Where I'm From

I am from sandy beaches, from Coppertone and flip flops and beach towels and bike rides from my house to Patricia's and back again.


I am from the house around the corner from the bay, with lilacs out back, a paint-splattered patio with an outdoor shower, with bright yellow walls that curve in over the bed.


I am from the crashing waves and the sweet salt air.  I am from the skating rink on Friday nights.


I am from Dad's poems on the refrigerator and melons for appetizers, from Anna Banana and Bob and Susan and Marion and Eugene, too.


I am from the people who talk so easily they forget to listen, and people who don't talk about things that bother them and people who would give you the shirt off their back to keep you warm.  I am from people who say "I love you, bup bup."


From not going in the water until an hour after lunch and from vague, rhythmic advice about the importance of girls setting the tone for relationships, ever since the time of Anthony and Cleopatra. From advice that sometimes needed setting aside, and from advice that sometimes comes out of my mouth (but not the part about Anthony and Cleopatra).


I am from Catholicism that didn't stick (although it did supply a love of ritual). I am from show tunes and Girl Scout songs and hours of piano practice.  I am from classical music and Celtic music and dreams of travel around the world. I am from the field where my best friend was the first girl in Little League and from the place of hope that thought the ERA and the space program would change my world.


I'm from New York and Ireland, from frozen spinach and fish cakes on Friday. I am from Gino's pizza and bagels with a schmear and regular coffee and tea with the milk put in first. 


From stories I can't tell because nobody tells them.  


I am from parents who took in their parents, from long-lived parents who have outlived their siblings, from people who slowly, silently, change their minds, who eventually act out of love.  From a father who drove me and my friends everywhere, because that's what his father did.  From New York Football Giants memorabilia, from photos stored in boxes, somewhere in the house. From silver and china that didn't get used enough. From a kitchen that always had a cuppa and an extra seat and plate.  From quiet mysteries and unanswered questions.


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This is based on a poem by George Ella Lyon's  poem  "Where I'm From," which gave Fred First Floyd the idea to create a writing assignment.  I've seen this form around before, but this week got the idea from  Maggie, who got it from Amanda and Flutter and De.  A blogger named Schmutzie is making a link-up. If you're inspired, click on Fred Floyd's name above for the template.

The Political is Personal, or, Teddy, My Daughter Hardly Knew Ye

Curious Girl and Politica are out of town now, and I knew they weren't listening to a lot of news together, so when we spoke first thing yesterday morning, I told Politica about Ted Kennedy's passing. Curious Girl was, unsurprisingly, curious about Senator Kennedy, and she's been peppering me with questions about him: what time did he die? Did he say anything before he died? What kind of good ideas did he have? It surprises me, a bit, still, how she creates such personal connections to figures in the world.

Senator Kennedy was still on her mind this morning:

CG: Mama, the one who died, the president....
me: Senator Kennedy, you mean?
CG: Yes, Senator Kennedy. I'm wondering if he is still at his house, dead.
me: Actually, he's not. He was so important for so many people that they are taking his body to Boston.
CG: Boston?!?
me: His brother was President Kennedy (she knows President Kennedy because we have his picture on two plates in our kitchen), and there is a special library/museum in Boston all about President Kennedy. We can go there when you are older. Senator Kennedy is there now so that people can go visit him, and then there will be a big celebration of his life on Saturday. President Obama is coming back from his vacation to speak at the celebration.
CG: OH! I WANT TO GO!!!!
me: That would be very special, but the celebration will be for people in Senator Kennedy's family and people who knew him and worked with him.
CG: I want to go! We could meet Barack Obama in person!!
me: It would be great to meet President Obama, but we can't meet him in person at the celebration.
CG: But there might be cookies!
me: they will probably have food afterwards for all the people who loved Senator Kennedy, but we can't just go and meet President Obama. It just doesn't work like that.
CG: But we went to Tante Mississippi Friend's after.
me: That's because Uncle Quiet was in our family, honey. We don't know President Obama and Senator Kennedy. They will probably show the celebration on TV or we can watch it on the computer.
CG: I can see it?!
me: Yes, we can look for it.
CG: I wonder whether the Senator had a bad sickness.
me: Yes, he had the same kind of bad sickness that Uncle Quiet had.
CG: That's very bad.
me: Tante Mississippi was a little extra sad, I think, when she heard about the Senator.
CG: Why?
me: I think she was probably remembering Uncle Quiet's brain cancer and feeling sad.
CG: Do you think she cried enough to make a river in her house?
me: I didn't ask her that, but I think she probably didn't cry that much, but she might have cried a little.
CG: I want to go to the celebration and get cookies.
me: Well, we can make our own cookies and have a celebration for the Senator.
CG: No, for Cat Who Died Last Fall. Will the Senator's mother be at his celebration?

The hopes, dreams, and love of a child, who just amazingly and perfectly--although I don't know that my transcription quite captures it--weaves together her family, her politics, and people she misses.

New Year's Meme

As seen around, most recently at Dawn's. Happy New Year, everyone!:

1. What did you do in 2008 that you’d never done before?
Drove more than 1000 miles without another adult in the car (and did all the driving myself--usually I navigate).

2. Did you keep your New Years’ Resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don't think I made any New Year's resolutions last year. Some years, I write down my hopes/fears/expectations for the year, but I didn't do that last year.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yes! Historian Friend had a delightful baby on my half-birthday in February, and Neighbor Friends had a delightful baby in the summer, shortly before we moved.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Quiet Friend. I miss him. This time last year, I was blogging about his medical problems.

5. What countries did you visit?

My only travel was in the US (unless you count Disneyl@and as a world unto itself).

6. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?

A legal marriage to Politica.

7. What date from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

Election Night. The night we got to Germany. The night Quiet Friend died. I may not always remember the precise dates, but those are all nights I recall with intense clarity, because on each of them, my world changed.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Moving, and getting settled into certain kinds of new routines here in Germany.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Hmmm....not sure here. December's spate of bread failures comes to mind, but surely there was something bigger? Had some family-of-origin boundary/holiday issues.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

No.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
A Stokke chair for Curious Girl (on craigslist!) and panniers for my bike, so I can ride to work now.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Curious Girl: an exemplary traveler.

Lesbian Dad: an exemplary blogger and activist, who wrote a lot of beautiful words about marriage this year.

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
The K of C, the LDS, and everyone else who supported Proposition 8.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Into houses: our current one, and the one we are still trying to sell in Old State.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Marriage fantasies. For the first time in my life, I'm having wedding fantasies, though they are followed by periods of dejection on marriage, too.

The election.

Germany.

16. What song will always remind you of 2008?
"Best Days of our Lives": the soundtrack to my drive from Old State to Germany (see the link above on question 12).

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. happier or sadder? happier, I think. I'm missing good friends prodigiously right now, but I'm glad we've moved.
ii. thinner or fatter? About the same.
iii. richer or poorer? Richer in terms of income; more cash-strapped in terms of the unsold house. .

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Writing. Sleeping.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Mindless websurfing (usually too late at night, and addictively unsatisfying). Fretting about personnel matters at home (when it doesn't add anything to my ability to help matters)

20. How did you spend Christmas?
At home, with Politica and Curious Girl.

21. What LJ users did you meet?
Like Dawn, I'll amend this to how many online friends did I meet for the first time in 07: Artsweet, Shannon, Dawn, and Jenna. And Rev. Dr. Mom, and That Silly Mommy.

22. Did you fall in love in 2008?

As Dawn said in her answer to this question, I think I fall a little more in love with Politica all the time.

23. How many one-night stands?

I'll quote Dawn here: "This is for the younger blogging set, isn’t it?"

24. What was your favourite TV program?
The Daily Show, Dr. Who, and Xena.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
No. I don't really hate anyone.

26. What was the best book you read?
New mystery authors I'm enjoying: Archer Mayer and Sarah Stewart Taylor. One of the most compelling books I've read was Jennifer Boylan's She's Not There, a memoir that Joyce recommended to me (there are uncanny parallels between Joyce and Jenny Boylan, although R!chard Russ0 is not Joyce's best friend, and Joyce (and before her, George) is a friend who grows more likeable over time. The narrator in She's Not There (which is one presentation of the real Jenny Boylan; I'm sure there are tons of things she left out of her transgender narration) got less likeable to me over the course of the book. Some of the major contours of their lives might be the same, but their personalities are quite different).

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
That ocarinas are great fun in the car.

28. What did you want and get?
A house in the neighborhood I wanted to live in.

29. What did you want and not get?
An architecturally interesting house in said neighborhood. An office with a real window.

30. What was your favourite film of this year?
I'm not even sure I saw a film in 2008. No, wait, I did: the post-apocalyptic film with Will Smith in it whose name I forget. I re-saw Charlie Brown movies in 2008 and enjoyed them.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
46 last August, and I was in Charming College Town, celebrating with Historian Friend, her lovely boys, and Curious Girl. Politica was already in Germany, dealing with the house. We had wedding cake for my birthday and Messy Boy's birthday, and I missed Politica. Last week, on a day when I was missing Historian Friend, we designated another day The Official Birthday, and we went out for breakfast at one of my favorite breakfast restaurants.

32.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
If my best friends and CG's old school had been magically transported here. I miss them, big time.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?
If I could describe it, I'd probably have more of one. I have been wearing more earth tones. And I'm happy to have moved to Germany, where my clothes seem to fit in better than they did in Old State. I'm not much for fashion.

34. What kept you sane?

Twitter (which surprised me--when I first read about it, it seemed pretty useless). Politica. The lake. Bike rides. Snuggles. Friends in the computer. Pseudonymousless Friend, Historian Friend, Mississippi Friend.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Not sure. Which blogger riveted me, though: Lesbian Dad. Not sure that counts as fancying (in fact, does one fancy butches? why not? It's an amusing juxtaposition, the fancy and the butch). But her words this fall: quite captivating.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
The presidential election, generally, and marriage equality.

37. Who did you miss?
Quiet Friend. The world is a poorer place without him.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
Joyce, my new/old friend. Runner up: all the great connections here in Germany and we're so grateful for them!

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008.
Location, location, location. It's good to live in a place you feel connected to.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

If I wait to answer this question, this post may go up sometime in May. But if I hit post now, I'll probably think of a great answer during dinner. So I'll come back to this later.

Yo, Yo!

Early in her pregnancy, when Ianqui was thinking about a nom-de-blog for her baby, she saw a news item about yo evolving as a gender-neutral pronoun. It became the perfect blogname for the baby, and when she announced it, I thought, a) “how cool! bookmark that news item for future teaching use” and b) “Yo, Yo!” would be a great name for a blog post. Great title, but what to follow it? Recommendations for good children’s music (starting with Dan Zanes’ Family Dance, which contains “Yo Yo, Sweet Yo Yo”) or good books (starting with Chris Raschka’s Yo! Yes! and Ring! Yo! leading into Irene Smalls' Don’t Say Ain’t, the beginning of a list of kids’ books that are about language)? I couldn’t get those ideas to go anywhere…but I realized that the best baby shower game I’ve ever played is a great way to welcome Yo, and it’s in keeping with the title-in-search-of-content and Ianqui's carbon-footprint-reducing ethos (a game that generates no stuff!). Now that Yo has arrived, it’s a fine day to teach you all the best baby shower game ever—and Ianqui and Super G can pass the results on to Yo whenever they want. There are already tons of happy comments over at Ianqui's own posts on the subject, and I suppose Ianqui won't be blog-reading quite so frequently. But some of you might want to play along here, and I trust Ianqui won't mind an uninvited burst of bloggy enthusiasm for her wee one.

I learned this game when Uncle Quiet and Tante Mississippi were expecting Curly Haired Cousin, and their department threw a shower, so it has especially sweet memories for me. We also played it at Historian Friend’s shower. In real life, you’d use index cards, one for each guest, numbered 1 to however many you need for everyone present. On this post, we can just use the order of comments. All you have to do is tell a memory from your life from the age on your card/comment position (or something about what your world was like, if you don't remember anything from that year) and then make a wish for Yo for when Yo turns that age (so if you have card #7, or are commenter #7 on this post, you’d tell a memory from when you were 7, and offer a wish for Yo for when Yo is 7). I’ll do age one in the first comment, and anyone else who wants to join in can just do two, three, four, whatever. This is a cool way to learn a little more about other people; it’s interesting to see what different childhoods were like and what kinds of different wishes people offer, corresponding to different ages.

So Yo, Yo! Some wishes for you to soak up are in the comments. Welcome to the world.

In Her Heaven

Curious Girl is busy with thank you notes for her birthday. Tante Mississippi and Curly Haired Cousin gave her a birthstone necklace, and here's what she told them at the end of the note:

I'm glad you're my aunt and Curly Haired Cousin is my cousin, and that Uncle Quiet used to be my uncle. Now he's uncle in my heaven.

We don't really talk much around here about heaven (except when CG is spinning theories about it), but it fascinates me to see CG's ideas about life and death playing out as she gets used to Uncle Quiet's death. Every now and then she'll ask me what Uncle Quiet is doing now, and I usually respond with the parental classic: "what do you think?" She has a lot of answers: "being dead," "taking a bath," or "sleeping" being some recent ones. (Yes, we have had a conversation about whether heaven has bathtubs. Haven't you? For the question of whether heaven is or is not like Facebook, I recommend you to the comments on a fabulous post by Arwen.)

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One night last week, Curious Girl woke up. As I snuggled her back to sleep, she said, "Do you want to hear a story about Uncle Quiet?" I did, of course. "Once upon a time there was Uncle Quiet. He was very kind. The End." I asked her if I could write that down for Tante Mississippi, telling her that I liked the story very much and that Tante Mississippi would, too. CG said, "Oh, and a joke, too. She needs a joke." She stopped to consider. "The pink tiara, was that at my party or Curly Haired Cousin's?" She was trying to remember where she saw Uncle Quiet playing with her sparkly tiara with pink fur trimming. We have a great photo of them together, being silly. Uncle Quiet had quite the silly side, which is really rather funny, as he was so very unsilly in many respects: he was the snappiest dresser of any male friend I've had, and reserved, and dignified. So the sight of him teasing Curly Haired Cousin and CG with the tiara was pretty funny. "I'll tell her a joke after the story. That will make her more happy." "Knock knock." (all together now..."who's there?") "Tiara." ("tiara who?") "Pink tiara."

She may have more social graces than comedy skills, I grant you. But she is awfully sweet.

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I miss Quiet Friend. CG's birthday party was the first social event at our house that he missed--Politica and I were always quite touched that he almost always came to events at our house even when he was super tired. But this time, no Quiet Friend. Mississippi Friend came, and we spent part of the party talking about the weather and cooking, trying to remember which was the party where she and Politica were at the grill, one cooking, the other holding an umbrella, and which was the party where Quiet Friend did the cooking in the rain.

Mississippi Friend is having a tough time of it, which is normal, I suppose, but as she points out, it's pretty darn irritating to have people say "Oh, that's normal," when she tells them something about her grief (so let me amend that sentence: what she's experiencing is so.not.normal: there's nothing normal about losing your 43 year old husband whose last 7 years included so much pain, fatigue, and medical procedures. It's not fair, is what it is.). It's clear from Mississippi Friend's stories that even the most well-meaning friends or relatives can say totally wrong-headed things. I've thought a lot about a thoughtful post Snickollet wrote on grief a while back, outlining ways people can do for their grieving friends. It's frustrating, watching a friend grieve: what she really wants is a whole re-do from the Universe, and we can't give her that. I can only hope that Politica, CG, and I are generally more helpful to her than not. I'm working on a letter that simply collects some of my favorite memories of Quiet Friend. One thing I can do, is write. So I write here, and will write privately for Mississippi Friend and Curly Haired Cousin, hoping my words capture some of the love we hold for her and Quiet Friend, here, and in our heavens.

Baby Bonding

When Jennifer Margulis asked me if I wanted to be part of the book tour for The Baby Bonding Book for Dads, her newest book--co-authored with her husband, James di Properzio, I said, "You remember I'm a lesbian, right?" She did, but said that she wanted the book to tour a variety of places in blog land, and she'd love to have a stop here. "Sure thing," I said. "Send it my way." (disclosure: Jennifer and I first got in contact with each other via some bloggy connection, and she phone interviewed me for a magazine article she was writing that never got published. Since then, we've had every-now-and-again e-mail correspondence in relationship to some of her writing. Her publisher provided the book for my use. You can read more of Jennifer online in at Literary Mama, Mothering, or the website for her previous book, Toddler.)

This book is a nice size--just slightly bigger than a 7"x7 square, with 20 short chapters, three pages each, with two photos each. And the photos alone are a reason to take a peek-- Christopher Briscoe's photos are exquisite. The chapters themselves are good--each very positive, stressing what to do with your new baby (as opposed to what to avoid). It's nice to read parenting advice that focuses on using playful, relaxed contact to build a great relationship with a new child.

When Politica and I were in the midst of our adoption process, we read a lot about bonding and attachment, so I read The Baby Bonding Book for Dads through all the attachment theory I've read. It's a nice idea to write a book for fathers that assumes they're competent and involved caregivers (I remember one of Curly Haired Cousin's doctors saying to Quiet Friend once, "So, you're playing babysitter today?" when Quiet Friend took Curly Haired Cousin to the doctor (who was accustomed to seeing Mississippi Friend there instead). "No, I'm being his father," Quiet Friend pointed out.) But there's nothing here that's particular exclusive to fathers: all new parents (of older children, of newborns) could practice what di Properzio and Margulis recommend here: spend time with your child, skin to skin. Carry her. Talk to him while dressing him. Feed her. Take him outdoors. Play games while changing her diaper. This book is clearly written by people who love their relationship with children, and who have great ideas about ways to start building a relationship with children from the very first moment of contact.

When Curious Girl first joined our family, we spent weeks playing on the living room floor together. CG (then 9 months old) wasn't very strong at first--in fact, she learned to crawl with her legs in that first month, and it took her a while to get up the strength to crawl over my legs. I remember that being a big deal at the time. She'd been used to life in her orphanage, which was a pretty quiet place, and we didn't want to overstimulate her. We also wanted to teach her who we were, help her understand what it means to live in a family rather than in an institution, and give her time and space to figure out her new life. And mostly, we wanted to encourage her to attach to us. When we first came home, she'd have gone to pretty much any adult (especially those with white coats, like her orphanage caretakers wore; since she was sick constantly, she saw lots of white coats in those early months!). We used our floor time to make lots of eye contact, to get her to look at us, come to us, react to us. We sang songs to her, made fun games out of everything, so she'd see us as sources of fun, and more importantly, sources of comfort and caring. A lot of what we did is reflected in this book--so while the title is focused on fathers bonding with their babies, I'd actually like to see it repackaged as a baby bonding book for parents.

I know, I'm contrary about gendered parenting books. I read this book with some suspicion, half expecting to be irritated by generalizations about mothers or fathers. I was pleasantly surprised to find that this book is mostly just father-to-father informal conversation, like this:

Anything you can do with your face is interesting, too. Pretend to look surprised, wiggle your ears. Blow little puffs of air into the baby's face and then laugh or make surprised noises--even gorillas play this game with their young--and your baby wil either laugh or frown. This is your first chance to let go of your staid, grown-up demeanor and be silly, because nobody wants to be like the really serious, boring old dads some of your friends had when you were a kid. Maybe you don't feel like a cool dad yet, but when you were a kid, like every kid, you knew in your heart that you weren't going to be a strict/boring/old-fashioned/whatever like your dad. This is prime practice time, because babie are like dogs: they don't care what you do so much, as long as you're paying attention to them.

Turns out my big quibble with this book is that I can't figure out what Jennifer Margulis actually wrote here. She and her husband are named as co-authors on the cover, but the book is written entirely in the first person singular by her husband. The preface leads off with a story about how the author used to watch his father shave and now his daughter watches him shave. I suppose there are a few chapters that don't have an explicit first-person reference (so perhaps this is the answer to my question), but her husband's "I" pops up enough through the book that it really reads like a singly-authored book, by a man writing to other men, particularly in the preface and epilogue. So I wondered a bit about where Jennifer was in all this. I'm a writing teacher: I think about how authors represent themselves. But that probably isn't going to detract from others' enjoyment of this celebration of parent/child bonding.

My New Old Friend

I've been e-mailing with a friend who told me he's been doing something very, very different. What's up, I wondered: it turns out, my friend has had gender identity disorder since very early childhood. George, it turns out, is Joyce.

My immediate reaction was to smile (albeit with a bit of a dropped jaw: I'm sure Joyce is enjoying the list of things her friends imagined might be the new and different thing she has been making arrangements to talk about). I quickly dashed off an e-mail to say something like this: I know I speak for Politica too; we love you; we support you--and your wife; we are your friends, and we are part of your support network.

My second reaction was to laugh. George was, is, the kind of person who's done everything. Grew up on a ranch, can ride a horse. Has lived abroad, is multilingual. Helped found a business, has disparate graduate degrees, isn't afraid to stake out controversial positions while listening well to others. George is (forgive the mixing of names, genders, and tenses: I'm mixing time and space here) gentle and forcefully quiet, so these experiences don't come out one after the other as any kind of bragging. It's just that in virtually any conversation, it seemed to turn out that George had relevant expertise. He knows the stars (that ranching big sky background, I guess). He's lived here, and there. He's parachuted. And what does the man who does everything do? Become a woman. That struck me as funny, just as the fact that George owned his own parachute did the night I found that out.

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Joyce is an academic--smart, eloquent, rational. Her e-mail to me, while personalized, is one that I imagine she's sent to many friends and family members over the past few months. She gave me some reading tips (including Jennifer Finney Boylan's utterly compelling, you really-should-run-out-and-get-it, memoir of her MTF transition in her 40's, She's Not There), and mentioned that she has a blog, something she's been using to chronicle her thinking over the past year and a half, a period which opened in deep depression and has slowly moved through her decision to transition, heartbreakingly beautiful meditations on any number of aspects of the transition, and more recently, chronicles of telling family members, thoughts on conversations with friends and family, all mixed with snippets from the past. I skimmed through the blog in its entirety, and have been reading it more slowly and carefully, learning more about my friend, rethinking our past, imagining our future.

I want to be clear--for Joyce, and anyone else-- my immediate reaction to this news hasn't changed one bit. I loved my friend George; I love my friend Joyce. I feel closer to Joyce, in part because it's now clear a big wall has tumbled down , in part because I've been reading her blog, which contains some intensely intimate entries (albeit public intimacy, staged by a masterful rhetorician). At one point in her blog, Joyce hopes that her friends are writing through their reactions to her news. So this entry is one such point for me.

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Cartoonist Scott McCloud has some work titled "I Can't Stop Thinking!" In some respects, I can't stop thinking about Joyce and her wife Mary Jo. I have other trans friends, but none that I've known in the midst of transition. I just can't stop thinking about Joyce. In the couple of weeks I've been thinking about this news, I've had vivid dreams, one about George being a gay Olympic swimmer who was transitioning to being a woman, and in the dream it turned out that his partner (also an Olympic swimmer) was also a man transitioning to be a woman. How convenient! I've also had several nights of dreams involving wild animals running free, like on an African savannah. No plot, just lots of movement and energy and freedom and elation. Somehow, it seems connected to the news about Joyce, and it feels good.

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One of my favorite memories of all time involves George, Mary Jo, and their children. We all went camping one year, to a big festival, and it was so very hot one day that we left the festival and went to a state park nearby. We lazed around in the river, we lazed on a picnic blanket, singing songs, telling stories, laughing at the wonderful young boy that was George and Mary Jo's oldest son. That afternoon was perfect in the way that only a lazy summer day can be: a big blue sky, warm temperatures, warm water, good company, and only the rhythms of pleasure to guide us. We wrote about this day in our holiday letter (back in the days when we sent holiday letters in December. This year, look for more of a Fourth of July holiday letter. We're working on it, really.)

Now I'm thinking: did that day really happen? Having read Joyce's blog, I'm seeing the past through another lens, a lens of struggle with gender identity disorder that grew worse over time. We've not yet seen each other to have a longer conversation about this, and I wonder whether that afternoon sticks in their minds, too, with the clarity and perfection it does in mind. But how perfect could it have been if George, relaxing in an inner tube, was struggling with desires and secrets and selves he thought couldn't be revealed?

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A few years ago, I met George in the hallways of our national professional association conference. Politica was in the midst of a pretty bad set of flare-ups associated with some of the chronic medical problems she has. "That's not fair," he said to me. "That's just not fair. Not fair at all." I was touched by the sweet vehemence of the phrasing. Now, I think back, and just as firmly say, "that's not fair" about the painful choices George had to make, moving through the world as a man. And I wonder, too, whether in that moment, George was aware of that pain, projecting some of it into his comment about Politica?

On Joyce's blog, she mentions being--as George-- at another conference and having a terrible time, sure that her colleagues would not be happy with the news that she's transsexual. I remember seeing George at a public event, and in my memory now, George was standing a bit apart from the crowd, looking sad. Is that real, or am I projecting sadness and separation into the past because of the blog posts I've now read, because of the memoirs I've now read? As I read the blog post about this moment, I thought "but you could have told me! I'd have hugged you." As I did hug George at the time.

I don't know how to trust my emotional memories of the past, now that I realize how much more was going on than I knew. But what I did know, was real, and the foundation of a good friendship.

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I should, logistics willing, be seeing Joyce and Mary Jo sometime next month. I'm looking forward to it--I've always treasured the spontaneous meals we've managed to arrange at conferences, but this time, I'm hoping we'll be able to plan a time to be together and talk. Joyce may be looking forward to talking about anything but all this, though. I remember a point after Curious Girl came home, after her surgery, after her medical conditions seemed to be more stable. I realized I could answer the question "How are you?" without explaining her condition in great detail, or talking about adoption. It was rather liberating. I talk about feeding issues and adoption regularly, of course, but it was good to know that I had other narratives available to me. I wonder whether Joyce feels the same way: gender identity is a compelling narrative, but perhaps she wants to tell other stories.

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We found a Shona sculpture in an art gallery, and bought it for Joyce and Mary Jo. The sculpture symbolizes spiritual evolution through physical transformation, and the contrast of polished curves and textured ridges seems like a tangible and beautiful reminder of friends afar. (You can see similar sculptures online, although this isn't where we bought it and I don't know the site.)

**********************

I'm still e-mailing Joyce on George's computer account.

Sometimes, I just stop and look at her name, and it seems to pop off the screen and rotate. Who are you, Joyce? I turn the name over and around, learning my way around its shape on the screen or page. Joyce isn't--alphabetically, materially--the same shape as George. Curious Girl would say, "I'm still getting used to it." (Note to self: as this is getting long, I'm going to write about my conversation with Curious Girl about all this separately.)

**********************

I'm realizing what mundane things I didn't know about George. Like clothes, and where they come from. George was, is, a pretty spiffy dresser at work: classic clothes, not flashy, good quality, nice looking. At home, nice quality clothes, practical clothes that would change depending on the activity. On the blog, Joyce wonders about where to shop for her new look. Me, I hate to shop, but I understand the questions about the new look (questions I have, in fact, about our upcoming move. Do professors at German University dress differently than professors here?) Joyce wonders whether a shirt from This Store, a skirt from That Store might be suitable. I never think about clothes like this. I bet Joyce dresses better than I do (she certainly knows more about makeup than I do!). It's interesting, discovering ways in which my friend is thinking about clothes. I'd never have thought to think that way.

As I said in one of my e-mails, it's a good friendship that is still unfolding all these years later (even if shopping for clothes isn't the most profound example. But there's something about the material intimacy of it all that fascinates me).

**********************

Some days, I wish I had a chance to say goodbye to George. But then, what would I say? And isn't George in Joyce?

George had a wonderful voice. I used to love being at his house when his mother would call, just to hear him say, "Hello, Mama," with wonderful elongated syllables in Hello and a lilting southern accent on the phrase. Of course, Mama passed away a few years ago, so I'd never have heard that again anyway.

I do wonder what Joyce sounds like.

**********************

It's not so simple as George vanishing and Joyce appearing. Gender is innate, but gender is performed, enacted, learned. Politica reminds me that George was really one of her few good straight male friends--but it turns out, he's more queer than straight. So it's not so simple. George, transitioning to Joyce, is making choices about intonation, fashion, gesture, voice...so many things. There are many narratives intersecting here: the creation of a trans identity, the creation of a female identiy, the refashioning of an academic identity, perhaps creation of an activist identity. Not to mention the recreation of a family identity, and the reshaping of friendships. So losing George isn't the only story, if it is a story at all.

As anyone who's been reading here for a while knows, I think a lot about adoption as something that happens at a moment in time, and something that unfolds over time in terms of identity and relationships. I've found myself wondering how much similarity there is between the kind of thinking I've done on adoption and the kind of work Joyce is doing now. Stories about making peace with the past, stories about making a coherent narrative of fragmented parts of the past...obviously there are many, many differences between these two situations, but the kind of emotional flexibility that adoption has promoted seems useful as I think about Joyce. Facts can be interpreted on multiple levels, interpretations can change over time, and sometimes contradictions just have to be lived with. George is(n't) Joyce; there are losses and gains, continuities and disjunctions.

**********************

I'm sorry Joyce struggled with such sadness at various points in her life. Reading the blog, I can't be anything but inspired as I look at the evolution she's gone through, and so pleased at the community around her--some of which I share with her as academics working in related fields, some of which I share from a period of shared geography, some of which I can see online.

I have a new, old friend: I like it.

Thirteen Ways of Losing an Uncle

Updated to add: If you click through the link on IndyAnne's comment below, you can see some beautiful photos of Tante Mississippi and Uncle Quiet, and read some material from the memorial service. Thanks, Anne.

Me: Uncle Quiet is dying, Curious Girl. He is very sick, and his body can't get better anymore.
Curious Girl: That is so sad. I have to tell everyone!

********************
a few minutes later
CG: That is so sad about Uncle Quiet. (She sits down next to me and sits quietly for a few seconds.) I am going to think about something else now. It's much more happier that way.

***********************
In the car, headed to Lisneydand, CG asks, "how do you spell Uncle Quiet?" We tell her, and she starts writing it down. "Do you know what this is? It's a list of people who are dead. Who else should I put on it?" I suggest my predecessor as department chair. "But he's been dead a long time. Uncle Quiet is still getting used to it."
***********************

CG: What is Uncle Quiet doing right now?
me: He's very sick, CG, and he's dying. Tante Misssissippi is taking good care of him, and his mother is there, and Grandaddy J and Grandma L and Curly Haired Cousin and lots of people.
CG: But what is he doing right now? Is he dying right now? Did he already die?
me: I don't know, sweetie. Tante Mississippi is taking good care of him, and he knows we all love him.
CG: But what if he doesn't die?
me: Then Tante Mississippi will keep taking good care of him.

*************************
After Uncle Quiet died

CG: Tell Tante Mississippi that we still love Uncle Quiet and it's going to be OK.

***************************

CG: I'm going to make something beautiful for where he died. I will draw a picture, a flower. I know! I'll make a garden. Maybe something out of clay.

*******************************
We should get Tante Mississippi a present. Maybe a picture, maybe a picture frame like we got Mommy for her trip. I know! A picture of me! With the princesses! That would make her much more happier.

***********************
on a postcard from Lisneydand

Hi Tante Mississippi and Curly Haired Cousin,

We're sorry Uncle Quiet died.
I miss you.
We're at a friend's house.
We didn't see any airplanes at Lisneydand. (Curly Haired Cousin loves airplanes)
I love you, Curious Girl
***************************
driving from the airport, heading for Tante Mississippi's house
CG: When are we going to be there?
me: Not too long. We get off at the next exit, the same exit we use to get to our house. Tante Mississippi and Uncle Quiet's house is on the way home from the airport to our house.
CG: Not Uncle Quiet anymore.
me: That's right, but it's going to take some time to get used to that.
CG: Especially for Curly Haired Cousin

*************************************
CG: Is Tante Mississippi still sad?
me: Yes, she's still sad.
CG: She might be a little sad forever.
me: she might, in a way, but she will also be happy again. We can all smile when we remember Uncle Quiet even though we miss him.
CG: but she might be a little sad forever. That's OK.

*************************************
CG: Is Uncle Quiet in our family?
me: yes.
CG: Is Tante Mississippi in our family?
me: yes
CG: Is Uncle Quiet still an uncle?
me: yes, honey
CG: but a dead one now.
me: right.
CG: you can be an uncle and be dead?
me: like Cool Uncle.
CG: at least I got to meet him. Did I meet Cool Uncle?
me: no, honey, he died right when you were coming into our family.
CG: and Mormor (Politica's mother). I never got to meet her. That's not fair. But I met Uncle Quiet a lot of times.

*************************************

I think Uncle Quiet has friends already underground. Is he underground already? I think he has friends there.


*************************************

Can he still remember us?

***********************************************

I tell Curious Girl that we can remember Uncle Quiet, that we will write things down for Tante Mississippi and Curly Haired Cousin, that Uncle Quiet is part of us because we remember him and tell stories about him. I tell her that we loved him, he loved us, and we all knew we loved each other. I tell her that sometimes, people get so very sick, very, very sick, that their bodies can't get better even though they try and their doctors try. I let her talk, I listen, I take her to Tante Mississippi's often. I really don't know how she's going to make sense of all of it, but for now, this is the best I can come up with. I'm using the lessons from all our adoption talk: I don't keep secrets, I answer the questions she has, I encourage her to talk about it all. Anyone else have any good ideas about helping small children navigate a loss like this?

Hopes, Dreams

Here's one story about today:

We're in the H@ppiest Pl@ce on E@rth right now, happily exhausted from a day spent largely princessing about. Curious Girl's way of approaching any new situation is to decide in advance an activity to focus on (princesses) and then to repeat activities to get herself used to things. So today, while other families were busy trying to cram as many activities into the day as they could, we went on the same few rides multiple times, and spent several hours in the princess area, listening to stories, standing on a ridiculously long line to meet the princesses (but what joy at the end of the line!), and watching various royal ceremonies. The princesses do a great job of storytelling and interacting with little guests, and the emphasis in all the patter is on some basic royal lessons: follow your dreams, tell the truth, use good manners, and have hope. If you do all that, you can face whatever comes. And, of course, you'll find true love and live Happily Ever After. But the big emphasis is on dreams and hope.

Curious Girl is eating it up. She wore her Cinderella dress to the park today, and she got her hair done all princessy fancy, with glitter and little flowers and a bun. She was tickled by the way everyone called her princess (even some other children), and happily pretended her way through the day. The twirling tea cups may be rated a very tame ride by all the guidebooks, but I got a thrill watching my fancy Cinderella daughter exclaiming, "yeah, baby!" as the tea cups spun.

She's beautiful, and she loves being in a place where there are princesses around every corner (if you don't leave the princessy part of the park, that is. Our brief foray into a neighboring park was met with G00fy fear. Go figure. Minnie Mouse, not scary. But G00fy, scary).

I can't tell how much she is actually attending to the stories the princesses tell. She knows the basic outlines of all the princess stories, of course, but as her version of them all is a big princess girl power confab in the castle where all the princes are invariably unavailable (having served their purpose to create a big wedding party at which it is possible to dance with one's mothers, and sometimes to help make a baby), I don't know how much she attends to the messages about hopes, dreams, love.

Here's another story about today: Quiet Friend just passed away. We're surrounded by these messages of hopes, dreams, love conquering all, acutely aware of the ways in Quiet Friend would be happy and healthy today were if possible for hopes, dreams, and love to cure him. He died peacefully, Mississippi Friend tells us, but he died after coming through years of cancers that just wore his body down. His mother never left after his last hospitalization, so the room we helped restore went to good use, even if it never housed the people caring for him after the bone marrow transplant we all had hoped for.

Quiet Friend was a good, good person. Not easy to get to know, but well worth knowing. Smart and classy, he had a self-confidence that carried him through the world. He was great at Taboo--as Mississippi Friend once said, that's how Quiet Friend talked in regular conversations. He had an amazing vocabulary and just loved words. His brain tumor took a lot away, though. Not language so much as motivation. His work history turned spotty after he got sick. For months on end he'd be too sick to work. But the work he did do was wonderful, even when he was too tired after doing all that work to do much at home (which made living with his illness hard for Mississippi Friend). But what strength of will it took to get that work done. Quiet Friend was a force in the world, a force finally worn away by too much illness. But I will remember him, quiet, sharing a picnic with all of us, being on the beach in Florida on a vacation we took together, before Sofia, when Mississippi Friend and Quiet Friend's son (now 7) was an infant, cooking most of the food for Curious Girl's naming celebration, coming out to our holiday party even when his chemo exhausted him. So many memories run through my head tonight.

I'm glad he's no longer in pain, no longer struggling. But I miss him, and Politica and I are both broken-hearted to be so far from Mississippi Friend tonight.

Hope couldn't make him better. I can't decide whether I'm angry at the lights of the resort flickering out my window, or comforted by them. I know I am comforted by Curious Girl's response--surely a subject for another post. I told her a few days ago that Uncle Quiet was dying, and she's been thinking hard about all this. When Politica called Mississippi Friend tonight, CG said, "tell her we still love him, and it will be all right." CG's empathy is a gift.

We do still love him. And Mississippi Friend, whose grief I can only begin to imagine. Life surely isn't fair tonight, not even in the H@ppiest Pl@ce on E@rth.

A Popsicle

Things are looking up, and I am wordlessly grateful for all the comments on the previous post.

Quiet Friend is better today--recognizing more people, more alert, even sat up to eat a popsicle. It may be that the combination of not enough platelets and too much fluid in the body caused weirdness in the brain.

So things are looking up, today. And Mississippi Friend, ever a believer in the kindness of strangers, will be touched by your comments. Thanks for helping us wait this out--today, hope seems more possible.

Love Needed

Quiet Friend (for whom Politica recently organized the room renovation) is in hospital tonight, having been medevaced home from Mississippi last night. He and Mississippi Friend had gone back to their hometown for Christmas, and what had appeared to be some discomfort from a pre-bone-marrow-transplant-spinal-tap blossomed into increasingly painful and complex symptoms. So they ended up on a private plane back to the university hospital here.

Things don't look good--although QF has had some moments of lucidity, and may somehow find the strength to fight back whatever is going wrong, whatever that may be, as doctors have not yet figured out what might actually be causing the current crop of problems. But still, they don't look good, and Mississipi Friend is awash in hopes and feelings. Quiet Friend has been through a lot, medically, in the past seven years, and between the cancers he seems to be prone to, and the cumulative effects of chemo over time, he may simply be worn out. For all he's gone through, this is the first I've seen him looking truly sick. Tired before, fiercely scarred after the brain tumor, but never sick. He looks far away sick, like he's just withdrawn into his body which is busy trying to do what it can.

Politica spent the night at the hospital with him, so that Mississippi Friend could get some sleep. Friends took Curious Girl to a New Year's Eve party so I could slip down to the hospital and sit with them a while. Mississippi Friend is a wonderful friend, and there were a small group of us at the hospital, and more people are coming in from out of town tomorrow. Politica is planning to go a-sabbaticalling on Friday, to somewhere far away for a while. She's wrung out, not sure how she can leave someone who's close as family to us, knowing she has to be doing things with other people in a faraway place next Monday. Mississippi Friend is tired, full of emotions, fears, hopes, grief. She still gets indignant about the fact that the universe just isn't fair. It should be fair, she thinks. It's supposed to be. But it's so clearly not.

We could use some more love in the universe. So could you toss some out for us? I'll collect it for my friends, and share it with all of you.

Barn Raising

Politica spent the day at Mississippi Friend's house, working with a group of contractors and friends clearing out two of the bedrooms in the Victorian house Mississippi Friend and Quiet Friend bought, intending to restore it so they could grow old together in the city. Shortly afterwards, Quiet Friend got diagnosed with an incredibly rare cancer, and time that might have been spent on the house got redirected to doctors, hospitals, and sickbeds. Quiet Friend is now incredibly-rare-cancer free, but has recently been diagnosed with another cancer, one which isn't responding to treatment. So he needs a bone marrow transplant. MF wants to ask her parents and in-laws to come help take care of her/the house/their child/QF during the transplant and recovery, but there's no place in the house for them to sleep, those other bedrooms never having been restored. So Politica is organizing a group of people willing to donate time and/or money to get at least one other bedroom habitable. It's a good thing, and it is at least a thing we can do in the face of the medical problems plaguing them.

We have another friend with a different and rare cancer who'll be having another kind of surgery next week. This surgery should set him up well for a multiple organ transplant sometime next year. I've blogged before about Annika and Moreena's experiences and the importance of talking about organ donation. Now I have two other friends waiting for transplants. I missed the work party today because I was taking care of Curious Girl. The least I can do is remind anyone reading this that organ donation saves lives. Shareyourlife.org has links to organ donation information in the United States, and you can get more information about organ donation at http://www.organdonor.gov/myths_and_facts.htm. The National Marrow Donor Program has information about bone marrow donation in the US. I hope more people I know never need the services here--but too many people I know are already waiting.

4:00

The Fourth Day of Four

Four o'clock is perhaps my favorite time of day. I like the morning, too, the sun coming in the kitchen while I get my pot of tea going, but 4:00 seems special. Particularly in winter, the quality of light around 4 pm is wonderfully purply blue, and it seems rich with possibility. 4:00 is just about time to be thinking about getting dinner, but not quite. 4:00 is after the fullness of the day, so it holds memories. 4:00 is early enough that there is still time to do one more thing. 4:00 is relaxed, holding the past, leaving time for the future.

This is a somewhat idealized view of 4:00, to be sure. At 4:00 these days, I'm likely to be stopping at the grocery after picking up Curious Girl from school, or checking my e-mail to see if something needs attention at work before I start pulling groceries out for our increasingly early dinners. But the notion of 4:00 appeals to me. 4:00 is teatime, time to pull out the china and have scone or cookie along with some Earl Grey or Darjeeling. My fancypants university had a wonderful tea every afternoon at our departmental library. Every afternoon, studying paused. A dime bought a cup of tea (and still does!), a nickel bought a cookie. Tea time brough a quiet buzz to the library, and groups would form around comfy chairs and couches, and then gradually, regular work would resume. I love tea time, that elegant pause in a day.

When I lived in Canada, the newspapers would always report who poured tea at showers or receptions. It's an honor to be asked to pour tea at a reception or shower, and many of the people I knew had tea carts in their dining room and tea sets on their sideboards. I loved having my own tea set out: just the sight of it made me smile, anticipating a nice slow afternoon when it might get used again. Curious Girl has her very own china tea cup, a gift from friends who visited Delft. She uses it on mornings when she wants to have tea (although hers is mostly warm milk). It's elegant, and it's fun. Lately she's taken to drinking with her pinky extended. "Like Snow White, in the movie, Mama. Do you remember that part?" (uh, no.) "Like this, see? It's tricky." Tricky, yes, but also fun.

So we drink tea, and talk, having a little bit of a 4:00 feeling at breakfast. Another part of that 4:00 feeling comes from tea things and the connections they hold. My tea pot is a gift from Politica, and another one I have was my grandmother's. I have china tea cups from a College Friend (who shared many an afternoon tea with me), and most of our mugs have a story to go with them--two I bought in England without Politica knowing, several we picked out at art fairs. When I use them, I remember how we got them, and that's good. (When I make my adagio tea, I remember Julie who introduced me to the company, and that's good, too; let me know if you'd like a gift certificate for the site and I'll send you one--they do a good job using social networks to promote them, and the tea is good.)

4:00, tea and scones, a time to sit, connect, enjoy the changing light. Even thought I don't have teatime everyt day anymore, just thinking about it brings it closer. It's a gift of four: time and possibility.

Thanksgiving

I'd forgotten how much fun it is to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade with Curious Girl. (In fact, the patter of the hosts and the incessant commercials are so irritating that CG is pretty much the highlight of the parade-viewing experience.) She runs up to the TV and talks to the balloons. "Oh! Scooby Doo! You're my favorite character! Do you want a bone? Mama, help him talk! Do you want a bone? Oh, good. Are you full? Do you want another one?" Snoopy got kisses. Dora got peppered with questions about why she had so many strings coming off her. "To keep me safe," Dora explained, "so I don't fly up too high and get lost or hurt." "Oh, that's such a good idea!" CG responded. "My moms always keep me safe."

We got to see the Barbie float twice (on two different channels). After the first one, CG said, 'I didn't know she was going to have a tiara. I'll have to get mine, too." So there she was, building with tinkertoys, wearing a tiara, talking to the Barbie on TV.

It's quiet in the house now. CG is finally asleep, although Politica is still in with her. Our friends have gone home, the cats are recovering from a houseful of children who spent a long time hunting for the cats, and I'm feeling happy and lucky. Angry Pregnant Lawyer's Thanksgiving post mentioned the luck she had in sitting next to her best friend from law school or getting to work with another friend in her first job. That got me thinking about my own luck. I got lucky when I went to new faculty orientation, and I looked around the room and thought "that one looks like someone to sit next to." And so I met Pseudonymless Friend, although it took us the better part of the year to actually cultivate the friendship, we both being rather shy in some respects. It's hard to believe their oldest child is already 10! Time has flown, and I'm grateful that our friendship--and the friendships among our children--has blossomed over time. Our friends here really are family to us, and I'm grateful for the networks we've woven over time.

Some other friends couldn't come for dinner, so came for lunch and playtime instead. They marveled at Curious Girl's eating, and that's something else I'm grateful for. I still remember nights when I almost didn't believe she'd ever eat normally. And I love watching her eat.

Our dining room had a beautiful spray of flowers in it, a surprise happy gift from Politica and CG to me. I love my family, and I love the home we create together. I'm lucky.

Holidays aren't always easy. For those readers celebrating Thanksgiving, I wish you good food and good company. And readers elsewhere, may you have a good weekend nourished by what feeds you.

A Shabbat Moment, in Poetry

A friend lent me Marge Piercy's collection The Art of Blessing the Day, and I'm enjoying reading through it, although in a week crowded with meetings, and with a sinus throbbing, I've not had quite as much time to read as I'd like. So it's an apt moment for this poem on a Friday evening, and I wish you all--reading on Friday and Saturday, or any day--moments of loosening and letting go. "What you have spoiled, let it go..." and enjoy.

Shabbat Moment

A scarf trailing
over the lilac sunset
fair weather clouds
cirrus uncinus
silk chiffon
Twilight softens the air,
whispering, come
lie down with me.

Untie the knots of the will.
Loosen
your clenched grip
barren hills of bone.
Here, no edges to hone,
only the palm fallen
open as a rose about
to toss its petals.

What you have made,
what you have spoiled
let go.
Let twilight empty
the crowded rooms
quiet the jostling colors
to hues of swirling water
pearls of fog.

This is the time
for letting time go
like a released balloon
dwindling.
Tilt your neck and let
your face open to the sky
like a pond catching light
drinking the darkness.
friday poetry blogging

I've Got a Shabbat Feeling (even though it's Thursday)

teeny tiny challah
Originally uploaded by crunchy granola.

Phantom Scribbler shared her challah recipe with the commenting pixies, and I decided to try it today. Not sure if 3.5 cups of flour would fit in my bread machine, I halved the recipe (Curious Girl sometimes gets a baby challah at the bakery we go to, and she really likes it. She was very enthusiastic about making a teeny tiny challah. A round one, she wanted.). The plan was to do the dough today, braid it and let it rise in the oven this aft, and then let it stay in the fridge overnight so we could have warm challah for Shabbat. But when we took it out of the oven CG wanted to eat it right away ("No, we need to bake it first."). Then she wanted to take it with us to some friends for dinner. What the heck, I thought? So we called ahead, told them to preheat the oven, and you can see the result. The braids got a little mixed together as the loaf rose--obviously I have a little to learn about the art of small challah braiding--but it tastes even better than it looks. And it was really fun to have Curious Girl helping with the dough, and to have her and her two little friends helping with the egg/water brushing at the end.

Dinner was lovely. We're becoming friends with a family we've met through Curious Girl, and we're having dinner together every three or four weeks (on a night when Mr. Friend is working late and Ms. Friend and her two girls are on their own for dinner). It's a pleasure alternating the creation of simple, kid-friendly meals, building in the rituals of regular conversation for adults, quiet times for getting to know each others' kids, and fun times watching the girls playing so nicely. It makes us feel more rooted in this community. It makes us feel at home.

Shabbat shalom came a bit early this week. Thanks, Phantom.