Michael Memories

We were sitting at Alexandra's bday dinner with some friends tonight when an iphone addicted friend exclaimed: "Oh my god, Michael Jackson is dead!"

Wow. I think this must be the first death of a life-long pop icon for my generation. Kurt Cobain, yes, but Michael was so much more prolific and has been around since...about as long as I can remember. Here are some of my fave Michael memories:

1. Janice Charles's birthday party in 4th grade. Her dad had gotten a VHS (or was it Beta?) tape of "Thriller" and we gathered to watch it. SCARY! We were screaming, dancing, and singing along. I'm sure you can imagine the effect "Thriller" might have on a room of late elementary school girls; it was like kiddie crack.

2. Also in 4th grade, someone in Mr. Lehman's class at Rolling Ridge Elementary School in Sterling, Virginia was going to the concert and a bunch of us girls spent a day surreptitiously writing love letters to Michael under our desks, replete with heart stickers (and maybe a few unicorns) for her to "throw on the stage" for us. She dutifully took our letters and reported that they were thrown on stage. Sure.

3. Fast forward to my 20's when I did Public Allies--an Americorps Program--in Durham, North Carolina. At one of our leadership retreats, Chuck, one of our fearless leaders, was leading some closing ceremony or something...We were all in a circle holding hands, being serious. He was rambling on about something and then said, "Repeat after me: Mama say (we repeated), mama sa (we repeated), mama ku sa (we repeated and started laughing)." Then Chuck broke into full song and a little dance. LOVED IT.

I have to say, amid all the gossip and total freakishness that surrounded Michael's life since he appeared on my radar, he has never really fallen from star status in my mind. RIP, Michael. Hope you find some peace.

Father's Day/Baby Naming

Baby #2 in my belly is a boy. For years, I have thought that if I had a boy, I'd use part of my dad's name in baby boy's name. My dad died when I was 22 of diabetes complications--complications he pretty much had relentlessly from his 20s until his death at age 61. He's been gone a while now (13 years) which is hard to believe.

Problem with my dad's name is I don't really like either of his names...Douglas means "dark water" and sounds very omnious to me (as much as I love water as an element) and Frank means "free" (kinda cool) but Adam doesn't like it. We have toyed with Franklin, but then I'm not sure if it still retains its connection as strongly...

To find some clarity, I dug out a box of my dad's life that I inherited from my mom. In this box are old photos (cool one from World's Fair in NYC), cards from his First Communion, Graduations, his 8th grade yearbook (I was looking at it and thinking that he went to a White school, and then I realized it was BEFORE Brown vs. the Board of Ed = before school integration!), a NY Giants program, letters inviting him to interview at the CIA (where he worked for 30 years), rejection letters from the Secret Service b/c he had diabetes, a scavenger hunt list from his fraternity at Rutgers that has a Lena Horne signature on it (so cool!), postcards from throughout his life (including some from me when I lived in France)...the list goes on.

As much as I love reading these relics and imagining my dad at these points in his life, what really struck me this time around was that my dad had aspirations, experiences, and ideas that I was never privy to as his daughter, especially since he died when I was not quite yet an adult. Almost 2/3 of his life happened before they adopted me, which is also crazy. There was so much to him that I don't know and will never know...

In some way, this really hit me this time. And I'm more excited to figure out how to name my son after him...now I just have to decide between Douglas and Frank...

New Yorker

First Park Slope apartment and yard art.
First pictures on new digital camera bought by renters insurance: late Winter 2000.

First upstate apple picking with Emory, Ben, and Virgil: Fall 2000.

First teaching gig at the now defunct IS 111, Bushwick, Bklyn.
Love note from my ESL students: Spring, 2001.

*Didn't get digital camera until after apt was robbed in late Winter of 2000. Renters insurance is golden!

Ten years ago, right about now, I packed up my sweet little Yoda (Toyota) and drove it by myself from North Carolina to New York City. I had two living spaces carved out for the summer, a part-time job, and a car with my clothes, my yoga mat, a boom box, my cds, my laptop, and basic cooking/eating essentials. I was ready.

At some point that first summer, someone along the way told me that you have to live in New York for 10 years to be considered a New Yorker. As arbitrary as that sounded, I held onto that number, and here I am at the ten year mark.

New York City raised me from a lost twenty-five year old girl into who I am today. I have had two temp jobs, one museum job, and have taught in the NYC public schools for nine years, where I first bore witness to Third World America. I--almost!--have degrees from two universities in this city. I met my husband in a bar on the Lower East Side, had my first baby in Brooklyn Heights, and will have this one in the West Village. I watched the debris from the Twin Towers plaster itself to the windows of my high school in Brooklyn, consoled students whose families worked there, and waited anxiously for my friends to get out of Manhattan. I have done all the drugs I care to do and danced at clubs until it was time to watch the sun rise over the Hudson River. I almost didn't make it to my own wedding because of the Blackout of August 2003. I have done the NYC Marathon and Triathlon. I have been to the weddings and funerals of my peers, attended the bris of a friend's first son, and have stood proud of many of my students who were the first to graduate in their families. The list is endless--so many elements of my life have been defined by my experiences in New York.

I really hope that whomever told me you had to live here for ten years to be a New Yorker was right because that means I'm a New Yorker now, and damn, I love this place.

The 'roids

I wasn't sure I'd blog about this b/c I was so mortified yesterday, but a new morning brings new perspective. Warning: TMI.

Being pregnant is amazing. No doubt. And I am very thankful that I am able to experience it not just once but twice. But this pregnancy--Lord help me--is the universe's way of telling me that two is enough. I went through a 6-week phase of wanting to have three after we found out this baby was a boy (I really wanted two girls), a desire to which Adam replied "You need to find yourself a new husband." He needent worry--this pregnancy has taken away any desire for me to do this again.

Adding onto the list of nausea and vomiting for 25 weeks, gigantic boob growth, throwing-up-in-my-sleep reflux, constant heartburn (even from plain yogurt!), a pulled lower back, and the inevitable weight gain that makes you feel like a small whale, I have hemorrhoids! (Or maybe an ass fissure--which is better?!)

Exiled to a coffee shop yesterday while our cleaning lady did her thing (yes, I'm so bougie), I went pee and saw blood. Anyone who's pregnant knows that blood while pregnant is a big emergency sign that something is NOT right. I freaked out, fled the coffee shop, headed home, and called my midwives on the way. Stacey, ever-so-wise, said it might be a dreaded 'roid. Go home and stick a toilet paper covered finger up my poo-cat to make sure the blood wasn't from there and call back.

Did that, no blood from poo-cat. Definitely from the butt. MAJOR relief that I wasn't losing the baby or going into extremely early labor, but also total agony that I have something up with my butt that is not pretty. Literally shaking from fear of losing/having baby at 26 weeks for hours after.

So now I am using Preparation-H suppositories and drinking Metamucil like an 80-year old woman. Went on 'roid websites last night, and they all say, "Eat veggies/fruits, drink water, exercise." Well, duh. Anyone who doesn't do that already is a moron. So, what's a preggo girl to do?

Pray they go away after the birth, I guess.

I truly understand why all our mothers are crazy right about now. From conception onwards, mama-hood is one hell of a ride.

PS 22 Chorus...WOW

As a NYC public school teacher, I--for some reason--take immense pride when I see a peer doing something outstanding in a school. This guy, and these students, are amazing.



Had a crappy day, but I just watched about 1/2 hour of YouTube of these kids and feel much better. Something about kids singing...Just melts my heart.

R.I.P. Guruji

About a month after my dad died, I found myself in a deserted college town for the summer with an emptiness that I could not tame. A co-worker of mine at Duke University Press invited me to come to her yoga class and that invitation led me down the path to practicing Astanga Yoga for approximately ten years.

Astanga yoga is a paradox: it's all you have heard of and it's not. It's rigorously athletic, has devout followers, and has been called the yoga for type-A personalities, but there is much more to it than that. The community of Astanga practitioners, even here in NYC, is fairly intimate and fostered a home for me when I first moved here. But most importantly, it was a form of yoga that still had a living creator--Shri K. Pattabhi Jois, or, as many of his followers called him, Guruji.

My best yoga experiences ever were practicing with 300 other New Yorkers in the Puck Building when Guruji would come to town in September. I'd wake at 5am, schlep into Manhattan, and gather with hundreds for a 6am practice time (for non-yogis, when you do yoga it's called your yoga practice). Guruji, his son, his grandson, and his daughter would circle the room and adjust us. The positive electricity in that room was indescribable. Praticing with that many people and with Pattabhi Jois himself were moments of my life I'll never forget, and never replicate.

September 11 occurred during one of Guruji's visits here. He paused and then continued the classes, convinced everyone needed yoga then more than ever. He also held a prayer service for those of us who felt lost--an Indian service that I didn't really understand, but I was very thankful to have the opportunity to gather with others and just sit, think for a bit, and pray in my own way.

During those times practicing with Pattabhi Jois, some folks set out to make a documentary about Astanga yoga and its thriving life in NYC. I'm in the trailer twice--when you see Guruji for the first time and he's counting and says "One" and in the ending scene when he says "Good" that's me he's adjusting--the young blond girl in a white tank top and black pants. Wow...young and blonde...two words that don't describe me anymore...

Guruji passed away this May. He was very old, had an amazing life, a supportive family, and a global community of people who loved him. I don't feel sad...I feel thankful that I was able to experience him and his life's work. He will be missed.

(Photo from Mysore, India, Summer 2006. While in India I went to Guruji's house--even though there were no classes at the time--just to see it.)

Boobs

My god...What is happening to my chest?

I know they say each pregnancy is different, but this is out of control.

In spin class yesterday, I looked up and thought, "Whose cleavage is that on my body?!" and was appalled that my pregnancy boobs seemed to be overflowing out of the size large Nike sports bra I bought when I found out I was pregnant in anticipation of an increased size of my chest. But seriously, how is a large becoming too small? What do folks do who are larger than me? I don't get it.

When pregnant with Alexandra, I enjoyed a nice increase in cup size until she was born and then--Kabam!--the milk came in and I bumped up to a solid D (I am normally a small B cup). But this time, my boobs seem to be growing in proportion with my belly. I looked in the mirror last night and was certain they, like my belly, have recently undergone yet another growth spurt.

What worries me are two things:
1. What on earth will they look like when my milk comes in?
2. What goes up, must come down. Oh my...after a year of nursing...scary thought.

Adam wants me to work the boobs, wear some push-up bras and flaunt the butt on my chest like Coach Taylor's wife in "Friday Night Lights." I don't think I really have a choice...

(photo of me and pre-pregnancy boobs--my long lost friends...)

D-Day

I spent my junior year of undergrad abroad in Montpellier, France. It was probably one of the more defining years of my life; I feel like it forever changed me. I not only mastered the language (which I have since lost), but I traveled all over Europe, alone and with friends, and my perspective on the world shifted dramatically.

While in Europe, I was obsessed with World War II. Never a historian, while there was I fascinated by the battle scars that still existed in 1994-1995. I felt like I was walking on hallowed ground; there was something there that haunted me.

But what resonates with me years later is the affection many older French people had for Americans--my host family's grandparents, little old people we'd meet in boulangeries, old couples who ran hotels...They repeatedly told stories of handsome and polite American soldiers from WW II who came into their towns and gave them a sense of hope that had been long lost. They had respect for our country and an appreciation for our involvement in the War. And these people where thrilled when they met us, as if we were somehow connected to these young men from decades past.

When I think of my daughter or future son out in the world, as American citizens, I truly hope that the tides will have turned by the time they travel and America will once again somewhat celebrated. I have traveled a great deal since our status has fallen, and defending your citizenship and disassociating yourself with your government certainly feels different from my experiences in France in 94-95.

(I never made it to the beaches of Normandy--my friend Deb and I ran out of money and I wanted to go to Auschwitz in Poland more--but I hope to go one day...)

Damn...

I am writing my dissertation (as most of you know).

I was just writing a footnote on what Title I funding in a school means, and when I looked up the data for my school in its most recent Quality Review Report I found that 74% of the students at my school live below the poverty level.

Damn.

I need to stop complaining and check myself.

Have you ever seen this site? You type in your annual income and it shows you how rich you are compared to everyone else in the world--EVERYONE else--particularly those who make $1 a day. Some perspective!

Old Friends

Me in 9th grade. Nice bangs. Probably look better sans face.


Apology accepted! (21 years later!)


This week a VERY old friend friend-ed me on Facebook. We were only friends from the end of 4th grade until maybe 6th grade (?) and then we lost touch, but I have often thought of her and tried to find her before on the information superhighway. I have been surprised and touched at how quickly we have been able to reconnect, particularly over baby-making and baby-losing. It's been somewhat amazing. I can't imagine we talked over many deep subjects from the ages of 9 to 11, but there was obviously something we shared back then that allowed us to reconnect so intimately and immediately.

Old friends are very precious to me. In May, I left my baby girl for the first time since her birth and went to Colorado to hang with my oldest girlfriends, Robyn and Kim. I have known both of them since middle school. Robyn I clearly remember meeting in homeroom in 7th grade b/c she had a Billy Idol folder that I thought was so cool. It was a folder that was made to look like an album cover with a bit of faux record sticking out of the top. Since my mom was hyper-religious and didn't let me listen to rock-n-roll, that folder signified a lot to me and Robyn and I became fast friends.

But friendships are complicated. All of my girlfriends whom I have known for extended periods of time eventually end up on some sort of pause mode. Or worse, an all out conflict. Some fights I don't remember, some I do, but eventually--if the friendship was solid--we come back to each other in the end. And, strangely, I think those altercations make our friendships stronger.

One night as we ate yummy steaks off Robyn's grill, we dug out the old Park View High School yearbooks. And here's what we found! Guess Robyn and I did have some falling outs over the years. Neither of us remember what they were about, and I'm glad our friendship survived them, and, at least, "bitch" wasn't written next to my picture like some other folks!

Here's to good girlfriends. I truly believe they make us who we are.

Life in the Projects

As mentioned last summer, I store relics in my books. Old postcards from friends, love letters, photos, bookmarks from bookstores in the places I have lived...the list goes on. Therefore, my recent book purge (to make space for our move to a smaller but better laid out apartment) of over 200 of my books has turned up some interesting finds. Mostly nostalgic mementos, these paper memories are getting reshuffled into the books I am keeping (which are mostly academic books that cost too much to replace).

Amid the words of my friends, though, I found an old paragraph from a student of mine in 2002, Michelle, about life in the projects. We must have been reading The Women of Brewster Place or something--I have no idea what I was teaching as it was only my second year in the classroom! But I found it insightful and thought I'd share:

Living in the projects is type aight. You pay low rent so ya moms has some extra cash in her pocket that you could scheme off of her. This way you could get some new clothes or the new Jordans that just came out. When you're outside chillen and you get the munchies you don't have to worry cuz there is a store on every corner. Most of them are open 24 hrs. with a little window. Becareful with your business though. The niggas and chickens got nuttin better to do then to hate on someone. So if they find out something you best believe it's gonna get through the projects by morning.

I tell ya, these kids teach me more than I can teach them.

Pay Attention to your Kids

Yesterday, while sitting in a neighborhood healthy coffee shop, I noticed two different parents come in, order food with their talkative 4 year olds, and then politely ignore them the entire time they were at the coffee shop. One dad was reading a book. One mom was reading a magazine. Each kid talked to the parent off and on, eventually resorted to seeking attention from neighboring patrons, and then tried again to talk to parent. It was painful to watch. I wanted to walk over and tell them, "Talk to you kid! In ten years this kid isn't going to want to talk to you at all, but maybe if you talk to them NOW they'll talk to you--at least a little bit--THEN!" But I kept quiet, sipped my peppermint tea, ate my quinoa salad, and tried to read...

After picking Alexandra up from daycare, we headed up to Prospect Park to enjoy the glorious day. We locked up the stroller and set out for a walk: first stop, dog beach to see the doggies swim and to feed the ducks/geese. AGAIN, a mom, with kid in stroller (granted, this kid was maybe one) and mom reading a novel, kid just staring off into space. No interaction between the two. We fed the geese and ducks a whole snack trap of animal cookies and cashews and never once did I hear the mom talk to her baby. Huh?

What is in the water around here?

I don't get it. Yes, I have moments when I sneak a glance at New York Magazine when Alexandra is playing with blocks, but then she usually comes over and we look at the pictures together. Or I'll try to quickly check my email, but then she'll come over and want to see horse videos on YouTube, and I quickly defer to her.

Am I just crazy, or does anyone else out there think you should be present with your kids when you're with them? As Alexandra edges towards turning two, and I watch her become a little girl from the mushy baby she once was, I can't help but feel that each day with her is precious. Maybe it's me, maybe I'm a sap, but I really think if you choose to have kids you should pay attention to them.

(photo: alexandra and i making cookies)

Exhaling from May

I hate May.

I think my aversion to May started when my dad died on May 22nd, 1996. Then there's my cheating college boyfriend's birthday in late May, which was a bittersweet reminder for years after our tumultuous breakup (for me,not for him). Mother's Day was also always bittersweet as for 30 years I wondered, on Mother's Day, where my biological mom was and if she was thinking of me. Then there's May of 2006 when I started bleeding the day I turned 12 weeks of our first pregnancy and realized (although in total denial at the same time) that the baby was dead. Several of my close friends have also lost parents in May, and each time this parental loss occurs it punctuates the loss of my father. And then there was the year Eric died (see prior post)...A couple days before I was literally at work lamenting my hatred for May to a coworker who had lost her mom in May, saying, "Thank god May's almost over--this year nothing has happened." Then Eric died May 31st. Goddammit. I felt like I had jinxed it. Effin' May.

T. S. Eliot may say that April is the cruelest month, but I beg to differ. For me, it's May.

You can imagine my surprise this year when May slipped by soundlessly. I usually suffer a few crying breakdowns in May, but when I looked at the calendar this weekend I was surprised to see that it was Eric's anniversary, and minus thinking of him a lot, I had successfully made it through the month.

But what really shocked me is that this was the first year I have not greatly felt the loss of my dad in May. Don't get me wrong, I feel the loss constantly, especially as I am about to have a son. But it didn't resonate with me in May this year--May 22nd came and went, and I literally forgot it. Then I felt somewhat guilty, then I realized that it's just life moving me forward.

And while I'm still feeling a sense of relief that it's June 1st, I have to admit that May was pretty okay this year. (I'm only saying this out loud b/c it's over...)