I may be a tad overdressed for writing tonight; I'm sitting here in a floor-length gown feeling a little constricted because I weigh a bit more than I did when I bought it. It was my waltz dress in college, when we had a formal waltz every spring and we always dressed quite appropriately for it. The gown is a soft navy blue, gauzy and flowy, and if you don't know just what an hour-glass figure I have, you would if you saw me because the way I fill it out now, it's hip-, waist-, and chest-hugging and really emphatic on my curves. I feel like a plump princess in it, and I also feel nostalgic, because I'd forgotten it existed until I dug it up in a pre-move fit of cleaning out my (rather overflowing) closet.
Packed with it at the bottom of a sweater box were other dresses of the same era—a long velvet drape I wore freshman year, a delicate black-and-red flowered slip dress I wore a few seasons later, a truly tiny little-black-dress I wore to the senior soiree and impressed even myself with the audacity of my cleavage. Tonight I tried on each dress again, and though they don't fit perfectly, and though they don't suit my style anymore, they are gorgeous pieces of fabric, and I decided that rather than toss them on the for-sale pile, I'd re-pack them into the box and let them sit another decade at least.
After all, when I was a little girl, a favorite pass-time was sneaking into the hallway closet outside my room and slowly unzipping the floor-length garment bag that housed my grandmother's dresses from the '50s and one precious older one—one of my great grandmother's. It was a thin layer of black gauze that overlaid an off-white slip; I would slip it over my head and shoulders and then feel the soft fabric cascade down around my torso and legs. I was the right height and width for it, at least until my body started to develop, and there was something about the musty smell and the crinkle of the fabric that captivated me. The royal blue Jackie O dress was equally fun to try on, and a less appealing plaid one couldn't be resisted at times. It tickles me to think that some little girl in the future might have fun pulling out my old dresses and admiring their feel and their look. So I'll leave them in the bottom of the box a while longer; I'll leave them there and hold on to the memories they recall just a while longer yet.
I was less sentimental about a heap of other clothes. True, I couldn't bring myself to throw out the brown velvet skirt that I would never wear now but twice in my 20s donned as part of a Brownies uniform on Halloween to great applause from all the men I encountered. True, I couldn't bring myself to toss the fleece vest I was given when I became a leader of the freshmen orientation backpacking trips in college, no matter how vile the bright red and purple of it seem now. True, I didn't even consider chucking my elementary school P.E. t-shirt, which still fits in a very snug and cute way, or the 1970s-era baseball-sleeved PBS t-shirt of my mother's that a few of you know too well. But to my surprise, I finally parted ways with my favorite t-shirt (from my semester in Maine in high school and veeeeeery saggy and old); a well-worn and -loved sweatshirt; my best hiking shorts before all the buttons began dropping off like leaves in autumn; a shirt I slept in for years; all kinds of mini-skirts that I am inarguably too old to wear now; and quite an array of other items. I do, in fact, have two large bags full of clothes to donate to Good Will and two stacks awaiting review by a friend who may fit into them before I try to sell them and make a few bucks off my bad shopping habits. And I have to admit I have those habits because after three hours of sorting and stacking, re-folding and re-considering, if you were to open the double doors of my very large closet now, you would find a much-better-ordered but still enormous collection of clothes. You would have trouble believing I had removed anything. But I have. And I have to say, it's at least the fourth time I have done a massive overhaul of my wardrobe, and most of the items in the for-donation pile have never been considered throw-away-able before!
It's funny the attachments we develop to things. Though my size has changed, though my style has changed, though the seasons in the place I live have changed, there were some items I didn't want to part with not because I think I'll wear them again (I am quite sure, in some cases, I won't) but because I absolutely loved wearing them once. Certain skirts, certain shoes, certain winter coats just make your day when you have them on, and it's fun to remember all the different styles that you've worn with a smile. Certain items recall particular experiences, too, like the sparkly skirt I first wore to an outdoor concert in downtown Boston (it was summer; it was evening; and I felt beautiful, with my tan legs and the silver strands in the skirt flattering one another) or the thick wool turtleneck sweaters I always wore in snow storms (snuggling into them as the flakes landed in my hair and on my lashes and on the soft collars that kept me warm) or the metal-buttoned peacoat that I wore when F. and I spent a winter making a digital film and he captured me, without my knowing it, in a scene at South Station, and in that scene I also had on my favorite shoes from back then, and I won't ever forget the shoes or the jacket because dressed in them I am featured on film for the only time in my life.
It's funny the attachments we develop to things. And it's funny how hard it can be to let them go, even when we know the memories are with us forever. What I found interesting tonight was that in some cases, just as I had outgrown the item, so had I outgrown my passion for the memory that comes with it. But perhaps that's natural; that's maturing.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
movie review: The Visitor (with lots of spoilers)
I never expected to go see The Visitor and find myself laughing as a stoic older white man in undershirt and boxers beats out a Fela Kuti-inspired rhythm on an African drum. But that's just one of the truly heartwarming scenes in the film, all of which gain richness from the dual experiences of the main character (inarguably named Walter). The tired-out professor is sick of his work and sick of his life, aching to regain rightness after the death of his wife. Initially, he goes about trying to master playing the piano, perhaps thinking that if he takes on something his wife loved, she will stay with him more vividly. But not too far into the film, he encounters two random characters who will change his life and his purpose—and this is the moment we know we're watching a Thomas McCarthy film.
Though perhaps more familiar to you as an actor, I came to appreciate McCarthy as a writer and director when I saw The Station Agent. In that film—which I view as one of the most eloquently crafted I've seen—a lonely, train-enthusiast dwarf inherits a train depot, moves into it, and immediately finds himself being befriended (against his wishes) by a neighboring coffee stand owner, an erratic-driving and -behaving housewife who has lost her son and kicked her husband out of her life, and a rotund, quiet, and beseeching young girl, all of whom seem to have nothing better to do than follow their intriguing new town-mate on his treks along the train tracks. As he begrudgingly accepts their coming along, he eventually finds that he has developed some very warm and intense friendships—and this main theme of the film is one The Visitor also taps into. However, the newer release ties the theme up with less of a sense of serendipity and more one of struggle in the post-9/11 age of aggressive anti-foreigner security.
Every character in The Visitor is a visitor in some way, and it is through at first subtle and later quite unhesitating acts of hospitality that friendships—maybe even family relationships—are born. The quick bonding of strangers is something I enjoy in real life, so it's no surprise that I am moved by it in movies; but The Visitor takes it deeper, putting survival on the line that lies between those who recently were strangers. As these individuals from all reaches of the globe grow close to one another, they are pulled seemingly senselessly apart by the reach of American law enforcement. And that plays an interesting role in the film.
Of course, this is subject matter with fire behind it—probably thousands of foreigners have faced unjust actions in the United States since 9/11. Many Americans have no contact with those people, so it is, to some extent, powerful to have put the different Americas we live in before our eyes. But I would not say that is the singular point of this film. What McCarthy does best is create characters and then ties among them. The role of Walter is one of a quiet, almost sullen man who is struggling with healing himself until he meets an enthusiastic young immigrant who shares with him a passion for music. That the young Tarek is Syrian is irrelevant for much of the film; in the end, the story is about bonding and healing, and the details of it underlie two points: that often others are able to share themselves with us in a way that is uplifting to our own wellbeing, and that the act of our own giving to others is also an act of self-strengthening.
Without the tragic ending, the film would already have achieved a great deal toward these ends. But as the journey toward a looming deportation unfolds, the frustration and eventual anger felt by all involved becomes most acute for our two leading males. Tarek, of course, is terrified. But what I find to be most evocative about the film is the meek-speaking protagonist's final breakdown into loud and gesticulating anger at Tarek's situation—which buds from both his own academic understanding of global interdependencies and from love. He has virtually taken on a new son and a new wife, and this is where I think the film really intends to go—deep into a study of how people grow as individuals through growing toward others. The complaints against the American justice system are justly treated, but the artfulness of the film lies in the bonds created both before and after that comes into play.
Though perhaps more familiar to you as an actor, I came to appreciate McCarthy as a writer and director when I saw The Station Agent. In that film—which I view as one of the most eloquently crafted I've seen—a lonely, train-enthusiast dwarf inherits a train depot, moves into it, and immediately finds himself being befriended (against his wishes) by a neighboring coffee stand owner, an erratic-driving and -behaving housewife who has lost her son and kicked her husband out of her life, and a rotund, quiet, and beseeching young girl, all of whom seem to have nothing better to do than follow their intriguing new town-mate on his treks along the train tracks. As he begrudgingly accepts their coming along, he eventually finds that he has developed some very warm and intense friendships—and this main theme of the film is one The Visitor also taps into. However, the newer release ties the theme up with less of a sense of serendipity and more one of struggle in the post-9/11 age of aggressive anti-foreigner security.
Every character in The Visitor is a visitor in some way, and it is through at first subtle and later quite unhesitating acts of hospitality that friendships—maybe even family relationships—are born. The quick bonding of strangers is something I enjoy in real life, so it's no surprise that I am moved by it in movies; but The Visitor takes it deeper, putting survival on the line that lies between those who recently were strangers. As these individuals from all reaches of the globe grow close to one another, they are pulled seemingly senselessly apart by the reach of American law enforcement. And that plays an interesting role in the film.
Of course, this is subject matter with fire behind it—probably thousands of foreigners have faced unjust actions in the United States since 9/11. Many Americans have no contact with those people, so it is, to some extent, powerful to have put the different Americas we live in before our eyes. But I would not say that is the singular point of this film. What McCarthy does best is create characters and then ties among them. The role of Walter is one of a quiet, almost sullen man who is struggling with healing himself until he meets an enthusiastic young immigrant who shares with him a passion for music. That the young Tarek is Syrian is irrelevant for much of the film; in the end, the story is about bonding and healing, and the details of it underlie two points: that often others are able to share themselves with us in a way that is uplifting to our own wellbeing, and that the act of our own giving to others is also an act of self-strengthening.
Without the tragic ending, the film would already have achieved a great deal toward these ends. But as the journey toward a looming deportation unfolds, the frustration and eventual anger felt by all involved becomes most acute for our two leading males. Tarek, of course, is terrified. But what I find to be most evocative about the film is the meek-speaking protagonist's final breakdown into loud and gesticulating anger at Tarek's situation—which buds from both his own academic understanding of global interdependencies and from love. He has virtually taken on a new son and a new wife, and this is where I think the film really intends to go—deep into a study of how people grow as individuals through growing toward others. The complaints against the American justice system are justly treated, but the artfulness of the film lies in the bonds created both before and after that comes into play.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
a modern-day Breakfast Club
Last night, as pens and computer keys tapped out a quiet but constant patter amidst the bookshelves and walls of my Monday night writing workshop, I realized that our students are like a modern-day Breakfast Club. They include (in my opinion) a nerd or two, a jock, a few rather eccentric ones, and a handful of pretty normal, happy kids—though putting a modern twist on it, they are "normal" in the context of a variety of different social and ethnic classes. And though a varied bunch, they get along great. After almost nine months of coming together weekly from places as different as Walnut Creek, Daly City, Marin County, and numerous San Francisco neighborhoods, this bunch of teenagers who seem to have only two things in common—their age (mostly between 13 and 15) and their love of writing—have clearly jelled quite well. That is not to say that they'll all be inviting each other on summer vacation; but by now, they know one another well—at least as writers—and I find the level of acceptance among them as a group astonishing.
As tutors, we've had occasion to want to throttle or kick out one or two of them; but the students have never shown animosity toward each other; they have never outwardly made social judgments. There are no cliques (just, perhaps, two developing relationships). There is no dissing. No matter how weird some of them may be (and trust me, some of them are), no matter how immature or clichéd some of their writing may be, these kids have bought into our notion of the happy sandwich (which requires any feedback to be given in the order of positive-critical-positive), and they've tended to really like everything one another have written. They seem, in fact, predisposed toward thinking positively. And I think that's really something, given all the horror stories you read about kids outcasting each other on myspace—and worse.
Unsurprisingly, our students are free with the criticism when reviewing submissions from unknown writers; and they're certainly not all masters of being particularly useful in their critiques (some of them will never get beyond, "Yeah, it's cool." or "I just like it."). But they show great respect—great comaraderie—together. And perhaps that's because, despite the fact that they are coming from all walks of life, they are coming to us to do the same thing; on top of that, they're doing it with talent. Many of our students are superb writers for their age; and almost all are eager to write, willing to listen, and thrilled to be pushed to do even better. Most of all, they seem to soak up the opportunity to be around—to just sit beside, do their writing alongside—other teens who are into this too. And to our delight, they seem to really like working with writing tutors. Most of us have been paired up with a particular student for the entire year; we've developed into writing teams, and perhaps it's that dual social situation—of establishing themselves a place in a peer group at the same time as a role in a partnership with someone of a different age and experience level—that helps keep the tenor of our weekly sessions so upbeat. Perhaps it's the uniqueness of what we're offering them combined with its perfect fit for their passions. Perhaps they are really lucky to have this shared writing space, and they know it, and they treat it right. Perhaps we are just as lucky, for it's really something to commit your time to a pursuit of someone else's and have it go so well.
As tutors, we've had occasion to want to throttle or kick out one or two of them; but the students have never shown animosity toward each other; they have never outwardly made social judgments. There are no cliques (just, perhaps, two developing relationships). There is no dissing. No matter how weird some of them may be (and trust me, some of them are), no matter how immature or clichéd some of their writing may be, these kids have bought into our notion of the happy sandwich (which requires any feedback to be given in the order of positive-critical-positive), and they've tended to really like everything one another have written. They seem, in fact, predisposed toward thinking positively. And I think that's really something, given all the horror stories you read about kids outcasting each other on myspace—and worse.
Unsurprisingly, our students are free with the criticism when reviewing submissions from unknown writers; and they're certainly not all masters of being particularly useful in their critiques (some of them will never get beyond, "Yeah, it's cool." or "I just like it."). But they show great respect—great comaraderie—together. And perhaps that's because, despite the fact that they are coming from all walks of life, they are coming to us to do the same thing; on top of that, they're doing it with talent. Many of our students are superb writers for their age; and almost all are eager to write, willing to listen, and thrilled to be pushed to do even better. Most of all, they seem to soak up the opportunity to be around—to just sit beside, do their writing alongside—other teens who are into this too. And to our delight, they seem to really like working with writing tutors. Most of us have been paired up with a particular student for the entire year; we've developed into writing teams, and perhaps it's that dual social situation—of establishing themselves a place in a peer group at the same time as a role in a partnership with someone of a different age and experience level—that helps keep the tenor of our weekly sessions so upbeat. Perhaps it's the uniqueness of what we're offering them combined with its perfect fit for their passions. Perhaps they are really lucky to have this shared writing space, and they know it, and they treat it right. Perhaps we are just as lucky, for it's really something to commit your time to a pursuit of someone else's and have it go so well.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
a memory
It's really just a snapshot memory, but it flashes through my head sometimes, and with it comes a feeling of satisfaction. The light is gone from the day, but it's not so dark yet that you can't still see a bit of navy blue in the sky. The trees are silhouettes towering above me, their tops sometimes leaning toward one another and sometimes swaying apart. Above me, their leaves make a sound like music as they rustle. Above me, a light glows from the porch. Standing tall above me and the cooling grill, my dad is talking with someone; he is chuckling. Everything is upward in this vision, and partly that's because I'm small, and partly that's because I'm seated. Mostly it's because it's summer, and as I stretch my bare legs against the soft latticework of an outdoor chair, my eyes are turned toward the fading blue above, where I know they will fly soon. It's that time of night, just before true dark sets in, and as I listen to my dad's quiet nighttime voice a few feet away, I tune it out; I tune it all out; because now they are coming. From the dark boughs of the woods behind our house they fly, bat wings stretched the short distance they span, bodies gliding over me. As soon as I've seen them, I've seen them depart, but they stay with me, in my mind, this fleet of flying mammals. I've seen them many times—I know their habits, I know when to wait for them. But this one time is the one that imprinted, this time with my dad and the smell of the grill in the background, the soft web of the chair supporting my viewing.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
(unexpected uplift)
These are familiar noises—the soft clinking of glass or ceramic against metal, the slurping howl of the air as it rushes away from the mouth of the vacuum tube. These are not sounds you expect to hear so close to your head, much less virtually in your head—in your ear canal. You squirm at first, you twitch at the occasional feeling of needles flying against your tender skin. But soon it is over, and you can hear again. And as you exhale the pent up breath of your own air and roll your head to the side to face the apologizing doctor, you cannot help but think that all these months of ear aches and infections may have been worth it. Because here before you, doing his best to make you laugh as he injects a cream deep into your ear, all the way to the ear drum, blocking your hearing for a week; here before you, smiling as you sigh with relief at the procedure's completion; here, promising that you will not have to look like a zombie for your barbecue this weekend, as the cotton ball he is now gently stuffing into your outer ear can be removed tomorrow, and the cream should not ooze down your neck; commenting bashfully that he wished he had 40 friends at all, much less all coming over; grinning as he hands you your bag and then his business card and says he'll see you in a week—it may be fleeting, but for this moment, after all this ridiculous pain and trouble, here it seems you may have laid back in a doctor's chair in a dreary room in a quiet building lacking in any life and looked up to find, waiting to take care of you, a man you think you could quite easily fall for if you met him in another setting—in any other setting but this. For an instant you consider inviting him to that barbecue, but you know better; even when he wakes up his computer to type something up for you—even then, when you see the screen saver of his dog wearing bat ears and a batman t-shirt and he tells you that the pup really likes Halloween—even then, when you think he has just that lightness of heart that you sometimes find hard to dig up in a man—even then, you know better than to think you can just lie down in a doctor's chair and find love.
But you are tired, and the prospect of serendipity lifts your spirit.
But you are tired, and the prospect of serendipity lifts your spirit.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
flicker of panic
Years ago, a friend commented that I should be a cab driver, I knew the back roads of Boston so well. At the time, I was living in Arlington, and with friends in Belmont, Watertown, Allston, Brookline, the North End, Boston proper, Roxbury, and Somerville, I tended to drive around a lot. I hated getting stuck in traffic, and I really enjoyed knowing sneaky ways to get past it. I also, after four years of hardly leaving Cambridge during college, enjoyed knowing where I was, in a bigger picture sense. So I would often just aim my car in the right direction and get lost in the middle until I made my way out on the other end. By the end of the trip, I’d have learned a new route somewhere, and I’d be delighted when I found a reason to use it again.
San Francisco is more straightforward than the Boston area, with gridded roads and heights that provide frequent aerial views of your destination. But that hasn’t kept me from finding some pretty interesting streets tucked away in places I don’t have any good reason to be but find my way to anyhow. Tonight I drove a route that I may love best, for it winds between houses set high atop the city, wrapping around from Ashbury Heights to Corona Heights and then cutting across the side of Twin Peaks. The architecture covers the whole gamut—including the ubiquitous Victorians for which the city is known and the modern rectangular houses that strike me as very Californian but also what looks like an English country house and a Mediterranean villa and even a truly godawful little mansion, which has spikes lining its roof where there should be eaves and which is one room wide and can’t be much more than the same in depth, as the plummet from its back porch looks terrifying.
As I swerved along this route I adore in the waning evening sun, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad. Yesterday I looked at an apartment in Palo Alto that may be as good as it gets when it comes to affording living alone while paying grad school tuition; I might be nuts not to take it. It’s not the size of the place—half that of my current studio, at best—nor the lack of laundry machines on site nor even the rent that makes me hesitate. It’s the move-in date of July 1—just over a month from now—that sets my heart into a little panic as I think about making up my mind in two days, by which time the little old landlady I liked so much will give the place away to another applicant.
I have long understood a truth about myself, and it’s that when it comes to knowing where I should be—physically, in terms of what sort of place will make me happy in the long run—I am a commitment-phobe. It would be different if I had a real reason to be somewhere—if I worked in an industry that only existed in certain cities or if I were in a relationship with someone who needed to be in a particular place for a particular purpose. But I am free to be wherever I choose, and so I’ve often felt it to be a personal challenge to figure out which place I should choose.
There was so much about growing up in Atlanta that seemed perfect to me, and yet only a year ago did I feel the first-ever (and fleeting) twinge of thinking it might be a place I could live in my adulthood. And for all the years I stayed in the Boston area after college, I adored my life in many ways, yet I felt restless most of the time. Still, while I got job offers in Austin, Washington, DC, and even Ecaudor, I took none of them because, who knows why, they just didn’t feel right. Finally I uprooted myself; I knew it was time to stop the itching and just go somewhere else. I settled on San Francisco because it had a great reputation but I myself didn’t know it. I figured I’d get a real kick out of being here for two or three years—and I also assumed I’d get that urge to move on at some point. But something lovely happened once I got here: early on, I realized that this is a place I’d love to make my home. And from that thought I have only wavered in summer (when the cold fog sets in).
So just when I’ve resolved that I truly can find a place to settle myself down, whether or not I have a reason to be here, I’ve up and opted to remove myself. But what causes that flicker of panic to subside rather quickly is that I know why I’m doing that, and I know it’s good. Now there is something I want to do and it is only in one or two places. Sure, there are many other avenues toward my end goal, but after all these years working in the same career, I know with no hesitation that I am ready to pursue another, and I think this master’s program will be a superb way to get into it. So where I live for a year will be irrelevant. Yes, it will be in a life that involves strip malls and sleepy, one-story houses and driving at 25 miles an hour through town. Yes, it is a quiet town and yes, it will feel tiny. But I will be there knowing that as a result of my next bit of schooling, I may start that non-profit that builds those excellent after-school program I’ve been envisioning for years; I may find a way to impact the lives of not just the precious few kids I’ve grown so close to over the years (David about to apply to college, Byron settled in to his new school, Gaelle still dreaming of medical school, Benjamin oblivious to what I will tell him next week, which is that I won’t be back to tutor him next year, which will break both of our hearts) but of many more like them, who want so much and often go to schools that offer them so little. I do have a dream, and I am going after it; and no matter what comes of that, I know it’s worthy of leaving San Francisco for a little while.
I realized today that while I do have to settle my mind to this change—to letting go of last-minute get-togethers with my friends and strolls through my beautiful, hilly neighborhood and afternoons wasted deliciously in Dolores Park and all those other incredible memories I’ve been creating—I feel really good about it. It is a blessing to know what you love to do with your time and find a way to do it; and it is just as important to know the battles you fight within yourself and find that you have won one.
San Francisco is more straightforward than the Boston area, with gridded roads and heights that provide frequent aerial views of your destination. But that hasn’t kept me from finding some pretty interesting streets tucked away in places I don’t have any good reason to be but find my way to anyhow. Tonight I drove a route that I may love best, for it winds between houses set high atop the city, wrapping around from Ashbury Heights to Corona Heights and then cutting across the side of Twin Peaks. The architecture covers the whole gamut—including the ubiquitous Victorians for which the city is known and the modern rectangular houses that strike me as very Californian but also what looks like an English country house and a Mediterranean villa and even a truly godawful little mansion, which has spikes lining its roof where there should be eaves and which is one room wide and can’t be much more than the same in depth, as the plummet from its back porch looks terrifying.
As I swerved along this route I adore in the waning evening sun, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad. Yesterday I looked at an apartment in Palo Alto that may be as good as it gets when it comes to affording living alone while paying grad school tuition; I might be nuts not to take it. It’s not the size of the place—half that of my current studio, at best—nor the lack of laundry machines on site nor even the rent that makes me hesitate. It’s the move-in date of July 1—just over a month from now—that sets my heart into a little panic as I think about making up my mind in two days, by which time the little old landlady I liked so much will give the place away to another applicant.
I have long understood a truth about myself, and it’s that when it comes to knowing where I should be—physically, in terms of what sort of place will make me happy in the long run—I am a commitment-phobe. It would be different if I had a real reason to be somewhere—if I worked in an industry that only existed in certain cities or if I were in a relationship with someone who needed to be in a particular place for a particular purpose. But I am free to be wherever I choose, and so I’ve often felt it to be a personal challenge to figure out which place I should choose.
There was so much about growing up in Atlanta that seemed perfect to me, and yet only a year ago did I feel the first-ever (and fleeting) twinge of thinking it might be a place I could live in my adulthood. And for all the years I stayed in the Boston area after college, I adored my life in many ways, yet I felt restless most of the time. Still, while I got job offers in Austin, Washington, DC, and even Ecaudor, I took none of them because, who knows why, they just didn’t feel right. Finally I uprooted myself; I knew it was time to stop the itching and just go somewhere else. I settled on San Francisco because it had a great reputation but I myself didn’t know it. I figured I’d get a real kick out of being here for two or three years—and I also assumed I’d get that urge to move on at some point. But something lovely happened once I got here: early on, I realized that this is a place I’d love to make my home. And from that thought I have only wavered in summer (when the cold fog sets in).
So just when I’ve resolved that I truly can find a place to settle myself down, whether or not I have a reason to be here, I’ve up and opted to remove myself. But what causes that flicker of panic to subside rather quickly is that I know why I’m doing that, and I know it’s good. Now there is something I want to do and it is only in one or two places. Sure, there are many other avenues toward my end goal, but after all these years working in the same career, I know with no hesitation that I am ready to pursue another, and I think this master’s program will be a superb way to get into it. So where I live for a year will be irrelevant. Yes, it will be in a life that involves strip malls and sleepy, one-story houses and driving at 25 miles an hour through town. Yes, it is a quiet town and yes, it will feel tiny. But I will be there knowing that as a result of my next bit of schooling, I may start that non-profit that builds those excellent after-school program I’ve been envisioning for years; I may find a way to impact the lives of not just the precious few kids I’ve grown so close to over the years (David about to apply to college, Byron settled in to his new school, Gaelle still dreaming of medical school, Benjamin oblivious to what I will tell him next week, which is that I won’t be back to tutor him next year, which will break both of our hearts) but of many more like them, who want so much and often go to schools that offer them so little. I do have a dream, and I am going after it; and no matter what comes of that, I know it’s worthy of leaving San Francisco for a little while.
I realized today that while I do have to settle my mind to this change—to letting go of last-minute get-togethers with my friends and strolls through my beautiful, hilly neighborhood and afternoons wasted deliciously in Dolores Park and all those other incredible memories I’ve been creating—I feel really good about it. It is a blessing to know what you love to do with your time and find a way to do it; and it is just as important to know the battles you fight within yourself and find that you have won one.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
ode to karaoke
The room is half dark and half light, with no overhead lighting but candles on the tables and a backlit bar lending a warm glow. A disco ball casts stars along the walls and floor at the far end of the long room. The DJ sits alone, plexiglass walls separating him from anyone else.
As the place fills up, the singers begin, responding one by one to the their names being called out as though at a middle school talent show. The first one is plump and frumpy, long hair begging to be pulled into a pony tail. He sings with a high-pitched voice and I don't like it, but Liz smiles at him, liking his energy. Next up is an older man with a crooner's voice; after him another aged one, gray hair toussled, jeans baggy over his hiking shoes; he doesn't have a show tunes look but he's sure got the voice. He stirs the place up a bit, and toes are tapping by the time the if-William. H Macy-were-a-country-singer barkeep takes the mic and then takes karaoke to its heights, leaving Liz and me to puzzle over what he's doing here rather than on tour somewhere in Texas or Tennessee.
Liz gets called up next, and we are sharing a grin as she sings the song I requested for her, Skid Row's "I Remember You," which brought her a standing ovation the first time I saw her sing it. We were at a dive bar in Somerville; it was a Friday night and she had compelled a handful of friends to go to her newest karaoke find, unsuspecting as it was. To one side stretched a long bar and a narrow room around it, with space for people to sit at the bar stools but no standing room. Through a doorway opened up what must have once been a restaurant: two rows of booths beside a pool table, a set of speakers, a DJ's table, and a few mics. No food was served, and I'm not sure the room was used other than on Friday and Sunday nights, when a random array of people came for karaoke, occasionally riling up the more local crowd who frequented the bar. (In Boston parlance, it was a townie bar, and there sometimes developed a little bit of tension between the townies and the very odd array of karaoke regulars.)
That first time I went out for karaoke, the night unfolded as though it had been scripted by Christopher Guest; the unlikeliest of people are good at karaoke. An overweight, unkempt, somewhat unappealing woman of at least 40 could pull off quite the Pat Benetar. A pretty, reserved woman in office clothes could sing Van Halen's "Dreams" so movingly that the DJ slipped around the room arranging people in couples and then setting us up to slow dance. An older man, looking fragile and tired, could have been Frank Sinatra if I'd closed my eyes. Two stereotypically Boston type of guys—donning Red Sox jerseys, speaking in thick accents, looking very Irish and very burly—sang Phil Collins and Air Supply so perfectly that I may have felt a tear surface in my eye. Later one of them would sing Prince's "Kiss"—a terrifically hard song to emulate—so exactly that I would think it was a recording before turning around to see his mouth wide and the onlookers cheering.
If the characters who were singing and the completely bizarre song list they were creating were fascinating, then the DJ topped it off. She was an Angelina Jolie look-alike with black hair and jeans with a too-high waist. At one point, she lept onto the separating wall between booths and did a virtual strip tease (clothes staying on), then presented the sweetest little old lady to sing the last song of the night—a mellow 1940s tune that sounded a bit like a lullaby—only afterward announcing, "That was my mommy." As all that unfolded, I laughed and clapped and wished I'd had a video camera with me because I knew I'd never see anything quite like it again.
The highlight of the night came when my sweet, preppy friend Liz got up to the mic and belted out one of my favorite songs from my teenage years. It already felt rare enough that Liz existed—that there had been two smart, straight-laced girls at Harvard who knew every glam rock heavy metal tune, from power ballad on up; who had once plastered their bedroom walls with posters of the bands; who had read magazines like Metal Edge and Circus to learn the band members' names and predilections. I adored that music in my early teen years, and having had only two friends who were into it at the time, I marveled over finding one more who knew about Danger Danger; who didn't laugh at my liking Trixster (briefly, I promise) or Warrant; who loved to sit back and re-listen to those old Poison and Skid Row and Guns N Roses tapes that I still haven't thrown out.
It already felt rare enough that Liz and I both existed and had discovered, after knowing each other a year or two, this shared former passion. But that she could sing it—blond curls, pearls, and all—really blew my mind. You don't know how many times I've sung along to those songs in my bedroom or in my car; but I can't carry a tune and can only hit about three notes, so the prospect of singing those songs in public was not one I had considered. It was joyous to hear someone else do it.
Soon enough Liz had everyone in the room on their feet. And as she sang it again last week, I felt like they were all still there, admiring not just her voice but her presence, her absolute knowledge of how Sebastian Bach (Skid Row's lead singer) would've performed it. As the people sitting around me clapped for Liz and smiled at me, I realized what a joyful place a karaoke bar is. Everyone there loves to sing, and most of the talented ones have probably dreamed at some point of fronting a band or being a performer of some other kind. All I ever wanted to do was hit the right notes. But when you go to the right kind of place, everyone cheers for you even when you don't get the notes right. Everyone cheers for you and makes it feel ok that you gave "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" a try and failed. They don't mind. They understand your love of music. They understand your urge to sing along. They let you live out a dream a little bit, and that makes it all the better when your friend also lets you live vicariously; when your friend sings just what you would sing, just the way you wish you could sing it.
As the place fills up, the singers begin, responding one by one to the their names being called out as though at a middle school talent show. The first one is plump and frumpy, long hair begging to be pulled into a pony tail. He sings with a high-pitched voice and I don't like it, but Liz smiles at him, liking his energy. Next up is an older man with a crooner's voice; after him another aged one, gray hair toussled, jeans baggy over his hiking shoes; he doesn't have a show tunes look but he's sure got the voice. He stirs the place up a bit, and toes are tapping by the time the if-William. H Macy-were-a-country-singer barkeep takes the mic and then takes karaoke to its heights, leaving Liz and me to puzzle over what he's doing here rather than on tour somewhere in Texas or Tennessee.
Liz gets called up next, and we are sharing a grin as she sings the song I requested for her, Skid Row's "I Remember You," which brought her a standing ovation the first time I saw her sing it. We were at a dive bar in Somerville; it was a Friday night and she had compelled a handful of friends to go to her newest karaoke find, unsuspecting as it was. To one side stretched a long bar and a narrow room around it, with space for people to sit at the bar stools but no standing room. Through a doorway opened up what must have once been a restaurant: two rows of booths beside a pool table, a set of speakers, a DJ's table, and a few mics. No food was served, and I'm not sure the room was used other than on Friday and Sunday nights, when a random array of people came for karaoke, occasionally riling up the more local crowd who frequented the bar. (In Boston parlance, it was a townie bar, and there sometimes developed a little bit of tension between the townies and the very odd array of karaoke regulars.)
That first time I went out for karaoke, the night unfolded as though it had been scripted by Christopher Guest; the unlikeliest of people are good at karaoke. An overweight, unkempt, somewhat unappealing woman of at least 40 could pull off quite the Pat Benetar. A pretty, reserved woman in office clothes could sing Van Halen's "Dreams" so movingly that the DJ slipped around the room arranging people in couples and then setting us up to slow dance. An older man, looking fragile and tired, could have been Frank Sinatra if I'd closed my eyes. Two stereotypically Boston type of guys—donning Red Sox jerseys, speaking in thick accents, looking very Irish and very burly—sang Phil Collins and Air Supply so perfectly that I may have felt a tear surface in my eye. Later one of them would sing Prince's "Kiss"—a terrifically hard song to emulate—so exactly that I would think it was a recording before turning around to see his mouth wide and the onlookers cheering.
If the characters who were singing and the completely bizarre song list they were creating were fascinating, then the DJ topped it off. She was an Angelina Jolie look-alike with black hair and jeans with a too-high waist. At one point, she lept onto the separating wall between booths and did a virtual strip tease (clothes staying on), then presented the sweetest little old lady to sing the last song of the night—a mellow 1940s tune that sounded a bit like a lullaby—only afterward announcing, "That was my mommy." As all that unfolded, I laughed and clapped and wished I'd had a video camera with me because I knew I'd never see anything quite like it again.
The highlight of the night came when my sweet, preppy friend Liz got up to the mic and belted out one of my favorite songs from my teenage years. It already felt rare enough that Liz existed—that there had been two smart, straight-laced girls at Harvard who knew every glam rock heavy metal tune, from power ballad on up; who had once plastered their bedroom walls with posters of the bands; who had read magazines like Metal Edge and Circus to learn the band members' names and predilections. I adored that music in my early teen years, and having had only two friends who were into it at the time, I marveled over finding one more who knew about Danger Danger; who didn't laugh at my liking Trixster (briefly, I promise) or Warrant; who loved to sit back and re-listen to those old Poison and Skid Row and Guns N Roses tapes that I still haven't thrown out.
It already felt rare enough that Liz and I both existed and had discovered, after knowing each other a year or two, this shared former passion. But that she could sing it—blond curls, pearls, and all—really blew my mind. You don't know how many times I've sung along to those songs in my bedroom or in my car; but I can't carry a tune and can only hit about three notes, so the prospect of singing those songs in public was not one I had considered. It was joyous to hear someone else do it.
Soon enough Liz had everyone in the room on their feet. And as she sang it again last week, I felt like they were all still there, admiring not just her voice but her presence, her absolute knowledge of how Sebastian Bach (Skid Row's lead singer) would've performed it. As the people sitting around me clapped for Liz and smiled at me, I realized what a joyful place a karaoke bar is. Everyone there loves to sing, and most of the talented ones have probably dreamed at some point of fronting a band or being a performer of some other kind. All I ever wanted to do was hit the right notes. But when you go to the right kind of place, everyone cheers for you even when you don't get the notes right. Everyone cheers for you and makes it feel ok that you gave "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" a try and failed. They don't mind. They understand your love of music. They understand your urge to sing along. They let you live out a dream a little bit, and that makes it all the better when your friend also lets you live vicariously; when your friend sings just what you would sing, just the way you wish you could sing it.
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