Fare Thee Well, Faithful Escort

I've been in an awful mood all weekend, but it took me til this morning to finally make the connection. It wasn't stress, illness, or romance, but a big hunk of metal that brought me down. After a long exhausting week already, Greg's car took a dump on me Thursday night. I got it to the mechanic's and Saturday morning, sat down in his office for the bad news. Luckily Javier has a good bedside manner, because it felt exactly like being in the doctor's office. He gave me the diagnosis and the price(it's A LOT), and I asked, "What will happen if I do nothing?" He said, "Well you definitely can't drive it on the freeway, but if you insist on driving it in town as is, it will experience a slow decline over time until it dies." I probably looked like I was about to start crying, because he continued with, "You don't have to decide right now. It's your dad's car, yes? Maybe time to start thinking about changing to a new car.." He gently smiled and gave me back the keys. 

I drove away (hobbled away) and immediately began rationalizing and denying. I don't need to drive on the freeway! I'm not too old to learn how to ride a bicycle! I'll move to the Avenue! I have a lot of friends with cars! This is totally fine! When I called Sharon, who is often more attuned to my volatile Irish moods than I am, she listened to the explosion first and then very carefully suggested leasing a car, saying "There's a lot of affordable options right now, and that way you can have a couple of.............years.............to get ready to make a decision about Greg's car." I put her off by dramatically exclaiming, "I can't even think about this right now! I'm in a master's program for God's sake!" 

But of course that's what I spent most of the weekend thinking about (and drinking wine from a jelly jar since I obviously wasn't going to be driving anyway). Every time I went downstairs to change the laundry or take the recycling, I'd give the car a baleful look. I was one glass away from literally shaking my fist. Here are all the things I understand- I know, it's just  a car. I know, someone's possessions are not the same as someone. I know, Greg cares more that I'm safe than sentimental. 

And yet.....

This is the car that's been there for me on long drives at night through the hills with the windows down. I've cried and snotted all over the steering wheel more times than I care to admit. Greg's envelope with his headshots and his ratty blue towel are still in the trunk. It was the last car we were in together before he died. I feel better when I see it in the parking lot at school. 

Someone I love asked if I could try to reframe this experience. He said, "Maybe instead of feeling let down and disappointed, you could imagine the car is telling that it's served you well, that it's tired and getting old. What if you focused on how far this car has taken you already? Consider that maybe it was there for you as long as you needed it, and feel gratitude." 

I'm not buying a new car right now, I just ain't. I'm probably not coughing up [amount redacted] either. As usual, Sharon has the wisest solution and I was too bullheaded to admit it up front. Greg's car and I have a lot of history, but this weekend was probably the beginning of the most gentle letting go of which I'm capable. Time to say goodbye.....if slowly. 

By the way, can I get a ride to school tomorrow?

A tiny flame burning...

I wonder how many people remember today is Greg's birthday. I know I can't count them on one hand, but I suspect I probably could with both hands. Our wonderful friends sent a bouquet of sports cookie flowers( sports! cookies! So Greg!) which was an incredible gesture of warmth, and I've received a few messages, but that's about it. I don't remember most birthdays after the first year someone's gone either (including people I loved very much), so I'm not resentful, but it's like there must be a birthday party happening somewhere- only was I not invited? I'm rather lonely.

Many of the people I'm closest to these days didn't even know my dad. They know about him, or they've seen photos, but they didn't know him, so it's natural that he's less and less a part of my daily life, even as I still think and dream of him often. The St. Patty's day party is precious to me because I know I'll see many of his friends, and I know his name will be said and it won't be because I brought him up first. C and I still talk about him, mostly telling stories that would sound a little dumb to someone who wasn't there, but make for great shared memories. Every year, Greg's death comes out with a new group of students during my "Star of the Week," when they get to ask me questions about my family and someone always always asks, "Where does your dad live?" Of course, he's still in my dreams.

This morning I started to say to an acquaintance, "Today would have been my dad's birthday," but I amended it to say, "Today's my dad's birthday" because technically it IS the anniversary of his birth in the present tense; but then of course I was asked, "Oh! Are you seeing him later?" and I said, "Not likely, he's dead" because it was 7am and I was tired and didn't have it in me to gloss.

So I guess at least THAT poor person knows today is Greg's birthday.

The good side is I think Greg is turning more and more into a glow in my periphery instead of a storm cloud on my horizon, which I appreciate because it's pretty disrespectful to take this person who was present and loving and creative and vivid for over 25 years of my life and reduce him to an excuse for emotional stagnancy under a guise of love. There are thin ribbon scars instead of gaping wet wounds; as it should be. Today's his birthday and I remember, and I'm sad but I'm basically fine. I honor Greg by being a stand up guy as often as I'm able, and by sending him love, and by setting a tiny flame burning on a birthday cookie from his best friend.

Love you, daddio...

Rhapsody In Blue

Standing at the kitchen counter, listening to Gershwin and cutting up a melon. Remembering how Greg used to use the top of a pizza box as a cutting board when he would cut up the melons he'd buy for a treat - this after lugging them home from the market and up five flights of stairs. Once he forgot the umbrella by the door and I remember a pissed-off Greg hacking into the watermelon and spitting epithets. Usually, it was a mellow Greg talking about the play we were going to see, asking if I wanted to go to Sardi's after the play, or reminding me that he was going to meet me at the bookstore when I got off work (so we could go see a play). 

All those watermelons and cantaloupes were much healthier than walking to Haagen-Dazs or Ben & Jerry's every night he was there (which we also did), but in NYC, watermelons were probably just as or more expensive than gourmet ice cream. I think about and dream about Greg so much more than I ever take the time to write about anymore, I just figured I'd postpone grading for all of 5 minutes and share a happy memory...maybe easing back in with a quick one will get the old wheels turning for a more elaborate post. Also, I actually picked out a rather shitty cantaloupe on my own and I really miss my old man tonight. Them's the breaks....

Every time A Bell Rings...

An angel gets his wings.
5 years. These big round numbers just get me every goddamn time. 5 years, and memories get faded and fuzzy, and there's no one to collaborate yer story 'cause Greg's dead (pass it on). The last week or so, I've cried easily and often....but I've also laughed maniacally, been deeply in love, and made ridiculous amounts of cookies. I might even watch old Clarence get his wings this year. Life does go on, and sometimes it fucking stings- but it's not a betrayal. This morning when some students were bugging me about Santa Claus, I told them this story:
"A lot of people believe a lot of different things, so it really comes down to making up your own mind what you believe. All I'm going to tell you is that when I was a kid, one year I woke up on Christmas day and there were muddy boot tracks coming out of the fireplace and snags of tissue paper on the grate. I've never lost my faith since; what I believe in is love."
They went back to nattering about the naughty/nice list, and I went back to tying ribbons and seriously consulting about the effect of green paint versus silver. I've got a long fucking way to get all Buddha on the mountaintop- I get pissed off and scared and resentful and melancholy- but Greg was right when he said nothing passes like time.
Sometimes I get scared, not just because Greg is getting fuzzy; his voice, his mannerisms, his post-it notes all over the back door. I get scared because nobody keeps the family record anymore. I have all his journals, and although I haven't been brave enough for more than the most casual perusal, at least I know the record's there. Who's keeping track now? And does it even matter? At least this blog is something. The handwritten mail I still send and receive is something. My brain is a sieve...but hey, it's something.
What I wish most is that the pain of remembering would fade, while the recollections stay crystal clear. For the love to get deeper and the ache to get duller. I dunno, it seems like things are maybe going that direction. A lot has changed in the last 5 years, but there's still love in my life. I still believe in love for what can't be seen, and what is recognized only in traces of early morning light......

Now, It's always Now

Been dreaming about Greg again. Been listening to his mix tapes and watching the seasons change and wandering around those spaces in my heart that stay charred and echoing, even after almost 5 years.

The tapes are from when I lived in New York and Greg would mail them. They have titles like "Flapper Max," "Uptown Girl," and "The Girl from New York City." Today I was working in my classroom and the song "Al Di La" by Jerry Vale came on the tape, and I put my head down on my desk and cried.

See, I've been trying to get my life in line for some time now. I keep hearing that I'll be happiest in the now, but if every single second is a new now, how the fuck can I stay there? Is now the end of everything that isn't right now? Is now the yellow line whipping down the center of the highway at night, each instant gone before you can register that it's there? How am I supposed to keep track of my dead dad in a now that's constantly on the move? 

Or is now more like the top layer of a papier-mâché globe? Every instant building on another, every memory  below giving my current moment strength and weight? I'm starting to think the only way for me to stay in the now is to acknowledge the always, to let my memories come when they will come, to dream my dreams as they dance behind my eyelids. 

Now is walking to my car in Ventura past Baskin Robbins, and also walking down Broadway  past Westside Market. Now is sitting on  a gray couch by a California picture window with two gray boycats in my lap, thinking about laying on a wood floor in a 5th floor walk up with a calico kitty purring on my chest.

Burying my face in my dad's black leather jacket on a cold night in Los Angeles; burying my face in my man's leather jacket on a cold night in Monterey; which one is now? Time overlaps and fragments and swirls around me. The now is that my face feels good against the leather, which smells good in my nose, and there are hands in my hair and I feel safe. Both moments are true at the same time, and I embrace the cacophony. 

I would like to gently set aside my pain; I'm ready. Being genuine means not relegating my past to some obscure corner. Whenever I want Greg to be a resident of now, there he is in dreams and wanderings. When that's not good enough because I want him actually really here- Now, goddamnit! - now is the experience of that resentment and loneliness as it passes through me and then dissipates. I don't have to forget everything else in order to stay in this moment. I have to remember to let every joyous wild crushing melancholy tranquil feeling/memory/experience wash over me as they come.....and go when they're through. 

The reason I love those cassettes so much is because of the hiss between the songs. In those few seconds Greg is right there in his own now, finger over the button, eyes staring off into space as he listens and gets ready to pause. And I'm right there with him. Now. 

Jerry Vale singing "Al Di La"

Birthday from a distance (distance unknown)

And so Greg would be sixty. A new decade, one he'll never see.....So many questions about a present that doesn't exist:

What would he be writing? Which books would he read, and what would he say about them? Would he be cranky? What would he want for his birthday? Where would he travel? Which songs would he put on a mixtape? Would he still take naps? What would he look like? Would he still stand tall? Who would he stay in touch with? Who would his new friends be? What would he give me for Christmas? How would he get along with the man in my life? Which movies would he choose to see screenings for? Would he stay sober? Would he drive the same car? What would he say about God? What would he think of my cats? How would he feel about my job? What words would he say when I feel low and discouraged? How would he feel about Puig? What color Converse shoes would he wear? When would he eat dinner? How often would he go to New York? Which stories would he read to my students? Would he still be able to sing? Would he buy organic cookies at Whole Foods? How often would he call me? What would he think about while he walks the dogs at night? 

Would he be well?

These are the questions I rarely let myself contemplate, because it is too desperately easy to slide into a hole, until maybe the phone rings or a door slams, and then I stand and realize hours have passed, and the light is gone and the bottle is empty, and I'm cold. 

And it's all just hypothetical anyway, questions that will never be answered. Of course, there could be attempts, but it's still hypothetical when someone speaks for the dead, even to say "He would be so proud of you" or "He would eat that polenta you made." And some answers are so inherently true that they aren't even answers, because there is no question. He would love me. He would love me. He would love me. 

One of my best friends gave me a poem a few years ago, which I found and read today:

i will learn how to love a person and then i will teach you and then we will know

seen from a great enough distance i cannot be seen
i feel this as an extremely distinct sensation
of feeling like shit; the effect of small children
is that they use declarative sentences and then look at your face
with an expression that says, ‘you will never do enough
for the people you love’; i can feel the universe expanding
and it feels like no one is trying hard enough
the effect of this is an extremely shitty sensation
of being the only person alive; i have been alone for a very long time
it will take an extreme person to make me feel less alone
the effect of being alone for a very long time
is that i have been thinking very hard and learning
about mortality, loneliness, people, society, and love; i am afraid
that i am not learning fast enough; i can feel the universe expanding
and it feels like no one has ever tried hard enough; when i cried in your room
it was the effect of an extremely distinct sensation that ‘i am the only person
alive,’ ‘i have not learned enough,’ and ‘i can feel the universe expanding
and making things be further apart
and it feels like a declarative sentence
whose message is that we must try harder'

-Tao Lin

I miss you Greg, and I love you. Happy birthday, somewhere out there....

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.....