The Last Outing

At a certain point, my mom ran out of things that she needed or wanted. Choosing gifts became difficult, until I remembered how much she loved music, and started getting concert tickets - something she'd never really treated herself to. I sent my parents to see lots of different shows - I even got them tickets to see Chris Rock in 2009. My dad thought he was a little vulgar. My mother absolutely loved him. My mother's favorite performer, though, and the person I sent her to see most often, was Johnny Mathis. She loved Johnny Mathis. His songs figure prominently in the soundtrack of my childhood. Because she loved him, I was raised to love him. I love him, still. I was happy to send Ma tickets to see Johnny any time he was in town because, as I've said, she'd never treat herself to something like that.

One day in early 2010...probably around March, Ma called me at work. This wasn't unusual. We spoke every day. On this day, though, I could tell there was something she wanted to talk about. After a few moments of beating around the bush she said, "Oh, look at that - you know who's coming to Tampa soon? Johnny Mathis. He's got shows here in April." So, that was it.

"Ma," I said, "I wish you'd said something sooner. I'm really broke, right now. You know I'd love to send you, but I can't swing it."

"Oh," she answered, "Don't be silly. I wasn't asking for tickets, I was just noticing that he's in town soon, is all. I've seen him so many times, already."

"No, seriously, Ma. I really am sorry. If you'd let me know a few weeks ago, I could have figured something out, but I'm flat busted, right now."

"Don't worry about it, and don't apologize. I don't want you running up debt. It's nothing. I'll catch him next time he's in town." she said.

When the conversation ended a few minutes later, I sat there, thinking about my mother, and all she meant to me. One of the reasons that she'd never treated herself to things like concerts when I was growing up was that she always put us children first. She never went to concerts or plays, but we always had books, clothing, food. She always managed to scrape together what we needed for school trips and book fairs - even during the leanest years. I got to thinking about all the crap I spent my money on - eating out, pay-per-view movies, magazines. Crap I didn't need.

Fuck it, I thought. Brown bag it for a month and buy those damned tickets.

I got on the phone and called the venue. The woman I talked to didn't sound very hopeful about my prospects, "Johnny Mathis always sells out fast here, you know...and this is just a month away. I'm afraid there aren't any good seats left."

"At this point, I'll take what I can get. If at all possible, I need a wheelchair-accessible seat, because my mother has a disability."

The woman's voice brightened up, "Oh, well, in that case, you're actually in luck. I do have one accessible set-up available. It's up high, but it's got a sweeping view: front row of the upper balcony, right in the center. No obstructions. And it's kept on reserve for wheelchair users, so this really is your mom's lucky day."

I ordered the tickets, and called Ma.

"Oh, Lana," she said, trying to hide the obvious pleasure in her voice, "You shouldn't have done that! It's really not a big deal, and I know you're low on cash."

I laughed, "Ma, you and I both know you mentioned the concert because you were hoping to go. And I've been trying to figure out what to get you for Mother's Day, anyhow, so consider it an early Mother's day gift. You and dad go, and have a great time, ok?"

Ma was in bad shape, and had been for a long time. Degenerative bone disease had made a wheelchair necessary. She lived with severe and chronic pain. 90% blockages of her arteries slowed her down in every way. End-stage renal failure made dialysis treatments the center of her life, and left her exhausted all the time. Chronic asthma made it difficult for her to breathe. Diabetic retinopathy had rendered her legally blind. Going out - other than for a simple drive or shopping trip, or to medical appointments - was just something she hadn't done in months.

To be honest, I forgot all about the concert, until I got home to a ringing phone one evening in April. I recognized my dad's cellphone number on the caller ID. I picked it up, in a panic. That number always scared me, because there was always the very real possibility that it was my dad with bad news about my mother. In fact, several times in the last three years, calls from that number had pretty much ALWAYS been bad news about my mother...calls to say that she'd tried to walk, and taken a bad fall. Calls to say that her speech was getting slurred, and that the doctors were sure she'd suffered a series of mini-strokes. Calls to say that I'd better book a flight and come out, because things were looking grim. During those years, I'd taken last-minute flights down several times after such phone calls, every time expecting to say goodbye. Every time, though, my mother had rallied, and made a remarkable recovery. Like that one time, when I flew to Tampa, and took a shuttle directly to the hospital, and set up camp on a recliner next to her hospital bed, where she lay suffering from infectious pneumonia. She was going to die, that's what they told us. The nurses brought me slippers, a pillow and blanket, and even a toothbrush and toothpaste, and let me move into the hospital room, so I could be there for her when she passed. She was so weak, so pale, but she was still herself. Her speech was labored, but her mind was as sharp as ever. We talked late into the night. When she got tired of talking, I set her up with my Ipod, so she could listen to the Chris Rock comedy album I'd downloaded for her. If she was going to leave, I wanted her to leave laughing. She lay there, listening and laughing, until we both fell asleep. In the morning, I thought my eyes must be playing tricks on me. She looked rosy. Her eyes looked so clear. She was wide awake and full of energy. She ate her breakfast with relish, and chatted away without struggling for air. An hour or two later, one of her doctors came in, talked to her, listened to her heart and lungs, peered at her chart, and said, "Your mother seems to be clear of infection and there's no water in her lungs. I had to come see for myself after the nurse alerted me, because I saw her just yesterday morning and, to be honest, I wasn't very hopeful for a recovery of any kind, let alone one so dramatic. I don't want to jump the gun, but, if she's still like this in 24 hrs, she can go home." And home she went. That was only one of many times that she got the best of the grim reaper.

But I digress. On this evening in April, when I got home to that phone call, I was relieved to hear my mother's joyous voice on the other end. She sounded so happy, and so full of energy. There was a lot of noise in the background, so she had to shout for me to hear her.

"It's intermission," she yelled, "We're having the greatest time! The seats you got us are incredible - front row of the balcony, right in the center. Even with my bad eyes, I can see everything on the screen, and Johnny sounds great - the best he's ever sounded! We're having such a great time, I just had to call and tell you."

My dad, who is usually a glass-half-empty guy, and who hadn't wanted to go to the concert, at all, got on the phone. He, too, was beaming. "I'm so glad I didn't get your sister to take Mommy, tonight. We're just having such a great time. Johnny sounds the best he ever has and, Lana, I can't remember the last time your mother looked so happy. It's been ages since she's gone out just for fun, and this is such a great show. Did she tell you how perfect our seats are? Have to run - intermission is ending!"

When they got home, hours later, Ma phoned me, again. "The boys looked so shocked when we got home," she said, "I don't think they remember the last time I got home so late, or so full of energy. I feel like my old self, again. Even your father had fun, and you know he never likes to admit he's having fun."

That was in April. Ma died on June 30th. The call for me to make last-minute travel plans to say goodbye were not in vain, this time. And, in fact, I didn't make it in time to say goodbye. She left us while I was somewhere in the air, trying to get there for one last laugh with her.  That's the way she wanted it, though. Nothing was left unsaid between us and, in fact, I spoke to her several times on the phone before my flight. The last thing I told her was that I loved her. But she knew that, anyway.

The day after my mother's struggle finally ended, I sat in the passenger seat of my dad's van. I felt battered. We'd just left the funeral parlor, where dad had left it to me to make whatever arrangements I thought my mother would have wanted. I knew exactly what she'd wanted, actually. It was one of the things we'd discussed that night in the hospital, two years before. As we drove away from the funeral parlor, the silence was deafening. My dad and I have never been anywhere near as close as my mother and I were.  We love one another, but there's always some awkwardness there. The silence made that awkwardness even more pronounced. Just as I was trying to think of something to say, he said, "The last time your mother really went out was to that Johnny Mathis concert. Remember, you got her tickets for Mother's Day? That was a perfect night. She was so happy, and had such a great time. We both did. We had fun together for the first time in years, and she didn't even seem sick, at all. I'm so glad you got her those tickets. I'm so glad that was her last outing, because I can't remember the last time I'd seen her so happy. She was her old self, again, for one whole night. I'll never forget it."

Happy Mother's Day, Ma.

© 2012 Lana M. Nieves

Limited Licensing: I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby publish it under the Creative Commons Attribution license, granting distribution of my copyrighted work without making changes, with mandatory attribution to Lana M. Nieves and for non-commercial purposes only. - Lana M. Nieves 

The War On Women: Business as Usual

I keep reading about the war on women that's happening now in America. It's awful, what's happening - government trying to take control over women's health, sexuality, reproduction, and freedoms. I hate it. But it's nothing new.

I've written a lot about my maternal grandmother, Celina, but I've never written about Jovita, my father's mother. Jovita was as different from Celina as possible. While Celina was bright and witty and full of joy, Jovita was uneducated, somewhat shy, and she had very little humor. This isn't to say that she wasn't a good person: she was, and she treated me well. Her life, though, was full of pain and tragedy. One of her earliest memories was of her father being murdered on the streets of San Juan, Puerto Rico. A terrible thing for a child to live with, and, in many ways,  it set the tone of her life.

Jovita moved from Puerto Rico to NYC with her little boy - my father - in 1946. She was a single mother, when that was not an acceptable thing to be.  She made her son the center of her universe, and worked at whatever she could find, to keep him fed and clothed and healthy. Usually piecework at factories, or cleaning homes and offices.

In 1963, my parents met and married, and my mother became friendly with her mother-in-law. One day, when my mother mentioned that she needed to see her gynecologist, Jovita revealed that she'd never been to such a doctor and had, in fact, never had a gynecological exam. My mother was shocked. She advised Jovita that it really would be a good idea to have an exam, and to start having them annually. Jovita agreed to go to my mother's doctor, Dr. Seissman. A few days later, my mother took her mother-in-law to the gynecologist for her first exam. My grandmother would have been in her 60s.

My mother waited in the waiting room while Dr. Seissman performed the exam. A few minutes later, my mother was called in to translate. Jovita, you see, only spoke a few words of English. My mother entered the examination room and found my grandmother sitting up, looking confused, and Dr. Seissman looking equally bewildered.

"Carmen," she said, "please ask your mother-in-law when she had a radical hysterectomy, and why it was performed."

This was news to my mother. She'd never heard about Jovita having had such major surgery. She asked Dr. Seissman if she was sure of this.

"Yes," the doctor answered, "I'm absolutely sure. She has no uterus. Nothing, at all. And it looks to have been done quite a while back. I'd like to know why this was done - does she have a history of cancer?"

My mother asked Jovita about it, only to have Jovita reply that she didn't know what a hysterectomy was, and that she'd never been sick in any way.  My mother asked her about menopause, and Jovita answered that, a year or two after my father been born - when she was just 30 - all the woman in her neighborhood in San Juan had been ordered to a government clinic. She'd been seen by a doctor, and told that she'd need to have surgery. The reason for the surgery was never explained to her. Her permission was never asked for. She hadn't been sick. She'd been ordered, by doctors sent by the U.S. government, to have surgery. They were doctors. They were with the government. Of course she trusted their judgement. The next thing she knew, she was recovering from this mystery surgery that had left a large scar. The doctors told her not to climb stairs or lift anything heavy, and that she would be just fine. They hadn't told her anything else. They hadn't mentioned that her periods would stop, or that she'd never be able to have another child. They hadn't mentioned that they'd ripped her uterus out in a government-sanctioned effort to keep the women of Puerto Rico from breeding.

After her recovery, my grandmother noticed that her monthly period never returned.   She assumed her "change" had come early, and never connected this to the mystery surgery she'd been forced to undergo.She was just about 30 years old.

My father's mother was a simple woman. She never had the chance to go to school. She was a functional illiterate who could read and write her own name, and little else. She'd been raised to respect and fear authority. When a doctor, let alone a government doctor, told her she needed surgery, there was never any question about what would happen next.

What happened to Jovita was not an isolated incident. She was only one of thousands - possibly a million - women n Puerto Rico that this happened to.  It was part of a large-scale government eugenics program that continued in Puerto Rico well into the 1970s. It was part of the very war on women that seemed to be on hiatus for a while, but now seems to be back in full force.

I'm not writing about this to point out that this is just business as usual, and that there's no point trying to change it. I'm writing about this because it breaks my heart that my grandmother was victimized in this way, that her most basic rights were violated like this. I'm writing about this because it's 2012, and we're dangerously close to seeing this sort of thing happen AGAIN. Forcing a woman to be sterilized is no different than forcing a woman to carry to term a pregnancy that she doesn't want. They're both assaults on more than a woman's body, but on her personhood.

The people who say that the "war on women" is just a dramatic contrivance of the left are denying their own history. My mother made sure to tell us Jovita's story because we must make sure that story never be our story, too.  Hell, no.

It Begins At Home

Recently, a young woman I know reached out to me for help in coming out to her friends. I hadn't even known that Cath (not her real name) was a lesbian. I really hadn't given it much thought. I like Cath but I don't know her well. At 20,  she's someone I think of as a "nice kid." I was touched that she chose me to talk to about something so important, and that she wanted my advice and support. Not only is our relationship more of an acquaintance than a friendship, but I'm not in any way an expert on this topic. I'm no longer young.  I'm not a social worker or counselor. I'm not someone who's experienced any significant struggles in this area.

What emerged, as Cath told me about her situation, was that her parents know she's a lesbian, and have known for a while. She disclosed to them years ago, assuming they'd be fine with it. Cath's parents, you see, are very liberal. They have lots of friends in the gay community. They've advocated for the rights of homosexuals. They raised Cath with the idea that people are people, and that homosexuality is just as normal as anything else.  In fact, Cath was born and raised in San Francisco, where her parents always took her to the annual Pride parade.  So, when Cath - then in her late teens -  disclosed to her parents, she did so with the expectation that she'd have their full support.  Sadly, this has not been the case.

Cath's parents did not take the news well, at all. Now, several years later, they're no closer to embracing who and what she is...no closer to supporting her as she prepares to disclose to her peers. Let me make this clear - Cath's parents are decent people. They love their daughter. They support, in theory, the equality of homosexuals to heterosexuals. They just don't seem very good at coping when faced with theory becoming a reality within their own family. They want to know where they went wrong. They want to know if they should have raised Cath differently. They've witnessed, first hand, how difficult life can be for homosexuals, and wonder why their child has "chosen" such a difficult path to tread. They are not bad people, but they are cliches. I hate to say it, but these good people are not being good parents. They're certainly not being friends to their daughter, when that's what she desperately needs, right now from them: friendship.  They probably don't realize it, but their lack of support is actually a rejection. And their rejection of who and what Cath is has undermined her self-confidence. She tested the waters with her parents - her nearest and dearest - and they blew it. Instead of finding the waters warm and calm, her parents' initial reaction and continued rejection has been as cold as an Alpine lake. This is one of the reasons she's turned to me - someone she barely knows - for friendship and support.

This morning, I woke up to this story, about a father who contacted a radio show, upset to discover his daughter may be a lesbian, and the radio show host suggesting that the father have one of his friends "screw her straight." Somewhere in America, some idiot father is getting advice from a shock-jockey, instead of sitting down and assuring his gay kid that she'll always be his kid, and that he'll always love her. Somewhere in America, some animal is suggesting rape as an antidote to female homosexuality.

This upsetting story made me think about Cath. While her parents are not fundamentally bad people, they're behaving badly. Their rejection has had a profound impact on her. They need to step back and realize that this is not about them, that Cath didn't open up to them because she wanted to punish them, or send them into a 4-year exercise in self-pity and self-absorption. She opened up to them because she thought she could count on them to be there for her. Sadly, they've failed her. They've failed her so badly that she's finally turned, after years of just quietly living with her parents' rejection, (Cath tells me her parents doubt she's really gay, and expect she'll "snap out of it" soon enough) to someone who is practically a stranger for friendship and validation.

I like Cath. I'm happy to be a friend to her. As I said, though, I'm not a social worker or a counselor. More importantly, though, I'm not a parent. I'm not Cath's parent. In her frustration, this young woman has turned to me because she likes what she knows about me and figures I won't insult her or question her decision to start coming out to her friends. And I won't. But I'm no substitute for a supportive parent, and a young person in this position who has parents shouldn't have to look for surrogates.

This stuff is supposed to begin at home, and it's not charity.

Being There

A few days ago, I got back from visiting family. It was a great visit, but a difficult one. It was my first time visiting since losing my mother. Life without my mother has been so hard, at times. I don't mean to get all dark - I'm actually very happy in my life, right now - but there are moments when I don't even know how I manage to get by in a world without my mother. She loomed large for me.

While visiting, I spent a lot of time with my nephews. Their parents are going through a pretty messy/nasty break-up. Their dad - a man I always loved as a brother - has decided that a break-up with his wife means a break-up with his children. The children he was always so close to. The children who he always said were his best friends. The youngest child - my beautiful, 6 yr old nephew - can't understand why his dad never calls, never picks him up for visits, anymore, and doesn't respond to the many phone messages he's left him. In his six year old mind, he's done something to cause this, and there really is no way to let him know that nothing that's happened is his fault.

There's no way to explain to a six year old that the father who was always such a great guy has recently turned into a self-centered asshole who is more interested in pissing off his ex-wife, than in loving his children.

Witnessing what this abandonment has done to this precious boy made me think about my own parents. I adored (still adore) my mother. She was my best friend. When I think about why losing her has had such a profound effect on me, the reason is ridiculously clear: I miss her because SHE WAS THERE. She was there for me. Always. Every day. She offered unconditional love and support. She never walked away. She always answered my calls. I knew, absolutely, that I could count on her. That's it, and that's everything. She was always there, and now, she isn't. Of course there's a huge, gaping hole. When I made mistakes, she was there. When I was obnoxious, she was there. When I needed bailing out of situations, she was there. When I did anything that warranted recognition, she was there. When I was sick, she was there. When I woke up in the morning and needed someone to talk to over a cup of coffee, she was there. When I said I was in love with a woman and was going to move to the other side of the planet to build a life with her, she was there.

I am not saying that we never argued, or that we never got on one another's nerves.

I'm not saying that my mother was a saint.

If anything, I'm saying that she was so very human.

What I'm saying is that she was there. She didn't walk away. She didn't turn her back on me, ever. She was always there, and I always knew she'd be there. I could count on her to be there for me. Because real parents don't leave. They just don't. I'm 45 years old and, if my mother were alive, today, she'd still be there for me. I was so blessed, for so long, that not having her makes me ache.

It's natural for a 45 year old to ache like this. A six year old isn't supposed to. A six year old shouldn't have to ask himself what he's done to make his father leave. A six year old shouldn't be having dreams about telling his dad not to cut into a friend's birthday cake, and then having his father walk away in anger over being denied a slice of cake.

You probably won't read this, but in the slim chance that you do: Be as mad at my sister as you like. Hate her, for all I care. Call her whatever names you like. But, be a man, when it comes to your kids. Be there, asshole.

© 2012 Lana M. Nieves

Limited Licensing: I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby publish it under the Creative Commons Attribution license, granting distribution of my copyrighted work without making changes, with mandatory attribution to Lana M. Nieves and for non-commercial purposes only. - Lana M. Nieves 

Suspicious Minds

These are two two of my nephews:

Nic is six years old. He looks up to his oldest brother in a way that it would be fair to call a form of hero-worship. Derrick is 15. He's good natured, goofy, and funny. He's a really sweet big brother to Nic - very affectionate, always looking to do something nice for the baby of the house, and very protective of the little guy who always wants to tag along. If Derrick gets interested in something, Nic follows suit. Derrick loves to skateboard and is very good at it. Nic is frustrated because, at 6, he can't really do much with the skateboard he convinced his mother to get him. When Derrick gets new sneakers, Nic wants the same kind. Nic, who has naturally curly, fleecy hair, demands his hair be kept short, because that's how Derrick, who has course, African hair, wears his. 

One day, Nic was talking to his mom - my sister - and said, "I can't wait until I get older, so I can turn black, the way Derrick is. When is that going to happen?"

My sister was filled with a mixture of joy and sadness. How wonderful that her sons shared such love for one another! But, how sad for Nic that, try as he might, he couldn't will himself to be more black. Nic and Derrick have different biological fathers and, while our side of the family is of mixed race, we tend to come out with light skin and silky hair. It's the same with Nic's biological father. Derrick's biological father, on the other hand, is 100% African American, and Derrick takes after him, physically.  Nic is too young to understand that being black or African is not just about the color of a person's skin. He's too young to understand that, yes, he's also part African, but his European traits seem to have emerged triumphant in the genetic lottery. All he knows is that his idol is his handsome, good-natured, dark-skinned, nappy-headed brother. He wants to be everything that Derrick is, in every way. 

Why am I thinking about this? Because of another handsome, dark-skinned, nappy-headed boy named Trayvon Martin.  

You see, my nephews live in Florida. In a predominantly white, gated community. Derrick is 15. In the last few years, he's come to enjoy some of the independence that comes with being a teenager. He can, for instance, get on his bike and ride off to the candy store alone. He does this often, because he's got a thing for Red Bull and chewing gum. The kid is just crazy for Red Bull and chewing gum. He's old enough to usually have pocket money, and this is often what he spends it on. 

He is a black boy, living in a white community. In Florida.

He bikes or walks back and forth from home to the candy store all the time.

He's immersed in skateboarding culture and can usually be found wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

Trayvon Martin could easily have been my nephew.

What happened to Trayvon Martin could easily happen to Derrick.

And just look at him. Doesn't he look suspicious? Do you trust that face? 

My nephews are not disposable. Their lives mean something. Children of color should not be treated as so much collateral damage.  Trayvon Martin was a human being. Somebody's son. Somebody's friend. He mattered. He had a future. I wonder if there's some younger sibling or cousin or friend who looked up to Trayvon Martin the way Nic looks up to Derrick? Where does this tragedy leave that child? How does one explain to a little kid how unjust the world can be? It's impossible, because we adults haven't fully come to terms with it, ourselves.  

Get good and angry about what happened to Trayvon Martin.  I know I'm furious. And Heartbroken.

Because he mattered. Because he could have been your son, your nephew, your big brother. 

What are words worth?

Tom Tom Club said it best: Words are stupid, words are fun, words can put you on the run.

Rush Limbaugh used the word "slut" to describe a young woman who had the audacity to speak up about the healthcare needs of women with gynecological conditions requiring hormone therapy, and the walls came tumbling down.

Consider it a clarion call, I say. Words have power, but human beings have more power. Isn't it high time women reclaimed and re-appropriated this word? The LGBT community has successfully re-appropriated "dyke," "queer," and, to an extent, "fag." Feminists took back "spinster." Why can't American women do the same with "Slut"? How about we start owning the word, and not shy away from it? How about we take it on as our own, so it can never be used against us? How about a million of us wear t-shirts that say "SLUT" and show up outside of Rush Limbaugh's workplace? Or maybe just wear them around our own corners of the world to make a statement.

Peace Train

Last Saturday, I woke up to a truly sad private message on Facebook. My good friend, Cheryl, wrote to tell me that her boyfriend, the love of her life, David, had died suddenly. One minute he was there, playfully asking her if she loved him...the next, he was gone. Just like that. A cough, a loss of breath, and that was it.

David, Cheryl and I all went to the same small, elite high school, where we we all knew one another and formed tighter bonds than anyone from any other school I know. Maybe, as Cheryl has said, it's because we were considered "special" kids - square pegs who'd finally found others like us. Maybe it was because, unlike most high schools, Hunter ran from 7th grade until 12th: six years of togetherness.  Or maybe it was because most of us had been uprooted from our bridge-and-tunnel neighborhood friends and forced to take long rides on the subway, every day, to the upper east side of Manhattan, for the privilege of attending what many consider the finest school in America. For whatever reason, Hunter College High School alums are a rare breed. We stick together. We have school spirit. Most of us remember those years with great fondness.

I didn't know David very well in high school, but I liked him. That he and Cheryl -who is one of my favorite people: smart, funny, original, genuinely good and generous - found each other and fell in love, 20+ years after high school was over, made me like him more. He made her happy. They made each other happy. And they deserved it. Thanks to Cheryl, I got to know David a little better during the last two years or so. He made me laugh.

This is what I do know about David:

He was gentle
He was kind
He loved music
He was a teacher and a librarian
He had a sense of fairness that made him fight for the underdog: kids, union members, the LGBT community, the poor....
He was funny
He was a single father who clearly devoted himself to his daughter
He was very much in love with my friend, and showed her the respect and admiration she deserved

David was only 44. He and Cheryl only had a few years together. It's not fair. But the one good thing to come out of this, if that's the right way to phrase it, is the revelation that he and Cheryl didn't waste time. They didn't leave things unsaid. Two years may not sound like a lot of time, but it's clear they made the most of it, and never missed an opportunity to appreciate one another, to enjoy each other not just as partners, but as friends, to be kind to one another. They laughed a lot, and didn't waste time on pettiness. And, thank God, they were together when he died.

He died too soon, but he died in the presence of the person who changed his life, who he loved more than anything, who made him happy.

Few of us will experience the kind of relationship David and Cheryl had. Few of us are open to that kind of partnership...to taking that much of a chance on life. Time slips by, and we find we've missed the boat. I'm so glad David and Cheryl did take the chance and didn't miss the boat. I only wish it had been a longer trip.

So long, David.  I don't know if you liked Cat Stevens, but this song is joyous, and makes me think of how happy Cheryl has been since you entered her life, and of the journey you've embarked on. Peace, brother.

Why Whitney Matters

If you haven't yet heard about the passing of Whitney Houston, I'm guessing you live under a rock. In any case, if you haven't heard, you must not have internet access and, so, you're not reading this.

In the 24-or-so hours since this somewhat shocking news broke, I've seen two camps emerge online: there are those who have been posting links to Whitney Houston videos, photos and articles...and then there are those who take pleasure in making jokes about this sad news and/or saying things such as, "A lot of people died, and she was just some addict that none of us really knew...what's the big deal?" That's actually a reasonable question, in some ways. I didn't know Whitney Houston. Never met her. I don't even own any of her albums. (I'm old enough to have to admit that I may have had a few cassingles, back in the day.) And, truth be told, I'm not a huge fan of addicts, in general. I've been related to enough of them, seen enough people I cared about turn into assholes via addiction, and been exposed to the worst aspects of addiction via many years of working in the not-for-profit sector that I'd be more than happy to never spend ten minutes with a drug addict or alcoholic, again.

That said, the death of Whitney Houston leaves me with great sadness and, if I had to identify with one of the two camps, I'd go for the former. I'm not on a posting spree of Whitney videos, but I actually do care that this happened, even though I never met Whitney Houston. 

First off, the argument that we didn't know her is a silly one. We live in a time and place where the celebrity phenomenon creates some pretty damned convincing illusions. One of these is the illusion that the very famous are practically friends of ours, almost family. Like it or not, we're happy when our favorite actor gets an award. We cheer on our favorite athletes. We anticipate the birth of our favorite celebrity's baby, and wonder what name the baby will be given. And we grieve when an actor, writer, singer, or other celebrity we've come to care for passes away. It's a part of how the world works, these days. To deny it is just silly.

Second, and more importantly, Whitney Houston's death speaks to a whole lot more than some woman I never met coming to a premature end. It speaks volumes about women's roles in the modern world, and how far we have yet to go. In this way, her sad end is very much like the sad end that Princess Diana suffered, and here's why:

Whitney Houston was talented. 

Whitney Houston was beautiful.

Whitney Houston was rich.

Whitney Houston came from a close-knit family.

Whitney Houston was well loved on a global scale.

All this, and yet, she still did two things that we often associate with low self-esteem: she entered into and stayed in an abusive marriage for many years, and she became addicted to drugs.  And this is what is so heartbreaking to a lot of us, especially women: that someone so gorgeous and talented and loved....someone who seemingly had everything going for her didn't - couldn't - love herself enough to make choices that were in her own best interest. We loved her from afar, and it's inconceivable to us that she couldn't love herself more. 

We didn't know her, personally, but we watched her go from being a gorgeous, talented teenager, to a mere shell of her former self, whose gift - her amazing voice - was destroyed along the way.  That, in itself, was sad enough. To find out that her life, itself, is over, is truly heartbreaking...especially when one considers the efforts she finally did make to clean herself up and try to build her career, again. If you're anything like me, you were rooting for her to make a comeback. 

And, so, yes - Whitney does matter, and some of us do, indeed, care. If this is the way it can end for someone who seemingly had the world in the palm of her hand, what does that say about the chances an ordinary girl or woman has in this world? Or an ugly girl? Or a girl with no talent? Why is it so damned difficult for girls and women to love themselves, and demand the best for themselves?  

If it drives you nuts that some of her fans are going a little hog wild about posting her videos on Facebook, keep in mind that they're probably trying their damnedest to remember her as she was, when she was at her best.  Not just her most beautiful (but, yes, surely that) - but when her voice was so amazing, when she was great to watch, when we looked forward to her next song. Who of us wouldn't want that for ourselves, after we're gone?  Before she was a hot mess, she was a woman and a singer.  Is it so wrong to want to remember that?

Teacher, Teacher

A couple of nights ago, I received a phone call from an old friend...a woman who's been a school teacher in the public school system for over 20 yrs. As soon as I heard the crack in Sue's voice, I knew something was wrong.


"I've had a terrible day," she said, "One of my former students killed himself, today. Thirteen years old. He got hold of his father's shotgun and blew his head off. Thirteen years old, Lana."


There is really nothing I can say about this tragedy that wouldn't be stating the obvious: it's horrible, it's sad, it's disturbing. I feel for this boy and for his loved ones. But I'm not here to write about him - I didn't even know him. His story, and how I found out about it, moved me to write about something that's been on my mind a lot, lately: the role teachers play in the lives of children.


I wonder if this boy had any idea that his tragic death would have such a profound effect on his former teacher? I wonder if he realized that someone thought about him, cared for him, and would mourn him in such a way? I wonder if he had any idea that, long after the school bell had rung - and even long after the school year had ended - his teacher would be thinking about him, wondering how he was doing, wishing him well?  Not every teacher does this, and even the ones who do, probably don't with every student. They're human beings, after all, not saints.


A good teacher, though, a great teacher, can have an incredible impact on the life of a student.  A few weeks ago, I was discussing this with my friend, Heidi (a teacher, herself.) I told Heidi about one of my favorite teachers, Ms. R - the 5th grade teacher who had the vision to introduce a room full of 9 and10 yr old "gifted' children to poetry not only on the page, but on vinyl. Ms. R started us out early in the school year by giving us rexograph copies of Edward Arlington Robinson's Richard Cory. We read the poem, and discussed it at length. We spent a whole session of Language Arts (what they called reading/English at the elementary school I attended) on this one poem. Ms. R didn't explain what the poem meant, but asked us to explain it to her, in our own words. There were no wrong answers - just different interpretations. (You may think this is a fairly straightforward poem to dedicate a whole afternoon to discussing: keep in mind that we were 9 and10 yrs old, this was our first foray, EVER, into reading poetry. It was an ambitious undertaking.) We loved it. The next day, Ms. R showed up with an old and very worn record album - her personal copy of Simon and Garfunkel's Sounds of Silence. She put the record on one of those big, portable record players that was in every classroom in the 70s, and played their version of Richard Cory, introducing us - a class full of 9 and 10 yr olds - to the idea that poetry didn't just live on the page, that poets could tell their stories in different ways, that music - even pop music - mattered.


It was a revelation. It changed everything for me. It is not an exaggeration to say that Ms. R was the first person to make me see that writing could carry weight, that it was a worthy pursuit.


This is just one example of how special a teacher she was. When I told Heidi about Ms. R -  how much she'd meant to me,  how I'd never forgotten that she once called my parents and gotten permission to take me with her to The Metropolitan Museum of Art on a Saturday, just because she wanted to, and how I wished I could thank her, all these years later, for all she'd she'd done, for all that her care and attention had meant to me - Heidi replied, "You've got to find her. Google her. Find her and tell her everything you're telling me."


And that's what I did. Hoping that Ms. R would somehow still be involved in education, even though she might well be at or past retirement age by now, I Googled her somewhat common name combined with "NYC public schools." Bingo. There she was....still involved with the public school system...now training young men and women how to integrate the arts into the classroom experience. How fitting. I sent Ms. R the following email, hoping against hope that it didn't sound corny or stupid, and figuring the worst that would happen would be getting no reply:

I'm writing in the hopes that you're the KR who taught at PS 321 in Brooklyn during the late 70s. If not, I'm sorry to bother you. If you are that KR, I'm glad to have found you, because I've always wanted to tell you what a difference you made in my life.

I don't expect you to remember me, but I was a 5th grade student in 1977, and you were one of my teachers. A great teacher. As a child, I took it for granted that every other child had a teacher who really cared and made an effort to keep things interesting, welcomed curiosity, and encouraged critical thinking. As an adult, I know better.  

A week ago, I heard Simon and Garfunkle's Richard Cory on the radio, and immediately thought about sitting in your classroom, reading E.A.R.'s poem, and listening to S&G's version of it. I asked one of my friends from childhood, who was also in your class, if he remembered you and the poetry you introduced us to.  William Carlos Williams. Percy Shelley. Vachel Lindsay. Langston Hughes. Robert Frost. Sure enough, his memories of that time were just as clear as mine, and just as fond. We talked about what a really special teacher you'd been, how lucky we'd been to have had the experience of being in your class. And more - I'll never forget that you once took me to the Met on your own time. On your day off. It was my first time going to the Met, and it changed my life. The Met became one of my favorite places in NYC, thanks to you. Thank you so much for that, and for so many things. The gifts you gave me 35 yrs ago are still precious to me.  

At any rate, I hope I've reached the right KR, because the KR who taught at PS 321 in 1977 really should know that the time and effort she put into working with a room full of ten year olds made a world of difference.

Corny? Maybe a little, but all true, so what the hell? I was thrilled, then, to receive this reply (note: names and specifics have been deleted for privacy) a  few hours later:

Dear Lana, You have indeed reached the right person…and I am typing with a big lump in my throat and a tear in my eye.  I have never, ever received a note/message/email like this!   

I have always loved teaching and the word “rewarding” doesn’t even begin to cover how I would describe your note, Lana.  I have very fond memories of teaching at PS  321…it was really an incredible school…I didn’t even mind being in the mini-school!  

I am presently working for (education-related agency) but the best part of my job is visiting schools and, because I really still love teaching, conducting workshops for teachers….I have one tomorrow…at the Met of course!   It is really my home away from home…I also volunteer in the Nolen Library at the Met around once or twice a month.  

But I would like to know more about you, Lana!  Please write back.  

Thank you so much for being thoughtful enough to write to me and share all of this.  It means more than you could possibly imagine!  

All the best and write back,KR 

To say that this made my day would be putting it mildly. It's immensely satisfying to be able to thank someone for such wonderful gifts 35 yrs after the fact. I didn't even realize, when I was 9 or 10, that there was anything I needed to thank this wonderful person for. That she so naturally and seemingly without effort gave us so much is part of what made her an outstanding teacher. As a 10 yr old, I didn't know how rare an opportunity I'd been granted. I'm so glad that, as a 45 yr old, I've been able to voice it and give thanks where thanks have been long overdue.


Teaching can be something of a thankless profession. Pathetic salaries, not much respect from the public,  overcrowded classrooms, difficult parents, problem children, supply shortages, budget cuts.....yet good people still choose teaching as a profession. A good teacher can make a huge difference. I'd urge anyone who has a memory of a special teacher to make the effort to thank them. I can tell you, first hand, how good it feels to successfully deliver that "thank you," and to find out that it doesn't fall on deaf ears. You may be surprised at how satisfying it can be to say "thanks."


And, to answer the inevitable question, yes - I've written back.

Blog for Choice 2012

My sister is probably my best friend. We were not close growing up. In fact, we did not like each other very much when we were kids. The six year gap in our ages may account for some of our problems. We also have very different personalities. She's always been very social and easy-going with people. I've always been more comfortable around books and ideas. She was always a rebel and a bad girl. I was the good girl in the family - going to school, rarely defying our parents. We clashed. We argued. Neither of us thought much of the other. This - our relationship -  all changed when she became a mother, and we became as close as two sisters can be.

In 1995, when my sister was 22 and I was 28, my sister came to me and asked for help. This was something she didn't ever really do because, as I've said, we didn't get along. It was a big deal for either of us to ask help from the other.

She came to me and said, "I need help. I think I'm pregnant. I guess I know I'm pregnant. I need help."

I answered, "Pregnant? Are you insane? You can't even bring yourself to wake up at a reasonable time in the morning and hold down a job - there's no way you're can be responsible for a baby. You're a baby, yourself. You seriously have to consider an abortion."

To my surprise she said, "I know. I agree. I think I want an abortion, but I'm scared to even find out about it. You're good at finding things out. Can you find out where I can get one, how much it costs, what I have to do? Please help me out. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

I promised to get her the information that day, saying to myself, "She's not even enough of a grownup to find out the damned phone number for Planned Parenthood, so there's no way she can even consider being a parent."

The next day, my sister came home from her visit to Planned Parenthood and sat down with me and our mother. Our mother was great about speaking openly about these issues. She was pro-choice and believed women needed to know about their options. She raised us to know about these things: sex, birth control, abortion rights. She raised us to know that having an abortion was absolutely a choice, and absolutely a choice that was acceptable. In her early 40s, she'd had her own pregnancy scare. Her days of having babies were long over. It turned out that she wasn't pregnant but, when she thought she might be, she'd been completely honest with me: her plan was to abort the pregnancy. She hadn't planned on having children past the age of 30. She'd taken precautions. If she was pregnant, it was because her birth control had failed.  She was already a grandmother (by my older sister) and this was no time to start over with motherhood. Most importantly: she just didn't want another baby. As it turned out, our mother hadn't been pregnant that time, but it had meant a lot to me that she'd been so frank about the situation.

When my sister sat us down, she explained to us that she'd been to Planned Parenthood, talked about her options, discussed the situation with the father of her unborn baby, and decided that abortion was just not for her. She couldn't do it, but she felt sure she could be a good parent. Her boyfriend was on board 100%, and actually very excited about the idea of being a father.  She'd made her choice, and we had to accept it. That's what we did.  In my head, I switched from thinking about this stupid mistake my sister had made, to thinking, "There will be a baby here in 7 or 8 months, and that baby is my niece or nephew. She's made her choice and the best thing I can do - the only thing I can do - is accept and support it."

In a flash, my sister made changes in her life. She set up house with her boyfriend. She became immersed in the business of keeping healthy and planning for parenthood. Her social life ceased to be her priority as she began nesting.

In my heart, I started to really look forward to the idea of a new baby. I love babies. My whole family loves babies. We tend to gather around a new baby and treat him like a king. It's the one area where we all agree: babies are amazing - a treasure. A few weeks after my sister had made her big announcement, I was walking home from work and saw a lovely, little hand-made baby hat in a store window. It looked like the top of a tomato, with an erect tassel for the stem. It was made of soft, merino wool - perfect for a newborn's delicate skin. I bought it and brought it home to my sister, casually dropping it on the table, where she sat reading a book about pregnancy and exercise. She looked up and asked, "What's this?"

I answered, "It's for your baby."

"You bought a present for my baby?" she asked, incredulously. "You don't even like me."

"Your baby is going to be my nephew. I like him. Of course I got him a present." I said.

Everything changed between us at that moment. The idea of that new baby changed me as much as it changed my sister. I warmed up to her. She warmed up to me. We started behaving like friends, instead of enemies. We started to feel for one another the way sisters should feel, if they're really lucky. It's really amazing what the idea of a new baby can do to  and for people.

When my nephew, Derrick, was born, I was among the first to rush to the hospital to hold him. He was beautiful. I fell in love at first sight. My sister and her boyfriend asked if I would be his godmother. Yes, they knew I was gay, and that the Catholic church didn't technically allow homosexuals to baptize babies, but they didn't care what the church said - I was their first and only choice...the person they wanted to entrust with the care of their precious baby should anything happen to them. I promise you this really happened, and that I haven't lifted it from a Lifetime movie.

I am so glad my sister had her baby. He was a wonderful baby. He's now a wonderful young man. I couldn't love him more if her were my own son. I've told him many times, over the years, that one of the reasons he's special to me is that he brought me and my sister together, when it seemed nothing would. In so many ways, he worked miracles.

So, I'm glad my sister made the choice to have her baby. But I'm so damned glad she had the choice to make, and that it wasn't made for her. When she made the decision to go to term with this pregnancy, it was an informed choice, and she made it, in part, after talking to Planned Parenthood about her many options. In retrospect, I'm glad she didn't opt for an abortion, but I thank God that abortion was an option for her....that she didn't feel trapped....that our mother and grandmother believed in speaking openly and non-judgmentally about choice. Every woman has the right to make these choices for and about her own body, about her own health, about her own future, for herself.