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.

Joe

When we were small, my brother and I had adjacent bedrooms at the end of the hall, and there was one spot in the hallway that could be seen by both of our beds.  On special evenings, after Jay and I tucked in, Dad would settle himself there in a chair with his guitar, and he'd begin to play.  He'd start with something we all knew, like "I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts" or "Hey, Look Me Over" and the three of us - Jay and I from our beds and Dad from his chair - would sing together, our voices finding each other's in the dim light.  Dad would break into a rousing version of "Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey" and I'd be smiling, tapping the rhythm out with every part of me, practically dancing under the sheets. We'd sing tag-lines like "right through a taxi"  and the cheeky "without her knickers" and Jay and I would giggle.  It was a musical slumber party.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Dad would move to the slower songs, the ones that Jay and I didn't know as well, like "Five Hundred Miles" and "If You Were The Only Girl In the World."  He'd croon the love songs from his college days and the ones I'd listen to him sing in 4-part harmony at get togethers with family friends.  Dad's voice would curl like a single ribbon of sound into our rooms. The dark never seemed so warm.  Gently, Jay and I would fall off to sleep, music weaving through our dreams.

...

A Fathers Day post has incredible pressure.  I've been fretting for the past several weeks about how I best honor my dad, Joe Douglas.

I will simply say this.

No one is more like Joe Douglas than his daughter.  No one. And I'd be willing to bet that there was no one before me in the family lineage that was as much like my father as I am.

I say this with a great amount of pride, although my father may cringe a bit.  We've laughed about it together quite a bit over the last few years. He and I both know that the qualities we value in ourselves aren't necessarily what others value.  In fact, some people think we're pains in the asses.

My father learned to live with that, and you know what?  So have I.  It's incredibly liberating.

See, Joe Douglas and I are complicated beings.  We strive to be better than we are, and we're mad at ourselves when we're not.  We're surrounded by people (wives and husbands and siblings and children) who are worlds kinder and more patient and generally way easier to love than we are, and honestly, it can blow to be compared to them.  I am Jan's daughter, Jay's sister and Mike's wife - I listen to the constant stream of professions of love and admiration for those three. People are downright disappointed if I show up to an event without one of them in tow.  I get it, and I agree, but it can get tiring.  Dad and I are never going to compare in certain arenas.  Sometimes we try; other times we say to hell with it.  We want to be patient and kind - we'd like a few rounder edges sometimes, but mostly you have to love us for being stubborn, outspoken, sticklers for structure, gruffly committed to justice... things that aren't sexy but are true. We hope you forgive us for our shortcomings, but if you don't, well, we both think... "Piss off."

I can love my dad in a way that no one in the world ever has or ever will.  As his only daughter, so much like him, my love is unique and complicated and... perfect.  It is one of the only times in my life I can say that something I do is perfect.  I don't profess to know him best, but I know Joe Douglas like no one else and I honor him for everything he is.  He is... beautiful.  He is... exceptional.  He is... ever-evolving, ever struggling, and I think that is the most honorable place to be.  He is my hero, not just for who he is, but for who he hopes to be every single day.

And that has to be enough.  It is for me, his very proud daughter.

Happy Fathers Day, Joe Douglas.

Jay

When I was a kid, I wrote extensively in my journals (which sounded much more mature than "diaries") about how much I wished for an older sister, an older brother, and a younger sister.

I had a younger brother.

God's punishment to a 10-year-old girl, apparently.

I was not a nice older sister.  I played pranks on my brother, I said horrible things, I tortured that kid.  And I don't remember his deflecting my cruelty very well.  I remember a lot of yelling for Mom, crying and running away.

That all ended the day I was 13 and he was 11 when I pushed him to the breaking point and he punched me in the face.  (I'll pause so you can cheer.)

Something shifted for us.  Or more, something shifted for me.  I can't say my brother changed because he'd always been a sweet kid.  I guess I finally started appreciating what other people already did. Maybe the punch knocked some sense into me.

(Disclaimer: Do not try this strategy at home.)

In high school, Jay was involved in community theater and took classes at a local performing arts studio.  His encouragement got me involved too, and pretty soon, he and I had a common group of friends.  We hung out together.  We actually had fun together.  My brother became my friend.

I went off to college - to Syracuse - to major in theater.  When it was his turn to look at colleges, I lobbied for him to join me.  My brother decided instead to go to Florida State where all theater majors were tan, in-shape and happy.  (Not only was my brother kind, he was smart.)  Since this was pre-Internet, we wrote letters, sent cards, called... He was a grounding force.

My first professional theater job after graduating from college was in Roanoke, Virginia, and wouldn't you know, I got to work with my brother.  It was pure summer camp! Man, we had a blast.  In the fall, I moved to NYC to live the dream and Jay went back to college.  Surprise, surprise - The theater world wasn't as psyched to see me as I thought it would be, and when I visited Jay at school, I conjured up this hair-brained idea that I'd move down to Tallahassee to write while he finished school.  I told him how cool it would be if we got an apartment together.

(Doesn't that sound like fun?  Have your sister invite herself to join you for your college experience?)

But my brother is kind and smart and compassionate.  He let me down easy and said I was just scared of the transition.  Hang in there, he said.  I did and it ended up working out pretty well, I think.

Fast forward 20-some years and a lot more life transitions and huge events.

So here we are now.  Jay lives three subway stops away with his great family (wife and 3 kids).  Last night I went to his sons' school's fundraiser, which Jay had not only helped to organize but performed in.  I watched him onstage with such... awe.  I was suddenly so overwhelmed by the rich lives we have lived and our shared experiences in them.  Who would I be without him?  I am amazed and humbled by the person he is... I guess at the person he has always been.

I am SO glad that God didn't read my diary.  I may not deserve him, but I like having the brother I got.