An Education...

A week ago I said to Sharon, “It puts the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.” Sharon stared at me blankly while I went, “Come on! You know where that’s from.” She didn’t know. I harangued her, “It puts the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again!” She patiently said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I got louder: “IT PUTS THE LOTION ON ITS SKIN, OR ELSE IT GETS THE HOSE AGAIN!” She said, “It doesn’t matter if you shout, I don’t know where that’s from!” I followed her into the dining room, “It puts the lotion….” She said, “I’m sorry you don’t have somebody who would know what you’re quoting right now.”

4 years ago, I would have quoted that movie and Greg would have gotten it, appreciated it, and topped it with a better one.

3 years ago, I would have quoted that movie, burst into tears, and locked myself in the bathroom.

2 years or a year ago I would have quoted that movie, pretended I was listening to a clever response, and then cackled wildly and inappropriately, prompting everyone around me to ask softly and oh-so-gently, “Are you sure you’re doing okay? Are you really okay?”

Now I quoted the movie, forced Sharon to listen to a gory retelling, and moved on- feeling grateful that I was well-educated cinematically and knowing that I could appreciate the joke all by myself.

Nobody can take away my history. I’m grateful for the fantastic movies I’ve seen, my appreciation of good pizza, my fondness for coffee, my political awareness, and my good heart. I’m glad to be the girl that people come to for book recommendations. I can hold my own in a conversation about the mafia, baseball, and Irish history. I know good music. I have comedic timing. I leave good tips in restaurants.

Yes, my dad still had so much more to teach me and share with me, and it is fucked up and frightening and unfair that he is gone, but I can’t dwell there anymore. I’m grateful for what I got.  I got a dad that worked hard to be a good man. I had a father who made me feel special and important, but also humble. My father wasn’t cruel or careless. I will always know without a shadow of a doubt that my dad loves me.

Just think: some kids have dads that don’t EVER warm up their pajamas in the dryer on cold nights, and then tuck the pajamas into their sweatshirt to keep the warmth all the way back into the house. Some dads haven’t EVER picked up their daughter from the airport in the middle of the night or played hours of baseball with their son or obsessed over their son-in-law’s Christmas presents. Some dads don’t even KNOW that their daughter’s favorite candy is red vines and their son’s favorite donuts are plain cake.  Some dads have NEVER bought their daughter an extravagant suede coat for a bitter New York winter!

Daddio, 3 years later and we miss you and love you.

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

(above quote by ee cummings)

So I had a minor revelation while I was listening to Springsteen's "Merry Xmas Baby" and cooking up some weird-ass hippie shit to make my family eat tomorrow. Thanksgiving is one of those holidays where I don't think I've had one since I was 17 that I didn't miss somebody. Family or friends or lovers, someone has always been missing, even on the happiest days.

I have joyful memories of being young and madly in love in New York, hosting Orphan Thanksgiving with a posse of friends and a sexy husband- dinners with no turkey and everyone getting lit up like Christmas trees on red wine. Those were wonderful nights, but I always missed my family back in California. Then we moved back to LA and the pangs of nostalgia were for my friends back in NY, even as I loved rediscovering the LA zoo, eating my mama's mashed potatoes, and sitting around my sister-in-law's table making fun of K's Tofurkey. The bigger my family got, the more friends I made and kept, the more experiences I gained; the less likely it was that I would spend a holiday with every single person I loved. Now of course, first and foremost among the missing is Greg.

Here's the long-promised revelation: there's always going to be someone missing, no matter what. That's the price you pay for living a big joyful life with many people you love, and that love you. If I wished away the feeling of missing Greg so badly, maybe it would only work if I also loved him less. If I could really truly fit every single person I care about into a standard sized dining room- well now, that would make me quite the sad sack, no? Thanksgiving is not about having all those people in front of my face; it's about carrying them in my heart.

This year I'm going to try very hard to really truly practice gratitude- no caveats. I am grateful for the love I have, the wonderful people I know and have known, my health, my shelter, my incredible profession.

I'm grateful that I'm feeling so prolific this week, ha!

Just dropping a line....

I have a confession to make. I've been feeling guilty about not keeping up with the blog.The deeper into teaching I delve, the more my writing becomes a black fist squeezing my heart in the middle of the night when I realize I haven't written a thing but lesson plans in weeks.I'm scared about forgetting my dad. Not forgetting him as a person exactly, but forgetting to catalogue my heart. I'm afraid if I don't write here as much, it means I'm getting better- and getting better only gets me farther away from him.

The pendulum swings once and I say, I'm guilty, I'm thoughtless, I'm a bad daughter and a shallow person because I don't always feel the drive anymore, to write it all down. The pendulum swings back and I say, fuck it, nobody reads the blog anymore, nobody cares, nothing will bring him back. But in the end, as usual, a wise Dutch lady gave me some good advice: "If not writing is bothering you that much, you'll do something about it."

So here it is. I think about him, dream about him, and miss Greg more often than I ever have the time to write about. I'm tired and I'm overwhelmed and sometimes I'm deeply sad, but teaching is gratifying. This isn't going to be one of the posts that makes your heart sink (with Irish melancholy)....or sing (with Dutch enthusiasm). It's just a couple of thoughts to remind me of.....to remind me.

This week I taught my students the expression, "I don't chew my cabbage twice," which I told them my dad used to say to me. After a bit of trial and error, we figured out that it means repeating herself makes Mrs. Rodriguez shoot angry lasers from her eyeballs. One of the students gleefully shouted "That's an idiom!" Thank you thank you thank you, they ARE learning something. Reminder from my dad never to talk down to children, whether it's academic vocabulary or idiomatic expressions- they get a sense of pride and accomplishment from rising to my level.

Second way Greg's in the classroom with me: we've gotten into the habit of 2 minute physical activity as a transition between math and language arts. An hour is a long time to ask 9 year olds to sit. We've tried dancing, stretching, and jumping jacks, all of which have been moderately successful- but they love nothing as much as they love shadowboxing. It's been a week or so and they've figured out that my right is their left, and we're slowly learning the vocabulary. I feel my dad at my shoulder as I call out, "Jab, jab, right cross, hook, uppercut." He's laughing in the corner when I show them what happens when you drop your hands between punches. He's proud of me like I'm proud of my kids when they work an imaginary speedbag.

Maybe I should be grateful that teaching keeps me busier than grieving did. Maybe it's okay to resent getting better; maybe it's all part of the same journey.  But it's okay to be sad, and it's also okay to not write here again for awhile. I don't need to document every thought I have about my dad- he's documented in how I live, how I love, the person I am everyday.

And he and I are always gonna make terrific sparring partners.

He loved me, you loved him, and I ADORE all of you!

Greg was working some kind of magic this past week from somewhere out there. 

Let me back up a little. I have big hopes and dreams for my first classroom after 3 years of language intervention, but what I don't have is the materials to make those dreams come true. That's where my lovely family, friends, and fine folks came rushing in like the educational cavalry. A lot of you I'm lucky enough to have in my life because of Greg, and you honor him with your contributions. Some of you never met my dad, but if you like me then you'd love him, because he's a huge part of how I became the person and educator that I am- so you're honoring him too. If I accidentally overlooked you, or if you were called to this blog for another reason, you can see what I'm talking about here:
http://www.donorschoose.org/we-teach/1025908?active=true

When I moved to New York to follow my bliss at 21 years old, I have such a strong memory of my dad taking me to buy my first real suit. "For job interviews," he said, "so you can look as good as you feel." The past couple of weeks have been bittersweet as I've imagined how he would have supported me in this new phase of my career. When I was checking my address book to send the email asking for help in my classroom, my heart gave a stutter-stop at Greg's name. I still can't bring myself to delete his address.

The universe has sent me some hard knocks the past couple years, but every time I think I'm drowning, another wave of love washes me ashore. Sometimes it feels like teaching is all that's held me together at the roughest times. I am so grateful for this job, and I am so grateful to all of YOU!

My students & I look forward to making you proud, and taking pride in ourselves on this amazing journey. Thank you so much again for the outpouring of funds, well-wishes, and encouragement. Somewhere out there, an Irish pops is sending an elbow to the head.

And time goes marching on....

Happy Birthday, Greg Suddeth- today you would be 58 years old. On your birthday in 2008, we were sitting around the table outside when I got my very first job as a teacher. You were very proud and not at all surprised. This year for your birthday, I got another gift. After 3 rewarding, challenging, and wonderful years as a reading intervention specialist, this year I'll be teaching 4th grade in my very own classroom. I know that once again you're proud, and not at all surprised.

Some days I'm okay, and other days I still feel utterly lost. It never helps to say "My situation could be so much worse," because it could also be so much better. I can't look around and say "There but for the grace of God go I...." because someone somewhere with her dad by her side is saying that very thing about me. A smart guy once told me, "It is what it is, and it will be what it will be." He was even able to say it about his own impending exit from the world. Now I need to start living by the same words.

It's so hard to accept what I never want to accept, to be courageous when I feel cowardly, to be wise when I feel like a fool. But Daddy, I'm trying.

Happy Birthday Greg, and I love you.

Sometimes it's the little things

I've been using my summer vacation to catch up on television; namely, on Project Runway. I'm in the middle of season 8 so I'm way behind, but no spoilers please! Sometimes parents do amazing huge things for their kids, but sometimes it's the smallest gestures that make a kid feel loved and safe and okay with the world. A TV show about snarky designers and fashion-forward aesthetic and backbiting models makes me miss my dad.

My fascination with Project Runway started in New York. I'd never watched a reality show before, but I got hooked thanks to some of my fashionable friends. Every Wednesday night, we would pick up pizza and beer, throw together a salad, and sprawl out on somebody's bed or couch or futon to watch that week's episode and talk with our mouths full and rail against the judges. It was one of the most fun communal television experiences that I've had.

When Cesar and I moved back to CA from New York, we didn't have a television and I didn't have many friends, so I dvr'd Project Runway at my parents' house to keep up with the current season. There I was, flopped pathetically on the couch about to watch another episode solo even though I'd long since figured out it's less fun to make catty comments and laugh hysterically with no one there to hear you. In strolled Greg, cupcakes and pink milk in hand, and he simply said, "Are we ready to watch Project Runway?"

Even though Greg felt that reality television was the bane of an acting existence, and even though Greg thought that Heidi Klum talked suspiciously like Elmer Fudd, and even though Greg didn't know his taffeta from his chiffon, we bonded over PR. (It helped that he absolutely loved Tim Gunn, who reminded him of a beloved theatre colleague.) He gamely critiqued designs and argued with the judges, because he knew that I needed a fashionable pal.

It takes a certain kind of father to watch a show with his daughter about which he personally doesn't give a shit, and it takes a certain kind of father to know that some teenage girls really need to see Breakfast at Tiffany's, and it takes a certain kind of father to know his kid well enough to appreciate her interests, even when they aren't his own. I'm lucky to have that kind of father.

So, Greg: isn't Gretchen the biggest bitch ever? And wasn't that one dress totally atrocious? And do you really think Casanova deserved to win that challenge, or was it a pity prize from the judges?

Thanks for keeping company with me, Pop. Love you......

Let Us Now Praise Famous Women.

Happy Father's Day to the dearest of daddios! So I love writing the blog, and I hope that you enjoy reading it, but we all know that it’s not really reaching the intended audience (unless there’s bandwidth in Heaven). Greg already knew most of the stuff I write about, but I miss telling it to him in a way that I know he’s getting. With that in mind, let’s have a special shout-out to the lady of the house, while she’s around to enjoy it!

Obviously Sharon picked an awesome fellow to make babies with- look at the stunning, (modest, humble) results of that double endeavor. Therefore, today’s blog entry is all about the Mama.

Lovin’ all up on Mama Sharon (in no particular order):

#1 Smart Cookie- she keeps her head when all about her are losing theirs. Sharon manages to be very very intelligent without being a smug little bitch about it, and I’m so glad she encouraged me to always be proud of my smarts. She packed me off to college without telling me what to study or then devaluing my creative writing degree. Instead of pointing out that I wasn’t exactly going to graduate with a plethora of job offers, she was proud of me for following my passion.

#2 Long before the Obamas were playing Roses & Thorns around the dinner table, Sharon asked every day, “What was the best part of your day and the worst part of your day?” As a kid I adored it; even a teenager rolling her eyes at the cheesy set-up loved being asked about her life in a general, non-threatening, non-specific way. This lady is a very good communicator: with adults, with kids, with everyone. She has sass, but she still lets you know she cares.

#3 Haaaaaawt mama! Do I need to say this again? Sharon is a beautiful, beautiful lady. Loooooooooong legs and a sense of style. I’m reassured just watching her age- I’ve got some GOOD genes on my side.

#4 She champions her loved ones in everything they do. Greg was the best playwright in LA. When I was a writer, I was the best (female) writer in the house. When I became a teacher, then I was the best teacher those kids are ever gonna have. Dillon is the best singer to tackle ‘God Bless America” and Lucy & Mickey are the best-looking dogs on the block. The force of her confidence makes it feel true, and the feeling of truth makes everyone work harder to fulfill her expectations.

#5 Earth mama deluxe- I don’t know how else to say it, but the lady just emits a glow. Sharon makes everyone around her feel good. I know the serenity was hard-won and the mellow wasn’t innate, but nothing feels more natural as she matures. She welcomes everyone into her home, and her heart. Everyone loves being in her life. There’s no higher compliment.

Love youse, mama Sharon and daddio Greg!

A Daddy That's All Ours

I had the pleasure of spending last Sunday with some lovely friends and their lovely kiddos. En route from one spot to the next, my friend L and her four year old daughter E and I passed the time by playing storyteller in the car. Seeing as L and I got a little distracted talking about grownup stuff, E became petulant and interjected, “I have a daddy and he’s all mine.” I turned around and playfully answered, “Well I’ve got a daddy too and he’s almost all mine.” She retorted, “My daddy’s still alive.”

Zing! No comeback there.

She got me to thinking though. I’ve got a daddy and between me and Dillon, he’s all ours. We have a daddy in the sense that everyone’s got a daddy (and a mama too) because we’re humans and not insects, and so it takes two to tango. However, I have a daddy and I also knew him and he raised me, which is already more lucky than a lot of kids. What’s more, he’s dead but he’s still there. And not in some haunting metaphysical checking-up-on-me-from-Heaven way, but because he helped make me who I am.

He’s there with me when I hunch over the keyboard, trying to crank out some words that sound good and mean something all at the same time. He’s there when I drive the back roads fast, late at night, cool breezes pouring in through the window. He’s also there when I work with my students and they write me letters at the end of the year that say, My heart doesn’t want you to go. He’s there when I take pleasure in fine storytelling, theatrically or cinematically or in a novel. He’s in the roaring fan that lulls me and Dillon to sleep. He’s there for the inside jokes and the shorthand and the lyrical turns of phrases. And he's there when I say please and thank you. Especially, he’s there when I’m kind and when I’m generous.

Of course, it’s not all rosy. He’s also there when I lose my temper and slam shit against the wall, and when I drink too much because I’m sad. He’s in the insomnia that grips me in the night, and the Irish melancholy that grips me at odd hours.

He’s there in my victories and in my flaws. He’s there because he made me, he taught me, and he released me to be my own person.

Oh Daddy, my heart doesn't want you to go.

Do they play Blackjack in Heaven?

So I'm one of those teachers who believes in letting my students see my human side (rather than having them believe that I sleep under my desk and wash in the kindergarten bathrooms). I truly believe that opening up to students and letting them open up to me enriches their academic experiences and teaches them valuable social skills....of course, sometimes I land in sticky situations as a result.

During testing, I work with students that have small-group testing environments mandated in their IEPs. Since we are a smaller group, we often finish early, but students can't be released back to their classrooms until recess. In order to pass the time, I bring puzzles, coloring books, beach balls, and cards. Today I was playing War with one of my students to pass the time (and help with his number sense). As I was shuffling he commented, "Cool! Who taught you to do that?" This is where the conversation went from there:

Student: "Cool! Who taught you to do that?"
Me: "My dad taught me."
Student: "That was nice of him. So your dad likes to play cards with you?"
Me: "Yep, we used to play cards to pass the time when I was home sick from school."
Student: "How come your mom didn't stay home with you?"
Me: "Well, my mom is a nurse and my dad was a writer, so it was easier for him to stay home."
Student: "Where's your dad now?"
Me: "Ummmmm....are you ready to play?"
Student: "So where is he?"
Me: "...."
Student: "Is he at home?"
Me: "Actually, he doesn't live here anymore. My dad died."
Student: "Oh, that's a sad thing....That's really sad. I'm sorry that happened to you."
Me: "Thank you."
Student: "Are you ready to play now?"

I've almost always been able to head off this question in the past, or change the subject, but this time my mind just went blank. I'm always petrified of traumatizing a student or creating a huge fear for his own parents or accidentally being the introduction to the concept of death. For some reason though, I felt like this particular student was really asking. He didn't want to let it go, and I couldn't bring myself to lie. Strangely enough, his reaction as a little buddy was so cleansing for me. He was so very sincere and thoughtful. Asking the question, genuinely hearing the answer, acknowledging my loss, and then refusing to dwell on it- one of the most appropriate expressions of grief I've received in the past 2 years.

Once again, I think I'm helping my students, and instead they help me.

All Signs Point to Greg

“What I want- what’s most important to me- is that I have a guarantee. No more attempts on my father’s life.”

That is what I wrote on the card that I sent after my dad’s heart attack in 2006. Greg was someone who always appreciated a carefully chosen perfectly appropriate (inappropriate) quote. Thanks to a generous donor, I was able to fly to LA for St. Patrick’s Day in 2006, after missing a few years of parties. It was the first time I’d seen Greg since the awful phone call about driving himself to the hospital while having a heart attack (goddamn stubborn bull!). I was so fuckin’ fiercely grateful to hang on my daddy’s arm during the wearin’ o’ the green.

All those March 17ths were kind of strange anomalies in Greg’s personality. He was a kind and thoughtful man, and certainly he appreciated his good friends, but he wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. Those are the nights I remember seeing him shine, leaning up against the kitchen counter looking handsome and catching up with a pal. The famous Suddeth St. Paddy’s celebration has undergone many permutations, from sedate dinner party, to family fun fest, to gangbusters booze-o-rama, and everywhere in between. Guest lists have swelled and shrunk. Then in 2009 there was a wake. Then 2010 was a year of quiet. And now the party is back and it will be different, but this year it feels better to have a different party than not to have one at all. Greg’s not the only one who will never step through the door again (I also miss you, Jenise F, Mark G, Mort L, Liz C). I know that I’ll miss Greg shooting the shit in the kitchen, or smoking in the backyard, or eating standing up, but I’m grateful for the memories.

One of the wilder years, there was a crowd of friends-of-friends that didn’t know what time to leave. The party’s an open invitation and always has been, but that year some folks forgot to take their friends home with them. Turning off the music didn’t work, putting away the booze didn’t work, gentle nudges toward the door didn’t work. You know what worked? When Greg came out the back door with a prop M-16 from one of his plays. It became a running gag of how to end a party.

I remember a different night very late, when we were picking forks out of the plants and pouring beers down the sink and Greg commented, “An alcoholic would never be able to understand why so many people leave half-full drinks laying around the house.” It was that kind of character observation that made my dad an excellent writer. It’s that kind of sharp eye that I aspire to have.

There was also the year that Suddeths far and wide blew into town (Greg’s brother Gary, sister-in-law Vicki, and niece Molly) to see what all the fuss was about. Greg and Gary sang some of the same Irish songs I was used to hearing as lullabies. Those boys sure could carry a tune….

Of course on top of my memories of parties past, Greg’s wake 2 years ago is on my mind as well. The haze is past and I just want to say again that I am so grateful for all that everyone did and said and was. You held Greg’s daughter together. You honored his memory in so many ways.

It’s shocking that he’s been gone for 2 years- when I let myself think it. The Irish melancholy held a grip on my life for a long long time, but slowly the peace in me is beginning to re-emerge. Just because Greg lost his mom young and I lost my dad young doesn’t mean that I need to repeat my dad’s mistakes in order to keep him in my life- I don’t need to be angry or drunk or afraid to prove I still grieve for him. I’ve figured out that it isn’t disloyal to survive- even to thrive- even to be joyful. However I keep going without my dad is between me and him, and it’s nobody’s business but our own.

Sláinte, da.