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Old Books

I recently ran across a copy of a book that had been read by me and most teenage girls: Go Ask Alice. It was strange to see that haunting black cover and to be immediately transported to 1980, the year I read this book. Of course I read it for the titillating sexual references and the thorough analysis of drug use. This book, along with Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, were the touchstones of my adolescence. Salinger would follow shortly thereafter, but these two books were ones I read late into the night, holding my breath in fear of being discovered by my parents.

I saw this copy of Go Ask Alice in a hip clothing store in Soho, of all places. I wasn't surprised since they were featuring a new line of clothes designed by an actress known more for her style than her acting. She, like so many young girls growing up in the late 70's and 80's, had obviously found this book to be one of those seminal discoveries of her life. No need to ask whether I bought it since my original copy was long lost or packed in boxes stored in my parents basement. Not only did I buy it, but I came home and reread it, this time with different set of eyes. Yes, I'm a wee bit older this time and a bit more experienced. Regardless, I still flipped through those pages quickly, practically devouring the words.

The first thing that struck me was how implausible it was that these entries were written by a young teenage girl. Believe me, I still have my diaries from high school. And they are not nearly as eloquent or well written, and I was a better writer than most of my peers. Diaries tend toward the minutiae. This book seemed to be tackling big humongous themes of social unrest, social upheaval, all experienced through the eyes, even if they were clouded by drug use, of a young teenage girl. Right, highly improbable.

When I'd read the original copy, I didn't give much thought to the accuracy of its authorship. It was sold as a real diary written by someone named, Anonymous. And most of us read it as such. The underlying message of drug use being bad was accepted as truth since Anonymous supposedly dies a few weeks after her last, rather upbeat, entry. OK. Let me just say the anti-drug message of the book didn't do much to deter my own experimentation with drugs, which followed shortly after I'd read this cautionary story.

Now as an adult my curiosity was piqued. Who was this Anonymous? Since the book came out during an era where only three networks and two or three local channels existed, the media storm that would have followed didn't occur. Instead, the book became the source of local fights about the First Amendment as communities banned the book from the shelves of local libraries. But again, these were local fights, and not likely covered by Walter Cronkite and others. Imagine this book coming out today with our 24 hour news networks, of which we now have a dozen. There is no way the 'author' of such a controversial book could hide, even under a quarry of rocks, without being hunted down and found.

I did a Google search and discovered that the book was purportedly written by its editor, who is a devout Mormon. Not too long ago, another writer, most likely the ghost writer, was discovered as the other author of this book. In light of the writer, the Mormon one, the book's message of anti-drugs is all the more understandable. True, the author was writing in response to the late 60's and early 70's when our cultural understanding of America was splintering beyond recognition. Does all of my new knowledge about its authorship change the impact this book had on my adolescence? No. I read it as truth. And in truth, I read it for the salaciousness of it all. And not too soon after, I was taking my first puffs.

Now with a child, I am wracked by how to answer that inevitable question "did I use drugs?" If asked this many years ago, I would have said veracity would be the only solution to being able to have an honest dialogue with your child about this very important subject. But now as a parent, that notion seems fraught. It feels like hypocrisy of the worst kind to tell your child, "yes I used drugs, but you shouldn't use them". Somehow such an admittance feels like you've lost your moral authority to have any say in this matter. As if you are giving your child permission to try since you had and survived. See, how impossible this is for someone who had experimented quite happily and blindly?

My new copy of Go Ask Alice will now join my collection. I'm glad to have rediscovered it again, and to have read it through these older eyes and through the reading glasses I now have to wear. It was something to be transported to 1980, lying on my bed, my bedside lamp on, flipping the pages as quietly as I could deep into the night. Being so quickly transported to your childhood is a rare occurrence these days, especially for me since I am feeling so adult of late.

Poetry and More

As a mom I'm a bit fascist about certain things that can, and will, influence my son's life. We monitor his television viewing assiduously, only allowing an hour each day. We don't allow him any video or computer games. We make sure he eats good, wholesome, healthy but tasty food. We don't allow him to play with guns, although we did break down and allow him swords. We are, like all other parents of our generation and class, annoying helicopter parents. Fortunately for us, and unfortunately for him, our 'uniqueness' makes all the rules interesting, at the very least.

As a writer, I am strident in things I will read, or not read, to our son. Books without a narrative, the only exception being poetry, are off limits if it's mommy's turn at the bedtime reading ritual. The information laden books boys love about topics like Mummies are saved for his father, who has no such ridiculously pompous edicts. Music, something on our house more than the television, is expansive, covering all genres and styles. We deplore the new batch of music for kids, put out by musicians who seemed to find success with the four and under crowd. The only exception to this was Dan Zanes, formerly from the Del Fuegos, who put out albums that adults could stomach. Let's just say we attended enough Dan Zanes shows, which reminded me a bit of the Dead shows I used to attend, to label ourselves Zane Heads.

So, last night my son and I finished off his Valentines for his classmates. We were feeling especially close, having had an inordinate amount of time together this week. He read to me from the two books he was assigned for homework. The repetitive sentences in the books, all in an effort for him to learn to read, are prosaic, and in truth, boring beyond belief. They make the Dick and Jane series from our childhood read like masterpieces. After two such books, I suggested we read some poetry to counter balance the stilted prose and unimaginative vocabulary. He agreed and suggested Robert Frost's, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". We read this familiar poem two times because of the brevity, and to prolong that time of the day when we say 'goodnight'.

After we were finished, I asked if he would like me to read him some Langston Hughes, whose collection I was rereading. I chose as the first poem "Negro". He listened intently to it, not asking questions as he is apt to do. I should have stopped there, but I was quite honestly reveling in the language of Hughes, and wanting to prolong this day just a few minutes more. So I picked "The Negro Mother," a longer narrative poem that is beautiful and heartbreaking. As I got to the line, "Children sold away from me, husband sold, too," a sob welled up. Yup, crazy, right? Crazy to be reading him Hughes, and this poem in particular. As tears streamed down, I read on. My son's little hand wiped away my tears as he listened to his lunatic mother continue to read Hughes words out loud.

It's times like this when I think how much better off he'd be with a more normal mother, one who'd happily read him books about Mummies. The only consolation is, I suppose, his life will never be dull. Not with me as his mother. So, we kissed and said our 'goodnight.' It's funny what he'll remember about this night. Will it be my tears, or the transcendent language of Hughes, or both? I pray that it is both.

Security

The going joke among black comics is the bit about the first Black President, delivering his State of the Union address, not at the podium, but rather running across the floor of Congress, all in an effort to dodge the bullet from a would-be-assassin. This image of a grown man, much less the Commander-in-Chief, having to skitter across the floor of Congress is hilarious. Yet, you can imagine the fear that a black President must have each time he stepped out into public, wondering whether this would be the day a bullet would deliver a fatal blow. Colin Powell, another black man of political stature, had entertained thoughts of running, but he was, supposedly, discouraged by his wife. It seemed she was afraid she would become another national widow, like Jackie Kennedy, Coretta Scott King, and Ethel Kennedy, all of their husbands now part of the myth of lost hope and opportunity for this land of ours, a job she did not want.

As I watch the excessive coverage of Barak Obama, a contender for the top job by all the projections, I can't help but wonder how much money is involved to keep him safe. And whether his security detail will be greater, more intense than any other President in our country's history. Our world, now a place where terrorist threats are a reality, is also a country deeply conflicted about gender and race, despite the unexpected results of this primary season.

It may not be a crazy fundamentalist, from some country where men wear grow beards to show their piety, who may do the unthinkable. He or she may be a homegrown, whose fervency is not about religion but about purity of race, who may be the person to pull that trigger, thereby ending this new era of hope, change, and new direction.

My son, all of five years old, has asked us whether we are voting, and for whom. A part of me is proud he knows the names of all the candidates, even if he calls Barak Barakie. He has plugged into the significance of Barak Obama being the first black, or in his words, first brown President if he were to win in this election. Again, I'm immensely proud to see him absorbing the reality of a black man and a woman candidate. While all of us focus on the significance of this moment, given our country's history, for him this is just the way the world works. And isn't that what we hope for our next generation?

I'm sure as Barak Obama's stature has grown, the crowds he addresses swelling to sizes not seen in a long long time, his security detail has also grown. No doubt, political powers, behind closed doors, must be wringing their hands each time he steps up to a podium or reaches into the crush of well-wishers. If he were to be elected President, a part of me will be holding my breath, perhaps for the entire four years, that the unthinkable will not happen, yet again. I'd rather see his superstar status tarnished as we realize that he is mere mortal, full of idiosyncrasies, complexities, and contradictions, all of it to be played out on the stage of our political arena. I don't want his image to become mythologized, joining the ranks of so many, his image this momentary flash for hope and healing--the tentacle-like shackles of our slave past finally cut off the limbs of our country's consciousness. So, let his security detail swell to a size that none of us had seen ever if this is our only hope to keep him out of harms way.

Sick Days

There is nothing worse than a sick child. You are never more helpless or desperate than seeing your child taken down by whatever ailment. When my son was just over a year old, he became very ill. His cough was so violent he vomited the little food we had been able to feed him. As we listened to these coughs wracking his little body, I went upstairs half-crazed with worry. Not knowing how to make him better, I found myself climbing into his crib, so I could lie next to him, rubbing his back, hoping his cough would ease enough for him to sleep. I remember listening to his uneven breathing as he finally drifted off to sleep, my feel scrunched up under me, realizing I was quite stuck inside his crib. When my husband finally came upstairs to carry me out of the crib, he knew I had turned a corner, some would say into the heart of every mother where any, and all, sacrifice for your child is never given a second glance. You can understand how mothers of serial killers will be unwavering in their love for their child, even if he or she had become a monster of the most unimaginable variety.

I pray for his health, always. I'm always aware of how precarious life is for us all, especially the young. And nothing seems more cruel or inexplicable than a child facing down a life threatening illness. With that said, I can honestly say I get more than a bit annoyed when my child develops the sniffles, something that occurs with great frequency given his age and the propensity for kids his age to touch everything and everyone. Being sick is terrible, indeed. But being just sick enough to warrant a stay home, but not sick enough to sap his energy is what feels like you are the unwitting victim of a cruel hoax, the kind that ends up on "Candid Camera," with you looking like an idiot on national television.

First, there is the energy level, which doesn't seem to abate with a little cough or stuffy nose. In fact, there are moments during the day when the energy level seems to spike, so you watch in amazement as your child does a strange Irish jig across your living room rug. With his hands on his hips, doing a strange imitation of Lord of the Dance, you wonder what about parenthood was enticing enough for you to have gone off of birth control. Along with the energy, which doesn't cork itself with a few sniffles, is the never quenched inquisitiveness. It's as if his mind becomes one big permanent question mark since each sentence is guaranteed to start with, "Mommy, why---". Perhaps your sympathy, empathy, and patience would be unflinching if only your child didn't suddenly turn into Lord of the Manor, every request sounding more and more like an imperious bark as the day wears on.

The day has a certain symmetry to it. It is something I can predict with some accuracy now, my fifth year into motherhood. The first hour they are home is fueled by your anxiety that he is simply battling a cold and nothing more serious. With the recent meningitis outbreak, my mind immediately rushes toward the catastrophic as my hand reaches out and feels his forehead every few minutes. The second hour we are stuck together has me looking anxiously and longingly at the work on my desk, all of it obviously left untouched. See, even if he weren't so noisy, demanding, and just a plain nuisance, all of my energy is sapped from all the worrying,tending, fetching, and negotiating.

The third hour has me wishing I'd sent him to school, germs be damned, instead of having him cooped up in this apartment with me. The fourth hour, the most dangerous time of the day, has me contemplating stealing out of my apartment, leaving him alone so I can clear my head and squelch my ever-growing anger and antipathy for him, his father, his school, that cough-riddled classmate, and the parents that sent the germ-riddled kid to school. Yes, child welfare services would certainly get involved if I were to do that, but I can't stop dreaming about escape, no matter how severe the consequences. The fifth hour is when I call my husband at the office, my anger having built to such a level where blame needs to be aimed and fired. Yes, poor husband.

By the sixth hour, I am doing online searches for apartments in Paris, my new city of choice. When I was in LA, I used to spend hours on Craigslist looking for places here or in New Orleans, another city (pre-Katrina) that seemed exotic and exciting, two words that would not be used to describe my life with a sick child home from school. The seventh hour has me cowering in utter defeat in the face of the little Napoleon sprawled all over our bed. Every bark is met with me rushing to fill his water cup with icy cold water, the pillows plumped up for fear his neck develops a crick, and possibly rubbing his little feat, if he so desires. Should I also say that I am still in my pajamas as is my congested child?


As the gray day turns to early night, my body aches from the emotional turmoil of being an attentive mother to a mildly sick child. With dinner looming, another demand to be met as his stomach seems untouched by this recent ailment, I marvel at the vicissitude of this life, my life, so utterly different than anything I had ever imagined. I know all mothers out there, those that are somewhat attentive and loving, have had many days like this one. But you never quite get over how alone, utterly alone, you feel in this prison the one created by a little cough, a little congestion.

I am into hour two of our day together. I haven't yet started online searches for a new home, really a studio apartment for one in some far flung city. But I'm sure that will occur within the next hour or two. With the imperial request for salmon for lunch, I find myself taking out the frozen salmon pieces from our freezer. As wearying as the day becomes, the phrase, "This day will end," becomes a mantra of sorts.

Families

It's endlessly fascinating how families function, or not. As an outside observer you are given mere glimpses into the dynamics of mother, father, child or children. Don't add grandmother, aunt or uncle to that mix since that will surely mean endless hours of speculation and discussion. I feel you always get a more honest view when you aren't intimately involved with other families. It's as if proximity has a way of distorting the reality of a family's dynamics, the dysfunctions, in particular. I suppose that's to be expected since your affection for the family will make you gracious and generous in your opinions, even if their child is a hellion and off the hook, the parents barely functioning, and the husband prone to alcoholic rages. See, your affection can forgive many, many transgressions.

When you are mere neighbors, your view, really, snapshots into their lives, occurs with no ability on your end, or theirs, for control. You, and they, are exposed in such naked fashion. The shrieking you hear through the walls has no context since you aren't in the apartment to witness the irrational, full-blown melt down your child or theirs may be having. Instead, all you hear is the shriek, which sounds, despite it being muffled, agonizing, as if the child were being tortured behind the wall that separates your apartment from theirs. These unplanned occurrences do have a way of exposing the real truths to families since you aren't in control of them. I know most of us wish walls were thicker, the ceilings made of steel, basically your apartment soundproofed to mask your family's dysfunctions from the rest of the world. If only.

Living so close to others makes you hyper aware of how your family sounds more than the way you appear. You become self conscious about the noise you make, even if it is more pleasant than a child's shrieks. Even in your most heated moment, you are reluctant to raise your voice above normal speaking range, for fear your neighbors will imagine you and your spouse headed to divorce court.

All of this is a change from our life in LA where sound was rarely considered. You felt quite alone in your home, the neighborhood just a backdrop to the drama unfolding behind closed doors. I can only imagine how much more alone, and the sense of freedom that must provide, if you lived in a home shielded behind gates. It's only in LA that the Manson family could have tortured and brutally murdered so many people. You can imagine those poor souls crying and begging for their lives, their pleas unheard or noticed by their neighbors. Such a thing is unimaginable here where lives are barely separated by walls and ceilings.

As our son pitches a fit about something, whatever is the grievance of the day, I become aware of how we must sound to those next, above, and below. They must think, as we do about our next door neighbors, that our child is either a monster, our parenting skills bordering on ineptitude, or our child is the victim of the worst crime imaginable--child abuse. After one of these episodes, your chagrin is written across your face as your run into one of your neighbors in the elevator or by the mailbox. You smile, make small talk, and hope they have picked the less egregious assumptions about your child, your parenting, and your family. And pray their memories are not so long since they will hear the distress signals coming from our apartment soon enough.

Season of Lent

It is that time again, the season of lent where abstinence, abstention, abstemiousness, and asceticism are the words one associates with this season of Ash Wendesday, Good Friday, and finally Easter. It is, unlike the Christmas season, a more somber time despite it occurring in spring. As a Catholic we are told to give something up for the season of Lent. And each year I ponder what one thing I can forgo as a way to show my devotion. For a girlfriend, it was food. Of course she was being funny, but also a bit serious since like most women, dieting was as much a way of life as breathing despite her enviable figure.

As a child I would make sure to give up things that weren't going to be missed. I didn't understand how one's piety had to do with suffering. I hadn't learned about the Catholic tradition of flagellation and deprivation since my Catholicism was about faith and love. I guess this is all a way for me to say that I never really practiced Lent all that seriously.

But this year for some odd reason, I am considering this ritual a bit more closely. Lord knows I have so many vices that would be difficult, if not impossible to give up. The first vice is my habit, my absolute love for all profane words, particularly the F word. It's funny, despite being a word person I still view four letter words as somehow so perfect in all of their vulgarity and aggression. Sadly, it is an adolescent rebellion I have not outgrown, much to my mother's dismay. Then there is the love for wines. Hmm. Since becoming a mother, a healthy dose of drinking is required to get through a day, if not a week. Giving up drinking might end with me in sanitorium, perhaps permanently since life would feel so much more sane inside the loony bin than outside with a small child and no booze.

If I wanted to be kind to my spouse, I might forgo shopping for this season of abstention. But then there is the spring season with all of the shoes and hand bags in jewel tones to make that consideration absurd. But since my shopping is not limited to clothes and accessories, well, where would one start? Books? Surely God doesn't have such grandiose expectations for his flawed and human flock, right? Needlepoint? Well, let's not take away the one thing that can quell my ever-churning mind. Forgoing this obsession might mean my husband and child may need a Mommy break of the permanent variety. Food? We all know I'm the last person who can afford to not eat. Music? Magazines? Where do I start to come up with something of the purchasable variety that would be appropriate to give up in the name of my devotion?

See how impossible all of this is for a person with my particular peculiarities? It is a challenge since so many of my vices stem from the neuroses of being me. Doesn't Lent mean more than simply giving something up? Or am I missing the point? That's not too hard to imagine since I was not a diligent student in my CCD classes, the ones I attended and didn't blow off to sit in the nearby Roy Rogers with my other lapsed Catholic friends. So, I will ruminate, rule out, consider and reconsider all of the options available to me for this season of Lent. And since I seem to do most things at a blistering pace, anything that involves serious thought and consideration, I might just come up with the appropriate thing, item, to forgo just in time before Lent is officially over.