The End of the World As We Know It

     While some were calling yesterday the end of the world, college friends and I had already experienced our abrupt ending in 1988.  December 21 marked the day that Pan Am 103 exploded over Lockerbie, Scotland, killing 35 Syracuse students who were on their way home from a semester abroad.  It was, in a sense, an end of our world.  Our understanding, our outlook, our perspective was permanently altered.  Each year as I acknowledge and celebrate the winter solstice, I do so in remembrance of those who don’t anymore.  The day is marked for me.  

     On December 5, the end of the world came again with the news that my friend Tad had died.  The world was forever changed.  

     Last Friday, the world ended in Newtown, CT.  How does any of us stay the same after a tragedy like that? Something shifts in us that never quite goes back into its original place.

     Each of us has experienced a world-ending moment, a loss that cuts to our core.  How do we carry on?  Somehow we do.  Somehow we do.  Until yesterday I’d thought that death is the most humbling of things, but you know, surviving is the ultimate test.

...

     I’ve started meditating.  Each weekday morning, I gather with a handful of colleagues to sit in a dimly lit classroom and focus my breathing for a measly five minutes.  I’ve found the process an interesting one, but I alternate between feeling peaceful and frustrated.  There are mornings I let go of the world around me and just enjoy feeling the breath enter and leave my body.  Other days - most days - I fight back the cascade of sounds, thoughts, worries, and plans that my mind wants me to acknowledge and take care of right now.  I’m told not to judge this constant barrage and my inability to slow it, but it’s hard not to.  It seems like it would be an easy thing to do, to just focus on one thing.  Not so much.

     My beautiful friend Tad died two weeks ago. I still haven’t really processed it, except that every morning since, as I concentrate on my breathing, I think to myself, “I am breathing, and Tad is not.  I’m breathing for both of us.  Tad lives right here with me.”  Yesterday, I added other names of those who’ve gone.  “Today I breathe for Miriam, for Nicole, for Kevin, for Juna.”

     I have been lucky that I’ve lost very few people in my life.  But I’ve made it a point to try to honor those lost loved ones in some way.  I’ve tried to honor Miriam by being fearless with funny, Nicole with my devotion to a higher power, Kevin by being a receptive, loving teacher, Aunt Juna by being generous...  My attempts often fall short, but I do consider Miriam, Nicole, Kevin, Juna and others as I try.

     Now, to honor Tad.  He brought incredible beauty to everything he did. 

(Take a look at the detailing on the wedding cake he made for Mike's and my Cookout Wedding. The two of us were dressed in t-shirts and shorts, so Tad brought the beauty that day, for sure.)

     Problem is, bringing beauty to the world is a serious challenge for me.  I’ve never been much on beauty.  I’ve done perfunctory jobs of wrapping presents, decorating for holidays, dressing myself.  Rarely will someone comment that I’ve made something beautiful.  I’ve had small bursts of inspiration, but they’re usually followed by short-lived effort and lightning-fast concession.

     

     What I love about this challenge, though, is that it will keep Tad in the front of my mind.  He’ll be right here, right where he should be.  I’ll probably swear at him for leaving beauty to this clumsy novice.  I’ll tell him off for shirking his responsibilities.  What a unspeakable loss.

     Honoring each of the people I've lost reminds me that the world will never be the same, but it doesn’t have to be the end.  It can’t be for those of us here.  Still here.  Still present.

     Mike and I often say to each other, “It can all be over in a moment.”  It can.  And it makes the other daily stuff seem so utterly ridiculous.  

     So indulge me this moment to say how incredibly grateful I am that you have spent time reading my words, reflecting and sharing your thoughts with me, and simply being present with me.  I wish you the most joy and love you can wring from this holiday season. May you continue to honor those who have gone before by having the sweetest year yet.

Searching for Normal

    

    

    Last Friday, all NYC public school staff was called into work, and while it would take some effort to get to my Brooklyn school, I was really eager to go. Like many New Yorkers I was ready for some normalcy.       
     Since public transportation was still crippled, I decided the best way to commute was to ride my bicycle the 15 miles from home to school.  I've enjoyed this cycle commute before, but this time I was looking forward to seeing more of the city firsthand post-Sandy.  For days, I'd only ventured a couple of square miles between Harlem and Washington Heights.  I was anxious to view what I'd only seen on the news and on Facebook status updates.
     The morning was crisp and clear, and the cold air seemed to expand and cleanse my lungs. After days of being inside, it felt freeing to zoom along on the bike.  I cycled through my quiet, fully-powered neighborhood.  With the exception of a few smashed cars under felled trees, it looked like a regular Friday morning in Harlem.    I breathed silent relief when I saw Prophet, my old homeless friend, sitting in his normal spot.  I didn't wave, but I was thankful he had weathered the storm.      
     When I reached the northwest edge of Central Park, yellow police tape and metal barriers blocked the corner entrance.  I hadn't known the park was closed, but having seen the damage done by fallen tree limbs, it made sense. I continued riding south, skirting the park along Central Park West and enjoying an easy ride to Columbus Circle.
     The circle offered first signs of mid-town congestion.  Streets were closed, so I threaded my way through the 59th Street parking lot with other two-wheelers.  Energy was more frenetic, but not impatient.  Everyone seemed to accept that any trip, no matter how short, would take a while today.  Pedestrians were out in full force.  The city was alive and moving even if the traffic was at a stand-still.
     I made my way over to the east side's 2nd Avenue and started down to the Manhattan Bridge.  Second Avenue was a freeway of heavy traffic moving at breakneck speed.  I braced myself as I merged into the densely-populated bicycle lane.  Many who are not normally urban cyclists were braving the roads.  I vacillated between silently cheering and cursing them.   

     As we rushed downtown, traffic peeled off, moving east and west, and when I hit 42nd Street, suddenly things felt eerie.  I found myself alone again and soon realized the reason - no power, no traffic lights.  Traffic cops stood at every intersection, waving traffic through.  The Queens Midtown Tunnel, normally a log jam at this time of day, was desolate. The unearthly quiet lasted almost all the way to the base of the Manhattan Bridge.  Surprisingly, as I rounded the on ramp, the energy of the city shifted again, and I was greeted by a throng of happy cyclists.  

      "Free coffee!  Free donuts!  Free air!" someone sang out.  I couldn't help but smile.  Transportation Alternatives was out there, greeting and assisting cyclists.  I stopped for a minute to chat with one of the volunteers and say thanks.  I liked being part of this club, and what a packed club it was on the bridge.  The bicycle traffic was heavy coming into Manhattan - I was one of the few going out to Brooklyn - and I couldn't stop smiling at my people as they whooshed past.  I kept thinking about the resilience of our city, or our ability to adapt and evolve.  Amazing.   

     As I rode through downtown Brooklyn, I passed a line of commuters waiting for shuttle buses... a line with at least a few thousand people over four blocks long.  I could have kissed my bike then and there.  Downtown was bustling.  Again, lots of people out and about, enjoying the freedom from enclosed spaces.  
     Park Slope, Brooklyn looked no worse for wear than Harlem with its few downed trees. Some neighborhoods were lightly touched while others were decimated.  We had been so fortunate while others had not.
     I arrived at school and the stories began. The first question was always, "How are you?  How is your family?" We huddled in groups and listened to tales of horrible devastation.  My hand kept moving to my wide-open, disbelieving mouth.  "No," I found myself repeating. "Oh, no."  Colleagues whose families' houses had been leveled, living without power or heat, volunteering time and energy, gathering resources for others... the stories kept coming.  The stories overwhelmed me.  Even with all of the news I'd listened to on the radio, read in emails and had seen on TV and the Internet, it hadn't felt as real as this.


       The work day wasn't terribly valuable, but the coming together was. 
     As I got back on my bicycle to return home, my mind was chock full of mixed messages and mixed feelings.  I rode through different neighborhoods on my way back, and everywhere I looked, I saw our city struggling desperately to rebound, rise up, and reject the idea that we'd been knocked down and possibly out. We're New Yorkers!  That's impossible!  
     It's still difficult to put it all into words. My mind keeps bringing me back to an image of a fighter, bruised and bloodied, his eyes and mouth swollen and deformed.  He's struggling to get up off the mat, trying to convince his coach and the ref that he's still in, he's still able to fight, but he can't quite focus.  He's seeing double. I think that's part of why the NYC Marathon was still scheduled to run today. Our city really wanted to believe we could do it.  But there's something in coach's eyes that says, "Stay down."  We need to prove we are all right, and we will be, but not yet. Right now we need to heal.  And slowly as neighborhoods catch a glint of normalcy, we need to reach out to other neighborhoods and people who are still struggling. 
     Many of my NY and NJ neighbors are still waiting for normal... and will be waiting for a long, long time. 
     On Friday, we got the news that the NYC Marathon was cancelled.  But the real marathon is still on; it's this region's recovery.  
     So many friends across the world have reached out to ask how we are doing.  I can't tell you what it's meant to feel such an outpouring of love and concern.  As I've said, we have been incredibly lucky while others haven't.  Here are some ways you can help in the marathon effort to rebuild and restore:

1. CROWDRISE - Fundraising set up by the New York Road Runners and the NYC Marathon.
2. RECOVERS.ORG - Helping to coordinate goods and volunteers for the places most in need.
3. HABITAT FOR HUMANITY - Long-term rebuilding.
4. COMMUNITY FOODBANK OF NEW JERSEY 
5. NEW YORK CARES - "the city's largest volunteer organization, running volunteer programs for 1,300 nonprofits, city agencies and public schools."
6. HUMANE SOCIETY OF THE UNITED STATES and AMERICAN HUMANE SOCIETY- Help with pet rescue and care.
7. AMERICAN RED CROSS - Donate blood, goods, or funds.

I heart New York.

Holding the Stone

Don and I have been running partners for over a decade.  It's amazing how much you can share in ten years of long runs together. There's been a lot of time to talk during our time pounding the NYC pavement and chug, chug, chugging up hills.  The things we've shared in those talks have made us close friends.

     I met Don and his family at church. I've been on weekend retreats with his wife and children, I've been to their home for dinner. Since Don is also a Methodist pastor, when Mike and I finally decided to get married, my friend officiated our Wedding Cookout.
     After 20+ years of marriage, Don and his wife are getting divorced, and anyone who's been through a divorce knows that it's awful even under the "best" of circumstances.  The last time Don and I ran together, it was obvious that although he was the initiator and feels that ending their relationship is the right choice, he's devastated.  He misses his children, he misses his church community (he lost custody of us~), and he misses a name he made for himself, because his name is being muddied a bit.  There are hard feelings.  Blame has been placed squarely on the shoulders of the one who left.
     I've been an outside observer of their marriage for years.  And while I've offered my two cents at times, I've mostly tried to listen and offer support... and stay out of it.
     I was still just a confidante and running partner until I received an email from Don's wife about a week after our last run together.  She wanted to know if I could call her when I got a chance.
     My first thought was that something bad had happened to my friend.  He'd been so unhappy when I saw him.  Was he hurt?  And worse, had he hurt himself?  I immediately emailed her back with my phone number.
     The phone rang and there we were together, unsure of how to go about this.  Had we ever talked on the phone before?  I couldn't remember, but it was odd in that moment, under the circumstances. After a minute of niceties, she took a breath and I held mine.  I thought I was prepared for the worst.
     "Stories have come up that my husband was romantic with his running partner, and the only running partner I knew was you.  So, I'm sorry to ask you this... but were you and my husband ever romantically involved?"
     What?
     My face registered the shock but she couldn't see. I shook my head like I was dizzy from a solid blow to the head. Caught off-guard was an understatement. I told her, no, that her husband and I had never been anything more than friends, that our relationship had always been platonic. I sat on the other end of that line with my mouth agape as she continued on, justifying her call by saying "a number of women" had come forward. What that meant, I don't know. She said that she could have just asked Don but probably wouldn't have believed his answer if he'd denied it.  She had thought that if she asked me, she would be more certain.  She thanked me and, again, said that she was sorry to ask.
   
     If you're sorry to ask, you probably shouldn't.

     During our phone conversation, I had somehow managed to keep the focus off the personal affront and on the person in pain on the other end of the line.  But after I hung up, a righteous fire started in my belly.  How dare she?!  Who does she think I am?  How could she belittle our friendship?  Accuse me of an affair?
     When I told Mike about the phone call and the accusation, he shouted, "He married us!"  I nodded as my husband told me that if he were me, he would have told that woman that she had no right to call and that she needed help.  His indignation made me feel good and justified in my righteousness.
     It's been months since all this went down, and I'm still having trouble processing it. It still sits in my stomach like a stone... a stone I'd like to throw... hard.

     What I've come up with is this. There are two lessons that resonate... at least two that I can pinpoint.  I'm sure there will be more.

1. There are times when it's just not about us.  It's not personal.  People are in pain and they think, do, and say all kinds of crazy. Those dark times can swallow people whole and sometimes, like a drowning man, they pull others into the swells with them.  They're not trying to hurt others; they're trying to save themselves.
2. Righteousness is dangerous... and impossible to sustain.  As righteous as I have felt, and as angry as I've been, I have to remember that I've had my own dark times.  I've thought, done and said all kinds of crazy. Others offered me grace when I didn't necessarily deserve it, and were able to see past the injury I'd inflicted to my own personal pain.  It's valuable to remember that someone paid it forward for me now that it's my turn to do it for someone else.  

     I still see Don's wife at church.  We don't acknowledge each other - she may be embarrassed, angry or a host of other things, and I'm still unsure how to be more gracious than just being hands-off.  

     I'd really like to throw that stone.  I'd like to cock my arm back and send that baby flying.  I'd like to angrily hurl a rock high into the air.  I'm just not sure where I want it to land. Too much pain out there already.

     The longer I hold the stone, the cooler and smoother it feels between my fingers.  I rub it like a worry stone.  It will stay here, as a reminder.

Real Simple

     The past week felt overwhelming.  Too many responsibilities, follow-ups, and deadlines.  I know you've been there, felt that, too.  Who hasn't?  It's not fun.
     Man, was I glad to come home from work to find this in my pile of mail:

     Real Simple Magazine.  I love simplicity.  I needed some simplicity.
     I scanned the cover.  "Holiday Entertaining Made Easy"?  We'll see about that.  Most of the time, I can't manage to find time to make dinner for myself here in quiet October, and when I do, I'm eating over the sink. You think I can do it for a bunch of people during the most hyped-up social season of the year?  Thanks for the faith in me, Real Simple.  I think you're Real Deluded, but maybe I'm missing something.  Maybe life is simpler than I thought.  That's news to me.
     I opened the magazine to a full-page, full-color advertisement.  I turned the page to another glossy ad, and another, and another, and another.  Apparently Real Simple is actually Real Interested In Selling Me Stuff.  I wouldn't have thought that rejuvenating skin care, hair products, and salad dressing would simplify my life; they sure weren't simplifying my magazine reading experience.
     I started to get annoyed. This wasn't helping my feelings of high anxiety at all.
Finally, I got a non-advertising reprieve: The Letter From The Editor page.  But wait...

     This is the photo of the editor of Real Simple.  

     Hmm.

     I don't know about you, but the only time I may have sat on stairs in a nice dress might have been in high school after being dumped by a boy at a formal dance.  I would not have been smiling.  I would have been slumped over, sprawled out and sobbing.  How is this photo realistic? Doesn't the editor of Real Simple magazine have a Simple Chair to sit in?  Maybe a divan or love seat?  She really has to resort to Simply Stairs?  And where is she?  Is she working from home?  Is she at someone else's home, doing an interview?  Please, God, if it's your house, get your guest off the stairs!  And who thought this was a photo that screams REAL SIMPLE?  There is nothing simple about this.  It is Real Silly.

     I stared at this photo and snorted.  Please.

    Of course I was not going to find simplicity in the pages of a magazine. The tougher truth, though, is that I am never going to find solutions in anything outside of myself. Being overwhelmed happens inside - it's all internal - and the only thing, the only person who can stop it, is me.

     Not easy, but simple.  Real simple.

Friendly Skies

     When the flight representative scanned my boarding pass, the machine printed out a receipt.
     "You're moved up to first class.  Enjoy your flight, and happy Friday," he said. Happy Friday is right! I thought.  I had no worries about overhead space and a free drink waiting for me to kick off my happy hour.  It's the little things in life that make me happy.
     I settled in and took out my book, and half-watched as everyone else lumbered onto the plane, jostling bags and ushering small children.
     A hulking man stopped in front of me and I smiled.  "You in here with me?" I asked.  His mouth tightened and bunched up and he nodded.  I stood up and he brushed past, dropping into the window seat.
 
     We were close to being fully boarded, and a gentleman from the back came forward with a bag. The flight attendant told him he could look for extra overhead space in first class and he began the hunt.
    My seat-mate pursed his lips and puffed out a "Pfft!"  He leaned into me, shaking his head.  "There's always one.  Come on, guy!  You know it's a regional plane.  Just check your bag as you board like everyone else instead of making us late."
     I nodded. "I hear you," I said.  "I don't travel with much, so I get annoyed when someone's giant wheelie cart takes up all the space and I can't fit my small bag anywhere."
    "Oh, you mean like this one?" He hitched his thumb forward to indicate the woman seated directly in front of me.  "Did you see that bag?  That's not a bag, that's a steamer trunk, and they let her on with it.  Unbelievable."
     "I hear you," I said again.  "You coming or going?"
     "Heading home... finally," he emphasized.
     "Traveling for work?"
     His mouth tightened again and his thick mustache looked like a dancing caterpillar.  He nodded. "Lotta work.  Doing more and making less.  Isn't that always the way."  He said it like a statement, as if, yes, it is always the way, no doubt about it.
     "Seems like it's been that way for most of the country lately," I offered. "Been a challenging time for many."
     "I guess. Some people just take advantage though."
     Maybe this wasn't a conversation I wanted to have, so I waited for the moment to pass.  The man turned to look out the window and I went back to concentrating on my book.
 
     The plane door was closed, but we weren't moving.  I glanced over and the big man with the mustache and tight mouth had closed his eyes.
     Twenty minutes passed.
     "What did they say?" he asked me.
     "They haven't said anything," I replied.
     "LaGuardia sucks. I hate flying through here."
     "I think Newark and JFK have two runways and LGA has one, so everything gets clogged up pretty fast," I offered.
     "Just get me out of this town," he grunted.
     "Aw," I grinned. "New York has some sweet spots."
     "New York City is a sh*thole," he retorted. "I saw everything there was to see in my 20s."
     It was my turn to purse my lips. I tried again. "I think that NYC amplifies everything.  A good day here feels like a great day, because you don't expect it.  And not for nothing, the city is always changing.  There are some really beautiful places if you know where to find them."
     "I don't want to find 'em.  New York City's not for me."
     "I'll take it off your hands," I half-smiled.
   
     He was wearing a royal blue polo shirt, but he was a giant black hole of negativity.  I was starting to really look forward to my free gin and tonic and shutting him out.  It's tough to fight the pull of that vortex, of someone else's muck.  I was already tired.
     We finally got in the air and holy mother of God, I was handed a drink that I gripped with both hands.  I took a first sip, laughed, and said to the flight attendant, "You pour like you're pouring for family!"
     The flight attendant winked and said, "I pour like I'm pouring for myself."  
     "They can't control how much alcohol's in there - they just have those little bottles," Mr. Black Hole chimed in.
     "All I know is that he must have used two or three of those in this.  I know a strong drink."  I held my glass out to him.  "Cheers," I said. "Happy Friday."  He looked at me strangely (I'm used to this), and then softened.  I actually saw him smile.
     "Happy Friday."
   
     Our conversation started and stopped like a teenager learning to drive a stick-shift.  He made statements.  I asked questions and tried to offer up something easy and positive.  He wanted none of it, but he somehow still wanted to talk.  My mind was melting a little from the gin and the altitude, and I was grateful.  I had decided to write this blog post, a scathing story about the *sshole next to me on the plane, so I started to jot notes in my notebook, recording it all.
     I asked him if he enjoyed wine from his home in the Finger Lakes region, and he scoffed that he'd drink it if nothing else was available.  He said that winemakers were getting fancy with "hi-breds" and that he didn't care for "hi-breds."  His only question to me was what I was doing in the Finger Lakes, and I replied that I sometimes came up to work with friends who were winemakers.  I admit, I felt a little smug saying it. We talked a bit about tequila, which led us to Sammy Hagar (Cabo Wabo), and we shared a laugh that we'd both seen Hagar's "I Can't Drive 55" tour.  I told him that my husband Mike and I had sampled a bit of tequila in the Yucatan.
     And maybe it was the mind-melt that makes it hard for me to remember exactly, but I said something about Mike... something that implied a happiness, and the man shook his head.
     "Must be nice."
     I lit up inside.  "It is.  It really is."
     "I've been getting divorced for 10 years now."  He had been looking down, but then turned to face me.  It was the first time I really saw his blue eyes.  Man, they were so bright blue, and yet, so sad.
     "That's tough," I said. "Ten years?"  He nodded slowly.  It was as if all of him was starting to release, to let go. Everything was spilling out.
     "Kids won't talk to me. Mother's turned them against me.  I try to reach out, I try.  They're teenagers, though.  They don't want to hear. And the woman I'm seeing now?  The one I told you I'm going to do the Bourbon Trail with?  She's not the one. I figured that out but I don't know what to do."
Suddenly this hulking man seemed small.  All the bluster had left him and he was just another broken, lonely kid.
     The announcement came over the loudspeaker that we were preparing for landing.
     "At least you've figured it out now, that she's not the one.  Better to know now, right?"  We were quiet. "I'm sorry," I finally said.  More quiet.  "Listen, I don't know you.  I don't even know your name."
     "It's Glen."
     "Hey Glen, I'm Stephanie."  I tried to put the words together. "Sometimes we tell things to people on a plane that we'd never tell to someone who knows us.  Take it for what it is, but all I can say is keep trying with your kids.  They're in pain, just like you.  Your wife is in pain, just like you.  And if you don't want more pain, end a relationship that you know isn't right.  You're not needing more pain, and neither is your girlfriend. I'm sorry.  I'm sorry it's painful."
     And I was.

     And I'm sitting here this morning, thinking about how many people are in so much pain that they're angry all the time.  And I'm thinking about how exhausting it is to encounter them and to try and rise above.  But more, I'm thinking about how quickly things can shift with the right space and time and a willingness to be affected.

     How fragile we are.

6th graders are kryptonite

I'm only two days into the school year, and I've already cried on the subway ride home.

I'm teaching 6th grade this year.  I've never taught people quite this little before.  They're small and fragile, which was exactly why I didn't want to teach this grade.

Seventh grade has been MY grade.  Some 7th graders may still be small and fragile, but they'll fight to the death to hide it.  The #1 goal of 7th graders is to perfect the swagger, the tough bravado, the I-don't-care attitude.  Those 12- and 13-year olds act like they want nothing to do with their teachers, or any adults, and they resist the structure we establish with the last bit of strength they've got.  Every 7th grade teacher knows the phrase, "Choose the hill you want to die on," because everything is a battle.

Everything.

And that's been great, because I'm an excellent soldier.  I like the action.  I'm good in crisis mode.  I can handle high drama.

I have lived in my identity as a 7th grade teacher for most of my educational career, even when I was out of the classroom and working as a literacy coach.  In my eyes, 7th grade is no joke; 7th grade is hardcore.  If you can handle 7th graders, the neurologically insane (it's true!), you can handle anything.  So, I've basked in my story that I am a 7th grade teacher because it says
I am invincible.


Of course, I met my 6th grade classes, and everything changed.

On our second day together, I asked my 6th graders to show me what they know how to do - to show off for me - by writing the best personal narrative they know how to write.  For 45 minutes, I watched them, their heads bowed over their papers, intensely focused on the task at hand.  When I gave a five minute warning, there was an audible gasp.  Oh, the pressure!  I thanked them and smiled as I collected their stories, and told them how excited I was to spend my weekend learning all about them through their writing.

I'd planned to settle in at home on Saturday and read all their work right after my morning cup of coffee when my mind is its freshest. But my commute on the train is an hour door-to-door, and the stories seemed to call to me that Friday night.  I pulled out the folder from my backpack and began to read.

And you can't believe the stories they wrote... you can't believe the beautiful secrets, the tender hearts they held out to me.  I have known my students for two days - I don't even know all their names yet - and they are already trusting me with these beautiful, vulnerable pieces of themselves.

One student wrote:
Now I'm going to tell you who I live with and why.  Me talking about this gets me a little sad because it's not good at all.  I live with my aunt and I live with her because my mom can't take care of me.  I wish I lived with my mom because I always think about her.  I love my mom and dad so much and I miss them.

How brave he is.  How incredibly brave.

This 6th grader has gone and done it; he's gone and proven that I am, in fact, not invincible at all.  I am all exposed nerves, just like these amazing children that I am so blessed to teach.

Maybe my tough exterior is as thin as the candy coating of my 7th graders'.  Maybe I'm not all warrior after all.

Lucky me.

On Lenox Avenue

I moved to New York City in the fall of 1989 with a musical theater degree and a dream...

and computer skills for a temp job to keep me in rent.

Back in those pre-Internet days, the primary way to find out about auditions was to scour Backstage, a weekly theater industry newspaper.

I came across a listing for a musical called "On Lenox Avenue."  It boasted to be a workshop of a new musical that would be trying out in Ohio, benefitting a homeless organization, and would hopefully be coming back to NYC to find backing.  It didn't pay much - I remember $600 for three weeks - but the deal included transportation and lodging in glamorous Ohio and some experience for my sparse resume.  Sounded good to me!

It was my first official audition in NYC after graduating college, and I was still getting familiar with the city, its neighborhoods and streets, so I got to the building 45 minutes early.  I was the first person there, even beating the guy who was running the show by 20 minutes.  I was sitting on a folding chair in the hall outside the dance studio when he arrived, and when he saw me, he seemed to pause before offering a stammered welcome and a handshake.

"You're here for the auditions?" he asked skeptically. I answered an enthusiastic YES!

On Lenox Avenue?" he asked again. YES!  He took this in and nodded.

"All right, well... we've still got time before the day officially begins.  Settle in.  I'm going to make sure everything is set up."  I offered to help, so together, we set up a sign-in table, turned on lights, uncovered the piano and organized chairs.

A half an hour ticked by and not another soul showed up.  Finally, the man in charge clasped his hands together.

"So, let's get started.  First, let me introduce myself and the story.  I'm the writer of the piece and On Lenox Avenue is about life in Harlem during the 1970's."

...

Oh.

Harlem. In the 1970's.

That's code for "Not on your life, Snowflake."

This revelatory news hung in the air, and we stood and looked at each other, unsure of our next steps. Maybe I should have volunteered to leave.  I, in all my lilly whiteness, obviously wasn't right for his casting, but it was my very first New York audition, I was dressed, I was ready, and I was needing the experience.  Maybe he should have shown me the door.  He wasn't going to find anything he needed in me, but he'd rented the space, he didn't have the nerve to push me out or he wasn't a jerk.  Whatever the reasons, the two of us continued along for the next hour with our charade that this was still a legitimate audition.  No joke.  We spent one full hour together.  I sang an uptempo and a ballad, we did a little improv together. I even changed clothes and learned his dance combination.

As we wrapped up, he thanked me, shook my hand and said a little too cheerily, "We'll be in touch!" which we both knew was a beautiful lie.  I replied, "Hey listen.  I just want to say thanks.  This was my first audition since graduating college, and you made this a lot of fun.  Thanks for breaking me in to the New York City scene."

I walked out into the sticky, late August day, feeling a certain sense of pride.  I mean, really, who else does this stuff happen to?  I was the only auditioner and I STILL wasn't getting cast for the show.

To this day, I've never met another actor who's been the only person to show up at an audition and NOT get cast.


SMACK.

It's Never So Simple

It's never as simple as anger allows me to think it is.
Being angry allows me to pinpoint and shut down.  It feels powerful... for a while... until I realize how  tiring it is and how alone I feel.

This little blog of mine is not normally an update of my daily goings on - It is not meant to be the place where I share every fascinating detail of my everyday minutiae or to work out whatever issues I have.  I really hate those blogs.  Get a Twitter account or a therapist already.  But today I'm going to make an exception, because it's warranted after my last posting.  I need to offer you, as Paul Harvey would say, "the rest of the story."

First, I'm amazed by how many friends across my spectrum have reached out after reading the post to share their own personal experience of a friendship break-up. (Thank you for sharing those stories with me - You know who you are~)  I'm not amazed that bad break-ups happen, just amazed by how many folks wanted and needed to connect to share their hurt/anger/bewilderment/sense of abandonment/general bad and sad feelings.  And by the way, they weren't all women my age.  They spanned generations and gender. A close high school guy friend wrote a really touching note about the post and then alluded to losing his best friend.  It's been a painful subject for years.  I can't remember a time when we've gotten together that he hasn't brought up the topic. Amazing how sucky it can feel.

Second, I'm humbled by the complexity of it all...

So, here's the update. It took me a couple of days, but I sent the blog post to my friend. When I did it, I felt a sense of empowerment.  Take that! I thought. You hurt me and now I'm putting it all to rest.  Done!

But that's not how this story goes, and looking at it now, I'm thankful for an alternate ending.

My friend answered back in just a few hours.  Her email was a combination of beautiful note, heartfelt apology, explanation of a different side of the story, and a timeline of her post-breakup life.  Post-break-up sounded terrible. I felt for my friend.  I heard her familiar voice as I read her words and I thought, how did this all end up feeling so personal?  The initial breakup did happen, but as I put our two stories together, there's a muddiness.  What really did happen, and how much of it was open to interpretation?  And holy cow, there were 18 years in between that had nothing to do with our friendship... it was LIFE taking over.  LIFE got in the way of either of us reaching out and mending fences. Why go back and try to rehash and restart that friendship when we were each holding on for dear life to LIFE as it was happening?

And let's be fair.  None of us has been a perfect friend.  I have several embarrassing low points when I dropped the ball and hurt a friend, and I didn't fix it.  There are times when I've looked back and thought, I should have fixed that and I didn't and now it just seems too late.

It is never as simple as anger and hurt let us believe.

I know that I said I was ready for a clean slate, and I am.  And I hope my old/former/renewed friend will join me to decorate it.

D*mn You, Facebook.

It started with (of all things) a Facebook Friend Request.
A request I've been waiting for for 18 years.

The request came from the woman who was once my maid of honor.  


We had become fast friends a couple of years before on an 8-month, 8-country European tour of the all-Americana musical, Oklahoma!  I was 24 at the time, and she'd felt like one of my first real post-college adult girlfriends.  I loved talking with her, sharing books with her, running through German landscapes and exploring cities with her.  She was a grounding force for me.  It was an intense tour, and the moments when I felt the most broken, she was a generous friend. 

The year after the tour, we settled a few blocks away from each other in NYC and both tried to figure out our next life steps.  Auditioning was going well for me, but she was considering a career change.  We both had complicated long-distance semi-boyfriends and short-term NYC dating until I met my polar opposite, Adam, and got engaged to him 11 weeks later. The year was jam-packed with big life shifts.

Of course I asked her to be my maid of honor, my sole bridal party.  She was my closest girlfriend.

Not long after the wedding, my friend candidly told me that she didn't want to be friends with me anymore.  I was stunned.  I remember fishing for specifics for the break-up, but got generalities.  I'd never done anything to hurt her personally - nothing that she was willing or able to divulge to me anyway. To this day, I'm still flummoxed. I can only guess that she didn't like the way things had developed between Adam and me.  She may not have liked him or who I'd become with him.  It had been a whirlwind year and I'd been caught up in what now looks like a string of bad judgment calls.  Truthfully, if I'd had to witness a year of one of my close friends' unhealthy choices, I might have turned off, too.   Maybe I would have slowly melted away, gotten too busy to make dinner dates... I have drifted away from a friend or two before.  But would I have formally broken up with her?  Maybe my friend felt like I deserved a true cutting of ties - maybe she thought it was kinder to offer something concrete and definite.  I'm definitely someone who appreciates resolution, but I couldn't find a grounding for it all. What would I have done if I were her?

My friend broke up with me twice.  She thought she could give our friendship another chance, but after a week (weak?) second try, she confirmed the end.  The words I vividly remember her saying were, "I just don't value our friendship anymore."  Ouch.  That didn't seem kind; that seemed harsh.

I felt really lost and confused by it.  We had mutual friends, one in particular that I was still close with.  I'd ask him about her occasionally, and every time felt like a self-inflicted wound.  She eventually moved across the country and I found comfort in the distance of place and time.

And then, Facebook ruined everything.

A while ago, I'd searched her name and found her.  I was curious and masochistic, I guess.  Who hasn't searched the names of people who have broken your heart, folks who have done you wrong, or ones who got away?  So I found her, but did nothing.  It wasn't my place to do anything.  In my mind, there was plenty to be said initially, but not by me. 


Last week, I got a Facebook Friend Request from her.  No message attached, no note, just the request.  
And I got really, really angry.  
Now I'm in this impossible situation. I can't just dismiss the request and I can't just accept it.  Oh, it's just Facebook!  Who cares!  Can't I be a grown up about it?  


No, I can't.  No, I won't.  I'm furious that I can't treat this "Friend" request as casually as she has. She is not someone from my periphery, not some kid I sang with in middle school chorus class eons ago. Someone I loved broke up with me and has decided that after 18 years, she owes me no explanation, no apology, nothing but a lame click of a button to wipe the slate clean.  

But...

Today, I'm humbled by just how debilitating anger can be.

So, now what?  Perhaps I'll send her these words and let her try and make sense out of them.  Here's my click of a button, I guess.  With it, I'll wipe my own slate clean.

It's messy...

Yesterday, I finally caught up with a close friend, a woman I love, respect, admire, and always wish I could spend more time with.  We try to see each other for a monthly dinner, but time's gotten away from the two of us.  Life always seems to get in the way of our plans.

There are very few people I like to talk with on the phone, but she's one of the few.  This friend is someone I can talk shop with for hours, because she knows her stuff about teaching, and her excitement and willingness to brainstorm ideas is never-ending.  Her voice is so animated over the phone that I can hear the speed with which she's wildly gesturing on the other end.   She'll stand in front of her bookshelf and yell out titles of books I MUST read - the woman's a treasure trove.  I am so lucky to count her in my circle.

After a solid hour of unit planning, text sharing, and getting generally fired up about the work we do,  I asked about the rest of her life... and the air left the conversation.  Her answer was stilted and obviously uncomfortable for her.

I knew her mother had been battling sickness for a while, but my friend confessed that it's come to the end.

"The end."  The time when lawyers and doctors enter the picture, when plans are put on hold, when vacation time is reviewed, when calendars are cleared for the imminent.  The eminent.

To say the relationship between my beautiful friend and her mother has been complicated is an understatement. It seems the brilliant, generous, accomplished woman I know has never been enough for her mother, and her mother has always been sure to tell her ungrateful daughter how disappointed she's been with her.  That selfish girl moved away and never calls or visits or supports enough.  After all her mother did for her... gave her strict discipline... a good beating when necessary. It must have been necessary.

The hard truth is that some relationships can't be mended or resolved.  Sometimes we have to resolve those relationships on our own, no matter how much we'd like them to be a joint effort.  My friend has been trying to do just that for years.  But "the end" complicates an already complicated situation.

My heart hurts for my friend. I know that the death of her mother won't be the end of the pain, it will be a new chapter of it.  It will entail not only dealing with her own complex grief, but helping others with their own, of trying to reconcile who her mother may have been to others while not being a loving mother to her at all. It will be the beginning of sifting through what is left and trying to rise above.

I don't know how a person does that.  I know that she will, because my friend is exceptional, but it humbles me to know that even with support around her, she will still experience part of this mourning alone... there are personal dragons that must be slain by one.

...

Today I came home from work to find a large manilla envelope for me in the mail pile.  I picked it up and immediately recognized my dad's handwriting.  Opening it, I found my copy of a cover letter addressed to my brother and me, signed by both of our parents.

The letter outlined their most recent estate plan and newly executed End Care documents. I sat down and read through the documents with my hand unconsciously over my heart.  What could be a more loving and heartfelt gift from our parents than to try and make their departure from this world as easy as possible for us, their children?  They've made sure that every situation has been laid out and considered.  They've cleaned up every possible extra mess.  Oh, don't mistake me, my mourning the loss of my parents will be very, very messy.  It is inconceivable to me as I write this.  But it won't be messy because of anything they've overlooked or forgotten or refused to deal with.  They are handling all of their business.  They will simply leave us, and that is as unbearable as I think I can manage.

Our parents have offered us something that is utterly invaluable.  My brother and I have been adults for many years now, and our parents have treated us as such, but ultimately we all know we are still their children.  They are still taking care of us.  There is a logic to what they have done.

How I wish my friend was blessed with a parent who can lead, who can be the strong figure who takes care of her child the way my parents still thoughtfully care for my brother and me.

I am so humbled by their gift.

Can you keep a secret?

Do you know Post Secret?
"PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where people mail
in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard."
I read the Post Secret website religiously every Sunday morning.  It's early-service church.

I don't really have any secrets, but I'm fascinated that other people do.  Some secrets are enormous weights, others are frivolous and silly, but the amazing thing is that people share them in order to be freed of them.  Secrets are too big of a weight for me.  I'm unable to carry my own.  I can hold other people's with no problem, but my own?  Forget it.

When I was 15, my parents were gone for a night and I took the car out.  I couldn't stand the guilt.  They never would have known, but I told my mom 5 minutes after she walked in the door. (Hey, Dad.)

A secret I carry now?  Well, I like when a fly lands on me and walks around.  Come on, it tickles! If I'm alone, I just let the fly be, because he's performing a tickling service and somehow it makes me feel interesting.  Hey, this fly is checking me out.  Now, if I'm with company, I will let the fly stick around as long as possible until the normal person will draw attention it.  Maybe it's a glance, maybe it's a wave of her hand, maybe there's even a statement, "There's a fly on your leg."  At this point, I will act utterly disgusted. "Ew, gross!" I will exclaim.  "Get out of here, you, you disease-carrier! Whew, thanks for saving my life there.  I can't believe I didn't even notice that Diptera: Muscidae."

(For your information, I'm up on the roof terrace, and a fly is futzing around on my arm as I type!  Fantastic.)
...

Not long ago, I admitted another secret.  I told my husband THE CHEF that I like to mix Bisquick and milk in a small bowl, pop it in the microwave, and then eat it.  I undercook it too, so that it's this disgusting glop, nothing even close to resembling a pancake or a biscuit. It's just nasty goo that is my shameful culinary delight.   I pour syrup over it and eat it with a spoon.  Until this moment, Mike was the only person I shared this with, and it took 8 years to do that.  It's obviously not something I'm proud of.

The comedian Jim Gaffigan has this whole riff about our dirty, shameful pleasures in his recent special "Mr. Universe" (Which I LOVE and downloaded on my computer and have watched over 3 times and you should too, but don't let anyone tell you what to do because you're your own person, darn it!)

He makes the point that we all have our personal "McDonald's" - our McDonald's of the soul - "momentary pleasure followed by incredible guilt eventually leading to cancer."  This is a great relief to me.  Do you know what your McDonald's is?

My not-so-big secret - my ultimate McDonald's - is Bravo TV's Real Housewives franchise.  It is filthy and pathetic, and I can't get enough of it.  It's my pornography.  I'm not kidding.  I hear my husband in the hallway, coming home from work, and I immediately turn off the TV, spray air freshener around the room, grab a book and get comfortable.  Nothing was happening here!  Oh, and he always knows.  It's a ridiculous lost game.  He'll say, "You don't have to turn off the television," and I'll scoff, "Pfft, there was nothing on.  I was done anyway."  But really, I'm always thinking of my alternate plan. Can I outlast him and watch a rerun at 11:00?  Will he have gone to bed by then? My mind races until I realize I can actually read the Housewives' blogs online at BravoTV.com.  I can even watch video exclusives with my headphones on. I can do it right under his nose and he'll never even know...

Who does that?!  

I do. 

Secret's out.

Humbling.

(Has anyone else noticed that Rosie on RHoNJ looks a little like Ralph Macchio? I love both of them.)

UPDATE: Rosie and Ralph Macchio are related!  I was reading my McDonald's today in Huffington Post's Celebrity section.  I'm smug and shameful at the same time.

Letting It All Hang Out

Before investing the reflection necessary to write a blog centered around embarrassing epiphanies, I had no idea what a leading role swimsuits had played in my emotional growth.  Everyone who's ever spent 5 minutes with me has heard the most infamous of my swimsuit stories (which I will never write; it will only be passed on through oral tradition), but there are so many more.  

I have no lingering insecurity about my swimsuit body.  It's been the same my whole life: undeveloped. Mostly I just look like a younger brother who's gotten a hold of his sister's bikini top and has put it on to make a show in front of friends and relatives at a barbecue.  I don't mind this fact, other than the expense of shelling out big bucks for a top I don't need.  My swimsuit body - or lack thereof -  has given me a treasure trove of story material.  

Here's one now:
It must have been beginning of summer my 8th grade year.  Middle Pool was one of the designated places to congregate in our Iowa town.  (Pool during the day, Happy Joe's at night.) The right bathing suit was a must.  

Lisa Bregman and I went to Marshalls together and, wouldn't you know, I struck gold.  The suit was lightweight lycra, and I felt slippery like a fish in it.  It was a one-piece, light kelly green and white striped with white piping and a racing back. As you know from a previous post, puberty hadn't awarded me with a single shape to put into a suit, but I could at least look like a bonafide swimmer, and boy (excuse the pun), did I. It was fantastic.  Best part; it had been on sale for the ridiculously low price of $12.  

What's not to love about that?
(Reader alert: Be careful what you don't pay for.)

Not long after purchase, my swimsuit's debut arrived.  When Lisa and I got to Middle Pool, it was PACKED.   Everyone was there, including Wally Cale and all of his friends.  Let me pause here for a moment and explain that Wally Cale was the bad boy du jour.  Even though he had eyes, a mouth and hands for Lisa, he made other girls (read: me) swoon.  How I wished for a bad boy of my own!  I knew he had friends.  Maybe one of them would like me.  Maybe I'd attract a bad boy too and enjoy the racy excitement of something forbidden.  

Me. Maybe.

Lisa and I paid admission to swim, but Wally and his crew posed at the fence, fingers laces through the chain-link diamonds, peering in. Lisa was already "in" with Wally's group, but I was eager to make an impression.  I figured what I lacked in swimsuit filler, I made up for in athleticism. Wouldn't a bad boy appreciate an agile, athletic bad-*ss female?  Both are bad, right?  

Besides, I had a secret weapon. Over my years on swim and diving teams, I had perfected my exit from a pool.  No stairs or ladder for me, no. Two hands on the concrete side, a fast hoist up, a moment to let the water rain down on the pavement, a quick right foot plant, a graceful swoop left leg behind me, and a final, mesmerizing shake of wet hair.  It was Bo Derek meets Bo Jackson.  I was ready to impress!

And wouldn't you know, Lisa and I were in the pool and Wally called to me from the fence.  He was calling me.  I was invited.  I was chosen.  I performed my perfected pool exit and sauntered over to the chain-link boys.  The boys grinned shyly and bumbled for words. Their eyes wouldn't meet mine.  They stammered for something to say, and I felt powerful. Oh, the power of being so attractive as to render males speechless!  I had achieved my greatest goal!  I felt amazing. I smirked coyly and walked back to dive triumphantly into the pool.  Winning!

Wally kept calling to me.  Come to the fence again.  They wanted to talk.  I thought, yeah, I'll bet you do.  You got a taste of this hot stuff and now you can't get enough.  I'd never understood the power that women hold, and yet, there I was, basking in the power of sexuality, the power of my attraction.

They pleaded until I felt ignoring their request bordered on cruel.  All right, all right!  I hoisted myself out of the pool again, flipped my foot in back of me, shook my hair out and strutted over. 

Something shifted.  
This time, I heard a snicker.  This time, I watched the eyes... move downward... down the front of my body... seeing something...

I stood at the fence, fingers interlaced through the fence, and looked down.

My suit was see-through. Saran wrap would have offered more coverage than that stupid, cheap kelly green and white piece of lycra.  Until that moment, I didn't consider my body anything to look at, but then and there, there was plenty to see.  

I locked eyes with Wally's and his said, "I'm sorry, but can you really blame me?"  I felt the weight of shame as fully my own.  It felt like it was all my fault.  I did it to myself.  I let myself believe that boys would accept - yes, even like -  my tongue depressor body and my great personality.  I let myself believe that somehow that would be a catch for some teenage bad boy.  

I scampered back to the pool like a startled squirrel and dove into the water. I stayed under as long as possible in order to calm down and to cover my mortification. When I broke through the water, I faced away from them and shook out my hair the way I'd seen in the movies,  My front couldn't be sexy, but I'd work with what I had.

And that has been the story I've lived by.  Work with what you've got.  

Crazy, Maybe

He was seated on a makeshift bench - two milk crates pushed together with flattened cardboard for some cushion. His elbows rested on his knees, his big hands clasped together and his head lowered, as if in prayer. I stopped my bicycle at the curb and waited for Prophet to look up.  When he did, he smiled and held his arms open.  I smiled but stayed put.
"Where are you going to be later?" I called out to him.
"Good morning!  Why you not come here?  Your first words are where will I be later?  I am here now!"
"I'm sorry. Good morning, Prophet."
"I miss you." He motioned to me.  "Why you not come here?" 
"I'm on my way to church and I'm late." It was true, but it felt like an excuse. "I'm going to come by later."
"I will be here. I love you!"  I shook my head and waved as I pedaled off.

When I returned a few hours later, he was right where he said he would be, lying on his back with his eyes closed. I cycled up onto the sidewalk in front of him, the spokes of my wheels tick, tick, ticking as I slowed to a stop.  He turned his head towards me and smiled, his beautiful white teeth contrasting against his walnut-black skin.

This giant man deftly spun his body around to a sitting position and again, opened his arms wide, but I shook my head. "Oh no, not yet.  I'm upset with you from last time.  That wasn't okay."
"I love you."
"Only my husband loves me like that.  That made me uncomfortable."
"You are safe with me."
"Huh, well both of us have to feel that way and I sure didn't feel that way. That's not the love I'm looking for."
"Come,"  he said, slapping one of his thighs to offer me a seat on his lap. I made a face.
"No, I'll sit right there next to you," I pointed to a spot of cardboard on the crate.  He slapped his leg again and I pointed again.  We continued this battle of gestures and wills until finally I sat cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of him.
"Listen, I came because I want to talk with you, I want to hear what you have to say, but you have to let me feel safe."
"You do not trust me, you do not trust God."
"God is not a man who's trying to get me to sit on his lap. God and I are just fine." 
But somewhere I felt that must be a lie, otherwise why would I be looking to a homeless man for a message? For a sign?

I have an... unusual... friendship with this homeless man in my neighborhood.  I realize that sentence is loaded.  I can actually hear my father yell, "Jesus Christ, Stephanie!" from over 1,000 miles away.  I understand that this defies a lot of logic.  But Prophet has been on my radar for almost three years now.  I wave, and stop, and sometimes share a hug with him.  He has a presence and an openness that I can't describe and he actually smells warm and comforting, like cinnamon or allspice.  His skin glows, his eyes are bright, his teeth are beautiful... not what you might imagine when draw a mental image of a homeless guy.  He has never asked me for anything.  The only thing we have shared is kindness. He told me his name is Prophet.


For months I have been wanting to stop and hear his story, but it always seems I'm rushing somewhere.  I'm always in a hurry.  I don't quite trust the sanity of my curiosity or the sanity of my friend.

Better judgment be damned (a lifelong pursuit of mine, apparently), there I was, sitting on the pavement, wanting to talk with him. The problem was, we were at cross purposes.  I wanted to hear his story and he wanted me to prove that I trusted him wholly before he would tell me. It was a frustrating hamster wheel.  He said my proof to him would be to go somewhere together, out off the street.  Once I had proven I was open to him, I would be ready to hear his message. I shook my head firmly and pursed my lips.


"See... now, that doesn't sit well with a woman, a married woman, a woman in New York City who has had enough life experience to know better.  If I can trust you, I can trust you right here in the open. Why would you ask me to do anything that didn't let me feel safe if you really have something important to say?" It was about this time that I noticed the guys at the bodega on the corner taking turns to peek out check on the two of us.  Churchgoers walked by in their Sunday best.  They all greeted Prophet and he answered with, "God is good!"

Finally, Prophet answered some basic questions for me. He told me that he's been in New York for 19 years.  He lived in Paris before that and he is originally from Senegal. I asked about his being homeless.  He said he's not.  


"I have nothing and I have everything. I worry about nothing because God gives me everything I need.  All we have is time."

I tried to ask him more questions and he broke into a running monologue that I couldn't understand.  His accent was so thick and his thoughts were so fast, I couldn't keep up.  For a while he spoke his native French and I responded in kind to say my French sure wasn't helping me understand him.  He rambled emphatically and I managed to catch about 1/5 of what he was saying. Each time he paused, I'd say, "Here's what I think you said," and I would repeat back the gist.  He would then shake his head NO, NO, NO and say, "You are not listening!  You must listen to what I am saying!" and I would protest, "I AM listening, I just don't understand you.  I'm really trying to understand."

This interaction sums up my whole life.  I feel like I spend so much of my time trying to be open, letting people in, trying to understand the very core of who we complicated beings are, only to understand about 20%... I always feel like I come up short. I'm fumbling along but sense that I've somehow failed, that I've missed the mark.  And at this moment, I feel lost and stupid.  I'm looking for truth in the idea that this guy might just have a piece of insight to give me some clarity, some peace.

Prophet acknowledged my frustration.  "You go for now.  You are tired."
I nodded defeatedly. He vigorously shook my hand and laughed as he pulled me to my feet.
We faced each other and Prophet said, "Look me in the eye. You look at me in my eyes and you know me.  I know you and I love you." I looked him in the eye and I welled up with tears. 


"Be well, Prophet," I choked out.
"God is good.  I will be here."


Call it crazy.
IT IS.  
But...
Prophets are usually considered crazy, aren't they?  
The answers are often where you least expect to find them, aren't they? 


I don't know any other way but to spend my life being open to all prophets.  

Gonna Get That Chicken

     The messages of train delays and power outages along the route blared through our packed subway car during yesterday evening's rush hour. The D train slogged along, seeming to be affected by heat, just like its riders. Normally, I try to avoid riding the subway at rush hour, but no such luck. 

     I found myself wedged in and standing over a group of high school girls.  Through my expert inference skills, I deduced that they had celebrated the end of their school year by going to a beach... probably Coney Island, since that's where the D train ends.  They were in various stages of dress - all in bikini tops and shorts, but some wrapped up in bedsheets together to stay warm on the air conditioned train.  (p.s. The D train is known to be as cold as a meat locker. I advise carrying an alpaca sweater during the peak of summer whenever riding the orange line.)  

     There were eight of them.  They sat huddled in two separate clumps across from each other on the subway car, and even though the car was packed, they'd yell to one another, ripping off jokes, one-upping each other, swearing up a storm, only concerned with impressing each other.

     "N*gga, that b*tch said she's ready to f*ck you up!"
     "Nah, it ain't like that.  I have known that girl for four whole years of my life, and she ain't like that."
     "Ha!  Four whole years of your life, n*gga?  Four WHOLE years?  What you think you know in four years?"
     "Yo, shut up.  I know enough.  She ain't like that so pop off."
     "Get your dirty weave offa me!"
     "This is genuine 100% Indian human hair. Wet but clean.  At least my forehead ain't ashy."
     "Wait, my forehead's ashy?"
     "Ashy and sandy. Did you face plant on the beach?"

     This went on... and on.  I tuned in and out.  Teenage interactions like this are common on the NYC subway.  It can be simultaneously amusing and annoying, but MUCH more annoying, I have to admit. I think it was my friend Deborah who first made me realize that NYC youth have minimal private space.  When we were kids, we acted like jerks in our families' basements.  We said cringe-worthy, inappropriate things that would have been annoying and disconcerting to anyone listening in. We yelled, screeched, and hurled foul, foul language - we would try out incredible combinations of swear words and derogatory remarks. We'd come up out of the basements into the light of day, and we'd code switch back into reasonably acceptable members of society. These kids don't have private spaces to be social and stupid.  So, I've gotten used to it, and in some ways, I feel for them.  They make all their mistakes - share all their ridiculousness - right out in the open.
 ...

     "Who's pulling on my sheet?!" There is a quiet pause and a mumble just below me. Then I hear, "Who?  That lady?"
     I am pretty sure the girl being referred to as London is referring to me.  I look down and acknowledge her.
     "Did you pull on my sheet, Miss?" she asks me.  Her friends scrunch down in their seats, lean into each other and giggle conspiratorially.
     I smile and shake my head. "No, I'm afraid I didn't."
     "You sure?" London blinks her big brown eyes.
I laugh and nod.  She sits up and gives me the most alarmingly open smile back.
London pauses. "You're pretty," she says with such sincerity. The smile and compliment combination startle me into momentary silence.
     "Thanks," is all I can say.  Something shifts.  All the girls get quiet, almost embarrassed, as though they realize for the first time that other people are surrounding them.  They have come up from their figurative basement to face the light of day.

     Finally, I continue, "You all in high school?"
     "I'm in 11th grade," London says.
     "Must be nice to be done for the year," I reply. "I'm with middle school and we're so envious."
     "You a middle school teacher?!" one of the girls pipes up.
     "That's why she's not afraid of us," another says to her.
     "You teach black kids?" London asks.
     "I teach all kids,"  I say. She nods.
     "Where?" another asks.
     "Brooklyn."
     "Where you live?"
     "Harlem." I say.  The girls' eyebrows lift in unison.
     "Oh, so... you one of us.  You in the hood." London gets up, kneels on her seat and looks me straight in the eye. We are now almost equal height. I grin and shrug.
     "Why you a teacher?  You gotta get some chicken?"
     I shake my head, not understanding the reference. "What?"
     "You know, the money.  Get some chicken means get the money."
     "Really?"  I say eyeing her. "I think you're pulling my sheet now."
     "Nah," London giggles and leans towards me. I think for a moment she's going to put her hands on my shoulders. She holds my gaze. "Say I gotta get some chicken."
And even though I am sure this is a joke, I go along because it's not malicious.  It's funny getting some older white lady to use urban vernacular... youth speak. I enjoy her teasing.
     "I gotta get some chicken," I say and I sound ridiculous, and sure enough, we all smile together.
     "You got it," London nods.
     "How 'bout that," I nod with her.
     The D train rolls into the 145th Street. I look at the clumps of them and say, "Have a great summer." I weave through the crowd toward the door.
     "You too. Get that chicken!"
     "Don't you know I'm gonna get that chicken," I call back and laugh.

...

     This subway interaction has stayed with me.  I mean, here are teenagers, all puffed up and full of bravado, but at the heart of it, they are just silly and soft like, well, pretty much all teenagers.  This is why I love being a teacher.  Their behavior doesn't leave me shellshocked.  While I often find the things they say in public offensive and inappropriate, I keep it in perspective. No, I don't like when they curse and yell at each other across the train car.  I'm irritated by their big, loud shows.  But scratch that surface and there is so much more.
     No, I am not afraid of our youth. They are not foreign beings to me.  First, I know them, because I was them.  The vernacular changes, but the spirit is the same. Second, I know them because I teach children like them.  I know that in other settings, they shine.  They can be magnificent - funny and reflective and thoughtful and smart.  They fight against injustice.  They protect each other. They apologize. They even say thank you.

     They need to know we're not afraid of them.  We need to show what we enjoy about them.

     I'm telling you, don't be afraid to go on and get some chicken.