Only the Good Die Young

A close friend of the family died yesterday. He leaves behind his parents, 2 sisters, 1 brother and 2 young kids. He was 10 years older than me, and I knew him my entire life. He was a gentle soul, an artist. Although his death was not entirely unexpected, it is particularly painful because he always seemed so at odds with the world. Because he was a gentle soul. Because he was an artist. It's not that all good people die young, or that only "bad" people live long. But there are certain people whose death makes me think that they just get tired of life as we live it: a fast, rough Darwinian ride. Those who remain steadfast in their slower pace, their oddness or their artistry do so at their own peril.

When I woke up today I went to my garden. Five beautiful irises greeted me. They were not there yesterday and will be gone by tomorrow: a burst of beauty that is not meant to last.

"I Wish Everyday Were Negro Day!"

Is anyone else out there laughing as hard as I am over the Harry Reid thing?

For those of you living in a cave, there is an uproar -- mostly on CNN and political-junkie sites, but an uproar nonetheless -- about comments Sen. Harry Reid made about Barack Obama when he was running for President. His chances were good, said Reid because he's "light-skinned... with no Negro dialect, unless he wanted to have one."

I can't even write this without Laughing Out Loud. "Negro dialect": It's so quaint! It's so retro! It sent me running for my "Hairspray" DVD! Oh, I long for the days when African-Americans were "Negroes", all Latinos were "Spanish" and Asians from all over the place were "Oriental". Native Americans didn't even exist back then; there was only the Indian guy with the feather headdress who cried over the environment. Excuse me, not "the environment"-- it hadn't been invented back in the 70s -- but rather, "pollution."

Go ahead, castigate me. Send Wolf Blitzer after my ass. Call for my resignation. I think it's fun to look back, because the truth is we're not as cool or as evolved as we'd like to think we are. Getting cool and hip to the changing times-- it takes time. Let's stop pretending our brains have erased all traces of the politically incorrect.

Case in point: my classmates from Winter Park High School class of 1983 may remember that in our sophomore year (that would have been 1980-81) we were required to take a class called "Americanism vs. Communism", something I presume dated from the 1950's. It was taught by a Mr. Smith, who I presume dated from waaay before the 1950s. All I remember from that class is that Mr. Smith taught us how to write a check. Everytime I write a check (less and less these days), I think back on AVC and Mr. Smith's admonishment to fill out all the spaces, lest someone add a zero and empty out my account. I carry Mr. Smith's, and the Orange County School Department's unhipness with me in my brain to this day.

From the not-so-quaint department, I remember that my friend Garland Ross was actually told by school authorities not to stand next to the white girl he was singing "Endless Love" with during a school assembly. They ended up on stage, he standing, she sitting at the piano, without ever looking at each other! NO interracial singing in Central Florida, please!

I could go on digging up prehistoric memories like this, and I'm still in my 40's. Poor Harry Reid is easily 100 years old, and what he said is the truth. If you don't believe me, do the following mental exercise: imagine Barack Obama's brain in Al Sharpton's physique (see above). Still electable?

We're not as cool as we think. And the word don't make the thing.

I'm gonna go watch "West Side Story" now.

(I like to leeve in A-me-ree-ka/ All right by mee in A-me-ree-ka...)

Toy that R Not Us

Another Christmas season is over, and I have some time to reflect. Have we actually gone back to the Dark Ages, or has it always been this way? I'm talking about how we teach our kids to be boys and girls. Flash back to the big toy store, a month ago. There is a big divide between boys' and girls' toys, which in my mind aligns perfectly with the divide between interesting, fun and imaginative toys and boring, boring, boring toys. Who wants to play with a vaccum cleaner? What can a Hannah Montana doll do that's more interesting than a dinosaur figure? More importantly, what part of the brain does HM activate versus a creature that actually existed and was extinguished by a meteor?

I'm serious about this. If you go to the biggest online store and search toys by gender, this is what you'll see:

Under "Boys" -- Science fiction & Fantasy figures; Sports figures; TV & Movie Action figures;

Busts & Statutes; Cartoon & Comics figures; and Fire, Police & Rescue Figures.

So -- basically, "Boy" toys relate to science, current events, history, literature, film, art and several useful occupations, while "Girl" toys relate to dolls, princesses and horses. I don't know who came up with the horse thing. I don't understand it. I have nothing against dolls, but come on -- is that it? That's the whole range of girly stuff? Dolls and their clothes?

And of course, there's the Princess thing. Oy.

I never set out to indoctrinate my girl, at least not consciously. But any parent will tell you that children have antennae that pick up the slightest nuances in your voice, body language and even your thoughts. And she must have felt it when I got all prickly around The Princesses. I can't help it! I don't think they are about cultivating the imagination, I think they are about building up the suspense... first you're Cinderella, then you're Hannah Montana and eventually you're Carrie Bradshaw. And when the inevitable happens (i.e., the prince doesn't show up), what are you left with? If you're Carrie Bradshaw, you're left with a closetful of Prada and a fabulous apartment on the Upper East Side. But, oh wait -- you're not CB, either! She does NOT exist. The closest you'll get to it is Miranda -- kind of homely, living in Brooklyn and caring for your senile mother-in-law. Or you might turn into Tila Tequila. The thought of my daughter growing up to be either Miranda or TT has kept me up many a sleepless night.

But I digress. As in most things, my daughter has been my teacher, and I think she has found a way to bridge the toy gender-gap without taking on huge multinationals and their subsidiaries. She likes to read "Cinderella", but she wants to be the Fairy Godmother, which I think is very smart of her. She also likes dragons, dinosaurs and planes, and they co-exist with her dolls. Who knew My Scene Barbie could ride a dragon? Hello Kitty is a hell of a pilot, too. Other kids find it strange that she has "boy toys", but I've learned to put on my casual face and say "girls can play with cars, too" and everyone calms down eventually.

I, however, can't calm down when the grand finale of "Disney on Ice" is all the Princesses in their wedding gowns. My eyes glaze over and visions of Tila Tequila dance in my head. I start to hyperventilate, but then I look over and there she is: my Fairy Godmother, looking at the fireworks and the colorful lights, and ignoring the Princesses. I have a lot to learn, and I have the best teacher in the world.

The Brand(ing)

First, a confession. Despite my peripatetic life and random stabs at hipness, I am at heart a suburban-life-lovin' Square. At some point early in life a Brady Bunch microbe must have entered my bloodstream and it's been there ever since. I love family dinner parties, summers outdoors, kids' birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving and Halloween.

In 2005 I hit the suburban jackpot -- twice! In June, I bought a house in a lovely gated community with tree-lined streets where kids actually play. It's bigger than I need, but it feels safe and welcoming. Then in August, I bought the SUV of my dreams, a brand-new Honda Pilot, whom I call "H". I know this is a problematic name, as it may evoke images of talented but doomed jazz musicians, the pawning of musical instruments and Keith Richards. But she is "H". H is bigger than I need, but she feels safe and powerful as she, my daughter and I navigate our daily schedule through potholes, traffic jams and tropical downpours. Together we are invincible.

My house has a huge carport, so H has her own home. Every afternoon the three of us drive in, close the gate, and we are indoors, safe from weather and other hazards. She sleeps there overnight, and in the morning we step out of the kitchen and into her welcoming arms again, to begin our journey all over again: school, work, school, ballet class, supermarket, home. She rides smoothly and recuperates nicely from almost-daily spills of water bottles, french fries and mini m&m's. I make sure she gets her regular check-ups, and she never lets me down.

She sounds perfect, doesn't she? But in fact she is not. H has a permanent scar that runs the length of her body on the driver's side. Perhaps sensing some inappropriate golden-calf-like worship on my part, shortly before her 4th birthday my daughter took a wooden stick to H and drew a mural on her. See above.

Yes, it's permanent. and Yes, it's Paco's face. Paco is my daughter's oldest friend, imaginary or otherwise. He has a round flat face and a big smile. He is always up for an adventure on a plane, a rollercoaster, a train or (this is fairly new) parachuting. My guess is that in this instance he is in motion, as his features are blurred.

The day it happened I had left them together -- my daughter and H -- in the carport for 5 minutes and when I came back it was done. The question everyone asks me is: What Did You Do THEN??? By "everyone" I mean: the kids who work the drive-through at McDonalds, people in the next car in traffic jams, the homeless people who beg at the light, parking-lot attendants, my neighbors, the other parents at school... everyone! WHAT.DID.YOU.DO.THEN.

And the answer is: nothing. When I saw it I was rendered mute like a biblical character struck by God's wrath. My daughter -- not a big talker herself -- laid down the stick and went inside to play with something else. A couple of days later when I regained my speech I showed the mural to her preschool teacher. After she regained her speech, she asked my daughter: "Why did you draw on Mami's car?" The answer came back: "Because Paco told me to." Paco had never before (or since) told her to do things, so I assumed this meant an awareness on her part that blame needed to be assigned for the deed. We've had plenty of time since then to revisit the issue. She understands what she did was wrong. But a funny thing's happened: I can't bring myself to fix H's mural-scar. Sure, sometimes I don't feel like dealing with the people at the next car over pointing and saying "OH MY GOD, LOOK AT THAT!". But mostly, I've had some really cool conversations with perfect strangers I would have never had otherwise. Grandparents find themselves remembering; parents of young children sympathize; teenagers fall over themselves laughing -- and they roll down their window and motion me to do the same, and the conversation ensues. "Who did that to your car?" "She DID?" What did you do THEN?"

We laugh and they say, "Kids! What are you going to do?" "God bless them!"

And they're right.

And H is perfect just the way she is.

BLAME IT ON FACEBOOK (PART II):
Setting the Record Straight

Yikes. I seem to have fanned the flames of Gossip Girl-like... gossip. My inbox is flooded with messages. Everyone wants to know who did it with who, and who's doing it with who and who.

I confess to a fair amount of dramatic license in my last post. With few exceptions, the situations and persons therein depicted are not actual persons or situations, but rather composites -- a mishmash of people and facts designed to illustrate my point. This is a liberty I cannot take in my line of work (see "About Me"), so I'm having a little fun here.

So... to all you inquiring minds: my sister's real BFF, and my real high-school sweetheart are in fact, as clean as a whistle. At least as far as I know.

"Pothead" is a fictional character, though we all know at least one. Or, we all should. It makes life more fun.

"Creepy guy" actually exists, but I don't know for a fact that he is Vice-president of Benefits Administration for an insurance company (though I can imagine him doing that job). I never heard from him again after high school, and I don't know anyone who has. Let's hope he's not out there doing some serial-killing.

As for "Secret crush"... I'll keep that one to myself. Stay tuned.

Blame It on Facebook

Is Facebook taking us back in time -- literally? As more and more 40- and 50-somethings get caught up in FB's net, a funny thing is happening: we are turning into teenagers.

Last week I found out that my sister's 52-year-old BFF, who is in the middle of a nasty divorce, is torn between two lovers. Neither of them is her husband. They are her high-school beaux, and the three of them are recreating a triangle that was played out 35 years ago, complete with tearful entreaties, long-distance declarations of love and marathon "what should I do???" sessions with the girlfriends. Only the addition of hot cybersex and drunk late-night Skyping betrays the passage of time in this timeless teenage drama.

Then this week, an acquaintance felt compelled to contact me (via FB of course) to confess to me that she "fooled around" with my high-school sweetheart once while I was away on summer vacation. It took me a couple of days to work out in my mind the appropriate response (if any) to the confession of this 25-year-old crime. For surely it was a crime in 1983. But now, I just couldn't summon the outrage. Heck, I couldn't summon a memory of their faces -- unless I checked the high-school photos in our class-reunion page. Meanwhile, my FB message inbox continued to fill up. Subject: "Are you mad at me?" Subject: "Will you forgive me?" Subject: "Are we still friends?" Whoa. Girl, I got a child to raise. Bills to pay. Clients who ask me those very same questions after they ignore my advice and screw up their case.

Before FB, high-school and college reunions were pretty much the only way to get back in touch with these ghosts from our past. These were fleeting, awkward one-night or weekend affairs, where we came face to face with our collective weight gain, hair-loss, children and spouses. Attendance was purely optional, and I always declined.

But FB is insidious. Remember the senior-year play? Here's the pictures. What was the creepy guy's name who we secretly voted most likely to become a serial killer? Someone will chime in and inform he's Vice-president of Benefits Administration for ABC Insurance Company. Whatever happened to our favorite pothead, last seen working the check-out counter at Video Avenue? Haven't found him yet, but the search is on.

Information is hard to resist. Teenage drama? Not so much.

But then again, I'm waiting on a friend request to a secret crush of mine, that has gone unanswered. I wonder if he ever liked me back...

GET YOUR FREAK ON

Acknowledgment: Marck Bailey’s excellent review of “Michael Jackson’s This is It” moved me to go see it, and then to write the following.

In 1985, writer and activist James Baldwin wrote this about Michael Jackson:

Freaks are called freaks and are treated as they are treated–in the main, abominably–because they are human beings who cause to echo, deep within us, our most profound terrors and desires.[1]

Indeed. Who, having witnessed MJ’s de-evolution from black child to “white woman” and the attendant freakish sexuality – from Lisa Presley to the rumored parade of young boys – was not stirred to morbid fascination, uneasiness or even disgust?

I went to see “Michael Jackson’s This Is It” only after word got out that it was not another slick (or sick) homage to the late King of Pop. I was not disappointed. The documentary is a stripped-down look at Jackson’s creative process that allows a glimpse into the person beyond the performer. Watching MJ at work in rehearsal was revealing in that he seemed comfortable in his (chosen) skin. There was no discernible “act” in his interactions with his director, dancers, or crew. That is, he seemed of all things, genuine. A hugely talented singer and dancer. A fundamentally kind person. Someone completely invested in his craft, down to the minute details.

And of course, a freak. Neither black nor white, male or female, gay or straight in his looks, movements or voice.

Halfway through the showing I realized that my 7-year-old daughter, who has a diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome, was really enjoying it. She had never sat through an entire full-length feature before. She was equally captivated by the spectacle of the show going up (the lights, the dancers popping up from beneath the stage, the cherry picker) as she was by Jackson’s performance. It occurred to me that she was watching through unfiltered eyes. She is thoroughly unconcerned with issues of gender or race. While other children her age (particularly girls) are already burdened by the need to “fit in”, she dances to her own tune. Or rather, tunes. Her interests include airplanes, spaceships and anything that might fly; dragons; roller coasters; church bells and towers; and the continuing adventures of her imaginary friend, Paco. Disney’s princesses never held sway over her, she will not color inside the lines, and she requires satisfactory answers to her many, many questions. For these things she was labeled “different” as soon as she hit preschool.

According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, children with Asperger’s commonly exhibit the following characteristics:

They have a hard time understanding socially what is really going on around them;

They are active but odd;

They cannot read social or emotional cues well;

They have trouble reading non-verbal cues and mastering the art of conversation;

They have one, or several, intensely focused interests;

They depend on predictability, and living in the day-to-day world can be taxing;

They exhibit poor motor skills and clumsiness;

and last, but not least,

They have at least a “normal” IQ. The NAMI fact sheet notes that “Having a normal or higher IQ allows a person to learn and know, to push the envelope in intellectual ability, and to rejoice in the pursuit of some realm of knowledge, but there can also be negative effects. When someone is aware he is different, when, for all his intelligence, he cannot successfully make a friend, or get a date, or keep a job, he may end up far more prone to depression and despair than a person with a lower IQ.”

Well. I am reminded of something else Baldwin said, about “a country so distrustful of the independent mind…” But it’s an undeniable truth: Forrest Gump was, is and always will be happier than most of us.

Back to my daughter, she of the clumsiness and intensely focused interests: Did she at some level recognize a fellow “freak” in MJ? Perhaps. But the more troubling question is, will she be made to feel like a freak, as Jackson was from an early age? The unloved signifiers of MJ the child (black, dark-skinned, wide-nosed, kinky-haired, talented and artistic), put through the ringer of mid-century America, morphed into freakishness. Now that we have Obama, open and proud gay families and Angelina’s rainbow brood, what is the next frontier in our drive to seek uniformity at any cost?

I have no quarrel with the statistics of the Autism epidemic, which now stands at 1 in 100[2]. I see these children every day, our “different” children, with their intense gaze, hands clapped over their ears. I don’t know what’s causing the epidemic; but their presence among us stirs me to stand up for our freakishness. The mantra that took hold for a brief moment in the 70s, that we were “Free to be you and me!”, is lost now in a sea of admonitions and tests as to what constitutes appropriate behavior and developmentally-appropriate milestones, applied earlier and earlier in a child’s life.

The rallying cry of ASD-awareness[3] campaigns is early detection of “odd” behaviors, and early intervention to correct them. This troubles me. Like any parent, I want my child to fit in, get along, and not get hurt. But must I sacrifice her uniqueness at the altar of behavioral science in order to protect her? Is there any room to celebrate her individuality without condeming her to go through life as a freak?

I try to chart a course between these rocky shoals, choosing this or that therapy, this or that school for my daughter, rejecting medication, and above all surrounding her with love and more love and acceptance. She is known among our extended family and friends as a “character”, and I am careful always to add that she is a character with a great future ahead of her. I have appointed myself guardian of her inner freak.

I want to celebrate the differences instead of fixing them, because who knows what genius or talents lurk behind them, waiting to blossom... Am I doing the right thing? I would have loved the chance to have this conversation with Michael. But I’ll have to settle for watching him up on the screen, singing and dancing his heart out, and flying his freak flag for all the world to see.

[1] From “Here be Dragons“, originally published as “Freaks and the American Ideal of Manhood”, in The Price of the Ticket: Collected Nonfiction, 1948-1985.
[2] Kogan et al., “Prevalence of Parent-Reported Diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder Among Children in the US, 2007”, published in Pediatrics, October 2009.
[3] Autism-spectrum Disorders