Ballast

Cast off ballast

these rollicking seas threaten to upset

my sunken ship

too much of a good thing is never enough.

Wrote those lines a few weeks ago. Poem in progress. Life in progress. Recently I've been asked if I even want to get better, and I said yes, but inside I hesitated. What does it mean to let go? What of myself will I lose in healing? Is there serenity without emptiness? 

I've been at war with myself. I want to let go of the trauma of losing my dad, but I never want to forget Greg. I'm 30 years old, and the shine is off the romantic sulk. 

I used to think happy people were basically stupid. They watched happy movies, listened to happy music, lived happy lives. They didn't grapple with INTENSE FEELINGS, didn't think critically, didn't suffer for their art. I don't ever want to stop making art, but I'm also starting to think about the difference between "making art" and "living art." 

So now what? I won't make any promises, but I'm fairly certain this is my only ride on the Carousel of Life. Do I want to get better? 

 There's no tidy wrap up to this post, just question marks and sighs.....

Christmas in Heaven

And so it goes. 4 years ago, my dad died semi-unexpectedly. School ends on a Wednesday this year; I'm understanding and easygoing about furlough days in general, but it fucking stings to deal with December 19th and the last day of school before Christmas vacation all in one go. The last time those happened simultaneously was when Greg died.

I'm not gonna lie, these have been rough days. Last Friday's tragedy has laid heavy on my heart and filled me with loss. I couldn't stop thinking about those grieving families and the wrapped gifts in their closets that will never be opened by the intended hands. It brought back terrible memories of sitting on the floor, unwrapping my father's gifts myself that I'd bought and wrapped for him, tearing the paper into long thin strips and staring off into space. I wonder who's gonna deal with those presents- and I beat myself up for obsessing about something so frivolous in a time of such great sorrow.

It hasn't all been black dogs barking- we had a class meeting in which I told my kids, "I can't promise we're all going to always be safe. Nobody can make that promise. All I can promise you is that I will always do everything, EVERYTHING, that I can to keep you safe and to take care of you." And I grasped each small hand and said "Good Morning," like I always do, and I hugged them tight at the end of the day, and all the hours in between I rested my hand on their heads or squeezed their shoulders and smiled. Some of those kids waited alone all through that awful weekend for someone to reassure them, to hold them, to listen to them. They come from broken homes or neglectful families or shelters- I did my small part as their teacher, and in my head I was so very grateful for the love and reassurance I grew up with at home. I was grateful for my family and where I came from. And so I did the best I could for them, and I tried to take a little care of myself too.

It always comes back to letting go of anger, and injustice, and feeling grateful for what I've got and have had in my father. Lately I've been imagining a blue column of water inside myself, in my very center, and it's always there. It doesn't mean I'm not allowed to get angry or frustrated or sad- storms pass and the water roils- but I know the waves will calm and the darkness will fade and I will return to a state of peace. Peace is  always there inside me, while the other feelings come and go. 4 years later and I still love Greg and miss him so much. My heart goes out to those whose loss is still raw....

Onward, Obama!

4 years ago tonight, I was flailing around on a treadmill, panting and crying while watching the election returns at the YMCA because we didn’t have a tv at home. Then we drove around town, honking for the sheer joy of being part of an incredible, historical night. I talked to my parents on the phone and hugged strangers with glee. 4 years later, and it ain’t the same.

Almost four years out, and you start to feel safe, like you’re done with all the firsts- you’re over the worst of it. First birthday without him, first Christmas without him, first time you watch a movie without him, first time you eat a vanilla/vanilla cupcake without him. Of course, with timing and all, I didn’t think through that this would be the first presidential election without him. I didn’t think that far ahead.

Greg was politically-minded. He had an imaginary soapbox and he would take a pretend hop down after a rant. He enjoyed watching Rachel Maddow and arguing with Fox news anchors from his armchair. I loved talking politics with my dad, and I’ve missed his insights and attention to detail during this round of election bidness; but I’m still grateful for the analytic skills and interest that he passed on to me.

Thanks to a fabulous benefactress (Thank you Mrs. Sharon), my class receives Scholastic News magazines to keep up with current events. For the past couple of weeks, Room 20 has been Election Central as we read up on the candidates’ stances, re-enacted debates, watched videos online, and tackled tough vocabulary straight from the news. Some of the kids were pretty sure they knew how I felt, but I never came right out and confirmed or denied. I borrowed one of Greg’s lines, and every time they’d ask about my own beliefs, I’d reply: “It’s not my job to INFORM you so you can think like me- it’s my job to INSPIRE you to seek out information and take a stand of your own.”

To make the whole experience more personal, we were gearing up for a Class Presidential Election that also took place today. This morning at my polling place, I charmed one of the election officials into giving me enough “I voted” stickers for every student in my class. Last night I created ballots with all of the candidates, and a space to vote in the Presidential Election just for fun. Students created their own platforms, and a nomination process took place last week. There were debates, town hall meetings, and advertisements (construction paper posters, but whatever; some of those were still better made than the shit I’ve seen on tv these last few weeks). This morning, candidates had their final opportunity to make a speech and take a few questions, and the absolute quality, insight, and intelligence made my heart explode with pride (and occasionally made my face explode with laughter). Some examples:

• If elected, how will you support Mrs. Rodriguez on a daily basis?
• If you were the class president, what would you do if someone was falsely accused of being a bully?
• What is your stance on homework?
• How will you and your running mate handle disagreements?
• What is your position regarding cafeteria rules? 

And then there was the student who asked, “What inspired you to run for President?” and the candidate that answered, “I see a lot of room for improvement in this class- and I've got big plans!” And the candidate who promised there would be a lot more class parties if she is elected, only to be challenged by another candidate: “And who’s going to PAY for these parties? Parties cost MONEY! No new taxes!” Yes, this is really the language they used. I was so impressed (and amused)!

We’re still waiting to hear from the rest of the country, but in Room 20 I’m happy to announce that the Obama/Biden ticket won by a landslide. Voter turnout was 100% and apathy was nowhere in sight. Greg’s inspiration carries on in a new generation……

Another Trip Around the Sun...

This week I raced towards my 30th birthday like some 4th graders falling all over themselves to get at the bday popsicles. There were celebrations, brouhahas, phone calls and texts, quiet dinners and fancy dresses, and bowers of flowers. I made my latest trip around the sun in style.....and even so.....and even so.

One of my dark and moody boy-students shocked all hell out of me by bringing a helium balloon and a dozen crimson roses to school on Monday. The flowers were lovely, and much befitting a 30 year old grown woman, but it was the balloon that yanked at my heartstrings. Something Greg used to do, and I wondered if anyone at all would remember to do it this year, for such a big round birthday. The universe takes care of me in roundabout ways, sometimes.

Although I've always loved my birthday & never been the type to get melancholic or age-phobic, a lot of shit went down in my 20s and it was dramatic to say goodbye. It would have been easy to be blue.....however, it seems as though when you've lost someone too young, and too close, and it hurt too much- you're not allowed to lament any more trips around the sun. After all- what's the alternative? If I'm going to be self-indulgent, I'd rather it be an excess of celebration than an excess of self-pity.

I was awfully glad to get that balloon, though. Welcome, thirties! Many reasons for gratitude.....

Maybe Heaven (special appearance by Sean Penn)

I was in the New York kitchen, pouring a drink and ordering a pizza. The phone was ringing in my ear when Greg came in the door and started to talk. I tried surreptitiously to hang up and heard a vague “hello?” as I fumbled the phone. With his trademark irritation Greg waved me off and said, “No no, it’s alright, it’s not really important” in that tone that underlay that it was fucking important. I put the phone down and said, “I’m sorry Pop, you’ve got my undivided attention now. Tell me.” He told me he’d had a dream where he was dead.

Here’s the dream Greg told me within a dream (in first person, as that’s how it was related to me- voiceover with accompanying visuals- Greg is nothing if not cinematic, even in dreams- perhaps especially in dreams):

I was hitting the heavy bag. The tape was tight and my mind was finally blank. In walked Sean Penn and he said, “I’m here to talk about the muggings. “

I didn’t stop hitting the bag as I replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if I did know what you were talking about, I might say that it’s all in the family.”

Penn didn’t flinch as he stepped between me and the bag and I let my fists hang. Staring at him and knowing I was dead; I had a thought and said, “I’m not in Heaven, am I?”

“Those aren’t my manners,” he said. “Where do you think you are?”

“I don’t know. I guess maybe I’m still in a state halfway to grace.”

“So what’s the supposed Heaven?”

“Fuck if I know.”

That’s where the voiceover stopped and it was me and my dad in the New York Kitchen again. He stood over me and lifted my jaw so I’d look him right in the eyes. Holding my chin, he said, “Maybe Heaven is a gander at your daughter’s clear honest face. Maybe Heaven is a place you occasionally wander around inside yourself; that you always carry but can’t always find.”

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.....

Happy Fathers' Day, to all fathers everywhere. And I do  mean everywhere.....I woke up feeling grateful instead of sad, thinking about Fathers' Days past and good memories. I tried to practice that attitude of gratitude all day long, but by late afternoon it was black dogs barking.

I miss my dad and that's all there is to it. I tried to turn it around, but my mind kept coming back to what other people were doing with their dads, with wanting to be with my dad. So I got my Irish up and I lashed out at someone I care about. I sat in my house in the dark and I felt sorry for myself. Then I started thinking about what I might be doing if my dad was around, really considering it instead of just feeling like shit that it wasn't gonna happen.

So I decided to watch one of our favorite movies, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I only picked it because it's great cinema, I already owned it, and I knew it would bring me back to the first time I watched it. Watching McMurphy play basketball with the Chief reminded me of one of my dad's headshots, of his spot-on Nicholson impression, of how he could detail every character actor and all of the director's choices.

The movie reminded me of my dad, which made me feel better, and it also reminded me of how I don't want to go down any dark paths. One of Greg's favorite lines in the movie is when McMurphy says, "Well, I tried, goddamn it. At least give me that." Tonight, I didn't feel like trying. I felt like following the black dogs barking right down into a miserable hole.  But without being around, Greg didn't let it happen.

It's almost like a kind of time travel: 15 years ago, Greg showed me a movie so that I'd have something to return to by myself, when I needed it. I need to remember that he gave me the tools, the gifts, the love that I need to survive on my own. (I mean, writing is another one- check out this blog.) I don't need more of the same (even if I'll always want it, and badly)- I already have it. It's okay to miss him and to have a shitty couple of hours. Clouds pass over, my mood darkens, a storm comes. But I'll come out the other side. 

"Which one of you nuts has got any guts?"

Happy Fathers' Day, Greg- with love and laughter- and a lot of guts.

Theatrical Therapy

Last night, it was with a full heart that I flopped on the couch and rolled over to stare at the cushions up close. I wanted to get up and write, but it was all a little too fresh and I needed to let it roll around inside me for awhile.

EP Foster 4th Grade had their first major theatrical production last night, a stirring rendition of "Gold Dust or Bust!" It was a short run, with two matinees and a single night performance, but the audiences were robust and the performers put their backs into it. I felt so close to my dad this past month as we've been rehearsing and preparing.

I even channeled my dad a time or two, when the kids would get frustrated with themselves, or with me, and I'd find myself using one of Greg's lines. About a thousand years ago when I was a freshman in high school, they were casting "Rebel Without a Cause" for the school play. I desperately wanted to play Judy, so I came home with my script and found myself whining to Greg, "But they never cast a freshman in the best role- it always goes to a senior!" He said he would coach me, and the first afternoon I cried with frustration and slouched around his office, until he said: "Do you want me to be nice to you, or do you want to get the part?"

I got the part.

I think it's dirty to take credit for someone else's work, so I'll only say that I brought out something those kids already had inside them, but we worked and sweated, and when they got scared I reassured them, and when they got nervous I encouraged them, and when they got frustrated I said, "Do you want me to be nice to you, or do you want to put on a good show?"

They put on a good show.

Not just a good show, they were goddamn stars. Kids that are reading two grade levels below where they ought to be were belting out complicated lyrics, and two of my girls carried the show with grace and comedic timing. Sure, it wasn't perfect, but even the flubs were charming because it was so clear how much fun they were having, how confident they felt.

I'm so grateful for another opportunity, another way to connect to my dad, to remember what mattered to him and his skills and his talents. When I was in college I dipped my toe into directing exactly once, "Crimes of the Heart," and even though I called Greg constantly for advice and to vent, I didn't let him come to a single show. I was afraid the show was going to be bad. How fucking dumb was that? I would have given just about anything for him to have come to any one of the productions of "Gold Dust or Bust!"

Last Friday morning I was driving to school, and on the radio they mentioned it was June 1st, Greg's sober birthday. And I burst into tears behind the wheel- that hasn't happened in a long time. I just missed my dad. I got to school, washed my face, picked up the kids, and cued up the music. And we sung our goddamn hearts out.

Oh Daddy, thank you for all your gifts I carry inside....

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.