Yes dear friends, it's that time of year; dust off the letterman's jacket and pull out the photos with the frayed edges to show your kids, who incidentally, don't want to see them except to say, "What's with the weird hair mom?" Or, "Oh my Gosh, is that you?" Really? Am I that unrecognizable? Whatever it was, whatever it is, another homecoming weekend has gone and most of us are left to ask that age old question once again, "Where the hell did that year go?"
25 years ago, when I was 17, there I was, standing on the grass with my dad who, in the photos, is younger than I am now and we are waiting, waiting, waiting, seemingly forever... The frenzy that surrounds the crowning of the Homecoming Queen is much like the Hollywood "It" girl of the week; I mean, do you remember who "the next big thing" is from week to week? If you do then fuck you I'm not writing this for you, but if you are often as in a haze about the celebrity status quo as I am, then this monologue is right up your alley so, read on...
"Hey mom, what's that thing called? You know, the thing, the flower thing that I'm supposed to get for her?"
"What? What are you talking about?" I'm trying not to smile as Jake is frustrated and desperately playing one of our verbal games called, Let's guess what the hell Jake is talking about? Even when I guess, I usually egg him on for a few minutes anyway; it's in the maternal contract. Says right on Page 3, line 57, "...psychologically torture at will." Hey, I'm just doing my part.
"MOM! The thing with the wristband that I'm supposed to get for her for the dance."
"Nope, no idea what you're talking about. Is this some kind of a new fad or something, a bracelet, like those Save the Boobies ones?" Now I'm really trying to keep a straight face as he looks as though he is about to implode,
"Forget it, when is Dad getting home?"
"Oh like he's going to have a clue what you're talking about" Jake turns to walk away when I pretend like I'm thinking and I go,
"Hold on a sec, are you talking about a ... corsage?" I swear, the kind of relief that flooded his eyes and his face as his expression passed from one of anxiety to one of contentment while he nodded was the exact same kind that I felt when I was once so engorged that it took me FOREVER to get that little bugger latched on properly, but when I did, Hallelujah! The Heavens parted. Jake's face reminded me of that moment, same intensity.
"Corsage, yeah, we need to get her one"
"Okay, I'll order one"
"Yeah?" He seemed to think that was it, but he should have read further in the contract, Page 3, line 62 "continue torture as needed to procure desired reaction..."
"Yeah, no problem" He started to walk away,
"Hey Jake, but don't you need something to wear too? A flower that goes on your shirt?" The screwed up face returned when he realized that I was right,
"Oh, what's that called?" Can somebody say commercial interruption because there was no way in hell that he was going to get boutenniere...
Yes, I am mean (never said I wasn't)...
My senior year, there were 5 girls out on the field, as is customary: Jenny, Carolyn, Julee, Monica and myself. We were all standing in the freezing cold wind, adreneline pumping, surrounded by the drill team and the band, grasping our father's arms as they stood there, warm in their suit jackets, waiting... What is it with waiting, the prolonging... ah, I'm sensing a theme here with the torture thing, but you already caught that. Anyway, our senior year, the class president, who I've known since we played softball together starting at age 11, always had the craziest and really, the most awesome ideas. She was, and still is, a damn smart and creative thinker and she came up with the idea of getting the blimp to fly over at half time and to have the ticker tape reveal the name of the Queen. Fucking genius. Who would have thought of that, I mean, the blimp? How crazy cool is that? So, here comes the blimp and we're all like chickens, lolling our heads around, looking up, pointing, reading the letters in red as they begin to scroll... The 1986 West High Homecoming Queen is...
The doorbell rings last night and it's time for Jake to take pictures with Mia; it's also time for just a second of "This has indeed come full circle" for me since Jake is a freshman at my alma mater and it is surreal to see him, all dressed up, ready for his first dance in high school, with a gem of a human being on his arm. So, there's a little bit of fuss, I think we all did quite nicely, considering the group, Thalia and I primarily, of not humiliating the two of them and, we sent them on their way. There were a few collective, "Aaaahhhs" but overall, not too bad as Jake would confirm later after I picked the two of them up from the dance. I have to admit though, when he came down the stairs a bit earlier, I got a little teary eyed. No smirking... read Page 88 of the contract and cut me some slack.
I think the most wonderful moment and really, the moments of Homecoming are the shared memories that people have when they return to the school or a school from their youth. Even walking through an old school can evoke a flood of strong emotion and memory that is more powerful than the time when the person was actually attending classes there. Nostalgia and sentiment are powerful bedfellows and they do not like to be asked to go home too soon after they take over. Kinda like that girl you picked up last week at the bar down in Hermosa, just checking to see if you were still paying attention. This year, there was a dedication ceremony for Coach Pete and the revealing of the plaque in his honor, along with the renaming of the West High Stadium that will forever bear his name. Rightfully so, everyone agrees. The man was a Warrior in more ways than one and those of us who share that distinction, well, I haven't met anyone who isn't proud to have graduated from West and there is a camraderie that permeates this community. As a result of that, I am glad that my son is now a member of that pride and of that sense of belonging. I hope that he treasures it as much as I do.
I also think it's interesting the concept of the Homecoming "Queen" and of the "King" for that matter because it isn't something that you work for or that you earn really; it's just something that's given to you for really what reason? You were the smartest? The prettiest? The easiest? The Best at whatever it was that the majority of kids happened to like at the time? I mean, is popularity the criteria? I guess that's the universal answer, but what does it mean to be "popular?" Well liked? Respected? Feared? Hated? I mean in John Hughes movies, the popular kids were cruel and sometimes without feeling toward anyone else. If that's the case, then the Homecoming Queen is a real bitch. It's like Miss USA; really? Yes it's a contest, but it's not really a contest. Miss America, now THAT'S a contest; at least there's talent in that one. Not to knock Miss USA, but I just don't get it, never have, never will. Besides that, it's so unbelievably drawn out; just call out Texas already and get it over. Well, California sometimes too, but Texas man, you'd think that a state that produced W. wouldn't have any beautiful women, but whoa... there will be no political commentary here, none whatsoever. Besides, I'm digressing again,which, as you already know, is normal par for the course...
So there we stand, looking up, craning our necks as we hear people begin to read the words as they appear on the tape; it's this collective voice, unified, like a vocal drumroll, but then, when they get to the name, there is no name read because the crowd bursts into this kind of quasi-yelling, screaming mass of insane parents and friends and classmates and there's clapping and whistling as the former HQ moves to crown her successor. There are hugs and congratulations, roses and a robe and, of course, a tiara, more hugs, a glance upward to read her own name on the ticker tape and to laugh at the fun of it all. Tears come even though she told them not to and she feels very awkward and happy and silly all at the same time as her dad takes her arm and leads her to the car to drive around the track... and all the while she's thinking. All the while I'm thinking... how did that happen?
I pulled out the pictures last night to show Jake and his response was expected, mostly at our choices of 80's attire and hairstyles, but he smiled too as he asked me questions about that night. Then again, he is a boy so there weren't all that many questions. He got up and moved to walk away, but he stopped, turned back and asked,
"Hey Mom"
"Yep?"
"Is your picture still up in the ASB office from when you won?"
I thought about it,
"Yeah as far as I know"
He nodded, "Cool" and walked away. For the mom of a 14 year old son, that was pretty much the equivalent of winning the gold medal... cool.
It's not something you put on your resume or something that ever comes up in conversation; it's not something that I even tell people except in certain contexts. But the reasons why I don't say it aren't because I wasn't happy or because I feel a certain way about being chosen. I don't say it because there is no need to say it. When you win a game, you don't walk around telling people years later that you won. You might tell details or share in the joy of having experienced it, but you don't do that; it spoils the authenticity of the moment. Geez I sound like Dr. Phil, but, sincerely, when you have moments like that in your life, they remain precious because they are close to your heart, made for you, by you, with the help of others and oversharing them is to minimize their importance. Like when Jake put the corsage on Mia's wrist and she said "Thank You." It's all in the gestures, the background, the moments, and, that's the way it should be.
So once a year, I, like many of my fellow Warrior alumni, come home: to visit, to share, to remember, to help pass on the traditions to a new generation, to our own children. "What was it like to be the Homecoming Queen?" Somebody asked me that at the game this year and I guess, really, my answer to that question was everything that I just wrote here, but that would have been too much to say, so instead, I just simply said,"It was an honor" and it still is...
Welcome Home everyone. Go West!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Turning 5...
I remember sinking to my knees in the bathroom of the apartment where we were living at the time, tears coming quickly, staring at the little plus sign in the window.
I remember hearing those magical words, "You're pregnant!" and feeling both fear and joy that time.
I remember craving Orange Chicken and Pozole soup and wanting spicy foods; seemed to be the only things that settled my stomach.
I remember walking the dog and having to stop suddenly to vomit in the bushes because the morning sickness was so intense.
I remember how wonderful it felt, carrying you; feeling you kick, singing to my belly, wanting you to hurry up and get here.
I remember driving to the hospital with your Dad at 4:30 in the morning, ready for the C section that we'd scheduled.
I remember sitting there with your Dad, waiting for the surgery, trying to decide on a name for you, wondering why I was in pain.
I remember when we agreed on TY as your name and your Dad saying that we would tell people the T was for Tim and the Y was for Yvette, but really we just liked the name.
I remember walking into the operating room, telling the nurse about the pain, only to have her tell me, "You're in labor, you've actually been having contractions all this time!"
I remember hearing you cry, not too loudly and your Dad bringing you over so that I could kiss your face. Black hair, unhappy, squinting eyes, red skin.
I remember the 3 days in the hospital, not wanting to put you down, watching television, singing to you, feeding you.
I remember on the fourth day when you went limp in my arms and the nurse took your temperature and then, you were whisked upstairs for two weeks. Staph infection.
I remember coming home from the hospital without you, feeling kind of lost and very afraid; I was lying in bed, crying and praying.
I remember thinking to myself, please don't let him die in the hospital while I'm here. Please let me bring him home.
I remember going to pick you up, perfectly fine and the nurse making me sit in the wheelchair anyway, two weeks later.
I remember not minding the middle of the night feedings or the baths or the rocking you in the chair.
I remember how I blinked my eyes and you were 1 and then 3 and now, today, 5 years old.
I remember how much I wanted you and how much you've brought to our family.
I remember all of the times you've made me laugh and made me cry, already and I'm looking forward to many more.
And, in case someday you don't, I will remember all of this so that I can tell you about it then.
Happy 5th Birthday Ty Matthew Hawley and many more to come. I love you.
I remember hearing those magical words, "You're pregnant!" and feeling both fear and joy that time.
I remember craving Orange Chicken and Pozole soup and wanting spicy foods; seemed to be the only things that settled my stomach.
I remember walking the dog and having to stop suddenly to vomit in the bushes because the morning sickness was so intense.
I remember how wonderful it felt, carrying you; feeling you kick, singing to my belly, wanting you to hurry up and get here.
I remember driving to the hospital with your Dad at 4:30 in the morning, ready for the C section that we'd scheduled.
I remember sitting there with your Dad, waiting for the surgery, trying to decide on a name for you, wondering why I was in pain.
I remember when we agreed on TY as your name and your Dad saying that we would tell people the T was for Tim and the Y was for Yvette, but really we just liked the name.
I remember walking into the operating room, telling the nurse about the pain, only to have her tell me, "You're in labor, you've actually been having contractions all this time!"
I remember hearing you cry, not too loudly and your Dad bringing you over so that I could kiss your face. Black hair, unhappy, squinting eyes, red skin.
I remember the 3 days in the hospital, not wanting to put you down, watching television, singing to you, feeding you.
I remember on the fourth day when you went limp in my arms and the nurse took your temperature and then, you were whisked upstairs for two weeks. Staph infection.
I remember coming home from the hospital without you, feeling kind of lost and very afraid; I was lying in bed, crying and praying.
I remember thinking to myself, please don't let him die in the hospital while I'm here. Please let me bring him home.
I remember going to pick you up, perfectly fine and the nurse making me sit in the wheelchair anyway, two weeks later.
I remember not minding the middle of the night feedings or the baths or the rocking you in the chair.
I remember how I blinked my eyes and you were 1 and then 3 and now, today, 5 years old.
I remember how much I wanted you and how much you've brought to our family.
I remember all of the times you've made me laugh and made me cry, already and I'm looking forward to many more.
And, in case someday you don't, I will remember all of this so that I can tell you about it then.
Happy 5th Birthday Ty Matthew Hawley and many more to come. I love you.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Ty
Happy Birthday to my littlest guy, Ty Matthew Hawley. What a blessing you've been these past 5 years! Have a wonderful day big guy...
Love,
Mommy
Love,
Mommy
Sunday, September 11, 2011
9/11
Dear New York City,
Ten years later, a nation remembers: your pain, your sacrifice, your devastation...
And, we will always remember.
Maybe that's all that needs to be said about today; maybe there aren't enough words or images or tears to cover the incredible tapestry of humanity that comes to mind when someone says 9/11. Maybe it's enough to simply close your eyes for a brief moment and remember, often and with a solemnity that only comes from having experienced a firsthand event that changes the very fabric of you are as a human being and who, really, a nation is.
It has all been said during this past decade; it's all been revisited in loving tributes, eulogies, articles about United Flight 93. The stories have been told and retold and today we live in a time when our military continues to be "out there," trying to maintain a foothold in an uncertain world, in a very uncertain time.
When I think of that day and today as I think about all of the people who were in New York City on that day, my heart feels heavy, my head hurts a bit and I feel a sense of despair that kind of starts in my brain and works its way down. My stomach hurts and I'm exhausted. And I wasn't there; like so many of you, I simply stared at the television, watching, waiting, hoping that it didn't happen. And then, I got dressed and went to work, people milling around, whispering beneath their daily tasks, taking every opportunity to turn on a television or a radio to find out what was happening...
When I was a kid, I had this feeling that my family, my neighborhood, my life was secure, invincible would be a better word. That's the point I guess, when you're young, you think that, most of us, if we're lucky. I went to sleep at night feeling safe and I gave little to no thought of the dangers that existed everywhere outside of my shell of world, outside of my family and my school. That feeling of security seemed to vanish on 9/11 and not just for children, for all of us. I remember some of the conversations that day and there was a sense of amazement and wonder as to how it could have happened, how could it have happened? And for maybe the first time, in my adult life as well, I no longer felt safe. I'm not naive and I'm not a fool, of course things happen and no one is 100% safe, but that feeling that I'd had since I was a child vanished the day that the World Trade Center fell and for those who were there, who lived it firsthand, who pulled bodies out from beneath rubble and who lost their family and friends and brothers and co-workers, I cannot begin to fathom the violation that they must have felt and still do. I try to multiple what I felt about a million times over and it's most likely not enough. Devastation lingers, but, maybe that is a point too.
In all of human nature, tragedy brings out the best and worst in us. I think that 9/11 showed the best of what we bring to the table when we are faced headon with the unimaginable, the wolf at the door... but it is also an example of the worst of human beings; their greed and desire for power, revenge, control. Because at our very core, we are all the same. It is merely how we choose to behave and respond that separates "us" from "them." And it was in our response, as New Yorkers, as Americans, as human beings that clearly distinguished "us" from "them." One can only aspire to be as brave, strong and respectful of human life as the firefighters who risked their lives that day; one can only hope to be as courageous and as forthright as the passengers of Flight 93 who knew that they were going to die, who, knew that they were going to die and yet who had the wherewithal to control how it would happen. Their story haunts me to this day.
Sometimes I think that it is ironic how we can come together as a nation in times of tragedy and remembrance but we cannot have a bipartisan Congress. Partisanship divides us to the point where we waste time, money, resources and our integrity even on issues and arguments that in the end, amount to nothing. The best of what we are as a nation should also come through on 9/10 and 9/12 and every other day or 9/11 becomes nothing more than another national day... If we are really going to remember and pay tribute to those who gave their lives, to those who suffered, shouldn't we do it by living their legacy? I'd like to see that kind of passion and committment to every single thing that we do as a nation. Maybe then we would see some real change.
It's hard to imagine what it must have felt like that day, in that great city, amongst the countless terrified and confused and sad people. It's hard to imagine that it could ever happen again. It's hard to imagine...
And so, we move forward and, like any tragic event, we enfold everything that came before and we take it with us, in everything that we do, in every place that we visit, in every baby that's born, in every triumph that we feel and in every day that we have together. So thank you New York, for everything that you are, for everything that you gave us and for reminding us of all that is to come...
Ten years later, a nation remembers: your pain, your sacrifice, your devastation...
And, we will always remember.
Maybe that's all that needs to be said about today; maybe there aren't enough words or images or tears to cover the incredible tapestry of humanity that comes to mind when someone says 9/11. Maybe it's enough to simply close your eyes for a brief moment and remember, often and with a solemnity that only comes from having experienced a firsthand event that changes the very fabric of you are as a human being and who, really, a nation is.
It has all been said during this past decade; it's all been revisited in loving tributes, eulogies, articles about United Flight 93. The stories have been told and retold and today we live in a time when our military continues to be "out there," trying to maintain a foothold in an uncertain world, in a very uncertain time.
When I think of that day and today as I think about all of the people who were in New York City on that day, my heart feels heavy, my head hurts a bit and I feel a sense of despair that kind of starts in my brain and works its way down. My stomach hurts and I'm exhausted. And I wasn't there; like so many of you, I simply stared at the television, watching, waiting, hoping that it didn't happen. And then, I got dressed and went to work, people milling around, whispering beneath their daily tasks, taking every opportunity to turn on a television or a radio to find out what was happening...
When I was a kid, I had this feeling that my family, my neighborhood, my life was secure, invincible would be a better word. That's the point I guess, when you're young, you think that, most of us, if we're lucky. I went to sleep at night feeling safe and I gave little to no thought of the dangers that existed everywhere outside of my shell of world, outside of my family and my school. That feeling of security seemed to vanish on 9/11 and not just for children, for all of us. I remember some of the conversations that day and there was a sense of amazement and wonder as to how it could have happened, how could it have happened? And for maybe the first time, in my adult life as well, I no longer felt safe. I'm not naive and I'm not a fool, of course things happen and no one is 100% safe, but that feeling that I'd had since I was a child vanished the day that the World Trade Center fell and for those who were there, who lived it firsthand, who pulled bodies out from beneath rubble and who lost their family and friends and brothers and co-workers, I cannot begin to fathom the violation that they must have felt and still do. I try to multiple what I felt about a million times over and it's most likely not enough. Devastation lingers, but, maybe that is a point too.
In all of human nature, tragedy brings out the best and worst in us. I think that 9/11 showed the best of what we bring to the table when we are faced headon with the unimaginable, the wolf at the door... but it is also an example of the worst of human beings; their greed and desire for power, revenge, control. Because at our very core, we are all the same. It is merely how we choose to behave and respond that separates "us" from "them." And it was in our response, as New Yorkers, as Americans, as human beings that clearly distinguished "us" from "them." One can only aspire to be as brave, strong and respectful of human life as the firefighters who risked their lives that day; one can only hope to be as courageous and as forthright as the passengers of Flight 93 who knew that they were going to die, who, knew that they were going to die and yet who had the wherewithal to control how it would happen. Their story haunts me to this day.
Sometimes I think that it is ironic how we can come together as a nation in times of tragedy and remembrance but we cannot have a bipartisan Congress. Partisanship divides us to the point where we waste time, money, resources and our integrity even on issues and arguments that in the end, amount to nothing. The best of what we are as a nation should also come through on 9/10 and 9/12 and every other day or 9/11 becomes nothing more than another national day... If we are really going to remember and pay tribute to those who gave their lives, to those who suffered, shouldn't we do it by living their legacy? I'd like to see that kind of passion and committment to every single thing that we do as a nation. Maybe then we would see some real change.
It's hard to imagine what it must have felt like that day, in that great city, amongst the countless terrified and confused and sad people. It's hard to imagine that it could ever happen again. It's hard to imagine...
And so, we move forward and, like any tragic event, we enfold everything that came before and we take it with us, in everything that we do, in every place that we visit, in every baby that's born, in every triumph that we feel and in every day that we have together. So thank you New York, for everything that you are, for everything that you gave us and for reminding us of all that is to come...
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Coach Pete
I was thinking that I would write about Coach Pete: Fred Petersen, the legacy at both West High and El Camino College, who passed away this past week. For obvious reasons, thoughts and memories swirling around in my head, I thought I'd just start writing and, in light of his service tomorrow, that maybe something would come out that was appropriate to share and that others would read and then nod and maybe smile and whisper, "Oh Yeah, I remember that..." But the thing is, everyone who reads this already knows all of it because if you've lived in the South Bay, you know the stories and you know the legacy and you know how important he was to all of us who passed through WHS athletics, through his classroom or through El Camino Football. You know because Coach Pete was a larger than life figure in every way; he is beloved because he made himself an integral part of the fabric of this community. Most importantly, he took pride in every team, in every player, in every student who came under his tutelage. We were at a parent meeting last night for the upcoming football season and I heard his name mentioned at least a dozen times. In the past week, I've read messages, seen family members and heard stories about the man that invoked that same reaction that I mentioned earlier, the nod, the smile, the whisper...
But I'm in no position to write a eulogy; I didn't know Coach Pete well enough to talk about all of his accomplishments and his career highlights or how his family is so well known throughout this area that there will be no room at his service tomorrow; the church will be full. I was thinking instead about mortality in general and about some very specific people who reminded me in the past few days that life is indeed, fleeting... As my oldest son enters West High in a couple of weeks, as a freshman football player, I am also reminded of how time and legacies and the gauntlet is continuously passed, even in the midst of loss and grief. Another generation comes to fruition in the long tradition of high school sports, maybe the spirit of coaches and teachers like Coach Pete pushing them toward excellence. At the very least, that spirit of unconquerable pride in one's school, community and in oneself.
I don't think excellence comes from having great genes or from working until blood runs out of your ears. I think being excellent at something really just means that, no matter what is put in front of you, you figure out a way to knock past it; if that means through it, around it, above it, beneath it, you do not let it stop you. And in that quest to get by, you prove your worth, your talent, your skill, your intelligence, creativity, athleticism, whatever it is that made you worthy of striving for excellence in the first place. Let's face it, not everyone wins the gold medal, somebody has to lose and, really, that's what makes winning worth doing. I'm the last one to push winning as a reason to do anything, but being a winner doesn't mean that you have the most points in this sense of the word. It means that you found a way past, on your own terms, in your own way. And, ultimately, I think that's one of the biggest lessons that I learned from Coach Pete. He was a tough man, he didn't put up with any bullshit, but he also exacted what he wanted from you, as a student, as an athlete; he showed you that you could get past and yes, it was going to be hard and it was going to hurt and it was going to redefine everything that you ever knew about yourself as a person. But in the end you'd be better than you ever were and when that happened, you'd have the skill and the wherewithal to accomplish whatever you set out to do in your life.
When we played soccer at El Camino College and I say we, because there were several of us from West who made our way over to ECC stadium to play for Bob Myers who was another formidable character and who I loved as a coach very much, I'd look up sometimes to see Coach Pete in the stands. On a Tuesday afternoon or a Wednesday night, there he was, sitting up there with the other 3 people that we had watching us play; not too many fans back then. And it wasn't that he was just sitting there, but he was yelling, "Come on Gabaldon, move!" and I'd be thinking to myself, What the hell Coach Pete? Yelling at me? From the stands? And then I'd laugh to myself, crazy man. But after the game, on every occasion that he was there, he'd come down to field level and he'd shake our hands, putting one hand on my shoulder and he'd tell me exactly what he thought of how I played and he'd smile, that Coach Pete smile and he'd tell me, in not so many words, that he was proud of me for being out there in the first place. And, I have to admit that was another thing that I loved about Coach Pete, he never treated us like we were girls playing a girl's sport. He respected athletes and we were athletes; he respected hard work and honesty and loyalty. He respected discipline and integrity and he stood for everything that West High stands for to those of us who are lucky enough to call ourselves alumni. He, in all of us, through all of us, has woven a tapestry of all of these traits that we now pass along to the next generation. And as we begin another AYSO season and we sit at coaches meetings, smiling at our former classmates, laughing about how we remember our parents coaching and refereeing, we are reminded of how quickly the time is passing and how these moments when we are drawn together by the passing of someone great or by the birth of another child of one of those longtime friends or teammates, bind us together, forever.
I am proud to be a part of that tapestry and every time I push myself to go a little further, a little faster, a little stronger, I live Coach Pete's legacy. I wish his family much peace and love and hope in hearing how much he meant to all of us and that we will never forget him.
Salty Breezes Sweeping O'er Us,
Cries of Gulls and Terns on High,
Purple Cast on Distant Mountains,
On the Far Horizon Lie,
Hearts United in One Purpose,
Hands Clasped Strongly in one Tie,
We Salute Our Alma Mater,
Staunch Defenders of West High.
Sleep Well Coach Pete. We love you.
But I'm in no position to write a eulogy; I didn't know Coach Pete well enough to talk about all of his accomplishments and his career highlights or how his family is so well known throughout this area that there will be no room at his service tomorrow; the church will be full. I was thinking instead about mortality in general and about some very specific people who reminded me in the past few days that life is indeed, fleeting... As my oldest son enters West High in a couple of weeks, as a freshman football player, I am also reminded of how time and legacies and the gauntlet is continuously passed, even in the midst of loss and grief. Another generation comes to fruition in the long tradition of high school sports, maybe the spirit of coaches and teachers like Coach Pete pushing them toward excellence. At the very least, that spirit of unconquerable pride in one's school, community and in oneself.
I don't think excellence comes from having great genes or from working until blood runs out of your ears. I think being excellent at something really just means that, no matter what is put in front of you, you figure out a way to knock past it; if that means through it, around it, above it, beneath it, you do not let it stop you. And in that quest to get by, you prove your worth, your talent, your skill, your intelligence, creativity, athleticism, whatever it is that made you worthy of striving for excellence in the first place. Let's face it, not everyone wins the gold medal, somebody has to lose and, really, that's what makes winning worth doing. I'm the last one to push winning as a reason to do anything, but being a winner doesn't mean that you have the most points in this sense of the word. It means that you found a way past, on your own terms, in your own way. And, ultimately, I think that's one of the biggest lessons that I learned from Coach Pete. He was a tough man, he didn't put up with any bullshit, but he also exacted what he wanted from you, as a student, as an athlete; he showed you that you could get past and yes, it was going to be hard and it was going to hurt and it was going to redefine everything that you ever knew about yourself as a person. But in the end you'd be better than you ever were and when that happened, you'd have the skill and the wherewithal to accomplish whatever you set out to do in your life.
When we played soccer at El Camino College and I say we, because there were several of us from West who made our way over to ECC stadium to play for Bob Myers who was another formidable character and who I loved as a coach very much, I'd look up sometimes to see Coach Pete in the stands. On a Tuesday afternoon or a Wednesday night, there he was, sitting up there with the other 3 people that we had watching us play; not too many fans back then. And it wasn't that he was just sitting there, but he was yelling, "Come on Gabaldon, move!" and I'd be thinking to myself, What the hell Coach Pete? Yelling at me? From the stands? And then I'd laugh to myself, crazy man. But after the game, on every occasion that he was there, he'd come down to field level and he'd shake our hands, putting one hand on my shoulder and he'd tell me exactly what he thought of how I played and he'd smile, that Coach Pete smile and he'd tell me, in not so many words, that he was proud of me for being out there in the first place. And, I have to admit that was another thing that I loved about Coach Pete, he never treated us like we were girls playing a girl's sport. He respected athletes and we were athletes; he respected hard work and honesty and loyalty. He respected discipline and integrity and he stood for everything that West High stands for to those of us who are lucky enough to call ourselves alumni. He, in all of us, through all of us, has woven a tapestry of all of these traits that we now pass along to the next generation. And as we begin another AYSO season and we sit at coaches meetings, smiling at our former classmates, laughing about how we remember our parents coaching and refereeing, we are reminded of how quickly the time is passing and how these moments when we are drawn together by the passing of someone great or by the birth of another child of one of those longtime friends or teammates, bind us together, forever.
I am proud to be a part of that tapestry and every time I push myself to go a little further, a little faster, a little stronger, I live Coach Pete's legacy. I wish his family much peace and love and hope in hearing how much he meant to all of us and that we will never forget him.
Salty Breezes Sweeping O'er Us,
Cries of Gulls and Terns on High,
Purple Cast on Distant Mountains,
On the Far Horizon Lie,
Hearts United in One Purpose,
Hands Clasped Strongly in one Tie,
We Salute Our Alma Mater,
Staunch Defenders of West High.
Sleep Well Coach Pete. We love you.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Grading Dilemma...
The worst part about teaching besides the students... (insert smile here) is (drumroll), grading. And yes, of course, as an English teacher, grading en masse is to be expected, but what I'm really alluding to here is the subjective nature of assigning a "value" to the product designed by another person. Yes there are guidelines and yes, there are exceptions to every rule, but there is no gentle way to break to a student who "busts her ass" to get that "A," that she isn't getting it, by the small margin of 11 points. Digest that for a moment if you will. 11 points. When I wrote my comments on her research paper, I explained the reasons behind the grade and she would agree, I am almost certain, that all of her other work was a combination of both excellent critical thinking and superior writing. Unfortunately, there were a couple of bumps along the way and those ultimately caused the point total to top out where it is. Clearly you see the dilemma; both the struggle in my brain and in my heart and wrapped in that, the distinct criteria that I had established in order to avoid said dilemma. But, alas, there is one or two of these situations every term. There is a student who continuously falls right on the "cusp" of the higher grade and, disappointingly, she does not get it.
I would not lose any sleep over giving her the higher grade, over adding a few extra points in the total for her participation, attendance, for her effort. I really wouldn't, not in this case. It would be simple to just punch in the letter "A" instead of "B." Who would know? Aside from those of you who are reading this, no one. And, by doing so, I may have inspired this student to work harder, even harder than she did this summer to acheive those kinds of excellent marks in the future. But, you already know what I'm going to say, you know what I'm going to do, what I've already done and it was not an act of moral superiority or "rightness." It was not an act that defines me as anything other than a person who struggles with difficult decisions and who does take into consideration the fact that each student is different and each situation is different. And maybe ten years ago, I would have looked at the situation from a much more limited perspective. That, however, is not the case now. Now it is merely a task that may be highly unpleasant, but at the same time, is both necessary and fair. In all fairness to this student and to every other student who is "right there," this is a situation that is designed to teach a life lesson as much as it is to teach a content based one...
In college, I had to take two semesters of American Literature, which I LOVED, maybe more than life itself. And, I was fortunate to have the same professor for both courses. I remember that during the first semester, in the "early" section of the literature, this professor dissected every statement I made in every single paper. It was like a writing anatomy lesson, "Okay Yvette, but this belongs here and this makes this work better and this... blah, blah, blah." Yeah, yeah I thought as he assigned me C's on my first two papers. C's!!!!! I have nothing against C's, in fact, when I have deserved them (Statistics :0 ), I have accepted them with no real disagreement. But, I busted my ass and my brain and I thought that I had done everything that he asked and still, average; your thoughts are average. That's what I walked away with. I spoke with him and he very clearly explained what I wasn't doing correctly and as time passed, I started to see that my writing was not expressing where my thinking was. I was writing like I was having a conversation with a friend and that conversation was all over the place. Interestingly, he let me, and others, rewrite our papers, but he would not change the grade. He read them and continued to make comments, but he wouldn't budge in this regard. It's an easy analogy to make; imagine your surgeon working on your torn ACL, you want them to get it right the first time. And, you want it to be an "A" job, not a re-do, hoping that the next time they'll get it "right." English papers are not medicine or "life or death", but the thinking behind analysis is done and required by most every field that I can think of, not to mention by those that might not even seem to require it. Needless to say, I learned a great deal that semester and I got a "B" in that course. I worked hard for that grade and in the end, I knew that I deserved it. I wonder though, if he had come to me and said that I was only 11 points from an "A" would I have seen that "B" as a failure or would I have simply chalked it up to another experience in which I wasn't treated fairly; would I cry and scream and be disappointed? Or, would I take it in stride and tell myself that the grade was a reflection of where I was THEN and that, like it or not, if I valued this professor's opinion and if I thought him a credible judge of my work, then I simply accepted that assessment and moved forward. Which is exactly what I did. And, the next semester, I earned an "A" in his class. Of course, I had something to prove, if only to myself...
I find it distressing and sadly amusing when students beg for grades. I mean, I cannot even remotely fathom how a student can come to me and ask for a grade that he hasn't deserved just because he "needs" it for some purpose, like avoiding athletic probation or increasing the average of his GPA. Amusing is not really the right descriptor here because the implication is that the power that I wield, at my discretion, is done with some kind of intent to harm or to "teach a lesson," in order to amuse myself, but that's not what I'm talking about here. I'm talking about a student who was told specifically of the criteria and then who blatantly ignores it or disregards it and then who expects me to comply so that he can transfer to the school of his choice. I mean, where in the rule book of life is the line, "If you don't get what you want, beg for it, even when you haven't earned it or when you don't deserve it." I must have missed that section. The thought of emailing my American Literature professor REPEATEDLY, begging for a grade makes me sick to my stomach, no matter how badly I needed the grade; no matter how desperate I was.
So I sit here, having just submitted my grades for summer school, digesting the information that some of those grades will have a serious impact on academic careers and some will force students to reconsider their plans for the Fall semester and even, for the future. I sit here and think about this and I really wonder about the student who is so close to the "A." If I asked her, would she want me to make the change, would she want the "A" even just by a mere margin of 11 points? Or, would she think about it and look over her work and the course and the criteria and accept where she is, right now, without remorse? Yes, she will be disappointed and surely, she will think back over all of the pieces that she wrote for me, asking herself where she could have made up that 11 points and possibly, the word "unfair" will spring to her lips. But, maybe rather coldly, I cannot be concerned with what her reaction will be; I can only hope that she takes this opportunity to self-evaluate and to come out stronger in the end. I can only hope that her disappointment leads her to write even better in the future and to be proud of her ability to have improved in such a short period of time. But I do that, not with a heavy heart; I do that with the knowledge that I've upheld my part and that I've done my job as objectively as I could and that, when she sees that grade, she will know deep down, that it was assigned fairly. It's hard not to take things like grading personally. But just remember this, it is your work that I am grading, not you. It is just about the work.
In the end, what are you if not the sum of evaulations done by yourself and by people whose opinions you value? If we do not consider the evaluations of others, how can we be expected to improve, to grow and to learn? Maybe all we can do as educators is continue, if we do that, to maintain that strong line of fairness and objectivity and to disallow the notion that if we "like" a student then adding in 11 points is really no big deal. It is a very big deal, one that will plague me whether I want it to or not. One that might make me rethink an evaluation, but not to change it. So when you take my class, if you take a class that I teach, know that I may not be the kindest or the most entertaining teacher, but I will be fair and at the end of the day, you will get the grade that you have earned; not that I assigned, but that you earned...
I would not lose any sleep over giving her the higher grade, over adding a few extra points in the total for her participation, attendance, for her effort. I really wouldn't, not in this case. It would be simple to just punch in the letter "A" instead of "B." Who would know? Aside from those of you who are reading this, no one. And, by doing so, I may have inspired this student to work harder, even harder than she did this summer to acheive those kinds of excellent marks in the future. But, you already know what I'm going to say, you know what I'm going to do, what I've already done and it was not an act of moral superiority or "rightness." It was not an act that defines me as anything other than a person who struggles with difficult decisions and who does take into consideration the fact that each student is different and each situation is different. And maybe ten years ago, I would have looked at the situation from a much more limited perspective. That, however, is not the case now. Now it is merely a task that may be highly unpleasant, but at the same time, is both necessary and fair. In all fairness to this student and to every other student who is "right there," this is a situation that is designed to teach a life lesson as much as it is to teach a content based one...
In college, I had to take two semesters of American Literature, which I LOVED, maybe more than life itself. And, I was fortunate to have the same professor for both courses. I remember that during the first semester, in the "early" section of the literature, this professor dissected every statement I made in every single paper. It was like a writing anatomy lesson, "Okay Yvette, but this belongs here and this makes this work better and this... blah, blah, blah." Yeah, yeah I thought as he assigned me C's on my first two papers. C's!!!!! I have nothing against C's, in fact, when I have deserved them (Statistics :0 ), I have accepted them with no real disagreement. But, I busted my ass and my brain and I thought that I had done everything that he asked and still, average; your thoughts are average. That's what I walked away with. I spoke with him and he very clearly explained what I wasn't doing correctly and as time passed, I started to see that my writing was not expressing where my thinking was. I was writing like I was having a conversation with a friend and that conversation was all over the place. Interestingly, he let me, and others, rewrite our papers, but he would not change the grade. He read them and continued to make comments, but he wouldn't budge in this regard. It's an easy analogy to make; imagine your surgeon working on your torn ACL, you want them to get it right the first time. And, you want it to be an "A" job, not a re-do, hoping that the next time they'll get it "right." English papers are not medicine or "life or death", but the thinking behind analysis is done and required by most every field that I can think of, not to mention by those that might not even seem to require it. Needless to say, I learned a great deal that semester and I got a "B" in that course. I worked hard for that grade and in the end, I knew that I deserved it. I wonder though, if he had come to me and said that I was only 11 points from an "A" would I have seen that "B" as a failure or would I have simply chalked it up to another experience in which I wasn't treated fairly; would I cry and scream and be disappointed? Or, would I take it in stride and tell myself that the grade was a reflection of where I was THEN and that, like it or not, if I valued this professor's opinion and if I thought him a credible judge of my work, then I simply accepted that assessment and moved forward. Which is exactly what I did. And, the next semester, I earned an "A" in his class. Of course, I had something to prove, if only to myself...
I find it distressing and sadly amusing when students beg for grades. I mean, I cannot even remotely fathom how a student can come to me and ask for a grade that he hasn't deserved just because he "needs" it for some purpose, like avoiding athletic probation or increasing the average of his GPA. Amusing is not really the right descriptor here because the implication is that the power that I wield, at my discretion, is done with some kind of intent to harm or to "teach a lesson," in order to amuse myself, but that's not what I'm talking about here. I'm talking about a student who was told specifically of the criteria and then who blatantly ignores it or disregards it and then who expects me to comply so that he can transfer to the school of his choice. I mean, where in the rule book of life is the line, "If you don't get what you want, beg for it, even when you haven't earned it or when you don't deserve it." I must have missed that section. The thought of emailing my American Literature professor REPEATEDLY, begging for a grade makes me sick to my stomach, no matter how badly I needed the grade; no matter how desperate I was.
So I sit here, having just submitted my grades for summer school, digesting the information that some of those grades will have a serious impact on academic careers and some will force students to reconsider their plans for the Fall semester and even, for the future. I sit here and think about this and I really wonder about the student who is so close to the "A." If I asked her, would she want me to make the change, would she want the "A" even just by a mere margin of 11 points? Or, would she think about it and look over her work and the course and the criteria and accept where she is, right now, without remorse? Yes, she will be disappointed and surely, she will think back over all of the pieces that she wrote for me, asking herself where she could have made up that 11 points and possibly, the word "unfair" will spring to her lips. But, maybe rather coldly, I cannot be concerned with what her reaction will be; I can only hope that she takes this opportunity to self-evaluate and to come out stronger in the end. I can only hope that her disappointment leads her to write even better in the future and to be proud of her ability to have improved in such a short period of time. But I do that, not with a heavy heart; I do that with the knowledge that I've upheld my part and that I've done my job as objectively as I could and that, when she sees that grade, she will know deep down, that it was assigned fairly. It's hard not to take things like grading personally. But just remember this, it is your work that I am grading, not you. It is just about the work.
In the end, what are you if not the sum of evaulations done by yourself and by people whose opinions you value? If we do not consider the evaluations of others, how can we be expected to improve, to grow and to learn? Maybe all we can do as educators is continue, if we do that, to maintain that strong line of fairness and objectivity and to disallow the notion that if we "like" a student then adding in 11 points is really no big deal. It is a very big deal, one that will plague me whether I want it to or not. One that might make me rethink an evaluation, but not to change it. So when you take my class, if you take a class that I teach, know that I may not be the kindest or the most entertaining teacher, but I will be fair and at the end of the day, you will get the grade that you have earned; not that I assigned, but that you earned...
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Aging... not so gracefully.
I don't want to age gracefully, fuck that, I want to go down fighting. And in no way, shape or form am I talking about Botox or Lipo or even plastic surgery. I mean, I can't say never, but operations in any shape or form, particularly for cosmetic reasons, just don't appeal to me at the moment, not to say that they won't, but, honestly, I'm not really that kind of person. Nothing against anyone who is; I am all for whatever, whoever, whenever makes you feel younger, look younger, pretend to be younger. I'm just not quite sure about the acting younger thing. I mean, if I am being totally honest here, acting younger just means drawing unwanted and unnecessary attention to yourself. And, of course, we all know to whom that refers, just google, "reality tv."
Here's the thing; I really have no problem with aging. When I say that I want to go down fighting, I mean that I don't want to just waste away into that category of "old." I look forward to getting "old" and to hopefully having grandchildren and to sitting with my friends at happy hour and to walks on the beach with Tim, but I also look forward to running some races, doing some yoga and waking up each morning for the rest of my life asking the question, "What will I do today?" instead of focusing on what I no longer am able to do. I'm already at the point where I can only do certain things for a length of time now without a full recovery session. Of course I am talking about mostly physical activity, but I'm also referring to activities that involve sustained periods of sitting or driving or listening to stupid people talk... had to throw that one in there for good measure. I like the idea that as I age, I'm carrying another year with me. Sandra Cisneros (of House on Mango Street literary fame) wrote a short story entitled "Eleven" and in this story is a little girl who is turning just that age; in fact, it is her birthday on the day that the story takes place. At one point in the narrative, she comments on how she feels like a compilation of all of those ages leading up to 11 and that, in certain instances, she is 5 or 9 or 1, depending on what is happening and how she feels about it at that moment. She even compares those feelings to the little dolls that fit inside of one another, from smallest to largest; a collection of ages, if you will. I love this idea with my whole being... because some days, even in some moments, I am not 42; I am 16 or 25 or 7, walking home from school for the very first time with Keiko who lived down the street from me. I love the idea that every bit of who I was is now another little "doll" that is somewhere forever tucked inside of me, waiting for the opportunity to get to emerge and, maybe for just a moment, live again.
I'm not afraid to die, I've said that before. And, like most ideas, this one will probably run its course and someday I will amend that thought. But for now, the idea of death is just surreal; something that is out there, waiting for me and because it is inevitable, I don't worry about it. I don't worry that I will develop some disease or perish in some accident because whatever is in store for me, in my thought process, was decided long ago and I am just living out my destiny, one year at a time or, probably more accurately, one day at a time. I'm fearful of not living, of just accepting what is without asking myself why it is that way. I'm afraid that another 42 years will go by and I won't have any new experiences racked up under my belt. I'm afraid that my children won't remember me as I am now, crazy and angry and full of life and, I want them to remember be like that. I want to remember me like that.
I got to visit with a former student this past weekend and he got to meet my very best friend at the same time; quite an opportunity. And as we socialized and caught up, I was mindful of the fact that many years separated us from him. 16 to be exact and there were a couple of moments when I felt out of place, but never old; that wouldn't have been the word to describe how I felt. I felt a lot like that character from the story; a combination of ages all at once, both lost and found. I enjoyed the age difference because I realized that it doesn't mean anything other than who you are in the moments that make up your life. It matters only in how you respond to others and whether or not you are gracious and kind and forgiving or whatever you need to be right then. And in the end, recognizing that 26 or 42 really isn't the issue at all; the issue is making the time and taking the moment to reconnect with someone who was a part of a time in your life that mattered very much.
My family is kind of hung up on age and I'm not exactly sure why. I hear constantly comments about how old everyone is or how old they look or how "remember when?" I find this kind of nonsensical for many reasons but particularly when someone who is in their twenties is saying it. There is no point in denying your age or where you are in your life because it is inevitable for everyone, we know that already, but what I think most of my family doesn't get is that I am perfectly happy with who I've become and where I am and I had my chance to be 18 and 33 and 11 and 19 and I tried my best to make those years worth living and worth remembering so that now when I look back on them I can sigh wistfully and smile, knowing that I did just that. I look at my sister and my brother and my kids and I am glad for them that they are going to get to have those years too; I only pray that they will. And I hope that they make the most of them because telling someone that they are old doesn't mean anything more than your are fearful of the same thing happening to you and, sorry to tell you, it's going to. It was my turn to be 23 and now it's yours and someday, it will be someone else's turn... so make it count.
I feel better than I have in 15 years: physically, emotionally, mentally. I am more active, stronger, more educated and definitely less patient than ever before, but that goes without saying. I do have 3 kids. Man I love those kids. Anyway, like my friend Coco said once; something to the effect of, "I like having scars, it means that you've lived." I think she meant the physical ones, but hey, let's throw in the emotional ones too, just for some levity here. To add to that, I like looking at my body and remembering where a scar came from or why certain body parts feel the way that they do. I like that my body is just a little softer than it was before I had children and I LOVED carrying them in my body; every movement, every shift was pure joy for me. I love that I feel stronger than I ever have and that my stamina is better than some people half my age because that tells me what I am capable of doing and how hard I can push myself. I really love that I can sleep very deeply, not for the longest periods of time, but often and that I can eat super spicy food before bed and not get a stomachache. I like the certainty that comes with knowing from where my next paycheck will come and, along those same lines, I like knowing from where my next orgasm will come; no pun intended. Well, maybe just a little "pun." But, again, that brings up the topic of sex and, as a woman who, well, let's face it, is at her sexual peak, there is certainly much to be said for middle age in relation to this topic. I think I can leave it at that. Just one more thing though and then I'll leave it at that, why the hell does this sexual peak thing have to happen in our early forties? Why isn't it happening sooner, later, in the future? Nature's cruelty I suppose or not, depending on how you look at it and/or if you have someone who is right there, waiting to pull you to the floor or whatever surface is handy. But, I digress just a bit.
Yes I dance around the house listening to songs that my kid put on my Ipod and I probably look like a complete jackass doing it. Yes I like to play in the mud and watch reality shows that crack me up because of the ridiculousness of the situations. Yes I love to eat sweets and stay up too late and read comic books. And yes I love to play tag, color in the lines and press playdough through the molds that come with the kits... but most of all, I love being all of those ages, every single moment and every single day where they combine to form a kind of lovely, tangential thread that pulls me through the universe, for however long I have, however quickly it wants to.
So the next time you look at me and think I'm old or wonder about my life or my age or my purported well being, just remember that I warned you; I warned you that your day is coming too my friend and when it does, there will be some 18 year old with a tighter ass and a larger bank account (maybe not at 18) and a faster car (again, same thing), but in the end it won't matter, none of it will because you, like me, are better than the sum of all your parts. You are the journey and, the end is nowhere in sight...
Here's the thing; I really have no problem with aging. When I say that I want to go down fighting, I mean that I don't want to just waste away into that category of "old." I look forward to getting "old" and to hopefully having grandchildren and to sitting with my friends at happy hour and to walks on the beach with Tim, but I also look forward to running some races, doing some yoga and waking up each morning for the rest of my life asking the question, "What will I do today?" instead of focusing on what I no longer am able to do. I'm already at the point where I can only do certain things for a length of time now without a full recovery session. Of course I am talking about mostly physical activity, but I'm also referring to activities that involve sustained periods of sitting or driving or listening to stupid people talk... had to throw that one in there for good measure. I like the idea that as I age, I'm carrying another year with me. Sandra Cisneros (of House on Mango Street literary fame) wrote a short story entitled "Eleven" and in this story is a little girl who is turning just that age; in fact, it is her birthday on the day that the story takes place. At one point in the narrative, she comments on how she feels like a compilation of all of those ages leading up to 11 and that, in certain instances, she is 5 or 9 or 1, depending on what is happening and how she feels about it at that moment. She even compares those feelings to the little dolls that fit inside of one another, from smallest to largest; a collection of ages, if you will. I love this idea with my whole being... because some days, even in some moments, I am not 42; I am 16 or 25 or 7, walking home from school for the very first time with Keiko who lived down the street from me. I love the idea that every bit of who I was is now another little "doll" that is somewhere forever tucked inside of me, waiting for the opportunity to get to emerge and, maybe for just a moment, live again.
I'm not afraid to die, I've said that before. And, like most ideas, this one will probably run its course and someday I will amend that thought. But for now, the idea of death is just surreal; something that is out there, waiting for me and because it is inevitable, I don't worry about it. I don't worry that I will develop some disease or perish in some accident because whatever is in store for me, in my thought process, was decided long ago and I am just living out my destiny, one year at a time or, probably more accurately, one day at a time. I'm fearful of not living, of just accepting what is without asking myself why it is that way. I'm afraid that another 42 years will go by and I won't have any new experiences racked up under my belt. I'm afraid that my children won't remember me as I am now, crazy and angry and full of life and, I want them to remember be like that. I want to remember me like that.
I got to visit with a former student this past weekend and he got to meet my very best friend at the same time; quite an opportunity. And as we socialized and caught up, I was mindful of the fact that many years separated us from him. 16 to be exact and there were a couple of moments when I felt out of place, but never old; that wouldn't have been the word to describe how I felt. I felt a lot like that character from the story; a combination of ages all at once, both lost and found. I enjoyed the age difference because I realized that it doesn't mean anything other than who you are in the moments that make up your life. It matters only in how you respond to others and whether or not you are gracious and kind and forgiving or whatever you need to be right then. And in the end, recognizing that 26 or 42 really isn't the issue at all; the issue is making the time and taking the moment to reconnect with someone who was a part of a time in your life that mattered very much.
My family is kind of hung up on age and I'm not exactly sure why. I hear constantly comments about how old everyone is or how old they look or how "remember when?" I find this kind of nonsensical for many reasons but particularly when someone who is in their twenties is saying it. There is no point in denying your age or where you are in your life because it is inevitable for everyone, we know that already, but what I think most of my family doesn't get is that I am perfectly happy with who I've become and where I am and I had my chance to be 18 and 33 and 11 and 19 and I tried my best to make those years worth living and worth remembering so that now when I look back on them I can sigh wistfully and smile, knowing that I did just that. I look at my sister and my brother and my kids and I am glad for them that they are going to get to have those years too; I only pray that they will. And I hope that they make the most of them because telling someone that they are old doesn't mean anything more than your are fearful of the same thing happening to you and, sorry to tell you, it's going to. It was my turn to be 23 and now it's yours and someday, it will be someone else's turn... so make it count.
I feel better than I have in 15 years: physically, emotionally, mentally. I am more active, stronger, more educated and definitely less patient than ever before, but that goes without saying. I do have 3 kids. Man I love those kids. Anyway, like my friend Coco said once; something to the effect of, "I like having scars, it means that you've lived." I think she meant the physical ones, but hey, let's throw in the emotional ones too, just for some levity here. To add to that, I like looking at my body and remembering where a scar came from or why certain body parts feel the way that they do. I like that my body is just a little softer than it was before I had children and I LOVED carrying them in my body; every movement, every shift was pure joy for me. I love that I feel stronger than I ever have and that my stamina is better than some people half my age because that tells me what I am capable of doing and how hard I can push myself. I really love that I can sleep very deeply, not for the longest periods of time, but often and that I can eat super spicy food before bed and not get a stomachache. I like the certainty that comes with knowing from where my next paycheck will come and, along those same lines, I like knowing from where my next orgasm will come; no pun intended. Well, maybe just a little "pun." But, again, that brings up the topic of sex and, as a woman who, well, let's face it, is at her sexual peak, there is certainly much to be said for middle age in relation to this topic. I think I can leave it at that. Just one more thing though and then I'll leave it at that, why the hell does this sexual peak thing have to happen in our early forties? Why isn't it happening sooner, later, in the future? Nature's cruelty I suppose or not, depending on how you look at it and/or if you have someone who is right there, waiting to pull you to the floor or whatever surface is handy. But, I digress just a bit.
Yes I dance around the house listening to songs that my kid put on my Ipod and I probably look like a complete jackass doing it. Yes I like to play in the mud and watch reality shows that crack me up because of the ridiculousness of the situations. Yes I love to eat sweets and stay up too late and read comic books. And yes I love to play tag, color in the lines and press playdough through the molds that come with the kits... but most of all, I love being all of those ages, every single moment and every single day where they combine to form a kind of lovely, tangential thread that pulls me through the universe, for however long I have, however quickly it wants to.
So the next time you look at me and think I'm old or wonder about my life or my age or my purported well being, just remember that I warned you; I warned you that your day is coming too my friend and when it does, there will be some 18 year old with a tighter ass and a larger bank account (maybe not at 18) and a faster car (again, same thing), but in the end it won't matter, none of it will because you, like me, are better than the sum of all your parts. You are the journey and, the end is nowhere in sight...
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