ought-tos ever again.
At my birthday last year, I had started working out and lost some weight. I was feeling good. I was excited about life and where it might take me in the next year. I was feeling bold and brassy and ready to try all kinds of stuff. I put away once and for all my worries about what other people thought.
My motto for the year was, "What would you do if you had no fear?"
Here's what happened.
I put my writing out there and for the first time, submitted an essay to another site and it was published!
I bought a bikini. For the first time since 1987. I wore it, in public, jiggly middle and all, and you know what? No one laughed. In fact, I don't think anyone really cared.
I took off said bikini on a nude beach. It was awesome. I went back the next day and did it again. I felt breezes in places I have never felt breezes and I guarantee I'll do it again.
I attended my first pagan, witchy fire circle. It was inspiring and heart-opening.
I rode the wave-rider at Kalahari. I made a spectacle of myself and laughed and laughed and laughed.
I sent my baby girl to her first winter formal, shaking my head that this could be happening.
I had a poem and photo published.
I entered a poetry contest. I did not win. Not even honorable mention. I lived.
I watched with pride and tears as my eldest child soared to new heights in Science Olympiad, earning medals at both the regional and state levels.
I became a Master Gardener after attending 72 hours of classes, performing 50 hours of volunteer work and taking a gazillion question test. I remembered a bit of high school Latin in the process.
I was diagnosed with skin cancer and had a chunk of my back removed.
I gave myself a black eye trying to launch into crow in yoga class. More importantly, I went back after that and tried again.
I quit coloring my hair. I discovered just how much silver was lurking in there. (A LOT.)
I had lunch in Quebec, visited three new states and the Almanzo Wilder homestead with my wonderful family.
I enjoyed the hell out of my girlfriends.
I paddle-boarded for the first time.
I started running again for the first time since 1998 and completed a 5k with my daughter and good friends.
I went rock climbing for the first time.
I wrote a novel.
I got my first free-lance writing gig.
And then there was all the normal stuff, the bits of everyday life that glued these highlights together. The mortar between the big bricks I laid down this year.
As I stand back and look at my 50th year, a couple of things stand out.
First, we really are the architects of our own lives. We make choices every day about not just what we do but how we do it: with enthusiasm and verve or with obligation and dread. Laundry is never fun, but with loud music to sing to, it becomes infinitely more tolerable. Life is a lot more fun when you just put yourself out there. I had forgotten that.
Second, our lives impact others in ways we can't even imagine. I thought I was just trucking along, doing the best I could, until my daughters expressed their admiration for me. Sure, I wanted to set a good example, but that wasn't my main intent this past year. The surprise result was that they became emboldened, too, and sought out new challenges for themselves: Power of the Pen and the high school bowling team. The high ropes course and the paddle board. The 5k. They are cooking meals for the family and learned how to do the laundry to support my writing schedule.
The support and positive comments I received from friends and family regarding my adventures all year long were so humbling. I use Facebook as sort of journal of what I'm up to. I try to be a little witty and entertaining, but I'm not fishing for anything when I post. Nothing surprised me as much as the enthusiastic support I received as I posted my daily word counts during NaNoWriMo. I was doing it to hold myself accountable. I learned that my friends were paying attention and they cared.
I'm digging this mid-century modern thing. I think 51 will be just as awesome as 50 was. I'm never looking back to those days when I listened to the shoulds and the ought-tos ever again.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Angsty
I really enjoy writing.
I do.
Really.
But I have been struggling with it. Struggling with what to do with my writing. I'm goal-ish that way.
I like to play with words and ideas. I want to make people laugh and make them pause for a second and think about life from a different perspective. Writing just for the pleasure of playing with words or exploring my own philosophies seems rather self-indulgent.
I feel like I should be working on something BIG; bigger than this blog and my hen-scratched journals and haikus. Something published on real paper. Something that might be read by people other than those who see my FaceBook links or "follow" me.
Why is that?
Is it a holdover from my Type-A past? Do I need to legitimize my existence? Do I feel guilty about not earning my keep at the moment? All of the above?
Do artists feel this way? Like they need to sell a painting in order to be "real" artists?
Do other writers feel this way? Like they have to prove something that can only be proven by being published?
I see so much published writing that is dreck. And yet. It was published. Some editor, somewhere, saw value in it.
I've been stuck. I want to write a novel, but I can't seem to get the plot worked out. I didn't see a way to start until I knew where it was going, so I was thinking but not writing. And notwriting was making me a wee bit crazy.
Finally, I just started. I started with a main character. I'm making her someone I'd want to be friends with. I'm trusting the process: that as I get to know her, interesting things will happen. It will unfold.
But I'm worried. What if it's shitty? What if I write and write and end up with a novel that sucks? What if nobody wants to read it? What if my friends and family read it and they are embarrassed to tell me how bad it is?
Will they love me anyway?
I do.
Really.
But I have been struggling with it. Struggling with what to do with my writing. I'm goal-ish that way.
I like to play with words and ideas. I want to make people laugh and make them pause for a second and think about life from a different perspective. Writing just for the pleasure of playing with words or exploring my own philosophies seems rather self-indulgent.
I feel like I should be working on something BIG; bigger than this blog and my hen-scratched journals and haikus. Something published on real paper. Something that might be read by people other than those who see my FaceBook links or "follow" me.
Is it a holdover from my Type-A past? Do I need to legitimize my existence? Do I feel guilty about not earning my keep at the moment? All of the above?
Do artists feel this way? Like they need to sell a painting in order to be "real" artists?
Do other writers feel this way? Like they have to prove something that can only be proven by being published?
I see so much published writing that is dreck. And yet. It was published. Some editor, somewhere, saw value in it.
I've been stuck. I want to write a novel, but I can't seem to get the plot worked out. I didn't see a way to start until I knew where it was going, so I was thinking but not writing. And notwriting was making me a wee bit crazy.
Finally, I just started. I started with a main character. I'm making her someone I'd want to be friends with. I'm trusting the process: that as I get to know her, interesting things will happen. It will unfold.
But I'm worried. What if it's shitty? What if I write and write and end up with a novel that sucks? What if nobody wants to read it? What if my friends and family read it and they are embarrassed to tell me how bad it is?
Will they love me anyway?
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Law School: Humiliation, Redemption and Something More
I arrived at law school just as I had left Oklahoma City 72 hours earlier: exhausted, exhilarated and eager.
I had no idea what I was in for.
As I walked into the school on the first day, a man in a none-too-fresh, white three-piece suit, who looked like a mash-up of Boss Hogg and Benjamin Franklin, came barreling down the stairs, arms outstretched, hair flying, yelling, "Good! Evil! Good! Evil!"
WTF have I gotten myself into?
I learned some weeks later that Professor X had been calling to his aptly-named cats, one black, the other white, who had escaped his office. (1)
I digress.
Law school classes are mostly taught via the Socratic method. The professor does not lecture, but draws out the content by questioning the students who have, presumably, read the textbook. In law school, the textbooks contain primarily decisions of courts interpreting either law enacted by a legislative body or common law set forth by other court decisions, sometimes both. Some textbooks contain other sorts of material such as the Constitution, codified rules of civil or criminal procedure or uniform codes. What they do not contain is explanatory material.
The first thing you learn as a first year law student is how to "brief a case," that is, how to glean the pertinent points from a court's decision so that, if called upon in class, you can accurately recite the information. Oh, and also so you can learn the law. Usually this includes summarizing the facts, identifying the question before the court, describing the court's analysis and stating the precise holding or ruling of the court. Often, the cases excerpted in the textbooks are filled with irrelevant information and the precise "holding" is buried. No spoon-feeding here; you have to work for it. There are study guides and "canned briefs" available for purchase. We were sternly cautioned against them because the drudges employed to create them may not have even passed the bar! They might not even be lawyers! Trust them at your peril!
The second thing you learn as a first year law student is not to come to class unprepared. Law professors are often quite cruel and some seem to delight in humiliating students who are unprepared or simply don't grasp the key points of the cases. (2) These professors are generally known to the students - unless they are new to the school. Previously benign professors might turn vicious if, for example, they are quitting smoking or going through a divorce. (3) In addition, law students are a hyper-competitive, brutal crowd, particularly in the first first year. Being exposed as unprepared or simply clueless before 100 or so of your classmates, even by a gentle professor, is a humbling experience. Best to be prepared.
But being prepared takes time. A lot of time. Time spent in quiet study. An average caseload in law school might be 15 credit hours per semester: 5 3-credit-hour classes. Each class could have more than 30 pages of reading per night. Except it's not only reading, it's reading plus briefing.
And some of us had social lives.
By about 2/3 of the way through my first semester, I was getting a little sloppy. I had an 8 a.m. contracts class that was killing me. I am not a morning person and the aged, misogynistic professor was a rabid basketball fan. So much so that class discussions often veered far afield and having no idea who the players, coaches and teams were, I grew deeply resentful. I really needed more discussion and explanation than I was getting, so I spent a lot of time reading and re-reading the cases trying to make sense of it.
My afternoon criminal law class was challenging enough without my professor bleeding me dry, bumming cigarettes from me every day. I was reduced to scrounging beneath the floor mats in my car for change to buy smokes and Professor "I wrote the Ohio Criminal Code and live in a mansion" was trying to quit. Rather than just buy a pack and admit that he was failing, he mooched from me. I was in no position to say "no." It also made me an easy target in class because in the sea of faces, he readily recognized mine. And so with a smile, called upon me. Almost daily.
I had a year-long legal writing course and another mumbo-jumbo legal-ese class I never did get the point of. The professor was rumored to be brilliant, but I was not convinced. Most of our term was spent discussing the Judgment of Solomon. An actual exchange:
(Looks down at his seating chart.)
"Mr. Danish?"
"Mr. Danish?"
"No Mr. Danish?"
(Looks down at his seating chart.)
"Mr. Cook?"
"Here."
"Well, if we haven't got a Danish, at least we have a Cook."
Nearly laughed himself silly at that one, he did.
The other class I took my first semester was torts. I actually enjoyed it. It was in the late morning, so I was awake and fully caffeinated. The professor was a young woman. I think this was her first teaching assignment. She was very formal and organized. We had had several good exchanges up to that point in the term.
On this particular Wednesday, I was exhausted. Up late the night before, overloaded with a paper due in legal writing and copious contracts reading, I didn't finish my torts. I figured I was safe from being called on since I raised my hand regularly, so she had no reason to think I wouldn't be prepared. I could, of course, approach her before class and tell her I wasn't prepared, but she only allowed one pass per semester and I might need it later. I'd gamble.
Damn if she didn't fly through the material I had already covered and into the unread. Damn if she didn't look down at that seating chart and then look directly at me.
"Ms. Pauken, Mr. Jones just told us the court's ruling in X vs. Y; did they get it right?"
Crap, crap, crappity crap.
Her rule was that if you were unprepared, you were to let her know before class.
50-50 shot. Yes or no question.
I come from a poker-playing family. I know how to bluff. What the hell?
Firmly and with conviction, I said,
"No. They did not."
I hadn't even exhaled when 47 eager gunner-hands shot into the air.
Aw, shit.
She looked at me, eyebrows raised in disbelief, then down at the seating chart.
"Mr. Collins, why don't you explain to Ms. Pauken why she is wrong?"
I glanced at Matt, who sat next to me. He was grinning and shaking his head.
"You are so fucked," he whispered.
I spent most of the next day preparing for Friday's torts class. It would be a doozy. Among the cases was a legendary lawsuit arising out of freighters that collided with a drawbridge in a canal; the St. Lawrence Seaway, as I recall. There were a series of mistakes: delayed signaling by the captain, a drawbridge watchman asleep at his post, maybe a mechanical failure of some sort. I diagrammed the sequence of events because it was so complicated.
On Friday at 11:00, slightly queasy, I took my seat and prepared to perform.
The professor walked in at the last minute and took her time opening her binder and setting out her seating chart as the anticipation grew. Everyone knew what was coming.
She looked up at me.
"Ms. Pauken, are you prepared today?"
An expectant hum filled the room as my classmates craned around to see the look on my face.
I grinned and nodded.
"I sure am, Professor M."
"Proceed with the first case."
It was the Meg Pauken Show.
Fifty minutes worth.
She asked; I answered. And answered and answered and answered.
When the bell finally rang, I was completely drained. I let out my breath in a big sigh.
Matt gave me a nod and a smile.
"Nice."
I turned to him.
"Is it too early to drink? Do you think the Barking Spider is open?"
"What the hell? It's Friday. Let's go."
(1) Later, I also discovered that he was a regular renter of pornographic movies from the local video store, Vid-Star. I'd see him on many a Friday night emerging from the curtained back room with a stack of tapes and a big bag of popcorn.
(2) See The Paper Chase, a 1970's era series on PBS or One L, Scott Turow.
(3) Personal experience.
I had no idea what I was in for.
As I walked into the school on the first day, a man in a none-too-fresh, white three-piece suit, who looked like a mash-up of Boss Hogg and Benjamin Franklin, came barreling down the stairs, arms outstretched, hair flying, yelling, "Good! Evil! Good! Evil!"
WTF have I gotten myself into?
I learned some weeks later that Professor X had been calling to his aptly-named cats, one black, the other white, who had escaped his office. (1)
I digress.
Law school classes are mostly taught via the Socratic method. The professor does not lecture, but draws out the content by questioning the students who have, presumably, read the textbook. In law school, the textbooks contain primarily decisions of courts interpreting either law enacted by a legislative body or common law set forth by other court decisions, sometimes both. Some textbooks contain other sorts of material such as the Constitution, codified rules of civil or criminal procedure or uniform codes. What they do not contain is explanatory material.
The first thing you learn as a first year law student is how to "brief a case," that is, how to glean the pertinent points from a court's decision so that, if called upon in class, you can accurately recite the information. Oh, and also so you can learn the law. Usually this includes summarizing the facts, identifying the question before the court, describing the court's analysis and stating the precise holding or ruling of the court. Often, the cases excerpted in the textbooks are filled with irrelevant information and the precise "holding" is buried. No spoon-feeding here; you have to work for it. There are study guides and "canned briefs" available for purchase. We were sternly cautioned against them because the drudges employed to create them may not have even passed the bar! They might not even be lawyers! Trust them at your peril!
The second thing you learn as a first year law student is not to come to class unprepared. Law professors are often quite cruel and some seem to delight in humiliating students who are unprepared or simply don't grasp the key points of the cases. (2) These professors are generally known to the students - unless they are new to the school. Previously benign professors might turn vicious if, for example, they are quitting smoking or going through a divorce. (3) In addition, law students are a hyper-competitive, brutal crowd, particularly in the first first year. Being exposed as unprepared or simply clueless before 100 or so of your classmates, even by a gentle professor, is a humbling experience. Best to be prepared.
But being prepared takes time. A lot of time. Time spent in quiet study. An average caseload in law school might be 15 credit hours per semester: 5 3-credit-hour classes. Each class could have more than 30 pages of reading per night. Except it's not only reading, it's reading plus briefing.
And some of us had social lives.
By about 2/3 of the way through my first semester, I was getting a little sloppy. I had an 8 a.m. contracts class that was killing me. I am not a morning person and the aged, misogynistic professor was a rabid basketball fan. So much so that class discussions often veered far afield and having no idea who the players, coaches and teams were, I grew deeply resentful. I really needed more discussion and explanation than I was getting, so I spent a lot of time reading and re-reading the cases trying to make sense of it.
My afternoon criminal law class was challenging enough without my professor bleeding me dry, bumming cigarettes from me every day. I was reduced to scrounging beneath the floor mats in my car for change to buy smokes and Professor "I wrote the Ohio Criminal Code and live in a mansion" was trying to quit. Rather than just buy a pack and admit that he was failing, he mooched from me. I was in no position to say "no." It also made me an easy target in class because in the sea of faces, he readily recognized mine. And so with a smile, called upon me. Almost daily.
I had a year-long legal writing course and another mumbo-jumbo legal-ese class I never did get the point of. The professor was rumored to be brilliant, but I was not convinced. Most of our term was spent discussing the Judgment of Solomon. An actual exchange:
(Looks down at his seating chart.)
"Mr. Danish?"
"Mr. Danish?"
"No Mr. Danish?"
(Looks down at his seating chart.)
"Mr. Cook?"
"Here."
"Well, if we haven't got a Danish, at least we have a Cook."
Nearly laughed himself silly at that one, he did.
The other class I took my first semester was torts. I actually enjoyed it. It was in the late morning, so I was awake and fully caffeinated. The professor was a young woman. I think this was her first teaching assignment. She was very formal and organized. We had had several good exchanges up to that point in the term.
On this particular Wednesday, I was exhausted. Up late the night before, overloaded with a paper due in legal writing and copious contracts reading, I didn't finish my torts. I figured I was safe from being called on since I raised my hand regularly, so she had no reason to think I wouldn't be prepared. I could, of course, approach her before class and tell her I wasn't prepared, but she only allowed one pass per semester and I might need it later. I'd gamble.
Damn if she didn't fly through the material I had already covered and into the unread. Damn if she didn't look down at that seating chart and then look directly at me.
"Ms. Pauken, Mr. Jones just told us the court's ruling in X vs. Y; did they get it right?"
Crap, crap, crappity crap.
Her rule was that if you were unprepared, you were to let her know before class.
50-50 shot. Yes or no question.
I come from a poker-playing family. I know how to bluff. What the hell?
Firmly and with conviction, I said,
"No. They did not."
I hadn't even exhaled when 47 eager gunner-hands shot into the air.
Aw, shit.
She looked at me, eyebrows raised in disbelief, then down at the seating chart.
"Mr. Collins, why don't you explain to Ms. Pauken why she is wrong?"
I glanced at Matt, who sat next to me. He was grinning and shaking his head.
"You are so fucked," he whispered.
I spent most of the next day preparing for Friday's torts class. It would be a doozy. Among the cases was a legendary lawsuit arising out of freighters that collided with a drawbridge in a canal; the St. Lawrence Seaway, as I recall. There were a series of mistakes: delayed signaling by the captain, a drawbridge watchman asleep at his post, maybe a mechanical failure of some sort. I diagrammed the sequence of events because it was so complicated.
On Friday at 11:00, slightly queasy, I took my seat and prepared to perform.
The professor walked in at the last minute and took her time opening her binder and setting out her seating chart as the anticipation grew. Everyone knew what was coming.
She looked up at me.
"Ms. Pauken, are you prepared today?"
An expectant hum filled the room as my classmates craned around to see the look on my face.
I grinned and nodded.
"I sure am, Professor M."
"Proceed with the first case."
It was the Meg Pauken Show.
Fifty minutes worth.
She asked; I answered. And answered and answered and answered.
When the bell finally rang, I was completely drained. I let out my breath in a big sigh.
Matt gave me a nod and a smile.
"Nice."
I turned to him.
"Is it too early to drink? Do you think the Barking Spider is open?"
"What the hell? It's Friday. Let's go."
(1) Later, I also discovered that he was a regular renter of pornographic movies from the local video store, Vid-Star. I'd see him on many a Friday night emerging from the curtained back room with a stack of tapes and a big bag of popcorn.
(2) See The Paper Chase, a 1970's era series on PBS or One L, Scott Turow.
(3) Personal experience.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Ask. Listen. Call it out.
I've shed a lot of tears lately.
Mostly for the moms.
For the moms of beautiful black boys who have been lost; killed for reasons that can never be fully explained or understood.
For other moms; moms who are my friends, who worry about their own children, but especially their sons, in ways that are quite different than the ways I worry about my children. I worry about my girls' happiness, their friendships, the influence of drugs and alcohol. So do my friends, but they have other worries. They know that their babies will be subjected to scrutiny and judgments that they have not brought upon themselves by any action of their own, but simply because of who they are. Because of how they look. Because of the assumptions and fears of other people. People who don't even know them.
It has never occurred to me to teach my daughters how to act if they are accused of shoplifting or what to do if they are stopped by the police. Other moms do teach their children these things and it leaves me with a sick feeling in my stomach and an ache in my heart. I know their children: smart, funny, kind and sometimes a little sassy, just like my own children. But not blonde-haired and blue-eyed. So, in addition to teaching their children the things all parents must: rules and values, games and academics, they have to teach them how to defend against the indefensible. While I can safely assume that if my children are accused of a crime, they will be treated fairly, my friends cannot. In the United States of America in 2014, they cannot assume that their children will be treated fairly by law enforcement if they are suspected of a crime, because they are black. And that is what I must teach my children.
I've cried in frustration and horror because I can't imagine why men who swear oaths to serve and protect reach for their guns first, instead of their tasers or batons; why men who are heavily armed are so afraid and so filled with fury that one shot won't do - it must be six. How are police officer applicants screened? How were they trained? How are they held accountable? How did it come to this - that shooting an unarmed kid was the best choice among the range of possible actions? What is being done to ensure that this does not happen again?
I know that the officer from Ferguson who shot Michael Brown has his own story and a right to due process. I just can't get past the idea that there must have been another choice available to him besides executing a kid who had no weapon.
I have struggled with how to articulate my anger and sadness about the shooting of Michael Brown and the continuing turmoil in Ferguson. I know my feelings pale in comparison to the thoughts and feelings of people who are more directly affected in their daily lives by racism. And then I realized that I am directly affected by racism because its poison corrodes us all. It tears apart our whole community. It makes us suspicious and distrustful of each other and of law enforcement. It undermines the entire premise of our country: that we are all equal and have equal voices and opportunities. Without that, what are we as a nation and a people?
It's very tempting to remain silent for fear of offending someone or of starting an argument. It is, after all, an unpleasant topic, injustice. We'd like to think we are past all that; we'd like to think that if it exists, it's only in isolated little pockets. It is only by talking about it that we can learn what is really happening on a daily basis to the people around us. And it is happening, make no mistake.
So what can we do?
Ask. Listen. Call it out when you see it.
Don't wait until another mom's child is lying dead in the street.
Mostly for the moms.
For the moms of beautiful black boys who have been lost; killed for reasons that can never be fully explained or understood.
For other moms; moms who are my friends, who worry about their own children, but especially their sons, in ways that are quite different than the ways I worry about my children. I worry about my girls' happiness, their friendships, the influence of drugs and alcohol. So do my friends, but they have other worries. They know that their babies will be subjected to scrutiny and judgments that they have not brought upon themselves by any action of their own, but simply because of who they are. Because of how they look. Because of the assumptions and fears of other people. People who don't even know them.
It has never occurred to me to teach my daughters how to act if they are accused of shoplifting or what to do if they are stopped by the police. Other moms do teach their children these things and it leaves me with a sick feeling in my stomach and an ache in my heart. I know their children: smart, funny, kind and sometimes a little sassy, just like my own children. But not blonde-haired and blue-eyed. So, in addition to teaching their children the things all parents must: rules and values, games and academics, they have to teach them how to defend against the indefensible. While I can safely assume that if my children are accused of a crime, they will be treated fairly, my friends cannot. In the United States of America in 2014, they cannot assume that their children will be treated fairly by law enforcement if they are suspected of a crime, because they are black. And that is what I must teach my children.
I've cried in frustration and horror because I can't imagine why men who swear oaths to serve and protect reach for their guns first, instead of their tasers or batons; why men who are heavily armed are so afraid and so filled with fury that one shot won't do - it must be six. How are police officer applicants screened? How were they trained? How are they held accountable? How did it come to this - that shooting an unarmed kid was the best choice among the range of possible actions? What is being done to ensure that this does not happen again?
I know that the officer from Ferguson who shot Michael Brown has his own story and a right to due process. I just can't get past the idea that there must have been another choice available to him besides executing a kid who had no weapon.
I have struggled with how to articulate my anger and sadness about the shooting of Michael Brown and the continuing turmoil in Ferguson. I know my feelings pale in comparison to the thoughts and feelings of people who are more directly affected in their daily lives by racism. And then I realized that I am directly affected by racism because its poison corrodes us all. It tears apart our whole community. It makes us suspicious and distrustful of each other and of law enforcement. It undermines the entire premise of our country: that we are all equal and have equal voices and opportunities. Without that, what are we as a nation and a people?
It's very tempting to remain silent for fear of offending someone or of starting an argument. It is, after all, an unpleasant topic, injustice. We'd like to think we are past all that; we'd like to think that if it exists, it's only in isolated little pockets. It is only by talking about it that we can learn what is really happening on a daily basis to the people around us. And it is happening, make no mistake.
So what can we do?
Ask. Listen. Call it out when you see it.
Don't wait until another mom's child is lying dead in the street.
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