As I get older, I've been taking giving thanks more and more seriously. As life gets more complex, more difficult, and less forgiving -- it becomes all the more pressing to spend time focusing on the good in one's life. Even if that success is just the mortar between bricks of shit in a wall that continues up past the desiccated fields and then onward, up and over the horizon.
I'm thankful to be here this Thanksgiving. Here in time. I'm thankful it isn't last year. I'm thankful to have been provided more students to engage and educate. I'm thankful that this academic process continues to be reciprocal and energizing.
I'm thankful to know who I can turn to for support. I have recommitted to those that are committed to me. My friendships feel reciprocal, even if I'm still gun shy after my experiences in the past few years. Recently, there have been moments when I experience spontaneous joy in a way that I thought I'd lost forever, not too long ago.
I'm thankful that my work keeps me focused on systematic inequalities in a way that promotes my constant empathy. Being empathetic takes work. And practice. It's all too easy to write off those who are less fortunate, or even just different than you, because you have a head full of tasks that you have to get done today, and not enough hours in the day to complete them. When your day is spent instilling empathy as a mindset to young adults - it becomes near impossible to deny the humanity in every person I come across. And I'm thankful for those reminders.
I'm thankful for dogs. All dogs. Especially my dogs. Talk about empathy. These dogs have cuddled me when I was down, and forced me to exercise for my own health, even when the couch was warm and incredibly inviting. Grover's fur has absorbed my tears and Falcor's tongue has cleaned their tracks directly from my eyes until I couldn't help but break out in a giggle fit. And that isn't even touching on the love that swells inside me when I scratch their bellies or rest my forehead on the soft wrinkles of their massive foreheads. I'm so thankful to dogs. And a few friendly cats that I'm making acquaintance with get some special mentions here. I'm not saying I'm a cat person - but I do see now that some cats are pretty cool. Pretty cool indeed.
My wife. Oh my wife. So much thanks. I am eternally grateful for the honesty in our relationship. And I guess, in the same way, the trust that we can be honest with each other and that unconditionally, it will be ok. And to be clear, I'm NOT saying that our relationship is perfect. Far from it, if there is such a thing as "it" in the first place. But, I think we both follow the advice my Dad once gave me during a particularly hard time. He said, "If you can't trust and be open with the person you chose to spend your life with, well then, you're really fucked." I continue to be thankful for said advice. I think he's right.
And while this isn't a complete list, lastly, I'm glad I'm writing this all down here on my blog. A place I am actively working on re-inhabiting. As I wrote many years ago, a writer writes because it is in them, a part of their nature. To not write causes a blockage in the system where a backlog of ideas and emotions clog up my headspace, waiting to be thrown down on a page and made real.
The past few years have been, well, surreal. And, uncoincidentally, silent.
Now it's time to reclaim the narrative as I begin replanting my roots in the greater Boston area, and begin to tell my story once again.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thanks Giving 2019
Sunday, December 1, 2019 | 0 Comment(s)
Friday, May 13, 2016 | 0 Comment(s)
I always get a mini-rush before writing a piece on parenting just imagining of all the people with children who will read it and think, "This shithead doesn't even have kids, how can he pretend to know anything about parenting?" No punchline here, I just enjoy the rush.
Before I get to the heat of the meat and talk about parenting, I first want to talk a bit about marketing. I saw this image on Facebook today.
Before I get to the heat of the meat and talk about parenting, I first want to talk a bit about marketing. I saw this image on Facebook today.
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| I'm sure there is a Snopes.com article about how this is not a real poster, not a real train, and not a real person, but, the points still remains. |
This poster succinctly draws attention to the relationship between how bad you feel about yourself, and the money you are told to spend to correct those "problems." Of course, often it is the same companies publishing articles about thigh gaps, extra long lashes, push-up bras, and powder supplements that are stacking your money as you attempt to measure up. This profit cycle, for the most part, goes interrupted . . . until parenthood.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)
After elementary school on Tuesdays, my friend Nicole and I
walked together the quarter mile to her family's house. Just a pair of Jewish 9-year-olds
cruising down the middle of a rarely travelled side street, on our way to our
weekly play date.
Nine times out of ten, the Nintendo was involved when
celebrating those parent-free moments before Nicole's mom took us to Hebrew
school. I still have vivid
memories of tapping at the floor like maniacs, stretching for the finish line
of Power Pad's maiden release: Track and Field. When we got too sweaty, we would switch over to Ice Hockey
or Double Dribble. Those 16-bit
competitions soon led to an adolescence playing sports together.
In little league, Nicole and I were on the same team: The
Italian American Club. All the
teams were sponsored and named after local businesses (no MLB Trademark
infringements here). Perhaps they mistook us for Italian. We were just thankful we weren't on
Burger King, which was an actual team name, even though they were the perennial
champs. Must have been the special
sauce.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)
When I was growing up, I did not use the downstairs bathroom. Ever. That was the guest bathroom, and it was only for guests.
On any given day, this no poop zone was no big deal. Our bathroom, that is to say, my brother and my bathroom, was just at the top of the carpeted stairs. And for all 17 years I lived there (post pooping in my pants), I managed that cushy climb to the toilet.
I never fully grasped why the downstair hall bathroom held such a place of esteem in my parents' eyes. It isn't a special bathroom. Don't get me wrong, I love the geometric wallpaper and the late 80's decoration sensibility, but it undeniably cramped and doesn't even have a tub.
To be clear, it wasn't only that you didn't go to the bathroom in the guest toilet. You didn't go in the room. You didn't wash your hands in the sink. You didn't dry your hands on the towels that were forever hung to rest on two metal rungs. And you sure and shit didn't throw anything in the trash can provided under the sink. Blow your nose elsewhere son.
It was a long time before I started to realize the dynamic behind our vacuum-sealed bathroom. The guest bathroom was a show room. A room you provided off-handedly for visitors to use that was secretly the most well-coifed, curated spot in the joint. The main utility of the guest bathroom was to give off the impression that this little area was a microcosm of the entire house. That is to say, the entire estate was immaculate and neat -- as if no one had set foot in there either. The guest bathroom was a lie that said, "We've got our shit together . . ." and possibly the, ". . .way more together than you!" addendum.
Thursday, September 18, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)
When I was a kid my dad spoke Elvish on the phone all the time.
I didn't know it was Elvish back then, I was little. But the coded messages he dictated into the receiver certainly weren't English, and by the time I read The Hobbit in middle school I became fairly certain that it was Elvish he was speaking.
That helped me understand why he'd get up from the middle of a family dinner, traditionally a punishable no-no, to go chat in tongues upstairs in his bedroom. The Elf people were a highborn race and not to be kept waiting. I figured my father must be a very important human to consult with a race known for their legendary hesitancy to interact with the sons and daughters of Men.
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| "Get me the human father on the line" |
Wednesday, July 30, 2014 | 2 Comment(s)
Let's go back. Back in time. I am a wise-ass, tightly wound, over-achieving high school student. My dad, at that time, is a tightly wound oncologist who hates, above all, being interrupted by telemarketers. Especially during dinner.
Context. This is a time when cellphones don't exist and the constant interruption from phones was not yet the norm. This is before caller ID and knowing ahead of time not to pick up an "Unknown Number." Especially during dinner.
And so, when my father did, on occasion, pick up the phone to find a well-enunciating young man or woman asking him personal questions with no lead in, or telling him about the marvel that is so-and-so running for lieutenant governor, he let em have it. There were definitely a few different tactics that he employed. There was the pointed dressing down, where the fact that he wasn't screaming made it all the worse. And then there were the more seldom, but much more fun to watch "sprint and slams." These are where he says one line about the fuckery that is calling people during their family meals and then says BYE! and slams down the phone.
Context. Now, when i say 'slams down the phone', I don't mean an iPhone was thrown down on a table. This is way back when phones had two pieces, the base and the receiver . . . AND THEY WERE CONNECTED TO EACH OTHER! And there was this wonderful empowering feeling that could be had by violently returning the receiver to the base, thus ending the call with a slamming sound on the other end. the bases were pretty much built for that impact. These were the good ol days i tell yah.
Monday, July 14, 2014 | 2 Comment(s)
I have one remaining grandparent. I say that now facing down the fact that it is a truth about to be erased. My incomparable Grandma Rita is in the waning moments of her raging river of a life, and while it will be cathartic, in time, to tell tales of her deeds and accomplishments. I'm gonna take this moment to do it one more time, in life:
Grandma Rita was the only person in my immediate family growing up that smoked. For those people that grew up in a time where smoking made you look "healthy" and "strong," it was a very gradual transition into stigmatization. First there were pro-smoking billboards. Then no smoking ads on TV. Next, smoking may cause cancer. It may be related to lung specific cancers. Later, much later, those became facts. And then, much later after that, they became facts that were accepted by the population and media as truths. And like a frog put in a pot of lukewarm water that is slowly brought to a boil, until the bitter end, the stigma was never stronger than the addiction . . . until they were "hopelessly" addicted and had spent multiple decades inside that boiling pot. Then they got the news it was killing them all along.
My Grandma Rita got the news it was killing her one day about 20 years ago. All those cigarettes, which to me growing up i associated as part of her identity, had caused some damage to one of her lungs. Eventually, it would require surgery.
Grandma Rita was the only person in my immediate family growing up that smoked. For those people that grew up in a time where smoking made you look "healthy" and "strong," it was a very gradual transition into stigmatization. First there were pro-smoking billboards. Then no smoking ads on TV. Next, smoking may cause cancer. It may be related to lung specific cancers. Later, much later, those became facts. And then, much later after that, they became facts that were accepted by the population and media as truths. And like a frog put in a pot of lukewarm water that is slowly brought to a boil, until the bitter end, the stigma was never stronger than the addiction . . . until they were "hopelessly" addicted and had spent multiple decades inside that boiling pot. Then they got the news it was killing them all along.
My Grandma Rita got the news it was killing her one day about 20 years ago. All those cigarettes, which to me growing up i associated as part of her identity, had caused some damage to one of her lungs. Eventually, it would require surgery.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014 | 0 Comment(s)
My grandfather-in-law passed away a week ago last Sunday. And while I only had the privilege of his company for the past six years, he left an indelible mark on both my heart and my life.
In a multitude of ways, James Grew Wheeler was lucky. The man I always knew as "Gramp" (and not Gramps, James, or godforbidyoucalledhim 'Sir') lived until the age of 90 at his home outside Boston with the love of his life, Emlen. They've been married for over 65 years. And to say that Gramp had his wits about him until his last day would be to understate how brazen and brilliant the man was. I have a video of him dancing a jig with my wife a few weeks ago during his 90th birthday celebration.
But in many more ways, I was lucky to have Gramp. Not having had the pleasure of knowing my biological grandfathers, I am forthright about the fact that I have an elderly-man shaped hollow in my emotional lexicon. A few mentors have spent moments filling portions of that negative space, most notably a brilliant and caring professor from back when I was an undergraduate. But gaps as vast as missing relatives almost never get filled, especially as I got older and the number of senior men in my life became comparatively less abundant.
In a multitude of ways, James Grew Wheeler was lucky. The man I always knew as "Gramp" (and not Gramps, James, or godforbidyoucalledhim 'Sir') lived until the age of 90 at his home outside Boston with the love of his life, Emlen. They've been married for over 65 years. And to say that Gramp had his wits about him until his last day would be to understate how brazen and brilliant the man was. I have a video of him dancing a jig with my wife a few weeks ago during his 90th birthday celebration.
But in many more ways, I was lucky to have Gramp. Not having had the pleasure of knowing my biological grandfathers, I am forthright about the fact that I have an elderly-man shaped hollow in my emotional lexicon. A few mentors have spent moments filling portions of that negative space, most notably a brilliant and caring professor from back when I was an undergraduate. But gaps as vast as missing relatives almost never get filled, especially as I got older and the number of senior men in my life became comparatively less abundant.
Monday, December 9, 2013 | 4 Comment(s)
Dear Clark,
I don't have one specific memory of your father. This is partially because our time spent over Martin Luther King weekends in DC were awash with such torrents of laughter, picking one guffaw from the bunch doesn't do justice to the magic of those weekends. Yes, I saw your father dressed up as a French maid. And yes, it was a very confusing moment for me, because when your father put his mind to it, he could be a gorgeous looking woman. Stunning really.
What I do remember about Scotty, over and above everything else, was his open-mouthed smile. When you father laughed, it could not be contained inside his body. Every little chuckle moved him thoroughly enough to cause his head to fly back, allowing safe passage for the musicality of his forthcoming laughter. And he laughed. He laughed so much. With everyone.
Clark, I want you to know that your father was special. Not only because he is your father who saw you as his moon and stars (your mother is his sun, btw), but because of how he chose to live. Your father saw the potential for both greatness and great fun inside everyone he met. And he went after it. Instead of poking and prodding in the darkness, looking for the soft and broken pieces inside us all, you father cheered and supported whatever nugget of pride he could pan from his soon to be new friend's emotional river. Before you knew it, the two of you would be upstairs together, sorting through theatrical presentations of second-hand clothes, dreamscapes of ultimate frisbee on bicycles, and laughter-mobiles hung with hugs and cuddling. Your father was special because in a world filled with darkness and hate, he needed sunglasses to keep all the positivity he perceived from burning his eyes.
Clark, Scotty cut a path through this life armed only with his openness to joy. Where others find comfort in the cul-de-sac of what they already know, your father raced forward on the idea that there might be something so unbelievably beautiful and new and previously undiscovered just over in the next town; so we better get a move on cause there isnt time to wait. It was inspiring to watch. His unmistakable lust for life influenced others, myself included. Watching the ease with which your father negotiated the commonplace anxieties that I so often allow to ruin my otherwise perfectly good days, made me rethink the immense power of positivity. I worry less because I knew your dad. I can't think of a higher compliment.
Clark. A lot of people are going to tell you your dad was goofy. And he was. What I want you to know is that goofy is one of those words we use to describe people who have unburdened themselves of unreasonable expectations. Someone who is not merely content, but ecstatically enthusiastic at the prospect of having today, no matter what that reality may be. Clark, your father was thankful every day I knew him, just for the opportunity to be there, with you or me or whomever -- for that moment in time.
Clark. When I heard your father passed away, it was a profoundly sad moment. There were, and still are, a good deal of tears to be shed. I'm sure you're seeing this a lot at the moment. From me, I want you to know that I am not sad for your father. I am so endlessly proud of him. He lived a life electric. He projected every atom of that existence outward, and in doing so gained the love of the universe.
Clark, your dad was a superhero. No cape, no X-ray vision, but an unparalleled ability to love. And while my tears attempt to form both the flowing river and the raft on which you could spend endless summers floating serenely with your father, I take some measure of solace knowing that he gave you his greatest gift of all. Cause when I see you in those pictures, smile so wide your mouth just has to open, I know that Scotty poured all of that ultra-condensed super-powered love into you big guy. He gave you the smile he knew the world still needs.
I don't have one specific memory of your father. This is partially because our time spent over Martin Luther King weekends in DC were awash with such torrents of laughter, picking one guffaw from the bunch doesn't do justice to the magic of those weekends. Yes, I saw your father dressed up as a French maid. And yes, it was a very confusing moment for me, because when your father put his mind to it, he could be a gorgeous looking woman. Stunning really.
What I do remember about Scotty, over and above everything else, was his open-mouthed smile. When you father laughed, it could not be contained inside his body. Every little chuckle moved him thoroughly enough to cause his head to fly back, allowing safe passage for the musicality of his forthcoming laughter. And he laughed. He laughed so much. With everyone.
Clark, I want you to know that your father was special. Not only because he is your father who saw you as his moon and stars (your mother is his sun, btw), but because of how he chose to live. Your father saw the potential for both greatness and great fun inside everyone he met. And he went after it. Instead of poking and prodding in the darkness, looking for the soft and broken pieces inside us all, you father cheered and supported whatever nugget of pride he could pan from his soon to be new friend's emotional river. Before you knew it, the two of you would be upstairs together, sorting through theatrical presentations of second-hand clothes, dreamscapes of ultimate frisbee on bicycles, and laughter-mobiles hung with hugs and cuddling. Your father was special because in a world filled with darkness and hate, he needed sunglasses to keep all the positivity he perceived from burning his eyes.
Clark, Scotty cut a path through this life armed only with his openness to joy. Where others find comfort in the cul-de-sac of what they already know, your father raced forward on the idea that there might be something so unbelievably beautiful and new and previously undiscovered just over in the next town; so we better get a move on cause there isnt time to wait. It was inspiring to watch. His unmistakable lust for life influenced others, myself included. Watching the ease with which your father negotiated the commonplace anxieties that I so often allow to ruin my otherwise perfectly good days, made me rethink the immense power of positivity. I worry less because I knew your dad. I can't think of a higher compliment.
Clark. A lot of people are going to tell you your dad was goofy. And he was. What I want you to know is that goofy is one of those words we use to describe people who have unburdened themselves of unreasonable expectations. Someone who is not merely content, but ecstatically enthusiastic at the prospect of having today, no matter what that reality may be. Clark, your father was thankful every day I knew him, just for the opportunity to be there, with you or me or whomever -- for that moment in time.
Clark. When I heard your father passed away, it was a profoundly sad moment. There were, and still are, a good deal of tears to be shed. I'm sure you're seeing this a lot at the moment. From me, I want you to know that I am not sad for your father. I am so endlessly proud of him. He lived a life electric. He projected every atom of that existence outward, and in doing so gained the love of the universe.
Clark, your dad was a superhero. No cape, no X-ray vision, but an unparalleled ability to love. And while my tears attempt to form both the flowing river and the raft on which you could spend endless summers floating serenely with your father, I take some measure of solace knowing that he gave you his greatest gift of all. Cause when I see you in those pictures, smile so wide your mouth just has to open, I know that Scotty poured all of that ultra-condensed super-powered love into you big guy. He gave you the smile he knew the world still needs.
