I am 28 weeks and 4 days pregnant, and I have gotten used to stray body parts kicking me under the ribs or goosing me below my belly button. The best are Baby's hiccups, which feel like mice making a trampoline of my pelvic floor.
But this morning as I squatted to stretch my (increasing) snug pants, I felt a small bulge in my pocket. I reached in and found an errant esophagus. I left the rubbery lint-covered thing on the dresser for Duncan. Later as I rinsed the breakfast dishes I found a diaphragm in the sink (the kind that gives Baby hiccups, not the kind that will prevent his having more siblings). I rinsed it too, and left it on the counter. Yesterday I pulled a liver out of the dryer. It's hard to keep the parts together.
In fact, the whole body was missing for months. Its four-year old owner unfairly took the blame, when in fact it was another casualty of his mother's clean-up mania. Last week when she suffered another bout, leading to the total disgorgement of all children's books from the living room shelf, what did she find neatly tucked in a ziplock bag? The entire human body, brain and all. Mother and son shared a roar of excitement.
I don't remember when Duncan's obsession with the human body began, but it seems we visited the box at Barnes and Noble on a weekly basis last winter, reaching in through a small hole in the plastic case to feel the delightfully squishy intestines. Duncan must not have been the only child to discover this loophole in the product's marketing scheme: Eventually enough fingers had reached in to dislodge the intestines all together, possibly even rupture the spleen, and the stomach and liver were knocking around under the skeletal feet. Sometime in March Barnes and Noble wisely moved the boxes to a shelf requiring an adult, and in my case and adult + step-ladder, to reach.
Duncan saved his money for months, calculating and re-calculating his progress toward thirty dollars. The ultimate test of character came in May when his best friend Gabriel asked for the same human body for his birthday. Could we endure giving the human body away before we ourselves had one? In his usual way, Duncan got his head around it. Not only was it a good thing to make his friend happy on his special day, but the gift would give Duncan a sneak preview feel of the other parts that couldn't be reached through the little plastic hole.
But still he yearned. When the month of June brought Biblical floods to New York and took Jordy away on a protracted business trip, I decided an outing was in desperate need. Years ago when I was a graduate student in L.A., I had tried to see the "Bodies" exhibit, but it was such a hot ticket that the only admission I could ever reserve was for 2 a.m. Interested as I was to see actual human bodies chemically preserved in active poses (tennis anyone?), I didn't need to spend the night with them. But years later here was the Human Body right at the South Street Seaport, with a 4:30pm reservation available today! Better yet, we could ride the Ikea water taxi from Brooklyn, albeit through the choppy waters of the endless rain storm, satisfying Reeve's love of boats and Duncan's obsession with the body in one ingeniously designed field trip. Good thinking, Momma!
By the time we reached Manhattan's shores (all of ten minutes), I wanted to vomit with sea sickness. We were met by sheets of rain, cold vindictive rain like you'd expect in March not June. Our umbrella flipped instantly inside out. Reeve's violent aversion to wet feet necessitated an emergency stop in the restroom to blow-dry both his Crocs and his feet before we could proceed.
At last we made it to the dramatically darkened exhibit hall, a muscular dead man greeting us with eyeballs and teeth bared in an aggressive smile or else a warning. The living man who took our tickets informed me that strollers were not permitted. "Really?" I pleaded. "Sorry, ma'am. They can bump into the bodies." My heart sank (all the way past my gall bladder). I lifted Reeve (aka "the Rocket"), who could not have been happier to be liberated, and checked the stroller. In we went.
Duncan was immediately comfortable with human remains kicking soccer balls, conducting orchestras, drinking tea, arm wrestling. He wanted to touch -- who wouldn't? There wasn't even a plastic box blocking little fingers from these guys. But he got his head around the rules and held back. He looked but didn't linger, wandering off to the next room to see the circulatory system suspended in red and blue, then the nervous system. Duncan's main interest was, "Who were they?" And, "Why do they all have penises?" In Reeve's two-year old eyes, these dead people must have looked more like playmates. He charged each new body with full speed glee, while I ran interception before a playful punch destroyed a multi-million dollar specimen. (Are strollers really the greater menace?) Reeve screamed and arched his back when I lifted him, drawing disapproving looks from other visitors. It was then that I realized how utterly silent the place was, apart from me and my two rowdy tots. Did this exhibit demand the reverence of a wake? I'd treated it more like a med school lab. I realized I should have been having deep thoughts about ashes to ashes and the wonder of it all, but at that moment I was just trying to get through without a corpse casualty on my hands.
The last room focused on fetal development, which we braved despite the "WARNING: RELIGIOUS OR PERSONAL BELIEFS MAY BE OFFENDED BY THE FOLLOWING EXHIBIT." At last we found a body without a penis. The woman had been pregnant when she died, giving rise to many disturbing questions. Other fetuses on display had died from genetic or developmental anomalies. I was suddenly arrested by thoughts of the baby we lost before Duncan. His renal system hadn't develop properly. At sixteen weeks an ultrasound revealed that he wasn't passing the amniotic fluid he was ingesting; as a consequence, he had developed a cyst that obstructed the rest of his organs from developing. Here I was at sixteen weeks again.
There is a morning prayer in Hebrew that thanks G-d for our organs, with a part about the proper functioning of the sphincters in particular. I wished I had learned it by heart.
The next day, Duncan and I counted his money again. He was still a few bucks short of the thirty dollar price tag, but we agreed that he deserved a one-off bonus for outstanding behavior on the Bodies field trip. At Barnes and Noble, I scaled the step-ladder and pulled down a pristine Human Body box. He clutched it as if holding a dear friend.
For a week or so, we kept a tight inventory on the organs but eventually gave up. The parts drifted around until we thought they'd wandered off to the magical land where so many Thomas trains and Lego pieces end up. Hence our extreme delight at discovering the organs, together again, in a ziplock bag. (Intelligent design? If so, this creator has no recollection her work.) The body parts are enjoying a reprise as Favorite Toy, enshrined in elaborate MagnaTile temples and traveling to school in little boys' pockets. The musculature of the arm engaged in mortal combat with the femur yesterday morning over Mini-Wheats. A fragment of the small intestine is currently enjoying a ride in the backseat of a Matchbox car.
And a heel or knee just got me good in my right flank.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Inauguration Day 2009
January 20, 2009
My day started at 3:10am when I awoke in a panic about missing my train. I had a very patient cab driver who assured me I wouldn't miss it, despite his being 3 minutes late.
There was only one thing happening at Penn Station at 4:45am: Obama. I took the luxury "Acela" business class train & arrived in DC on schedule at 8:10a, emerging to packed and festive streets with the task of finding brother Richard at "a bus stop across the street from a row of port-a-potties." Miraculously, there he was. We embraced with the exuberance of family members separated by war, reuniting against all odds in a far-away land. From then on, I decided, it didn't matter what happened.
Next task: Find the intersection where "Purple Ticket Holders" would be screened for security. Were we there? Yellows and Purples seemed to have compacted on each other in a mostly cheerful but very cold mass. The gates should open at 9am. Around 8:45a, an older woman passed out. "We need a doctor!" passed from one mouth to the next through the crowd. Somehow, she was revived and cared for. As 9:00 passed with no evidence of movement, some jolly soul struck up "For purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain! America!..." These were mostly, after all, field organizers from U.S. history's best foot campaign. As 9:15a passed, the good cheer began to drain quickly. With the benefit of altitude, perched as Richard, his campaign friends Daniel & Emma, and I were on the railing of the National Association of Letter Carriers building at the intersection of Louisiana & First, we realized the "line" such as it was, led to a dead end. In fact, it would have to make a hair-pin left turn on itself to make it to the gate, with no barricades or officials to corral the herds. It was also evident that the thousands who were stuck in the trenches didn't yet realize this bit of poor planning. Would they all make it in? We hoped. But it was now pressing 9:30 and the slow trickle we could see through the gates did not bode well for us. So we busted an ethically questionable move.
We dove into the human crush, linking arms, moving forward in the current because there was no other choice, but sliding sideways all the while, until we broke out into the calm at the center of the hair-pin. Then we simply joined the crush at the top of the far prong of the pin, in other words, we more or less jumped the line. I justified this in any number of ways, but if you think less of me, I wouldn't blame you. The scene at the entrance to security was match-light. One beleaguered fellow called plaintively, "Officer! I've been here since 4:45am! Officer, I volunteered on the campaign for 3 months!" The masses pressed against the stretched metal grating began to chant, "Let us in! Let us in!" to which I quietly proposed Richard & his F.O. friends lead a counter-chant, "Keep Him Safe!" As would be true the rest of the day, you were wise to make friends of neighbors while pressing every inch of your body against these strangers, and in our group, we reminded ourselves that if none of us made it in, the important thing was that the inauguration go forward in an orderly & safe manner. But still, the possibility of coming so far, ticket in hand, to spend the morning freezing in a human log jam with no access to TV or radio did feel unbearable....
Richard and I were separated at the actual gate, as Capitol Police strong-armed the crowd to keep order. But we soon found each other in the relatively serene holding pen of security, which proceeded in a very orderly way. And then all of a sudden, we were walking freely to the North Standing Zone.
A direct view was obstructed by two trees (which, despite our professed environmentalism, we and our neighbors would have run up & cut down ourselves if allowed) and the left flank of stadium seating erected for the ceremony. So alas, we were reduced to "seeing" the Jumbotron jammed between the two offending trees. But who could care at that point? We were in.
The marine band was playing as we settled into our spot, befriending two gentleman from Virginia who stood behind us, comparing Nikons, and laughing at ourselves for taking photos of the Jumbotron, but oh well! The photographer had a 200mm lens, I had only a 105mm. I asked if he would mind emailing me any good ones he got. He said sure, and I gave him my email address. "My last name is Booker," he said, "when you get the email." Booker? Yes, as in Booker T. Washington. Do you have family in New Jersey? I asked. Probably -- my great-grandfather's generation there were 9 brothers and sisters who scattered. A college friend whose last name is Booker lives in New Jersey; you may have heard of him, he's the mayor of Newark now. Oh yeah, did he play football?
As prominent figures arrived -- Jimmy Carter, Al Gore, the Clintons, Dick Cheney, W., the Bidens -- the crowd roared and clapped or booed. Some sang to "Nah, nah! Nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey, goodbye!" to W. Others of us quietly begged our neighbors not to boo the Bush family, asking under our breaths, "What would Obama do?" When Michelle and the girls arrived, the crowd was on pins & needles, and when Barack arrived, well, he was in the house. A sonic wave of OBAMA! OBAMA! rippled through the crowd.
Aretha Franklin gave goosebumps. For YoYo Ma and Itzhak Perlman's performance, I closed my eyes and turned them to the sun and felt warm to my core. For the actual oath, we all strained to hear. And then an alarming BOOM immediately behind us. My heart skipped. Our crowd turned around. Another BOOM. At last the Jumbotron explained what we could not see but were standing only a few hundred yards from: Canon fire in celebration of the peaceful transfer of power.
As President Obama gave his inaugural address, we were mostly hushed, working to hear every word despite the loudspeakers. From the speakers stretching a mile behind us, the deep seriousness of his voice reverberated....
"The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our gross domestic product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on the ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart -- not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good..."
"...As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.... Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake..."
"To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history, but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist..."
"...let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations..."
I had expected tears like the racking sobs of election night, but instead I felt something quieter and heavier. Reverence? Responsibility? I won't be able to blame "it" on Bush any more. Our guy won. We are on the hook now.
Unpackaged by TV, processed sound, and the warmth of my living room, the day became more about us, the people, than about him, the leader. As it should be. Like our 19th and 18th century predecessors, I am filling in the gaps in what I could actually hear, or thought I heard, with what I read in the newspaper. Later I recognized in Rev. Lowery's benediction, thanks to Jordy's email, the final verse from "Lift Every Voice and Sing," the Black National Anthem, which my students and I studied 15 years ago with the poetry of the Harlem Renaissance. As I read the lyrics again at home on my computer, I sang them aloud. Duncan liked it and asked me to sing more.
As the crowd drained from our coveted North Standing Zone, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd. "Cory!" I shouted. Cory Booker turned my way. As mayor of Newark, he must be accustomed to virtual strangers calling his name. Cory was a college friend from the dorm next door. Senior year we commiserated through the Rhodes Scholarship process (he got it, I did not, deservedly so for us both, and which let me go to Mississippi instead). A Stanford football player, Cory once lifted me and my friend Elizabeth, one in each arm, victoriously in the Cal end zone at Big Game. I follow him in the NY Times now as he's trying to turn Newark around. When I used to take my boys to the Ikea overlooking the Newark airport, I would often think, "Cory is preventing homicides and attracting new housing to this city. I am eating chocolate cake and watching airplanes." A dozen people separated us in the crowd, but Cory heard me, smiled and waved vaguely. It's been 17 years. I'll write him an email. But there we were again together, victorious in the end zone.
The greatest moment of catharsis, unexpectedly, would be the departure of George and Laura. I didn't anticipate that we would not only get to see him board the helicopter on the Jumbotron (while the actual event transpired on the back side of the Capitol), but that we would then get to see -- even feel -- the wind from the helicopter's blades as it passed directly overhead. The relief was ecstatic.
Richard, Daniel and I went in search of Beer (my fantasy), Wings (Richard's), and Warmth (Daniel's). Walking the city, I thought about the circularity of time and the many threads of life weaving together... 1990, my first journey to Washington, led by Jordy who helped Democrat Dick Swett win a NH congressional seat. 1991, Jordy and friend Elizabeth Bekooy's first work out of college in congressional offices while I headed south. Election night in Crystal Springs with Teacher Corps friend and roommate Mary Virginia, when Clinton won. Felt like anything was possible. We were going to make our country into the Peace Corps, Sesame Street, inclusive, tolerant, just place I was raised to believe in.
Then the long dark shadow. I remembered the rain and darkness, the protesters, Sean among them, whom the TV cameras would not cover on January 20, 2000. I remembered holding Duncan, 22 hours old, in my arms on election day 2004 watching CNN, the nation turning blood red as it renewed Bush's presidency. Where did those years go? When did we lose our way? I can't blame it all on the Bush administration, as much as I'd like. Looking up to my brother, who was 7 when Clinton took office and is now 23, I felt enormous gratitude and humility.
The miracle of Obama, to me, isn't the return to a better time, but the movement forward guided by a vision of a union more perfect than my weakened imagination could muster. Obama will be the first president my children will remember. Here I am, feeling like a little foot soldier in a peaceful revolution, while my kids will grow up thinking this was all no big deal -- just the way it should be.
As the unexpected canon fire after the oath revealed to me, I am jumpy. I brace for loss. As Robin Green said so aptly, "He stirs up feelings I haven't felt since Bobby Kennedy. It's a dangerous thing to love." But I'll hold onto Elizabeth Alexander's words for now (did anyone hear her? This was a gap I had to fill later) - "What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance."
At dusk, Richard and I made our way to DuPont Circle where we found my dear friend Jonathan, who'd flown in from LA for the week. We jumped up and down like giddy idiots at finding each other in the middle of it all. And then, after a bit of a search, found an open table at the "Russian Lounge," of all places, on Connecticut Avenue, where a lovely young Russian woman served us "Pink Panthers" (what else?!) to toast the day.
My train home was delayed. At Union Station, National Guardsmen squatted together eating pizza and laughing. Capitol Police with impressive, nay, scary machine guns, went off duty & waved to their fellow men in uniform as they headed home. Men in tuxes and women in gowns, some with bare toes in sandals, the more prepared in fur boots under their sequins, wandered through the station en route to balls. Travelers exhaled and collapsed on whatever chair or patch of floor they could find. I didn't have the energy to read or even speak.
I arrived back in New York almost 24 hours later, stirring from slumber on the warm train to the biting Manhattan cold to hail a cab. My driver was bummed to get a Brooklyn fare -- almost guaranteed not to get a return. But then, as he drove around the streams of people suddenly emerging from Penn Station, it dawned on him: "Did you just get in from DC?!" Yes. "HOW WAS HE?!" The whole ride home he lamented not being there. His cousin had driven down from Canada. But he had to work, and he didn't trust his wife alone with the kids for too long -- she's so angry. Times are so hard. He didn't speak English when he arrived, but he had studied and passed his ESL requirements. Originally a French speaker, Black, West African I think, he is a trained Respiratory Therapist, but there are problems with his papers and he can't get a job. He's gotten used to riders treating him like he's "stupid," "just a cab driver." He has a 7 and 12-year old at home whom he worries about all the time. Over and over again, the lament for not being THERE, in the crowd in DC. I tried to reassure him that he heard it better by watching on TV. He wouldn't have any of it. "You have to BE there! Be a PART of it." You are part of it, I said, trying to resurrect Obama's words honoring those who are building this country and feeling like a poor plagiarist.
"It has not been the path for the faint-hearted, for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things -- some celebrated, but more often men and women obscure in their labor -- who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom."
So now, I suppose, it's time to get to work. Oops -- and time to go get the boys at school. Again, thanks for your messages and thoughts. I love you all. And darn it, at the risk of sounding like the mushpot I am, I really love this country.
Mandy
My day started at 3:10am when I awoke in a panic about missing my train. I had a very patient cab driver who assured me I wouldn't miss it, despite his being 3 minutes late.
There was only one thing happening at Penn Station at 4:45am: Obama. I took the luxury "Acela" business class train & arrived in DC on schedule at 8:10a, emerging to packed and festive streets with the task of finding brother Richard at "a bus stop across the street from a row of port-a-potties." Miraculously, there he was. We embraced with the exuberance of family members separated by war, reuniting against all odds in a far-away land. From then on, I decided, it didn't matter what happened.
Next task: Find the intersection where "Purple Ticket Holders" would be screened for security. Were we there? Yellows and Purples seemed to have compacted on each other in a mostly cheerful but very cold mass. The gates should open at 9am. Around 8:45a, an older woman passed out. "We need a doctor!" passed from one mouth to the next through the crowd. Somehow, she was revived and cared for. As 9:00 passed with no evidence of movement, some jolly soul struck up "For purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain! America!..." These were mostly, after all, field organizers from U.S. history's best foot campaign. As 9:15a passed, the good cheer began to drain quickly. With the benefit of altitude, perched as Richard, his campaign friends Daniel & Emma, and I were on the railing of the National Association of Letter Carriers building at the intersection of Louisiana & First, we realized the "line" such as it was, led to a dead end. In fact, it would have to make a hair-pin left turn on itself to make it to the gate, with no barricades or officials to corral the herds. It was also evident that the thousands who were stuck in the trenches didn't yet realize this bit of poor planning. Would they all make it in? We hoped. But it was now pressing 9:30 and the slow trickle we could see through the gates did not bode well for us. So we busted an ethically questionable move.
We dove into the human crush, linking arms, moving forward in the current because there was no other choice, but sliding sideways all the while, until we broke out into the calm at the center of the hair-pin. Then we simply joined the crush at the top of the far prong of the pin, in other words, we more or less jumped the line. I justified this in any number of ways, but if you think less of me, I wouldn't blame you. The scene at the entrance to security was match-light. One beleaguered fellow called plaintively, "Officer! I've been here since 4:45am! Officer, I volunteered on the campaign for 3 months!" The masses pressed against the stretched metal grating began to chant, "Let us in! Let us in!" to which I quietly proposed Richard & his F.O. friends lead a counter-chant, "Keep Him Safe!" As would be true the rest of the day, you were wise to make friends of neighbors while pressing every inch of your body against these strangers, and in our group, we reminded ourselves that if none of us made it in, the important thing was that the inauguration go forward in an orderly & safe manner. But still, the possibility of coming so far, ticket in hand, to spend the morning freezing in a human log jam with no access to TV or radio did feel unbearable....
Richard and I were separated at the actual gate, as Capitol Police strong-armed the crowd to keep order. But we soon found each other in the relatively serene holding pen of security, which proceeded in a very orderly way. And then all of a sudden, we were walking freely to the North Standing Zone.
A direct view was obstructed by two trees (which, despite our professed environmentalism, we and our neighbors would have run up & cut down ourselves if allowed) and the left flank of stadium seating erected for the ceremony. So alas, we were reduced to "seeing" the Jumbotron jammed between the two offending trees. But who could care at that point? We were in.
The marine band was playing as we settled into our spot, befriending two gentleman from Virginia who stood behind us, comparing Nikons, and laughing at ourselves for taking photos of the Jumbotron, but oh well! The photographer had a 200mm lens, I had only a 105mm. I asked if he would mind emailing me any good ones he got. He said sure, and I gave him my email address. "My last name is Booker," he said, "when you get the email." Booker? Yes, as in Booker T. Washington. Do you have family in New Jersey? I asked. Probably -- my great-grandfather's generation there were 9 brothers and sisters who scattered. A college friend whose last name is Booker lives in New Jersey; you may have heard of him, he's the mayor of Newark now. Oh yeah, did he play football?
As prominent figures arrived -- Jimmy Carter, Al Gore, the Clintons, Dick Cheney, W., the Bidens -- the crowd roared and clapped or booed. Some sang to "Nah, nah! Nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey, goodbye!" to W. Others of us quietly begged our neighbors not to boo the Bush family, asking under our breaths, "What would Obama do?" When Michelle and the girls arrived, the crowd was on pins & needles, and when Barack arrived, well, he was in the house. A sonic wave of OBAMA! OBAMA! rippled through the crowd.
Aretha Franklin gave goosebumps. For YoYo Ma and Itzhak Perlman's performance, I closed my eyes and turned them to the sun and felt warm to my core. For the actual oath, we all strained to hear. And then an alarming BOOM immediately behind us. My heart skipped. Our crowd turned around. Another BOOM. At last the Jumbotron explained what we could not see but were standing only a few hundred yards from: Canon fire in celebration of the peaceful transfer of power.
As President Obama gave his inaugural address, we were mostly hushed, working to hear every word despite the loudspeakers. From the speakers stretching a mile behind us, the deep seriousness of his voice reverberated....
"The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our gross domestic product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on the ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart -- not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good..."
"...As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.... Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake..."
"To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history, but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist..."
"...let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations..."
I had expected tears like the racking sobs of election night, but instead I felt something quieter and heavier. Reverence? Responsibility? I won't be able to blame "it" on Bush any more. Our guy won. We are on the hook now.
Unpackaged by TV, processed sound, and the warmth of my living room, the day became more about us, the people, than about him, the leader. As it should be. Like our 19th and 18th century predecessors, I am filling in the gaps in what I could actually hear, or thought I heard, with what I read in the newspaper. Later I recognized in Rev. Lowery's benediction, thanks to Jordy's email, the final verse from "Lift Every Voice and Sing," the Black National Anthem, which my students and I studied 15 years ago with the poetry of the Harlem Renaissance. As I read the lyrics again at home on my computer, I sang them aloud. Duncan liked it and asked me to sing more.
As the crowd drained from our coveted North Standing Zone, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd. "Cory!" I shouted. Cory Booker turned my way. As mayor of Newark, he must be accustomed to virtual strangers calling his name. Cory was a college friend from the dorm next door. Senior year we commiserated through the Rhodes Scholarship process (he got it, I did not, deservedly so for us both, and which let me go to Mississippi instead). A Stanford football player, Cory once lifted me and my friend Elizabeth, one in each arm, victoriously in the Cal end zone at Big Game. I follow him in the NY Times now as he's trying to turn Newark around. When I used to take my boys to the Ikea overlooking the Newark airport, I would often think, "Cory is preventing homicides and attracting new housing to this city. I am eating chocolate cake and watching airplanes." A dozen people separated us in the crowd, but Cory heard me, smiled and waved vaguely. It's been 17 years. I'll write him an email. But there we were again together, victorious in the end zone.
The greatest moment of catharsis, unexpectedly, would be the departure of George and Laura. I didn't anticipate that we would not only get to see him board the helicopter on the Jumbotron (while the actual event transpired on the back side of the Capitol), but that we would then get to see -- even feel -- the wind from the helicopter's blades as it passed directly overhead. The relief was ecstatic.
Richard, Daniel and I went in search of Beer (my fantasy), Wings (Richard's), and Warmth (Daniel's). Walking the city, I thought about the circularity of time and the many threads of life weaving together... 1990, my first journey to Washington, led by Jordy who helped Democrat Dick Swett win a NH congressional seat. 1991, Jordy and friend Elizabeth Bekooy's first work out of college in congressional offices while I headed south. Election night in Crystal Springs with Teacher Corps friend and roommate Mary Virginia, when Clinton won. Felt like anything was possible. We were going to make our country into the Peace Corps, Sesame Street, inclusive, tolerant, just place I was raised to believe in.
Then the long dark shadow. I remembered the rain and darkness, the protesters, Sean among them, whom the TV cameras would not cover on January 20, 2000. I remembered holding Duncan, 22 hours old, in my arms on election day 2004 watching CNN, the nation turning blood red as it renewed Bush's presidency. Where did those years go? When did we lose our way? I can't blame it all on the Bush administration, as much as I'd like. Looking up to my brother, who was 7 when Clinton took office and is now 23, I felt enormous gratitude and humility.
The miracle of Obama, to me, isn't the return to a better time, but the movement forward guided by a vision of a union more perfect than my weakened imagination could muster. Obama will be the first president my children will remember. Here I am, feeling like a little foot soldier in a peaceful revolution, while my kids will grow up thinking this was all no big deal -- just the way it should be.
As the unexpected canon fire after the oath revealed to me, I am jumpy. I brace for loss. As Robin Green said so aptly, "He stirs up feelings I haven't felt since Bobby Kennedy. It's a dangerous thing to love." But I'll hold onto Elizabeth Alexander's words for now (did anyone hear her? This was a gap I had to fill later) - "What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance."
At dusk, Richard and I made our way to DuPont Circle where we found my dear friend Jonathan, who'd flown in from LA for the week. We jumped up and down like giddy idiots at finding each other in the middle of it all. And then, after a bit of a search, found an open table at the "Russian Lounge," of all places, on Connecticut Avenue, where a lovely young Russian woman served us "Pink Panthers" (what else?!) to toast the day.
My train home was delayed. At Union Station, National Guardsmen squatted together eating pizza and laughing. Capitol Police with impressive, nay, scary machine guns, went off duty & waved to their fellow men in uniform as they headed home. Men in tuxes and women in gowns, some with bare toes in sandals, the more prepared in fur boots under their sequins, wandered through the station en route to balls. Travelers exhaled and collapsed on whatever chair or patch of floor they could find. I didn't have the energy to read or even speak.
I arrived back in New York almost 24 hours later, stirring from slumber on the warm train to the biting Manhattan cold to hail a cab. My driver was bummed to get a Brooklyn fare -- almost guaranteed not to get a return. But then, as he drove around the streams of people suddenly emerging from Penn Station, it dawned on him: "Did you just get in from DC?!" Yes. "HOW WAS HE?!" The whole ride home he lamented not being there. His cousin had driven down from Canada. But he had to work, and he didn't trust his wife alone with the kids for too long -- she's so angry. Times are so hard. He didn't speak English when he arrived, but he had studied and passed his ESL requirements. Originally a French speaker, Black, West African I think, he is a trained Respiratory Therapist, but there are problems with his papers and he can't get a job. He's gotten used to riders treating him like he's "stupid," "just a cab driver." He has a 7 and 12-year old at home whom he worries about all the time. Over and over again, the lament for not being THERE, in the crowd in DC. I tried to reassure him that he heard it better by watching on TV. He wouldn't have any of it. "You have to BE there! Be a PART of it." You are part of it, I said, trying to resurrect Obama's words honoring those who are building this country and feeling like a poor plagiarist.
"It has not been the path for the faint-hearted, for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things -- some celebrated, but more often men and women obscure in their labor -- who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom."
So now, I suppose, it's time to get to work. Oops -- and time to go get the boys at school. Again, thanks for your messages and thoughts. I love you all. And darn it, at the risk of sounding like the mushpot I am, I really love this country.
Mandy
Happy Birthday Trees
The date on this will appear as September 21, 2009, it's actually from February 10.
Tu B'Shevat 2009/5769
All smiles, Duncan emerged from the back door of Chai Tots Nursery School at 12:45. "Mommy, Mommy! Today we had a birthday party for the trees! We made brownies and sang to the trees! And we planted seeds and tomorrow trees are going to grow!!" He raced to give me a hug. I pointed to Reeve sleeping in the stroller. Duncan hunched his shoulders, as if to hush his words retroactively.
One of his teachers, Morah Rochel, handed me a single lump of gooey chocolate on a paper plate. "To take home with you."
"Mommy, I'll share it with you if you like!"
"Thank you, Bud." I was hungry. I had jogged Reeve to sleep and hadn't had lunch. No matter how many four-year old hands had touched that batter, I was genuinely interested. Duncan adjusted bags and blankets on the lower deck of the stroller to position the brownie safely. Nonetheless, seconds later it was in his hands.
As we pushed our sleeping passenger up the ramp to the sidewalk, we made a plan to go to the library. It was warm in New York today, relatively. We felt wild and reckless in our hatless state. Duncan mushed the brownie between his fingers. "Maybe I'm going to just eat all of it," he said, gazing at the last morsel. "Mommy, can we make more brownies at home and have a party for the trees tonight?"
"For the sake of the trees... okay."
As we crossed Prospect Park West to the gracious promenade heading toward Grand Army plaza, Duncan turned to me. "Mommy, do you know how to tell how old a tree is? You cut it across, then you can see lots of circles. And then you count the circles, one for one years old, two for two years old, three for three years old...," holding up his fingers to demonstrate, "...nine for nine years old!"
"It would take a lot of circles for a tree to be as old as me," I said.
"Mommy, how old are you?"
"Thirty-nine."
"That's a lot of circles! I don't know if any trees have that many circles!"
Two hours later, with a conscious Reeve, a stack of new books (which included THE PIGEON FINDS A HOT DOG), and 2 hot dogs in our three tummies (necessitated by the powerful aforementioned literature), we ambled through Prospect Park with the radiant late afternoon sun in our faces. As we approached the "forest," the last stand of native Brooklyn woodlands preserved by the park, Reeve wanted out of the stroller. "Mommy, this is our witches forest," Duncan announced. "Let's be a family of witches. You be the mommy witch, I'll be the big boy witch, Reeve can be the baby witch, Daddy can be the Daddy witch, Wiley can be the dog witch, and we already have two cats!"
As we greeted "our" forest, we wished the trees a good winter vacation and expressed our hopes that they're resting well to make buds and leaves for us, preferably soon. We sang Happy Birthday to them. They listened attentively.
Along the path a parade of dogs -- a chunky bulldog, a nervous reddish toy poodle/something mix, a gray shaggy thing -- passed us, dragging their owners. Reeve took inspiration and yanked Duncan's lunch bag, which is shaped like a dog's head with two "ear" handles, and "walked" his dog in typical Reeve fashion, that is to say, gripping one ear in each hand. A quick-witted dog owner "barked" at Reeve's dog. Reeve smiled, vindicated by the one person who finally understood. Later, the game took a turn to the vertical -- "doggie" became a projectile missile to be tossed overhead with glee, again and again, until the final unfortunate trajectory that landed on Reeve's forehead. Game over.
At the fork in the path where a right turn would take us past an amusing waterfall and more quickly home, Reeve protested and demanded we go left. Apparently it was non-negotiable. Duncan tried to argue the case for going right, until it occurred to him that left would allow them to run full-speed down a very steep hill. "Reeve! Let's run down the hill!" he hollered as he sprang from the lower deck of the stroller.
"Not too fast, guys!" yelled worried Mom after their little disappearing bodies. I ran with stroller in pursuit. We all made it safely to the bottom of the hill. I exhaled. The boys scrambled on top of the rocks flanking the path. Two kings of their respective hills.
We crossed the Nethermead, a vast, usually grassy but currently thick with mud expanse leading to the lake. Our goal, to visit the birds en route to the playground en route to the supermarket en route to home before the sun set and the chill deepened. However, the mention of "birds" reminded Reeve of his beloved Pigeon, and suddenly, just this instant, we HAD to sit and read it again. And so we plunked on the sidewalk just above the lake, the sun's rays so low and gentle as to barely touch our faces, Reeve on his bum reading aloud with grunts and "mah!" (mine) and finger pointing the story of a pigeon who finds a hot dog and declares it his, but finds both his conscience and claim challenged by a diminutive duckling who expresses curiosity in the experience of a hot dog, never having tasted one before... Meanwhile, on the upper deck Duncan disappeared into a Batman chapter book, perhaps recognizing a letter or two, but mostly stretching for the imaginative world of a "big boy," as he imagines big boys imagine... Passing joggers cast glances at us. (What are they doing?) I stood in this moment of total and utter calm and stasis (an event with the frequency of a total eclipse) and watched a flock of Canada geese peck at the mud, arched necks bobbing, then honk as something surprised them into flight.
At last, the group reached the consensus that homeward motion was a good idea. Our fingers were finally feeling the cold. We rounded the lake, amused by seagulls and geese waddling atop the remains of the ice. Our path took us past the playground. Duncan wanted to go home. Once again, Reeve had a different view. We discussed the word "compromise," but Reeve shot off to the jungle gym before a conclusion was reached. Half a millisecond later, Duncan was running behind him with glee.
Reeve quickly found his way to that magical dipping bridge that "gives" just enough to offer a veritiginous thrill to trespassers. Duncan grabbed his Batman book and pursued the biggest big boy he could find, a strawberry blond boy with glasses, maybe 8 years old. "Hey! Look what I have!" Duncan called after him, chasing him around the high platforms. The boy glanced at the book without a shred of interest before scrambling down the chain ladder. Duncan looked back at me. "He wasn't really interested."
"That's okay, Bud. Maybe he's just thinking about playing right now."
"Maybe." Duncan shrugged and handed it to me. "Will you hold it for me?" I took the book. Then Duncan hung off the high edge with a sneaky smile. I instinctively put my arms up to catch my little boy. He leapt into my arms, stealing a momentary hug in flight. Grounded, he dashed after Reeve, who was figuring out his way up the chain-link ladder. "Hey, Reeve! Let me show you how to do that!" ... big boy again to little brother.
The sun had already fallen behind the houses of 16th Street as we made our way back up the Windsor Terrace hill. Conversation had turned to vitamins. An oversight a few mornings ago had led to Reeve getting eight or nine Scooby Doo gummy vitamins (which is to say the remainder of the bottle) in his mouth simultaneously, requiring forcible extraction and disposal of the wet remains. The Jewish sabbath conspired with the Christian sabbath to delay a visit to the local drug store, hence a two-day deprivation of gummy vitamins that could not possibly be endured another day. Would the store be closed by the time we got there? No. Were we sure we were going the right way? Yes. Just one more block, then we'll make a left and it will be on the next corner. The store with the seal out front, balancing a ball on his nose, that you can ride on for two quarters to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," remember?
Suddenly, from the lower deck, Duncan burst into tears. "What is it, Sweetie?" I ask, dropping to his side. "Did something hurt you?"
"Mommy, I miss being little," he managed to get out. Tears, unconsolable. "I miss when I was a baby. It isn't easy being a big boy!"
"I know," I said, casting for words. "But you also get to do more things too, right?"
"But I don't want to do those things!" Raw, open-mouthed sobs from his core. I kissed his teary cheek and put mine against it.
"You know what? I bet you didn't know something," I said. "Did you know that the Duncan who was One is still inside of you?" He quieted for a moment. "And the Duncan who was Two, still there." He looked at me, sure I was making up one of those dumb mommy things to try to make him feel better. "It's true. And the Duncan who was Three, all the way out to the Duncan who is Four."
"Mommy! What do you mean?" he demanded, exasperated.
"We're just like the trees. Our One self is in the inside, our Two self if a little circle around that, our Three self a circle around that... all the way out to what you can see now. All of them are still here, always."
He thought a moment. Then smiled wryly. "Mommy, that's something silly you said."
"It may be silly, but it's true. Honest." I held his hand a moment. Until I could feel he was ready to let go.
"Mommy, do you think they have those crunchy kind of vitamins, or just the gummy kind?"
"I think they probably have both," I answered as I leaned into the double stroller to recommence forward movement. "Which kind do you want?"
"The crunchy kind get stuck in my teeth."
"Then gummy it is."
"Yeah, I think gummy. I know the store you mean! You go left, and then you go right, across the street..."
Tu B'Shevat 2009/5769
All smiles, Duncan emerged from the back door of Chai Tots Nursery School at 12:45. "Mommy, Mommy! Today we had a birthday party for the trees! We made brownies and sang to the trees! And we planted seeds and tomorrow trees are going to grow!!" He raced to give me a hug. I pointed to Reeve sleeping in the stroller. Duncan hunched his shoulders, as if to hush his words retroactively.
One of his teachers, Morah Rochel, handed me a single lump of gooey chocolate on a paper plate. "To take home with you."
"Mommy, I'll share it with you if you like!"
"Thank you, Bud." I was hungry. I had jogged Reeve to sleep and hadn't had lunch. No matter how many four-year old hands had touched that batter, I was genuinely interested. Duncan adjusted bags and blankets on the lower deck of the stroller to position the brownie safely. Nonetheless, seconds later it was in his hands.
As we pushed our sleeping passenger up the ramp to the sidewalk, we made a plan to go to the library. It was warm in New York today, relatively. We felt wild and reckless in our hatless state. Duncan mushed the brownie between his fingers. "Maybe I'm going to just eat all of it," he said, gazing at the last morsel. "Mommy, can we make more brownies at home and have a party for the trees tonight?"
"For the sake of the trees... okay."
As we crossed Prospect Park West to the gracious promenade heading toward Grand Army plaza, Duncan turned to me. "Mommy, do you know how to tell how old a tree is? You cut it across, then you can see lots of circles. And then you count the circles, one for one years old, two for two years old, three for three years old...," holding up his fingers to demonstrate, "...nine for nine years old!"
"It would take a lot of circles for a tree to be as old as me," I said.
"Mommy, how old are you?"
"Thirty-nine."
"That's a lot of circles! I don't know if any trees have that many circles!"
Two hours later, with a conscious Reeve, a stack of new books (which included THE PIGEON FINDS A HOT DOG), and 2 hot dogs in our three tummies (necessitated by the powerful aforementioned literature), we ambled through Prospect Park with the radiant late afternoon sun in our faces. As we approached the "forest," the last stand of native Brooklyn woodlands preserved by the park, Reeve wanted out of the stroller. "Mommy, this is our witches forest," Duncan announced. "Let's be a family of witches. You be the mommy witch, I'll be the big boy witch, Reeve can be the baby witch, Daddy can be the Daddy witch, Wiley can be the dog witch, and we already have two cats!"
As we greeted "our" forest, we wished the trees a good winter vacation and expressed our hopes that they're resting well to make buds and leaves for us, preferably soon. We sang Happy Birthday to them. They listened attentively.
Along the path a parade of dogs -- a chunky bulldog, a nervous reddish toy poodle/something mix, a gray shaggy thing -- passed us, dragging their owners. Reeve took inspiration and yanked Duncan's lunch bag, which is shaped like a dog's head with two "ear" handles, and "walked" his dog in typical Reeve fashion, that is to say, gripping one ear in each hand. A quick-witted dog owner "barked" at Reeve's dog. Reeve smiled, vindicated by the one person who finally understood. Later, the game took a turn to the vertical -- "doggie" became a projectile missile to be tossed overhead with glee, again and again, until the final unfortunate trajectory that landed on Reeve's forehead. Game over.
At the fork in the path where a right turn would take us past an amusing waterfall and more quickly home, Reeve protested and demanded we go left. Apparently it was non-negotiable. Duncan tried to argue the case for going right, until it occurred to him that left would allow them to run full-speed down a very steep hill. "Reeve! Let's run down the hill!" he hollered as he sprang from the lower deck of the stroller.
"Not too fast, guys!" yelled worried Mom after their little disappearing bodies. I ran with stroller in pursuit. We all made it safely to the bottom of the hill. I exhaled. The boys scrambled on top of the rocks flanking the path. Two kings of their respective hills.
We crossed the Nethermead, a vast, usually grassy but currently thick with mud expanse leading to the lake. Our goal, to visit the birds en route to the playground en route to the supermarket en route to home before the sun set and the chill deepened. However, the mention of "birds" reminded Reeve of his beloved Pigeon, and suddenly, just this instant, we HAD to sit and read it again. And so we plunked on the sidewalk just above the lake, the sun's rays so low and gentle as to barely touch our faces, Reeve on his bum reading aloud with grunts and "mah!" (mine) and finger pointing the story of a pigeon who finds a hot dog and declares it his, but finds both his conscience and claim challenged by a diminutive duckling who expresses curiosity in the experience of a hot dog, never having tasted one before... Meanwhile, on the upper deck Duncan disappeared into a Batman chapter book, perhaps recognizing a letter or two, but mostly stretching for the imaginative world of a "big boy," as he imagines big boys imagine... Passing joggers cast glances at us. (What are they doing?) I stood in this moment of total and utter calm and stasis (an event with the frequency of a total eclipse) and watched a flock of Canada geese peck at the mud, arched necks bobbing, then honk as something surprised them into flight.
At last, the group reached the consensus that homeward motion was a good idea. Our fingers were finally feeling the cold. We rounded the lake, amused by seagulls and geese waddling atop the remains of the ice. Our path took us past the playground. Duncan wanted to go home. Once again, Reeve had a different view. We discussed the word "compromise," but Reeve shot off to the jungle gym before a conclusion was reached. Half a millisecond later, Duncan was running behind him with glee.
Reeve quickly found his way to that magical dipping bridge that "gives" just enough to offer a veritiginous thrill to trespassers. Duncan grabbed his Batman book and pursued the biggest big boy he could find, a strawberry blond boy with glasses, maybe 8 years old. "Hey! Look what I have!" Duncan called after him, chasing him around the high platforms. The boy glanced at the book without a shred of interest before scrambling down the chain ladder. Duncan looked back at me. "He wasn't really interested."
"That's okay, Bud. Maybe he's just thinking about playing right now."
"Maybe." Duncan shrugged and handed it to me. "Will you hold it for me?" I took the book. Then Duncan hung off the high edge with a sneaky smile. I instinctively put my arms up to catch my little boy. He leapt into my arms, stealing a momentary hug in flight. Grounded, he dashed after Reeve, who was figuring out his way up the chain-link ladder. "Hey, Reeve! Let me show you how to do that!" ... big boy again to little brother.
The sun had already fallen behind the houses of 16th Street as we made our way back up the Windsor Terrace hill. Conversation had turned to vitamins. An oversight a few mornings ago had led to Reeve getting eight or nine Scooby Doo gummy vitamins (which is to say the remainder of the bottle) in his mouth simultaneously, requiring forcible extraction and disposal of the wet remains. The Jewish sabbath conspired with the Christian sabbath to delay a visit to the local drug store, hence a two-day deprivation of gummy vitamins that could not possibly be endured another day. Would the store be closed by the time we got there? No. Were we sure we were going the right way? Yes. Just one more block, then we'll make a left and it will be on the next corner. The store with the seal out front, balancing a ball on his nose, that you can ride on for two quarters to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," remember?
Suddenly, from the lower deck, Duncan burst into tears. "What is it, Sweetie?" I ask, dropping to his side. "Did something hurt you?"
"Mommy, I miss being little," he managed to get out. Tears, unconsolable. "I miss when I was a baby. It isn't easy being a big boy!"
"I know," I said, casting for words. "But you also get to do more things too, right?"
"But I don't want to do those things!" Raw, open-mouthed sobs from his core. I kissed his teary cheek and put mine against it.
"You know what? I bet you didn't know something," I said. "Did you know that the Duncan who was One is still inside of you?" He quieted for a moment. "And the Duncan who was Two, still there." He looked at me, sure I was making up one of those dumb mommy things to try to make him feel better. "It's true. And the Duncan who was Three, all the way out to the Duncan who is Four."
"Mommy! What do you mean?" he demanded, exasperated.
"We're just like the trees. Our One self is in the inside, our Two self if a little circle around that, our Three self a circle around that... all the way out to what you can see now. All of them are still here, always."
He thought a moment. Then smiled wryly. "Mommy, that's something silly you said."
"It may be silly, but it's true. Honest." I held his hand a moment. Until I could feel he was ready to let go.
"Mommy, do you think they have those crunchy kind of vitamins, or just the gummy kind?"
"I think they probably have both," I answered as I leaned into the double stroller to recommence forward movement. "Which kind do you want?"
"The crunchy kind get stuck in my teeth."
"Then gummy it is."
"Yeah, I think gummy. I know the store you mean! You go left, and then you go right, across the street..."
a precarious climb
A brief introduction, or why the Rickety Ladder. Long ago, I made several trips cross-country in my 1986 Honda Civic ("Georgia Rae") with the guy who would turn out to be my husband. It turns out that traversing Louisiana, Texas, and the Southwest in September without A/C is a highly effective route to higher consciousness. Unlike our law- and med school-bound college classmates, we were entering the Great Beyond with no real plan. We declared to the open road that we would climb a rickety ladder to heaven, rather than the sure ones, and enjoyed a fleeting smugness. A year later we weren't talking to each other.
Eighteen years later, we live in Brooklyn with two little boys and a third expected in December. Blame it on the fall, or the shofar, or the knowledge that this will be my last pregnancy, but I feel the rungs passing under my feet each day and don't want them to disappear all together into the mist of time. And so I will try to capture a few here.
Eighteen years later, we live in Brooklyn with two little boys and a third expected in December. Blame it on the fall, or the shofar, or the knowledge that this will be my last pregnancy, but I feel the rungs passing under my feet each day and don't want them to disappear all together into the mist of time. And so I will try to capture a few here.
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Packing Up the Rickety Ladder
The puppies and I were running through the woods above the Top of the World yesterday when a thought unrelated to anything arose that it...
