I teach a rather substantive poetry unit to my AP/IB seniors every year. Poetry is a major part of both the AP and IB curriculums, and the students have to be able analyze and write about poetry and answer extremely difficult questions to pass their exams in the spring in order to receive college credit from the Powers That Be. I haven’t really questioned this before given the fact that I myself have both a natural and professional affinity for poetry and studying it seems entirely natural and reasonable. But more recently, I’ve taken a step back and realized just how irrelevant and marginalized poetry has become in our society, how odd it is that we teachers devote so much time and energy teaching our students how to analyze poetry when no one really seems to care about it anymore. Apart from English classes and exams, most people have nothing to do with poetry in their lives. They don’t read it, they don’t write it, and they don’t have even the faintest glimmering of desire to do so.
Why does poetry matter? This is the question I have been mulling over since last Saturday night, which is when I spent an evening with about 1800 other people at UCLA’s Royce Hall listening to poet Mary Oliver read and speak about her work. It was unlike anything I have ever experienced before. The event was sold out—every seat was filled. The excitement and anticipation in the air was palpable. The young woman sitting to my left, in her green plaid mini-skirt and black punk boots, leaned forward in her chair during the introduction as though to bring herself closer to the woman who would emerge onstage. We were high up in the balcony, by the way.
Mary walked somewhat stiffly and slowly onto the stage, arranged her books on the podium, and began to speak to us with a casual intimacy that made it seem like we were all sitting together in her living room instead of an enormous, public hall. After a few remarks, she began to read her poems, and all 1800 of us sat in absolute stillness and silence. I have been to many symphonic concerts, plays, and other hoity-toity events with extremely sophisticated and devoted audiences, but none of them have ever been that quiet and that raptly attentive. We were mesmerized by the cadence of her voice, by the beauty of the words she spoke, and, most of all, by the weight of truth those words contained. At times her spoken truths evoked laughter—boisterous, noisy laughter—and at others a spontaneous and appreciative “mmmm” rolled in waves across the seats.
It seemed as though we all knew that in listening to her, in seeing her before us live, we were participating in something profound. Even sacred. It had the feel of a church service (although again, more attentive and quiet than most church services I have been to), and each line she spoke was a benediction, a sacrament. And we worshippers of truth and beauty stretched out the hands of our souls and received the blessing.
This probably sounds overwrought and melodramatic, like something only an “English” person would think and feel. But my friend, who is not an “English” person and who had never heard of Mary Oliver or been to a poetry reading before this night, also experienced this feeling of awe and transcendence.
So this is what has made me think about poetry and its place in our culture and society. It’s made me realize how much we’ve moved away from the beauty of language and how quickly we’ve given up the effort required to attain something worthwhile. Efficiency and ease have become the new gods. What will appeal to and entertain the masses has become the most desirable. And yet, beauty and depth still matter. As evidenced by Saturday night’s turnout, there is still some segment of the population who craves a beautiful and truthful and carefully crafted word. I think many others would as well if they could remember it was there in the first place and could pause long enough to taste it.
I once explained to my classes that poetry is like a reduction sauce. All the excess and extraneous language is boiled and evaporated away until you are left with only the richest and most flavorful essence of words and ideas. Poems point the way to things, but allow us (or force us, if you’re a reluctant reader) to navigate the layers. They offer lenses and landscapes, and that jolt out of ourselves that we need every now and then to see things more clearly. Seamus Heaney, a rather wonderful poet himself, captures what I’m trying to say in these lines:
You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.
We are all so often living as “hurries,” desperately needing some wind to blow through us and make us gasp. Other things can do that too—a strain of music, a beautiful landscape, even tragedy. But poetry does this especially well, I believe. You cannot hurry with a poem. You have to savor each word, letting its flavor blossom in the heart and mind. Try it. Find a good one and read it aloud to yourself, and let the words sink in you like stones in slow depths.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Pushing Boulders
I’ve been away from my little blogging world for a while now, and I’ve been missing it. November was kind of pitiful (one entry that really counted as an October entry) and December was a kind of a cheat because I pretty much just posted things I wrote last year. And now January is coming to a close, and it’s time. I haven’t been avoiding writing because I haven’t had anything to write about or because I haven’t felt like writing. Quite the opposite is true. But I have felt that I was not allowed to write about what has been dominating my life since the end of the summer and was waiting for something else to come up that I could write about instead. But the longer I wait to feel like I’m at a point where I can squeeze past this giant boulder in front of me and move on to new territory, the more I realize that I’m never going to feel that way. I can’t squeeze past it. I have to deal with it and try to push it out of my way or else I’ll stay stuck in this dark cave for another three months or more. The long and short of it is that my father has been struggling with, for lack of a better way to put it, an increasingly severe mental illness in the past five months. The roots of it began long before that, and there is a complicated history, as there probably always is, but it’s been the past five months that have been the hardest for my family.
A large part of my hesitation in writing about this has been concern for preserving my father’s privacy and dignity, and I still have doubts about writing about this in a public way. But, as I said, this has dominated my life for months now, and I feel like a liar and a fake if I don’t write about it. It feels like a kind of suffocation not to say anything. So there’s simply the selfish need for outlet and self-preservation driving me to write this. But there’s something else I’ve been thinking about in recent weeks and days that I think has a legitimate place in this decision as well. It occurred to me a few weeks ago that if it had been a matter of my father’s colon cancer recurring or if I were just writing about his Parkinson’s, I wouldn’t be suffering all these conflicted feelings and making such an effort to keep silent. I wouldn’t have to worry for a second about his dignity or the possibility of people making judgments or the possibility of him feeling shame. People are okay with physical diseases and injuries. There is no question of any kind of personal weakness or potential fault on the part of the sufferer, and people often have a tremendous amount of sympathy and even admiration for people who struggle with severe physical ailments.
But what I’ve realized in struggling with this issue myself over the past months is that as far as we’ve come in our society, there is still a tremendous amount of stigma and shame attached to mental illness—to depression and anxiety that have accelerated into psychosis, which is the demon that currently has my father in its grip. I doubt anyone has ever suggested to a cancer patient that if he took up a hobby or went out with friends a little more that he could make himself better, but this has been suggested to my father. I myself have suggested all kinds of variations of that to him, as have my siblings, especially in the earlier stages of his illness, when he was still fairly rational. Obviously, we know that there is a major chemical and physiological component to his struggle and have tried every medical and psychiatric treatment available to address this; but what makes everything so messy and difficult is that there is this murky grey area where a person with a mental illness such as depression and anxiety can potentially make choices that affect his or her recovery. It’s not just chemical—it’s emotional and psychological as well. Is that where the stigma comes from? Is that where the blame resides? Can they really make choices and will themselves to work on these areas, and our unease and accusation stems from their failure to do so, or are we simply ignorant and heartless accusers of victims no more able to control their own minds and emotions than someone with leukemia can control his or her own blood?
This has made my own emotions towards him all kinds of awful. One moment I feel deep sadness and compassion for him, the next I feel full of frustration and anger that he keeps choosing (or so it seems) to persist in his illness and be non-cooperative in doing the things that we think could help him. And, of course, the next moment I feel a flood of burning guilt for that frustration and anger. So in some ways this is about my own shame. As horrible as my mother’s illness was, at least it was more clear-cut. She had cancer. She had done nothing to bring it on or exacerbate it. It was just this terrible disease that we all did our best to fight against. But in my father's case, it’s so easy to get mixed up between fighting his disease and fighting him.
There is much much more to this, but I’ll save that for another entry. I’m tired now and need to go eat something. Pushing boulders is hard work.
A large part of my hesitation in writing about this has been concern for preserving my father’s privacy and dignity, and I still have doubts about writing about this in a public way. But, as I said, this has dominated my life for months now, and I feel like a liar and a fake if I don’t write about it. It feels like a kind of suffocation not to say anything. So there’s simply the selfish need for outlet and self-preservation driving me to write this. But there’s something else I’ve been thinking about in recent weeks and days that I think has a legitimate place in this decision as well. It occurred to me a few weeks ago that if it had been a matter of my father’s colon cancer recurring or if I were just writing about his Parkinson’s, I wouldn’t be suffering all these conflicted feelings and making such an effort to keep silent. I wouldn’t have to worry for a second about his dignity or the possibility of people making judgments or the possibility of him feeling shame. People are okay with physical diseases and injuries. There is no question of any kind of personal weakness or potential fault on the part of the sufferer, and people often have a tremendous amount of sympathy and even admiration for people who struggle with severe physical ailments.
But what I’ve realized in struggling with this issue myself over the past months is that as far as we’ve come in our society, there is still a tremendous amount of stigma and shame attached to mental illness—to depression and anxiety that have accelerated into psychosis, which is the demon that currently has my father in its grip. I doubt anyone has ever suggested to a cancer patient that if he took up a hobby or went out with friends a little more that he could make himself better, but this has been suggested to my father. I myself have suggested all kinds of variations of that to him, as have my siblings, especially in the earlier stages of his illness, when he was still fairly rational. Obviously, we know that there is a major chemical and physiological component to his struggle and have tried every medical and psychiatric treatment available to address this; but what makes everything so messy and difficult is that there is this murky grey area where a person with a mental illness such as depression and anxiety can potentially make choices that affect his or her recovery. It’s not just chemical—it’s emotional and psychological as well. Is that where the stigma comes from? Is that where the blame resides? Can they really make choices and will themselves to work on these areas, and our unease and accusation stems from their failure to do so, or are we simply ignorant and heartless accusers of victims no more able to control their own minds and emotions than someone with leukemia can control his or her own blood?
This has made my own emotions towards him all kinds of awful. One moment I feel deep sadness and compassion for him, the next I feel full of frustration and anger that he keeps choosing (or so it seems) to persist in his illness and be non-cooperative in doing the things that we think could help him. And, of course, the next moment I feel a flood of burning guilt for that frustration and anger. So in some ways this is about my own shame. As horrible as my mother’s illness was, at least it was more clear-cut. She had cancer. She had done nothing to bring it on or exacerbate it. It was just this terrible disease that we all did our best to fight against. But in my father's case, it’s so easy to get mixed up between fighting his disease and fighting him.
There is much much more to this, but I’ll save that for another entry. I’m tired now and need to go eat something. Pushing boulders is hard work.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Christmas Letters cont.
Shepherd’s Letter:
Dear Father,
It’s me, Benjamin, your son. I guess you know that much. When I left, you were probably as glad to see the back of me as I was glad to leave, and surely neither of us thought I’d be writing you a letter. But such things have happened lately that an old grudge over sheep doesn’t seem worth the trouble of being angry about anymore.
Nathan and I moved the flock into the fields outside Bethlehem about two weeks ago. The grazing wasn’t bad, but we decided to move on, away from Bethlehem and more to the south. You’re probably shaking your head right now and calling me stupid under your breath, but we had our reasons. That night, everything was as usual. We ate our dinner, and since Nathan said he’d take the first watch, I spread out my blanket to go to sleep. It took me awhile, because I kept feeling a stone digging into my back, but every time I lifted my blanket, I couldn’t find it. I must’ve gone to sleep eventually, though, because the next thing I knew, Nathan was crouched over me and kicking me in the side. If it hadn’t been for that kicking, I might’ve thought I was still dreaming, because a light brighter than anything I’ve ever seen before was shining over the field. And though it seemed like it couldn’t possibly be any brighter than it already was, it just kept getting brighter and brighter. The sheep were bleating and shifting restlessly, but none of them bolted, which, now that I think of it, was incredible. But that was the least of my thoughts at the time. As I said, the light just kept getting brighter and brighter, and Nathan and I didn’t know where to look because it was everywhere. It almost seemed inside of us.
At the point when the light became almost unbearable, a great cracking sound boomed across the field, like the earth itself was breaking in half. I felt like I’d been struck a blow, and Nathan and I both fell to the ground. I thought at first we’d been hit by lightning, but remembered that there was no storm that night. As we began to raise ourselves up again, a being such as I have never seen before burst out before us. Nathan and I clutched at each other like children, shaking with shock and terror, and the words that came out of my mouth were ones that would’ve made you take the strap to me when I was a boy. Not the way I’d have wanted to greet an angel if I’d ever thought before that I’d meet one, but I couldn’t help myself. What words are you supposed to say when you see something like that? I don’t think such words exist, and if they do, they’re not taught to shepherds.
Then the angel began to speak to us and said, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.” I tell you, Father, if it had just been a matter of the angel telling us not to be afraid, I don’t think it would have made much difference. The sight and sound of it was so beautiful and so terrible that at first it made me want to clap my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. But somewhere in the course of his speaking, I became filled with peace and joy—it felt like recognition. Nathan also seemed calmer, because he straightened up and stopped gripping my arm so hard. The angel continued to speak, and announced to us that right there in the city of Bethlehem was born a Savior, who was Christ the Lord, and that we should find him there wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. The moment he finished speaking this, the entire sky was filled with a whole host of angels, singing and praising, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, goodwill toward men!” You can’t even begin to imagine the sight and sound of that. They poured out a flood of ecstasy, and I was swept away. My hand trembles and my eyes fill with tears even as I write this. Just the memory of it still stuns me.
I’m not sure how long they were there and how long we stood in awe, our mouths hanging open—we seemed outside of time—but eventually, the light faded away and we were left once again with a dark night sky pinpricked with stars. I looked at Nathan, and one of us or both of us said, “Let’s go,” and we immediately began to run towards Bethlehem. And yes, Father, we abandoned the sheep. I know that must seem insane to you, that I, a shepherd—even as useless a shepherd as you think me to be—would abandon my flock in the middle of a field in the middle of the night, but I knew then as I know now that it was exactly what we were supposed to do. As we came to the outskirts of town, we paused to catch our breath, and it was then that we first heard the cry. A large and impressive dwelling rose up several yards ahead of us, but the cry did not come from that direction. Instead, the wails of a new baby came from a small structure to the side of the house.
We followed them and found ourselves inside a dimly lit stable. A young woman—just a girl, really—was trying to shush the baby while her husband crouched beside her and clucked his tongue. Nathan and I looked at each other in amazement. Surely this red-faced, screaming baby could not be the Christ the angels sang about! I looked around me at the animals in their stalls, the crude patching on the walls, and smelled the warm aroma of dung. Why on earth would God allow our Messiah to be born here? And then my gaze fell on Nathan and my own rough hands and clothes. I couldn’t remember the last time we had bathed. Our hair was matted with dirt and oil, and our clothes reeked of sheep. You can be sure that the wealthy owner of the house we had seen would have never let us step through his door, but here in this stable, we fit right in. What if—and I’m almost afraid to write this, but I can’t shake it from my heart—what if He was born there so that we might visit? So that two stinking, worthless shepherds might feel the freedom to enter in and see him? And so we did.
You’re probably thinking now that we had too much to drink that night, but I tell you that drunk men’s visions have nothing to do with what we saw. I don’t know why we, of all people on earth, were chosen, why this has happened to me and what it will mean to me in the years to come. I only know that I went to sleep with a pebble in my back and woke to a chorus of heavenly angels. I am speaking this now to all who will listen, and I feel that I must write to you as well, Father, for we are all men in a heavy slumber in the dark marrow of the night. And the time will come when we shall all be wakened by angels blazing glory, who will usher us—blind and stumbling—into the presence of the King.
Simeon’s Letter:
Dear Brother,
This is my last letter to you. The time that all young men think will never come to them has come to me. I am an old man, and the days of my life are small in number. Lately, I have been able to rise from my bed for only short periods of time. The activities of the living slowly fade away, and I spend long hours thinking over my life and contemplating the God I shall soon see.
What I have been remembering lately was how when you were just a boy and I was a young man, I would tell you the stories of the prophets and we would imagine the day of the Messiah, the One who would deliver us from the hands of our oppressors. We would take up sticks in our hands and imagine they were swords, and we would act out our battles against the Romans. You were so fierce, that even though I was so much bigger, I had to guard carefully against your lunges and jabs. I remember how we boasted that we would be at the front of our Lord’s army, following just behind Him in the charge to restore Israel.
But then we grew older and wiser, and the image of an Israel restored to glory faded into the images of our failure. We are a people under the feet of other nations, and I have seen how that has made you bitter. But I have tried not to lose hope. Every day for the past forty years, I have gone to the temple to pray. On your last visit, you asked me what I prayed for and smiled when I told you. It was a small moment—you probably don’t even remember it—but the mockery and doubt you showed me in that smile began to creep into my own heart in the days after. What if I was just an old fool chasing after an old dream? What if all these days and years of my life had been wasted? It began to weigh on my heart, and I feared that even in these last days of my life, I would be lost. But I was not. Seven days ago, I awoke not in a haze as is usually the case, but in an awareness that felt clear and bright, and the Spirit of our God spoke to me and told me that the Consolation of Israel had finally come, and that I would not die until I had seen Him. My limbs were filled with strength, and I rose up from my bed immediately and prepared to go to the temple.
When I entered the temple, I saw only familiar figures, but as I turned to look again, I saw a young couple standing at the entrance. I went to them and saw that the woman was holding a baby in her arms. “What is your son’s name?” I asked them. The father answered, “Yeshua,” and I knew then that he was the One who had been promised—His very name was Salvation. This was not a king of armies before me, but a sleeping child, and instead of the shining sword the hand of my youth imagined, the gnarled hand of my old age took up the baby and lifted him high. A voice that was mine and more than mine came pouring from my mouth, saying “Lord, now You are letting Your servant depart in peace, according to Your word; for my eyes have seen Your salvation which You have prepared before the face of all peoples, a light to bring revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of Your people Israel.”
The parents looked a little frightened, and the mother moved as if to take him back from me, but I placed my hand on her head and spoke a blessing upon her and her husband. Her eyes were filled with confusion and wonder, and it was revealed to me that her child was destined for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and that He would be spoken against so that the thoughts of many would be revealed. I felt filled with compassion for her, for she will be pierced through to her own soul by what shall come to pass. This baby she moves to protect will only belong to her for a short time, as he was in my own keeping for only a moment. He does not belong to her but to the whole world. The days of the law are passing through Him into a new era for both Jews and Gentiles.
These words astonish me as much as they must astonish you, but who are we to question what God has planned? There is a young Roman sentry who stands watch in the marketplace whom I would pass every day on my way to and from the temple. I would see him look upon the people and the dust and knew his thoughts must wander as would anyone’s who looked upon the same scene every day. And it struck me that even these Romans, even our oppressors, have need of consolation. For we are all a people of longing, brother. Even you in your bitterness are longing. My prayers every day of these last forty years were not only for Israel, but also for you and for myself; and God has answered for Israel, and for you and for me and for all people. He has answered beyond what any of us even knew to ask.
I am dying, brother, but I am all joy, because not only has God kept His promise, but He has revealed it to a doubting, dying old man who can now share it with the younger brother he has carried in his heart for so many years. It wasn’t just a childhood tale after all. Christ has come, for you and for us all. May that now be your consolation and hope as it has been mine.
Copyright 2006 by Katherine Lo. Not for public use, reproduction, or distribution without express permission of the author.
Dear Father,
It’s me, Benjamin, your son. I guess you know that much. When I left, you were probably as glad to see the back of me as I was glad to leave, and surely neither of us thought I’d be writing you a letter. But such things have happened lately that an old grudge over sheep doesn’t seem worth the trouble of being angry about anymore.
Nathan and I moved the flock into the fields outside Bethlehem about two weeks ago. The grazing wasn’t bad, but we decided to move on, away from Bethlehem and more to the south. You’re probably shaking your head right now and calling me stupid under your breath, but we had our reasons. That night, everything was as usual. We ate our dinner, and since Nathan said he’d take the first watch, I spread out my blanket to go to sleep. It took me awhile, because I kept feeling a stone digging into my back, but every time I lifted my blanket, I couldn’t find it. I must’ve gone to sleep eventually, though, because the next thing I knew, Nathan was crouched over me and kicking me in the side. If it hadn’t been for that kicking, I might’ve thought I was still dreaming, because a light brighter than anything I’ve ever seen before was shining over the field. And though it seemed like it couldn’t possibly be any brighter than it already was, it just kept getting brighter and brighter. The sheep were bleating and shifting restlessly, but none of them bolted, which, now that I think of it, was incredible. But that was the least of my thoughts at the time. As I said, the light just kept getting brighter and brighter, and Nathan and I didn’t know where to look because it was everywhere. It almost seemed inside of us.
At the point when the light became almost unbearable, a great cracking sound boomed across the field, like the earth itself was breaking in half. I felt like I’d been struck a blow, and Nathan and I both fell to the ground. I thought at first we’d been hit by lightning, but remembered that there was no storm that night. As we began to raise ourselves up again, a being such as I have never seen before burst out before us. Nathan and I clutched at each other like children, shaking with shock and terror, and the words that came out of my mouth were ones that would’ve made you take the strap to me when I was a boy. Not the way I’d have wanted to greet an angel if I’d ever thought before that I’d meet one, but I couldn’t help myself. What words are you supposed to say when you see something like that? I don’t think such words exist, and if they do, they’re not taught to shepherds.
Then the angel began to speak to us and said, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.” I tell you, Father, if it had just been a matter of the angel telling us not to be afraid, I don’t think it would have made much difference. The sight and sound of it was so beautiful and so terrible that at first it made me want to clap my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. But somewhere in the course of his speaking, I became filled with peace and joy—it felt like recognition. Nathan also seemed calmer, because he straightened up and stopped gripping my arm so hard. The angel continued to speak, and announced to us that right there in the city of Bethlehem was born a Savior, who was Christ the Lord, and that we should find him there wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. The moment he finished speaking this, the entire sky was filled with a whole host of angels, singing and praising, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, goodwill toward men!” You can’t even begin to imagine the sight and sound of that. They poured out a flood of ecstasy, and I was swept away. My hand trembles and my eyes fill with tears even as I write this. Just the memory of it still stuns me.
I’m not sure how long they were there and how long we stood in awe, our mouths hanging open—we seemed outside of time—but eventually, the light faded away and we were left once again with a dark night sky pinpricked with stars. I looked at Nathan, and one of us or both of us said, “Let’s go,” and we immediately began to run towards Bethlehem. And yes, Father, we abandoned the sheep. I know that must seem insane to you, that I, a shepherd—even as useless a shepherd as you think me to be—would abandon my flock in the middle of a field in the middle of the night, but I knew then as I know now that it was exactly what we were supposed to do. As we came to the outskirts of town, we paused to catch our breath, and it was then that we first heard the cry. A large and impressive dwelling rose up several yards ahead of us, but the cry did not come from that direction. Instead, the wails of a new baby came from a small structure to the side of the house.
We followed them and found ourselves inside a dimly lit stable. A young woman—just a girl, really—was trying to shush the baby while her husband crouched beside her and clucked his tongue. Nathan and I looked at each other in amazement. Surely this red-faced, screaming baby could not be the Christ the angels sang about! I looked around me at the animals in their stalls, the crude patching on the walls, and smelled the warm aroma of dung. Why on earth would God allow our Messiah to be born here? And then my gaze fell on Nathan and my own rough hands and clothes. I couldn’t remember the last time we had bathed. Our hair was matted with dirt and oil, and our clothes reeked of sheep. You can be sure that the wealthy owner of the house we had seen would have never let us step through his door, but here in this stable, we fit right in. What if—and I’m almost afraid to write this, but I can’t shake it from my heart—what if He was born there so that we might visit? So that two stinking, worthless shepherds might feel the freedom to enter in and see him? And so we did.
You’re probably thinking now that we had too much to drink that night, but I tell you that drunk men’s visions have nothing to do with what we saw. I don’t know why we, of all people on earth, were chosen, why this has happened to me and what it will mean to me in the years to come. I only know that I went to sleep with a pebble in my back and woke to a chorus of heavenly angels. I am speaking this now to all who will listen, and I feel that I must write to you as well, Father, for we are all men in a heavy slumber in the dark marrow of the night. And the time will come when we shall all be wakened by angels blazing glory, who will usher us—blind and stumbling—into the presence of the King.
Simeon’s Letter:
Dear Brother,
This is my last letter to you. The time that all young men think will never come to them has come to me. I am an old man, and the days of my life are small in number. Lately, I have been able to rise from my bed for only short periods of time. The activities of the living slowly fade away, and I spend long hours thinking over my life and contemplating the God I shall soon see.
What I have been remembering lately was how when you were just a boy and I was a young man, I would tell you the stories of the prophets and we would imagine the day of the Messiah, the One who would deliver us from the hands of our oppressors. We would take up sticks in our hands and imagine they were swords, and we would act out our battles against the Romans. You were so fierce, that even though I was so much bigger, I had to guard carefully against your lunges and jabs. I remember how we boasted that we would be at the front of our Lord’s army, following just behind Him in the charge to restore Israel.
But then we grew older and wiser, and the image of an Israel restored to glory faded into the images of our failure. We are a people under the feet of other nations, and I have seen how that has made you bitter. But I have tried not to lose hope. Every day for the past forty years, I have gone to the temple to pray. On your last visit, you asked me what I prayed for and smiled when I told you. It was a small moment—you probably don’t even remember it—but the mockery and doubt you showed me in that smile began to creep into my own heart in the days after. What if I was just an old fool chasing after an old dream? What if all these days and years of my life had been wasted? It began to weigh on my heart, and I feared that even in these last days of my life, I would be lost. But I was not. Seven days ago, I awoke not in a haze as is usually the case, but in an awareness that felt clear and bright, and the Spirit of our God spoke to me and told me that the Consolation of Israel had finally come, and that I would not die until I had seen Him. My limbs were filled with strength, and I rose up from my bed immediately and prepared to go to the temple.
When I entered the temple, I saw only familiar figures, but as I turned to look again, I saw a young couple standing at the entrance. I went to them and saw that the woman was holding a baby in her arms. “What is your son’s name?” I asked them. The father answered, “Yeshua,” and I knew then that he was the One who had been promised—His very name was Salvation. This was not a king of armies before me, but a sleeping child, and instead of the shining sword the hand of my youth imagined, the gnarled hand of my old age took up the baby and lifted him high. A voice that was mine and more than mine came pouring from my mouth, saying “Lord, now You are letting Your servant depart in peace, according to Your word; for my eyes have seen Your salvation which You have prepared before the face of all peoples, a light to bring revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of Your people Israel.”
The parents looked a little frightened, and the mother moved as if to take him back from me, but I placed my hand on her head and spoke a blessing upon her and her husband. Her eyes were filled with confusion and wonder, and it was revealed to me that her child was destined for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and that He would be spoken against so that the thoughts of many would be revealed. I felt filled with compassion for her, for she will be pierced through to her own soul by what shall come to pass. This baby she moves to protect will only belong to her for a short time, as he was in my own keeping for only a moment. He does not belong to her but to the whole world. The days of the law are passing through Him into a new era for both Jews and Gentiles.
These words astonish me as much as they must astonish you, but who are we to question what God has planned? There is a young Roman sentry who stands watch in the marketplace whom I would pass every day on my way to and from the temple. I would see him look upon the people and the dust and knew his thoughts must wander as would anyone’s who looked upon the same scene every day. And it struck me that even these Romans, even our oppressors, have need of consolation. For we are all a people of longing, brother. Even you in your bitterness are longing. My prayers every day of these last forty years were not only for Israel, but also for you and for myself; and God has answered for Israel, and for you and for me and for all people. He has answered beyond what any of us even knew to ask.
I am dying, brother, but I am all joy, because not only has God kept His promise, but He has revealed it to a doubting, dying old man who can now share it with the younger brother he has carried in his heart for so many years. It wasn’t just a childhood tale after all. Christ has come, for you and for us all. May that now be your consolation and hope as it has been mine.
Copyright 2006 by Katherine Lo. Not for public use, reproduction, or distribution without express permission of the author.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Christmas Correspondence
I received my first two Christmas cards in the mail yesterday. My first response was, “Oh, how nice!” This was immediately followed by a sinking feeling of guilt. I may cave in the next two weeks, but as of this moment, I have decided not to do the whole mass mailing of Christmas cards this year. I have been somewhat apathetic and ambivalent about the whole Christmas season in general this year, which is rather unlike me, but which is perhaps understandable given some of the things going on in my life in recent months. I was still waffling about the Christmas card issue this past week, but when I woke up feeling wretchedly ill on Friday, it was decided—definitely no Christmas cards. As I’ve spent the weekend blowing my nose, drinking hot tea, and trying to sleep despite that fact that it is practically impossible for me to breathe, I’ve been reflecting on the emotions my decision has stirred up in me.
Guilt is the biggest one. How dare I just be a receiver and not a giver? All those other people are taking their time to go buy, write, address, and mail Christmas cards—what makes me think I am exempt? And I truly do appreciate the time and effort that goes into those cards, and I enjoy receiving them and seeing the pictures and reading the little updates that accompany many of them. But really, if you were to put things in a different context (which is what I’ve been doing in my hours on my sickbed), a lot of our expectations are a bit insane. For example, if I were to tell you that in the month of, say, March you needed to change the décor in your house, shop and buy gifts for every member of your family and all of your close friends (and then wrap and package them all), attend at least two or three social events every weekend, bake lots of goodies, and correspond with every person you know (including the ones you haven’t spoken with directly for years), wouldn’t you think that was ridiculous? The kind of Herculean accomplishment that only a squirrel on speed could accomplish? And yet, amazingly, people do it. I have done it. But I’m not going to this year. Not even with all the pseudophed decongestant in the world coursing through my system (which is the equivalent of speed).
So I apologize to all of you who will suffer a grave and bitter disappointment upon not receiving a Christmas card from me this year. I know it will be a struggle for most of you, but try not to let it ruin your holiday or your life in general.
Instead of sending you my own Christmas card/letter, I will leave you instead with a different (and un-ironic) set of letters. Last year, I was asked by the staff at my church to write something for the Christmas Eve service, and what I came up with was an imagined series of letters written by a trio of figures who were direct witnesses to the original Christmas event—God’s physical entrance into our own time, space, and history in the form of an infant. I will start with Mary’s letter, and follow up with the other two in subsequent postings. Merry Christmas…
Mary’s Letter:
Dear Elizabeth,
It is many months now since I last saw you, and so much has happened that I hardly know where to begin. As you may have heard, Joseph and I had to travel to Bethlehem for Caesar’s census. The journey was so long and difficult. By the end of it, I felt as if I’d spent half of my life on the back of a donkey. Joseph was very kind and patient with me, but I could tell that our slowness was difficult for him as well. Bethlehem itself was chaos. You can’t imagine the people, how they crushed together in the streets. By the time we arrived, every lodging in the city was packed full to the brim. We spent the first two nights out on the street. On the third day, my contractions began. Joseph was beside himself, running from house to house, begging for a room. He finally found a landowner at the edge of town who was willing to have us in his stable.
I can picture your horror as you read this. As Joseph led me into the stable and settled me onto the straw, I thought of how my mother would have wept and raged to see her daughter in such conditions. I missed her terribly that night, and you also, Elizabeth. How I longed for you both to be with me! Instead, I had dear Joseph, and the landowner’s servant girl, and the animals all around me. It seems quite comical now that I write about it. The oxen and cows would bellow out in response to my cries of labor. It probably sounded as if the whole stable were giving birth. At the time, it just seemed like waves of pain to me. Until he was born—my baby son. I do not have to tell you the joy of that, as I know you must have had your own son by now. When Joseph put him in my arms, we began to weep and laugh at the same time. We were delirious with joy.
I think back often to our time together and what has occurred in both our lives. At times, those events seem like a dream to me, a beautiful, awesome fantasy. He is so tiny, Elizabeth. He has these little shudders every once in awhile while he is sleeping, and he likes to hold my finger while he nurses. When I blow on the fine hair at the back of his neck, he blinks and smiles. I know all mothers marvel at their babies. All think them miracles, all precious. But mine is the Son of God! I marvel even as I write this. I repeat it to myself throughout the day, and still I cannot grasp hold of it. I could not grasp it even when an angel of God stood before me and told me. Would you believe that I even forget, sometimes? But at other times, it is so real that I feel like it will split me wide open. I sing him lullabies and I wonder—is it my voice he hears, or is God whispering in his ear?
Sometimes I will wake in the middle of the night and see Joseph holding him in his arms and pacing back and forth, his mouth moving in silent prayers over him. We are shy in talking about it, but I wonder. Does he ask himself the same things I do? How is it that this has happened to me? Who am I to be a parent to God’s own son? Everything is so uncertain. Word of danger has reached us, and we are on the move again. Back on the donkey.
I long for home and to see the faces of my family once again. I hope it will be safe for us to return someday soon. I would like our sons to know each other and be friends. Do you think it will be so? So many hopes for my baby rise up in my heart, and with each comes a question. What do I hope for him? What is it God wills for him? Right now, it seems his life is a life of troubles. But I think about what the angel told me that day—that my son will have the throne of David. He will be called Son of the Highest. So surely this time of trial is only temporary. Surely Jesus will return to the land of his fathers with a crown of glory. It has been promised, and so I must believe, though the circumstances around me and my very eyes tell me otherwise. When he is a grown man, my baby son will be a king. How proud of him I will be on that day!
Copyright 2006 by Katherine Lo. Not for public use, reproduction, or distribution without express permission of the author.
Guilt is the biggest one. How dare I just be a receiver and not a giver? All those other people are taking their time to go buy, write, address, and mail Christmas cards—what makes me think I am exempt? And I truly do appreciate the time and effort that goes into those cards, and I enjoy receiving them and seeing the pictures and reading the little updates that accompany many of them. But really, if you were to put things in a different context (which is what I’ve been doing in my hours on my sickbed), a lot of our expectations are a bit insane. For example, if I were to tell you that in the month of, say, March you needed to change the décor in your house, shop and buy gifts for every member of your family and all of your close friends (and then wrap and package them all), attend at least two or three social events every weekend, bake lots of goodies, and correspond with every person you know (including the ones you haven’t spoken with directly for years), wouldn’t you think that was ridiculous? The kind of Herculean accomplishment that only a squirrel on speed could accomplish? And yet, amazingly, people do it. I have done it. But I’m not going to this year. Not even with all the pseudophed decongestant in the world coursing through my system (which is the equivalent of speed).
So I apologize to all of you who will suffer a grave and bitter disappointment upon not receiving a Christmas card from me this year. I know it will be a struggle for most of you, but try not to let it ruin your holiday or your life in general.
Instead of sending you my own Christmas card/letter, I will leave you instead with a different (and un-ironic) set of letters. Last year, I was asked by the staff at my church to write something for the Christmas Eve service, and what I came up with was an imagined series of letters written by a trio of figures who were direct witnesses to the original Christmas event—God’s physical entrance into our own time, space, and history in the form of an infant. I will start with Mary’s letter, and follow up with the other two in subsequent postings. Merry Christmas…
Mary’s Letter:
Dear Elizabeth,
It is many months now since I last saw you, and so much has happened that I hardly know where to begin. As you may have heard, Joseph and I had to travel to Bethlehem for Caesar’s census. The journey was so long and difficult. By the end of it, I felt as if I’d spent half of my life on the back of a donkey. Joseph was very kind and patient with me, but I could tell that our slowness was difficult for him as well. Bethlehem itself was chaos. You can’t imagine the people, how they crushed together in the streets. By the time we arrived, every lodging in the city was packed full to the brim. We spent the first two nights out on the street. On the third day, my contractions began. Joseph was beside himself, running from house to house, begging for a room. He finally found a landowner at the edge of town who was willing to have us in his stable.
I can picture your horror as you read this. As Joseph led me into the stable and settled me onto the straw, I thought of how my mother would have wept and raged to see her daughter in such conditions. I missed her terribly that night, and you also, Elizabeth. How I longed for you both to be with me! Instead, I had dear Joseph, and the landowner’s servant girl, and the animals all around me. It seems quite comical now that I write about it. The oxen and cows would bellow out in response to my cries of labor. It probably sounded as if the whole stable were giving birth. At the time, it just seemed like waves of pain to me. Until he was born—my baby son. I do not have to tell you the joy of that, as I know you must have had your own son by now. When Joseph put him in my arms, we began to weep and laugh at the same time. We were delirious with joy.
I think back often to our time together and what has occurred in both our lives. At times, those events seem like a dream to me, a beautiful, awesome fantasy. He is so tiny, Elizabeth. He has these little shudders every once in awhile while he is sleeping, and he likes to hold my finger while he nurses. When I blow on the fine hair at the back of his neck, he blinks and smiles. I know all mothers marvel at their babies. All think them miracles, all precious. But mine is the Son of God! I marvel even as I write this. I repeat it to myself throughout the day, and still I cannot grasp hold of it. I could not grasp it even when an angel of God stood before me and told me. Would you believe that I even forget, sometimes? But at other times, it is so real that I feel like it will split me wide open. I sing him lullabies and I wonder—is it my voice he hears, or is God whispering in his ear?
Sometimes I will wake in the middle of the night and see Joseph holding him in his arms and pacing back and forth, his mouth moving in silent prayers over him. We are shy in talking about it, but I wonder. Does he ask himself the same things I do? How is it that this has happened to me? Who am I to be a parent to God’s own son? Everything is so uncertain. Word of danger has reached us, and we are on the move again. Back on the donkey.
I long for home and to see the faces of my family once again. I hope it will be safe for us to return someday soon. I would like our sons to know each other and be friends. Do you think it will be so? So many hopes for my baby rise up in my heart, and with each comes a question. What do I hope for him? What is it God wills for him? Right now, it seems his life is a life of troubles. But I think about what the angel told me that day—that my son will have the throne of David. He will be called Son of the Highest. So surely this time of trial is only temporary. Surely Jesus will return to the land of his fathers with a crown of glory. It has been promised, and so I must believe, though the circumstances around me and my very eyes tell me otherwise. When he is a grown man, my baby son will be a king. How proud of him I will be on that day!
Copyright 2006 by Katherine Lo. Not for public use, reproduction, or distribution without express permission of the author.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Wrappers In My Driveway and Other Halloween Delights
As I slide into that cycle of self-indulgence and self-hatred that the leftover Halloween candy in my house always provokes, I can’t help but reflect (with peanut M&Ms at hand) on Halloweens past. In the church I grew up in, all holidays—with their pagan origins and crass commercialism—were verboten, but Halloween was particularly bad. Anything directly associated with witches and ghosts and all that devilish business was something to flee with a vengeance. My childhood memories of Halloween are of my family closing the curtains, turning off as many lights as we could, and huddling together in the back room of our house. If someone actually braved the darkness to ring our doorbell, we would all go silent and hold our breath until we heard them go away.
Listening to the chattering and laughter and shrieks that floated in despite all the barriers we erected, I always felt a strange convolution of desperate longing to be one of those costumed children and smug pride that I wasn’t. I think sixth grade was the zenith, which is when my elementary school decided to have all the students in costume do a big parade weaving in and out of every classroom. The two or three of us not in costume had to just sit at our desks and watch. Looking back on it, I have to wonder why they didn’t at least try to pretend we were judging the costumes or something inclusive like that, but I guess they didn’t care as much about making everyone feel special and included in the 80s. Teachers just let you be the big weirdos and losers that you were.
Time passed, my family left that church, and gradually the great divide between us and holiday celebration began to recede. Halloween was the last to make it over, and even then my mother struggled with tremendous guilt. The first year we handed out candy, she insisted on including little slips of paper with Bible verses printed on them in the vain hope that some eight year old scarfing down a fun-size Snickers bar would have his heart touched by John 3:16.
Now that I am an adult, the barriers have been completely removed, and I am like every other American going to Costco and buying the jumbo-sized bags of candy for $11.99. For a number of years, I enjoyed seeing my students dressed up in costumes, and I took a real delight in handing out candy to the flurry of children that would come to my door practically vibrating with excitement and sugar. But lately, the shine has begun to tarnish. Let’s start with the fact that a large percentage of the girls who attend the school where I teach use the holiday to dress as inappropriately as they can—it’s not a dress code violation, it’s a costume! But the fairy tale characters I remember from storybooks and Disney cartoons never had bustiers, clinging skirts that ended at mid-thigh, and stiletto heels. I could be wrong, but I don't recall there ever being a Little Bo Peep and Snow White: The Whore Years.
And it doesn’t stop there. My costume last night was apparently “candy robot,” because that’s exactly what I felt like as the kids came one after the other in a steady stream and I mechanically reached into my brimming bowl and dumped a handful into each open bag. Most of the kids were fairly polite, but when one particular boy came to my door, my costume changed into “grouchy old woman.” As I leaned forward to drop some candy into his sister’s bag, this boy (probably about eight or nine) nudged her over and began reaching into the bowl for himself, shouting “I want that one!” I instantly snatched the bowl out of his reach. “Hold on a minute,” I said blocking his greedy hand. “How about you just wait and let me give you some candy?” “I want that one!” he shouted again, and moved as if to grab at the bowl again. I (gently) smacked his hand down and informed him, “You’ll get what I give you.” I picked out the smallest piece of candy I could find and dropped it in his bag. No John 3:16 from me—just the harsh Halloween lesson that you don’t always get what you want, sonny, so suck it up.
At that point, I was ready to be done. Stupid kids with their inappropriate costumes and grabby, ungrateful hands. Stupid Halloween that justified them. And just then, a girl in a clown costume that looked both clumsily and painstakingly made came walking up the sidewalk to my porch. She smiled shyly behind her plastic red nose and touched her rainbow-colored afro wig self-consciously. “Happy Halloween!” she said as she stepped onto my porch. When I gave her the standard handful, she watched it drop into her pillowcase in genuine amazement and exclaimed, “Wow! Thank you so much!” I wanted to hug her and tell her that she had just restored my faith in children, but instead I threw another handful of candy into her case and said, “Your costume looks great.” She thanked me again and practically skipped down the sidewalk.
After she disappeared around the corner, I decided to quit while I was ahead. I turned out my lights and hid out in the back room for the rest of the evening, just like old times.
Listening to the chattering and laughter and shrieks that floated in despite all the barriers we erected, I always felt a strange convolution of desperate longing to be one of those costumed children and smug pride that I wasn’t. I think sixth grade was the zenith, which is when my elementary school decided to have all the students in costume do a big parade weaving in and out of every classroom. The two or three of us not in costume had to just sit at our desks and watch. Looking back on it, I have to wonder why they didn’t at least try to pretend we were judging the costumes or something inclusive like that, but I guess they didn’t care as much about making everyone feel special and included in the 80s. Teachers just let you be the big weirdos and losers that you were.
Time passed, my family left that church, and gradually the great divide between us and holiday celebration began to recede. Halloween was the last to make it over, and even then my mother struggled with tremendous guilt. The first year we handed out candy, she insisted on including little slips of paper with Bible verses printed on them in the vain hope that some eight year old scarfing down a fun-size Snickers bar would have his heart touched by John 3:16.
Now that I am an adult, the barriers have been completely removed, and I am like every other American going to Costco and buying the jumbo-sized bags of candy for $11.99. For a number of years, I enjoyed seeing my students dressed up in costumes, and I took a real delight in handing out candy to the flurry of children that would come to my door practically vibrating with excitement and sugar. But lately, the shine has begun to tarnish. Let’s start with the fact that a large percentage of the girls who attend the school where I teach use the holiday to dress as inappropriately as they can—it’s not a dress code violation, it’s a costume! But the fairy tale characters I remember from storybooks and Disney cartoons never had bustiers, clinging skirts that ended at mid-thigh, and stiletto heels. I could be wrong, but I don't recall there ever being a Little Bo Peep and Snow White: The Whore Years.
And it doesn’t stop there. My costume last night was apparently “candy robot,” because that’s exactly what I felt like as the kids came one after the other in a steady stream and I mechanically reached into my brimming bowl and dumped a handful into each open bag. Most of the kids were fairly polite, but when one particular boy came to my door, my costume changed into “grouchy old woman.” As I leaned forward to drop some candy into his sister’s bag, this boy (probably about eight or nine) nudged her over and began reaching into the bowl for himself, shouting “I want that one!” I instantly snatched the bowl out of his reach. “Hold on a minute,” I said blocking his greedy hand. “How about you just wait and let me give you some candy?” “I want that one!” he shouted again, and moved as if to grab at the bowl again. I (gently) smacked his hand down and informed him, “You’ll get what I give you.” I picked out the smallest piece of candy I could find and dropped it in his bag. No John 3:16 from me—just the harsh Halloween lesson that you don’t always get what you want, sonny, so suck it up.
At that point, I was ready to be done. Stupid kids with their inappropriate costumes and grabby, ungrateful hands. Stupid Halloween that justified them. And just then, a girl in a clown costume that looked both clumsily and painstakingly made came walking up the sidewalk to my porch. She smiled shyly behind her plastic red nose and touched her rainbow-colored afro wig self-consciously. “Happy Halloween!” she said as she stepped onto my porch. When I gave her the standard handful, she watched it drop into her pillowcase in genuine amazement and exclaimed, “Wow! Thank you so much!” I wanted to hug her and tell her that she had just restored my faith in children, but instead I threw another handful of candy into her case and said, “Your costume looks great.” She thanked me again and practically skipped down the sidewalk.
After she disappeared around the corner, I decided to quit while I was ahead. I turned out my lights and hid out in the back room for the rest of the evening, just like old times.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Honk If You Hate Parades
If I were to ask you to name a few important American holidays, what would probably spring to mind is Fourth of July or Thanksgiving or Memorial Day. I doubt anyone would actually think “Columbus Day,” even at the end of his/her mental list. I wasn’t even aware of Columbus Day as a holiday until I attended college in Massachusetts, which, I believe, is the only state in America that really recognizes it as an actual holiday and gives you a day off. I could be wrong about this. I will admit that I’ve not done any research on the matter.
At any rate, Wellesley College and all the other colleges and universities in the area gave their students a day off on that particular Monday in October. But no one actually celebrated anything. In fact, Wellesley didn’t even call it Columbus Day on their calendar—they went so far as to give us Tuesday off as well and lump it all together as “Fall Break,” skipping any direct reference to Columbus. After all, isn’t Columbus kind of passé now? I mean, didn’t historians find out a while ago that he wasn’t the first one to discover America, and that he was mean to Native Americans and brought smoking back to Europe? Or something like that. There was that weird year in the 90s where two movies about Columbus came out in theaters, starring Gerard Depardieu or Armande Assante or some other similar actor(s), but other than that, I didn’t think there were many people left who cared about Columbus other than elementary school teachers, whose students still perhaps chorus back “Nina! Pinta! Santa Maria!” the way I did in grade school.
So all of this to say that in my mind, Columbus Day simply means "three-day weekend in Massachusetts.” My sister, who is a resident of Massachusetts, regularly goes up to Maine during this holiday weekend. My father, who is retired, has joined her for the last several years, and this year my brother and I decided to join them as well—both of us using personal days at work since neither Virginia nor California recognizes Columbus Day. Despite the fact that global warming, evil culprit of all bad weather in the world, has made the idea of a crisp New England fall something of a joke (it was 81 degrees the day I arrived), Maine was still lovely and we had a nice family weekend together.
On the last day—Monday—my brother and I drove our rental car back towards Boston. There was no traffic on any of the major highways and we even had time to stop for a leisurely lunch in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The 95 South, the 1 South, and the 60 East were all beautiful. It was when we were only three miles away from our destination—Logan Airport—that everything came to a screeching halt. Literally. One minute we were sailing along at 65 miles an hour on the 1A south, and the next I was hitting the brakes. We sat there idling for five minutes, then ten. After another few minutes, we heard some sirens in the distance. Must be an accident, we concluded, and checked our watches in that compassionate/selfish mix of, I hope no one’s hurt and I hope they get this cleared up soon. When another five minutes passed, I saw a few people behind me getting out of their cars, and I sent my brother out to ask the state trooper parked a little ways behind us if he knew what was going on. Meanwhile, I rolled my window down and stuck my head out. And that’s when I heard it—the first daaa da daaa da, BOOM cha BOOM cha.
Yes, that’s right, it was the sound (in case you couldn’t tell from my descriptors) of a marching band. This was no accident backing up all of the traffic trying to get to Logan Airport and other important places—this was a PARADE. A parade to celebrate Columbus. Who cares about Columbus Day, I ask? Apparently, the good Italian people of Revere, MA do. Enough so to shut down one of the major highways leading into Boston without any warning or rerouting for an entire HOUR. To the people of Boston and the far-sighted neighborhood of Revere, dozens and dozens of people panicked about missing their flights is nothing compared to the importance of properly paying tribute to Columbus. They even had bagpipes at one point. What bagpipes have to do with Columbus, I haven’t the faintest idea, but their inclusion could have something to do with the unwritten rule that all parades occurring in and around Boston must always have bagpipes.
Meanwhile, all those of us trapped in our cars could do was boil and stew. One poor British man did several frantic laps back and forth from the parade front to his car, but this didn’t gain him any more information than we had simply sitting our cars. At least maybe it helped him work off some of his stress and anxiety, which was making my own stomach churn. At one point early on in the parade, I suggested to my brother that all of us in our cars should blare our horns and drown out the parade. I was bitter enough to make the suggestion but, at that point, not bitter enough to take the action. When we passed the half hour mark, however, someone else had the same idea and began to honk.
It was like a match to tinder. Immediately, every driver in the vicinity (including me) began to blast his/her horn. The overwhelming blare of sound made my brother and me wince, but it also made us cackle somewhat maniacally with glee, and I leaned on my horn with relish, not caring a bit that I might be ruining some high school trombonist’s big moment or making toddlers cry. I felt a wave of joy wash over me in this act of making myself heard (literally) and a warm solidarity with the people around me who were just as enraged by this situation as I was. Stop traffic, suffer the consequences! You will pay! Ha ha ha! Take that, stupid Columbus Day Parade!
And then another sound emerged. The same state trooper my brother had spoken with earlier was now loudly reprimanding us all over his loudspeaker, ordering us to stop our honking and informing us that “it doesn’t help anything.” He even got out of his car to yell at a few drivers in person. I didn't have the courage to say this to him directly, but here's what I wanted to say: Actually, Mr. Trooper, you are wrong about that. Very very wrong. It may not have helped the parade end any more quickly or gotten us to the airport any sooner, but that wave of honking was a wonderful release of all that toxic anger and anxiety and stress that was building up in all of us, not to mention the strongest bond I've felt with an entire group of strangers in a very long time. Sometimes, it just feels really good to honk at a parade—especially a Columbus Day parade. So there.
At any rate, Wellesley College and all the other colleges and universities in the area gave their students a day off on that particular Monday in October. But no one actually celebrated anything. In fact, Wellesley didn’t even call it Columbus Day on their calendar—they went so far as to give us Tuesday off as well and lump it all together as “Fall Break,” skipping any direct reference to Columbus. After all, isn’t Columbus kind of passé now? I mean, didn’t historians find out a while ago that he wasn’t the first one to discover America, and that he was mean to Native Americans and brought smoking back to Europe? Or something like that. There was that weird year in the 90s where two movies about Columbus came out in theaters, starring Gerard Depardieu or Armande Assante or some other similar actor(s), but other than that, I didn’t think there were many people left who cared about Columbus other than elementary school teachers, whose students still perhaps chorus back “Nina! Pinta! Santa Maria!” the way I did in grade school.
So all of this to say that in my mind, Columbus Day simply means "three-day weekend in Massachusetts.” My sister, who is a resident of Massachusetts, regularly goes up to Maine during this holiday weekend. My father, who is retired, has joined her for the last several years, and this year my brother and I decided to join them as well—both of us using personal days at work since neither Virginia nor California recognizes Columbus Day. Despite the fact that global warming, evil culprit of all bad weather in the world, has made the idea of a crisp New England fall something of a joke (it was 81 degrees the day I arrived), Maine was still lovely and we had a nice family weekend together.
On the last day—Monday—my brother and I drove our rental car back towards Boston. There was no traffic on any of the major highways and we even had time to stop for a leisurely lunch in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The 95 South, the 1 South, and the 60 East were all beautiful. It was when we were only three miles away from our destination—Logan Airport—that everything came to a screeching halt. Literally. One minute we were sailing along at 65 miles an hour on the 1A south, and the next I was hitting the brakes. We sat there idling for five minutes, then ten. After another few minutes, we heard some sirens in the distance. Must be an accident, we concluded, and checked our watches in that compassionate/selfish mix of, I hope no one’s hurt and I hope they get this cleared up soon. When another five minutes passed, I saw a few people behind me getting out of their cars, and I sent my brother out to ask the state trooper parked a little ways behind us if he knew what was going on. Meanwhile, I rolled my window down and stuck my head out. And that’s when I heard it—the first daaa da daaa da, BOOM cha BOOM cha.
Yes, that’s right, it was the sound (in case you couldn’t tell from my descriptors) of a marching band. This was no accident backing up all of the traffic trying to get to Logan Airport and other important places—this was a PARADE. A parade to celebrate Columbus. Who cares about Columbus Day, I ask? Apparently, the good Italian people of Revere, MA do. Enough so to shut down one of the major highways leading into Boston without any warning or rerouting for an entire HOUR. To the people of Boston and the far-sighted neighborhood of Revere, dozens and dozens of people panicked about missing their flights is nothing compared to the importance of properly paying tribute to Columbus. They even had bagpipes at one point. What bagpipes have to do with Columbus, I haven’t the faintest idea, but their inclusion could have something to do with the unwritten rule that all parades occurring in and around Boston must always have bagpipes.
Meanwhile, all those of us trapped in our cars could do was boil and stew. One poor British man did several frantic laps back and forth from the parade front to his car, but this didn’t gain him any more information than we had simply sitting our cars. At least maybe it helped him work off some of his stress and anxiety, which was making my own stomach churn. At one point early on in the parade, I suggested to my brother that all of us in our cars should blare our horns and drown out the parade. I was bitter enough to make the suggestion but, at that point, not bitter enough to take the action. When we passed the half hour mark, however, someone else had the same idea and began to honk.
It was like a match to tinder. Immediately, every driver in the vicinity (including me) began to blast his/her horn. The overwhelming blare of sound made my brother and me wince, but it also made us cackle somewhat maniacally with glee, and I leaned on my horn with relish, not caring a bit that I might be ruining some high school trombonist’s big moment or making toddlers cry. I felt a wave of joy wash over me in this act of making myself heard (literally) and a warm solidarity with the people around me who were just as enraged by this situation as I was. Stop traffic, suffer the consequences! You will pay! Ha ha ha! Take that, stupid Columbus Day Parade!
And then another sound emerged. The same state trooper my brother had spoken with earlier was now loudly reprimanding us all over his loudspeaker, ordering us to stop our honking and informing us that “it doesn’t help anything.” He even got out of his car to yell at a few drivers in person. I didn't have the courage to say this to him directly, but here's what I wanted to say: Actually, Mr. Trooper, you are wrong about that. Very very wrong. It may not have helped the parade end any more quickly or gotten us to the airport any sooner, but that wave of honking was a wonderful release of all that toxic anger and anxiety and stress that was building up in all of us, not to mention the strongest bond I've felt with an entire group of strangers in a very long time. Sometimes, it just feels really good to honk at a parade—especially a Columbus Day parade. So there.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Guest Post by Jani Pearson
Portrait day. I thought getting my kids' portraits would be one of those special memories - right along with feeding my baby her first bite of banana. I imagined an effortless experience of crisp clothes, angelic smiles, and masterful poses. My walls would be covered with pottery-barn-like artwork of my daughters' faces. I quickly found that my idealist notion was wrong, so wrong. Portrait day is more like a bad day at the dentist. Except you're the dentist, there are ten angry patients complaining in the waiting room, and you just numbed your first patient's top lip. The endeavor involves three complex and fragile stages: Getting ready, posing, and choosing photos. The phases stack on top of each other like a Jenga tower of Piza.
Getting Ready
On portrait day I wake to the glare of my clock, 6:24. The clock is ticking. We have an 11:00am appointment. If we have breakfast by 7:30, we should finish baths, get dressed, and complete pigtails by 9:30, pile into the car by 10:00 and arrive at 10:20. It will take 15 minutes to get unloaded and walk from the parking lot to the elevator to the studio. If all goes well, I should be able to maneuver Audrey's nap schedule so we arrive during her happy window. Sounds simple enough.
Breakfast goes smoothly with my two-year old, aside from her smearing oatmeal in her hair and eyebrows. We finish at 7:54. Not bad. I have six minutes to get Amelia in her bath and Audrey down for a nap. I am an efficiency expert. With my right arm, I wrangle Amelia from the high chair; with my left I grab Audrey by the waist. She frantically begins sucking her bottom lip like she's famished. Her paci! I lean over and grab it with my teeth and then kick the hall door open with my left foot. I plop Audrey in her crib and Amelia in the bath. Audrey's crying. Amelia's yelling, "I need hotter! I need hotter, mama PALEEEEESE!" Like a metronome on high speed I go back and forth between the two, plugging Audrey with the paci and washing, splashing, and playing bake-a-water cake with Amelia in the tub.
It's 8:37. Darn. I've lost 7 minutes. I bribe Amelia with a cookie to avoid her daily screaming frenzy that usually ensues when I tell her it's time to get out of the bath. I can't lose those 15 minutes this morning. I refer to Amelia's dress as a "princess dress" and that springs her into action. Amelia is dry and dressed with shoes on. When I draw the comb from the drawer, she runs from me like I'm holding a head of broccoli. After bribing her with 10 Pez and a Dora show, I manage to chisel through the oatmeal (even after Johnson's and Johnson's) and tie her hair back into two uneven pig tails. Why do I always fail to achieve that perfect part other moms do so effortlessly? Mine looks more like a z zzz z.
Argh, it's 9:15. I need to pack our gear and wake, bathe, and dress Audrey. When I wake Audrey from her sweet sleep, she lets out a high A-sharp scream. She is not pleased. Even less so when I plunk her into the bath. I wash and dress my screaming baby and suppress the urge to scream myself. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Amelia has pulled the rubber bands from her hair and wrapped them around her bear's ears. And more good news. It's 9:45. Now I really need to move fast. I feel like a Ms. Pacman on level banana. I strap Audrey into her portable car seat, throw on some wrinkled shorts and a t-shirt for myself, redo Amelia's hair despite her screaming, pack a snack for Amelia, and prepare Audrey's diaper bag. I load all people and items on my limbs and back, and we make for the door. Somehow, between our front door and my car, Amelia manages to smear black dirt from my car's tire onto her white dress. Should I change her quickly? Check the watch. Nope, out of time. What kind of idiot would choose white for a two-year old, I wonder. I load the gear and people into the car. We have enough baggage that we could head out to Yosemite after the Portrait studio.
Finally. My wailing children are strapped in and we’re ready to go. All of the moving parts of the morning are sequestered in my vehicle. What a w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l moment.
It's 10:07. Stay focused.
The Portrait Studio
We arrive at 11:01. It's a mad-house. People, kids, babies, strollers, paperwork, ringing phones, and one attendant at the front desk. I glance at the sets of children. All perfectly manicured in matching outfits and eager to get their pictures taken. I look at my war-worn little ones. Amelia's drooping eyelids, her white (and black) dress, her sagging pigtails. Audrey has spit up on her blue and yellow jumper and she's fussing loudly. I feel depressed. I'm jolted out of my funk by a shrill "Who's next?" I look around at the ladies next to me, and say "I think I am." I see several eyes give me the you-poor-thing, mommy-sympathy look. The portrait lady drills me. "Are you a member of the Portrait Club?" "Do you have Portrait ID?" "Have you decided which Portrait package you want?" "Do you have a coupon?" "Are we doing two outfits or one?" I want to put my index finger to my lips and babble, blblblblblblbl. Instead, I locate my portrait card amidst all manner of department stores and buy-ten Golden Spoon coupon cards, answer her questions, and talk her down from the $259 Deluxe package to the $29.99 Basic. "Okay, have a seat. I'll call you when we're ready for you." "Thanks," I say. It's 11:32. I drag my now hungry, tired, and whining two-year old to the couch and park my sleeping Audrey next to us. So much for taking pictures during my kids' happy window.
"Pearson!" The shrill voice calls at 12:00. Finally! It's our turn. Amelia's first. Mrs. Shrill, whose real name is Joanie, suddenly turns into a puppeteering, raspberry-blowing, face-contorting, comedian. "Okay, princess," she sings, "sit on this chair and look over here at Mr. Chicken!" (Mr.? I think). Amelia looks at the soft pink chair like it's electric. "No, mommy, No! I don't want to!" I used to frown on moms who bribed their children with food. I've given up on such ideals. "Amelia, if you will cooperate for mommy, we'll get ice cream later." "No, momma! I don't like pictures!" "What kind do you think you want?" I tease, "chocolate…vanilla…strawberries with sprinkles?" The sprinkles get her. "Strawberry with sprinkles," she says with a tiny smirk.
She finally sits on the chair and Joanie takes over again. "Smile, princess! Mr. Chicken loves it when little girls smile, don't you Mr. Chicken?" Mr. Chicken is starting to sound like a dirty old man. Amelia smiles for a brief second. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! We missed the smile and end up with a grotesque-looking expression. She begins again. "Oh, what a beautiful smile! Princess! Princess! Look here. Pbbbbbbbbbbbb!" Joanie blows a loud raspberry. I feel the urge to laugh hysterically. A half smile emerges on Amelia's face. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! A variation on this routine goes on for the next ten minutes. We finally end up with a half a dozen shots ranging from distorted to dazed to just teeth. "I think we got some good ones! Now it's the little one's turn," she orders.
The circus begins afresh. "Audrey, lookey here!" Snap! "Boo! Boo! Pbbbbbbbb!" Snap! "Where's the chicken? There he is!" Snap! "Audrey, Audrey. Lookey here!" Snap! "A boo! A boo!" (Doesn't she mean "achoo?) "I got your feetsy, I got your feetsy." Snap! Snap!" When she's finished snapping, Joanie's hair looks frizzier than it did, and it is wet with sweat around her forehead and ears. We manage a few empty gazes from Audrey and one curly half-smile.
By the time Amelia and Audrey pose together, even Joanie's extraordinary show of potty humor doesn't help. Audrey is ticked. The resulting photo is of Amelia staring off into La La Land and Audrey bawling her eyes out.
Selecting the Photos
By now it's half past 1, and my kids are beyond tired. I'm beyond tired. And yet, we still need to order our pictures. While I enjoy looking at the final pictures, choosing the right ones is stressful. There is so much to consider. I have two kids, which means I end up with 9 to 12 shots of each, plus three shots of them together. Each shot is labeled P1, P2, P3, unless they are enhanced (black-and-white, sepia), then they are E1, E2, E3. I can choose between wallets, 3x5, 5x7, 8x10, and 10x13. You get one pose or one shot per sheet. There are four 3x5s and two 5x7s to a sheet. I have to make sure I order enough pictures for my mom, my mother-in-law, my three sisters, my two grandmothers, my husband's cousins and me. Each is going to want at least two pictures, one of Audrey and one of Amelia. My head hurts. With all of that in mind, I need to make sure I stay within the confines of the package I picked (that $259 package is looking better all the time). And I need to choose my pictures quickly. Amelia has just gotten a burst of punchy energy causing her to dart like a hummingbird singing "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." I could make this simple and choose one of the best pictures of Amelia and one of the best of Audrey, ordering several different sizes for each of the people on my list. But I'm reminded of my role as household historian and guilt myself into ordering most of the poses.
After 15 minutes Joanie asks, "Are you all set?" "I need to be," I resign. "I've decided on two 5x7s of P1 and one 3x5 of P2, P3, and E13. I'll also take three 3x3s…I mean 3x5s of E13 and P 5x7s of P10. Did I say, "P"? I mean three 5x7s of P10." I feel an irresistible urge to laugh uncontrollably. Just like how I would when my sister and I would get the giggles during the silent moments of a piano recital. "Will you throw in a few C3P0s while you’re at it?" I bust up. Joanie's not amused. She confirms, "Okay, so you want one sheet of 5x7s of P1…" "No." I interrupt. I'm serious again. "I want two 5x7s of P1." "You are aware that you get two 5x7s per sheet, aren't you?" She questions. I nod yes. "Okay then, two P1 5x7s, one P2, P3, and E13 3x5s, three E13 3x5s and three P10 5x7s, right?" I pause, not wanting to look her in the eye. "I'm so sorry. I thought my daughter had an accident, will you repeat that one more time?"
At last, at quarter to two we have ordered our pictures and are ready to go home.
A week later, I receive the pictures by e-mail and send them to my husband. "Hey honey, let me know which ones are your favorites, okay?" I write. I planned to frame two pictures for Father's Day. Since he didn't respond to the e-mail, I asked him later that night. "Hey, so which pictures do you like the best?" "Oh, right." He says. "Uhhh….The kids look really tired in those pictures, don't you think? Maybe next time you should think about getting an earlier appointment. You know, catch them in their happy window." I bite my tongue and nod, "Hmm. I hadn't thought of that."
Getting Ready
On portrait day I wake to the glare of my clock, 6:24. The clock is ticking. We have an 11:00am appointment. If we have breakfast by 7:30, we should finish baths, get dressed, and complete pigtails by 9:30, pile into the car by 10:00 and arrive at 10:20. It will take 15 minutes to get unloaded and walk from the parking lot to the elevator to the studio. If all goes well, I should be able to maneuver Audrey's nap schedule so we arrive during her happy window. Sounds simple enough.
Breakfast goes smoothly with my two-year old, aside from her smearing oatmeal in her hair and eyebrows. We finish at 7:54. Not bad. I have six minutes to get Amelia in her bath and Audrey down for a nap. I am an efficiency expert. With my right arm, I wrangle Amelia from the high chair; with my left I grab Audrey by the waist. She frantically begins sucking her bottom lip like she's famished. Her paci! I lean over and grab it with my teeth and then kick the hall door open with my left foot. I plop Audrey in her crib and Amelia in the bath. Audrey's crying. Amelia's yelling, "I need hotter! I need hotter, mama PALEEEEESE!" Like a metronome on high speed I go back and forth between the two, plugging Audrey with the paci and washing, splashing, and playing bake-a-water cake with Amelia in the tub.
It's 8:37. Darn. I've lost 7 minutes. I bribe Amelia with a cookie to avoid her daily screaming frenzy that usually ensues when I tell her it's time to get out of the bath. I can't lose those 15 minutes this morning. I refer to Amelia's dress as a "princess dress" and that springs her into action. Amelia is dry and dressed with shoes on. When I draw the comb from the drawer, she runs from me like I'm holding a head of broccoli. After bribing her with 10 Pez and a Dora show, I manage to chisel through the oatmeal (even after Johnson's and Johnson's) and tie her hair back into two uneven pig tails. Why do I always fail to achieve that perfect part other moms do so effortlessly? Mine looks more like a z zzz z.
Argh, it's 9:15. I need to pack our gear and wake, bathe, and dress Audrey. When I wake Audrey from her sweet sleep, she lets out a high A-sharp scream. She is not pleased. Even less so when I plunk her into the bath. I wash and dress my screaming baby and suppress the urge to scream myself. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Amelia has pulled the rubber bands from her hair and wrapped them around her bear's ears. And more good news. It's 9:45. Now I really need to move fast. I feel like a Ms. Pacman on level banana. I strap Audrey into her portable car seat, throw on some wrinkled shorts and a t-shirt for myself, redo Amelia's hair despite her screaming, pack a snack for Amelia, and prepare Audrey's diaper bag. I load all people and items on my limbs and back, and we make for the door. Somehow, between our front door and my car, Amelia manages to smear black dirt from my car's tire onto her white dress. Should I change her quickly? Check the watch. Nope, out of time. What kind of idiot would choose white for a two-year old, I wonder. I load the gear and people into the car. We have enough baggage that we could head out to Yosemite after the Portrait studio.
Finally. My wailing children are strapped in and we’re ready to go. All of the moving parts of the morning are sequestered in my vehicle. What a w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l moment.
It's 10:07. Stay focused.
The Portrait Studio
We arrive at 11:01. It's a mad-house. People, kids, babies, strollers, paperwork, ringing phones, and one attendant at the front desk. I glance at the sets of children. All perfectly manicured in matching outfits and eager to get their pictures taken. I look at my war-worn little ones. Amelia's drooping eyelids, her white (and black) dress, her sagging pigtails. Audrey has spit up on her blue and yellow jumper and she's fussing loudly. I feel depressed. I'm jolted out of my funk by a shrill "Who's next?" I look around at the ladies next to me, and say "I think I am." I see several eyes give me the you-poor-thing, mommy-sympathy look. The portrait lady drills me. "Are you a member of the Portrait Club?" "Do you have Portrait ID?" "Have you decided which Portrait package you want?" "Do you have a coupon?" "Are we doing two outfits or one?" I want to put my index finger to my lips and babble, blblblblblblbl. Instead, I locate my portrait card amidst all manner of department stores and buy-ten Golden Spoon coupon cards, answer her questions, and talk her down from the $259 Deluxe package to the $29.99 Basic. "Okay, have a seat. I'll call you when we're ready for you." "Thanks," I say. It's 11:32. I drag my now hungry, tired, and whining two-year old to the couch and park my sleeping Audrey next to us. So much for taking pictures during my kids' happy window.
"Pearson!" The shrill voice calls at 12:00. Finally! It's our turn. Amelia's first. Mrs. Shrill, whose real name is Joanie, suddenly turns into a puppeteering, raspberry-blowing, face-contorting, comedian. "Okay, princess," she sings, "sit on this chair and look over here at Mr. Chicken!" (Mr.? I think). Amelia looks at the soft pink chair like it's electric. "No, mommy, No! I don't want to!" I used to frown on moms who bribed their children with food. I've given up on such ideals. "Amelia, if you will cooperate for mommy, we'll get ice cream later." "No, momma! I don't like pictures!" "What kind do you think you want?" I tease, "chocolate…vanilla…strawberries with sprinkles?" The sprinkles get her. "Strawberry with sprinkles," she says with a tiny smirk.
She finally sits on the chair and Joanie takes over again. "Smile, princess! Mr. Chicken loves it when little girls smile, don't you Mr. Chicken?" Mr. Chicken is starting to sound like a dirty old man. Amelia smiles for a brief second. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! We missed the smile and end up with a grotesque-looking expression. She begins again. "Oh, what a beautiful smile! Princess! Princess! Look here. Pbbbbbbbbbbbb!" Joanie blows a loud raspberry. I feel the urge to laugh hysterically. A half smile emerges on Amelia's face. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! A variation on this routine goes on for the next ten minutes. We finally end up with a half a dozen shots ranging from distorted to dazed to just teeth. "I think we got some good ones! Now it's the little one's turn," she orders.
The circus begins afresh. "Audrey, lookey here!" Snap! "Boo! Boo! Pbbbbbbbb!" Snap! "Where's the chicken? There he is!" Snap! "Audrey, Audrey. Lookey here!" Snap! "A boo! A boo!" (Doesn't she mean "achoo?) "I got your feetsy, I got your feetsy." Snap! Snap!" When she's finished snapping, Joanie's hair looks frizzier than it did, and it is wet with sweat around her forehead and ears. We manage a few empty gazes from Audrey and one curly half-smile.
By the time Amelia and Audrey pose together, even Joanie's extraordinary show of potty humor doesn't help. Audrey is ticked. The resulting photo is of Amelia staring off into La La Land and Audrey bawling her eyes out.
Selecting the Photos
By now it's half past 1, and my kids are beyond tired. I'm beyond tired. And yet, we still need to order our pictures. While I enjoy looking at the final pictures, choosing the right ones is stressful. There is so much to consider. I have two kids, which means I end up with 9 to 12 shots of each, plus three shots of them together. Each shot is labeled P1, P2, P3, unless they are enhanced (black-and-white, sepia), then they are E1, E2, E3. I can choose between wallets, 3x5, 5x7, 8x10, and 10x13. You get one pose or one shot per sheet. There are four 3x5s and two 5x7s to a sheet. I have to make sure I order enough pictures for my mom, my mother-in-law, my three sisters, my two grandmothers, my husband's cousins and me. Each is going to want at least two pictures, one of Audrey and one of Amelia. My head hurts. With all of that in mind, I need to make sure I stay within the confines of the package I picked (that $259 package is looking better all the time). And I need to choose my pictures quickly. Amelia has just gotten a burst of punchy energy causing her to dart like a hummingbird singing "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." I could make this simple and choose one of the best pictures of Amelia and one of the best of Audrey, ordering several different sizes for each of the people on my list. But I'm reminded of my role as household historian and guilt myself into ordering most of the poses.
After 15 minutes Joanie asks, "Are you all set?" "I need to be," I resign. "I've decided on two 5x7s of P1 and one 3x5 of P2, P3, and E13. I'll also take three 3x3s…I mean 3x5s of E13 and P 5x7s of P10. Did I say, "P"? I mean three 5x7s of P10." I feel an irresistible urge to laugh uncontrollably. Just like how I would when my sister and I would get the giggles during the silent moments of a piano recital. "Will you throw in a few C3P0s while you’re at it?" I bust up. Joanie's not amused. She confirms, "Okay, so you want one sheet of 5x7s of P1…" "No." I interrupt. I'm serious again. "I want two 5x7s of P1." "You are aware that you get two 5x7s per sheet, aren't you?" She questions. I nod yes. "Okay then, two P1 5x7s, one P2, P3, and E13 3x5s, three E13 3x5s and three P10 5x7s, right?" I pause, not wanting to look her in the eye. "I'm so sorry. I thought my daughter had an accident, will you repeat that one more time?"
At last, at quarter to two we have ordered our pictures and are ready to go home.
A week later, I receive the pictures by e-mail and send them to my husband. "Hey honey, let me know which ones are your favorites, okay?" I write. I planned to frame two pictures for Father's Day. Since he didn't respond to the e-mail, I asked him later that night. "Hey, so which pictures do you like the best?" "Oh, right." He says. "Uhhh….The kids look really tired in those pictures, don't you think? Maybe next time you should think about getting an earlier appointment. You know, catch them in their happy window." I bite my tongue and nod, "Hmm. I hadn't thought of that."
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