Lynn and Jack. I still can’t separate that in my mind (it would be literally etymologically incorrect). Lynn and Jack had a profound impact on my life. They changed my perceptions, my ambition, my very philosophy.
I don’t come from a close family. My mother used to brag that we were so independent from each other. She told me once how proud she was that we were all just four people who happened to share a roof. I wouldn’t know a cousin if I passed them on the street. I haven’t spoken to an aunt or uncle in 20 years. I once went 12 years without my father calling me. I love my brother, but I'm not sure I'd characterize us as friends. I have no nieces or nephews.
That’s where I came from.
When I met the Kearneys in my late 20s it absolutely turned my world view upside down, because the Kearneys, anchored by that etymological entity “LynnAndJack,” are a close family. This became my inspiration, and my model as I created a family from scratch. My children Nora and Julian may or may not be aware how much I used the example of the Kearneys to make us more than just four people under the same roof. I look at my kids’ closeness now with wonder and gratitude.
Lynn and Jack are why the Nelson Chins are all artists today. My own parents were artists who could not see how to be artists in this world, and turned their backs on it, to their unhappiness. So, like the idea of the close-knit family, I had no model for that until I met Lynn and Jack. When Wei and I would think, this is too hard, I would say, Lynn and Jack did it.
But the most amazing thing about this amazing family, is their confidence in each other, in those internal bonds, and how it gives them incredible emotional generosity, a generosity so encompassing that it spills over the edges, dripping onto people like me. Never, in almost 40 years, did I ever feel that one scintilla of the love that Lynn and Jack felt for me was ever anything but shared and amplified by Jill & Dan, and then by their own children. That there is no limit to the embrace, no boundary on love because of that generosity.
I am so honored that Lynn and Jack brought me into that magic circle. It made me a better person. I will miss them more than words can say, and I will carry their love with me forever.
Monday, September 2, 2019
Monday, August 19, 2019
Losing Lynn
I worked for Jack and Lynn at the Workshop from 1982 to 1986, when my son was born. I would have come back, but Lynn told me to stay home and take care of my son. Plus, she couldn’t exactly fire the person who’d taken my place, I guess.
The thing about the Workshop, is that no one ever really leaves, although I think I was probably a little stickier than most, and stuck little pieces of me to the rest of the Kearneys, and a few McDonnells, as well.
Lynn and Jack created a magical family. I don’t know if they realize how magical, because all families have strife, and tragedy, and squabbles small or large and you can’t always see the magic from inside. But those of us outside it, even just outside it, wonder at it. From inside that magical circle, Jill tells me that she would worry that her mother worried about everything so much. And I saw a little bit of this, too, because Lynn was constantly worrying at me, but mostly, from outside the magic circle, Lynn’s worrying looked like righteous caretaking, and unshakeable loyalty and an almost pathological optimism. She enfolded me when my husband left, and again when my father died, and I know would have continued to do so no matter what.
After I stopped working for Lynn and Jack I like to say that I refused to let them go, but I think it was more the other way around: they folded me in to that magic circle and told the resident elves, fairies, gnomes, and other fey creatures, that this was a person who mattered, frankly in a way that my own birth family never did.
Every now and then I’d show up at Lynn’s behest at some family event, and there would be a cousin or a granddaughter or a spouse, or another like me, invited in, and you could see the thought: who in the world is this random person at our Thanksgiving. And by the end of the meal, the relentlessness of Lynn’s love would have brought them along:
Oh, I know who this is. This is family.
The thing about the Workshop, is that no one ever really leaves, although I think I was probably a little stickier than most, and stuck little pieces of me to the rest of the Kearneys, and a few McDonnells, as well.
Lynn and Jack created a magical family. I don’t know if they realize how magical, because all families have strife, and tragedy, and squabbles small or large and you can’t always see the magic from inside. But those of us outside it, even just outside it, wonder at it. From inside that magical circle, Jill tells me that she would worry that her mother worried about everything so much. And I saw a little bit of this, too, because Lynn was constantly worrying at me, but mostly, from outside the magic circle, Lynn’s worrying looked like righteous caretaking, and unshakeable loyalty and an almost pathological optimism. She enfolded me when my husband left, and again when my father died, and I know would have continued to do so no matter what.
After I stopped working for Lynn and Jack I like to say that I refused to let them go, but I think it was more the other way around: they folded me in to that magic circle and told the resident elves, fairies, gnomes, and other fey creatures, that this was a person who mattered, frankly in a way that my own birth family never did.
Every now and then I’d show up at Lynn’s behest at some family event, and there would be a cousin or a granddaughter or a spouse, or another like me, invited in, and you could see the thought: who in the world is this random person at our Thanksgiving. And by the end of the meal, the relentlessness of Lynn’s love would have brought them along:
Oh, I know who this is. This is family.
Thursday, November 22, 2018
Thanks, or not
I have a family, a small one: brother, my adult children and their significant others. There's my–I guess I have to use the modifier to be entirely honest–former in-laws. I am assured, via the grapevine, that they do not count as family according to my former husband, as we are not blood relatives, and that I therefore have no right to consider them such.
My memory of Thanksgiving since he left was that I claimed the holiday. But looking through old calendars I discover that I didn't even claim the family–I just conceded.
This is what happened to Thanksgiving. The first Thanksgiving without him, and the second, I went to a friend's. The third, my daughter claimed, but he wouldn't come because I was there. The fourth, he sent me an email claiming Thanksgiving forever, and "giving" me Christmas. I told him to fuck right off, and held Thanksgiving as a christening for my new house. It was cramped and awkward and the food wasn't very good. Last year, the fifth, I went to the friend's again.
This year I turned down what felt like pity invitations from the friends. I bought some lamb chops and will make a non-traditional meal, for myself, by myself.
It is like a physical pain, spending Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, alone. But it's too painful to do to a friend, knowing that my family goes on without me. It's like being dead, a ghost. And too painful to go to family Thanksgiving as well, knowing that if he and his new family are not there, it's because I am.
My memory of Thanksgiving since he left was that I claimed the holiday. But looking through old calendars I discover that I didn't even claim the family–I just conceded.
This is what happened to Thanksgiving. The first Thanksgiving without him, and the second, I went to a friend's. The third, my daughter claimed, but he wouldn't come because I was there. The fourth, he sent me an email claiming Thanksgiving forever, and "giving" me Christmas. I told him to fuck right off, and held Thanksgiving as a christening for my new house. It was cramped and awkward and the food wasn't very good. Last year, the fifth, I went to the friend's again.
This year I turned down what felt like pity invitations from the friends. I bought some lamb chops and will make a non-traditional meal, for myself, by myself.
It is like a physical pain, spending Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, alone. But it's too painful to do to a friend, knowing that my family goes on without me. It's like being dead, a ghost. And too painful to go to family Thanksgiving as well, knowing that if he and his new family are not there, it's because I am.
Thursday, June 21, 2018
Banquo’s chair
There were twin bright blue crushed velvet armchairs
With curved backs and deep arms
You could curl right up in one of them, like a cat,
or push them together to make a fort.
I must have been very young
because i can feel the top of my head
and the soles of my feet
barely brushing the backs of the chairs
as i stretched out
with a book
or for a nap
or just to hide.
If I close my eyes I can see Olga sitting in it
Incorporeal and as young as she would have been
When that little girl used them for a bed.
After Olga died,
Mary and Wei-sun bought them
for twenty-five dollars each
and reupholstered them
in a hard dusty rose.
For 40 years I sat in them
at family dinners
Easter Thanksgiving Christmas
Until yesterday.
When one of the set came back.
To sit in my living room,
like Banquo returning to the scene of the crime.
With curved backs and deep arms
You could curl right up in one of them, like a cat,
or push them together to make a fort.
I must have been very young
because i can feel the top of my head
and the soles of my feet
barely brushing the backs of the chairs
as i stretched out
with a book
or for a nap
or just to hide.
If I close my eyes I can see Olga sitting in it
Incorporeal and as young as she would have been
When that little girl used them for a bed.
After Olga died,
Mary and Wei-sun bought them
for twenty-five dollars each
and reupholstered them
in a hard dusty rose.
For 40 years I sat in them
at family dinners
Easter Thanksgiving Christmas
Until yesterday.
When one of the set came back.
To sit in my living room,
like Banquo returning to the scene of the crime.
Monday, June 18, 2018
Metaphor
I have an imaginary friend. No one can see them except me, and I can't really see them. They follow me around, just over my right shoulder; if I could turn fast enough I might catch a glimpse, if I wanted to.
---
I don't look into mirrors at night, because I'm afraid of who will be looking back.
---
Like a Klingon, I have an entire alternate vascular system, but instead of being filled with blood, it's filled with depression. It flows out of my heart and into my brain and all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. Like my regular vascular system, most of the time I'm not really aware of it, but every now and then I bump it and a bruise forms, or it bleeds into my brain.
---
I don't look into mirrors at night, because I'm afraid of who will be looking back.
---
Like a Klingon, I have an entire alternate vascular system, but instead of being filled with blood, it's filled with depression. It flows out of my heart and into my brain and all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. Like my regular vascular system, most of the time I'm not really aware of it, but every now and then I bump it and a bruise forms, or it bleeds into my brain.
Sunday, September 10, 2017
I'll never leave Chicago
First, a confession. I did, actually, leave Chicago last year. I moved 50 feet north of Howard Street, and now live in Evanston. It wasn't on purpose--I couldn't find a house in Chicago that met my needs of neighborhood, price, and timeline. But "stone's throw" was pretty much invented to describe how close I am to the city.
I came to Chicago nearly 40 years ago for a man. In the intervening years, I lost the man, but added a couple of great native Chicago offspring, who came to the same conclusion that I did: you don't have to leave Chicago, because everything you need is here.
We have bars, music, theater, art, from the scruffy neighborhood to the world class variety. We have a popcorn-worthy political sideshow, and some of the nation's most inspiring public figures like Barack Obama and Jesse Jackson Sr. (We also do corruption the best.) Our architecture is unparalleled anywhere in the world. Great housing stock and actual zoning laws, because of that whole thing where the city burned down that time, and instead of just giving in to the moneyed interests, we actually did something about the danger.
We have a forever open and free lakefront, with the greatest stretch of free public beach in the world.
It's not all sunshine and lollipops, of course. Although I've spent my whole time in Chicago in the last truly diverse neighborhood of Rogers Park, we have some of the worst segregation in the country, as well as pockets of bad violence (though not the citywide apocalypse that the national media would have you believe), a dysfunctional school system (again, not the sewer that is widely reported), and racist police system (this one is worse than reported.) It would be really nice if people on the west side could get somewhere other than the Loop with public trans other than nausea-inducing buses (circle line anyone?). But our neighborhood system means that we actually know our neighbors, and have honest-to-god local shops, and even, still, some light (and even heavy) manufacturing.
We have jobs, and summer youth programs; the museums are free to residents in February, and the beaches are free always, to anyone. We're midwesterners, too, so we're super friendly, and have a Goldilocks attitude toward pace--not too slow, not too fast; we're just right. Our downtown sidewalks are crowded but not packed, and there's always room for a picnic or a pick up game in one of our beautiful parks. We'll start a conversation, even with a stranger, with a little bit of hobnobbing, and then get down to business before you get uncomfortable, or bored. And we're pretty good at business, too.
This is not to say we're pushovers. Never ever ever tell a Chicagoan that the Pacific Northwest, or Texas, or New York does X better, or does it in a certain way (which we also do exactly the same way here, so that's always a little puzzling), at least not if you ever want one of us to feed you ever again. Don't disrespect our pizza, our hotdogs, our ice cream, our beer, or our sports teams, all of which are the best (science fact). Don't like them? Don't consume them. And remember we're laid back midwesterners, so we'll be cool with that!
There's lots of reasons to leave Chicago. It's not "home." You want to be close to farflung family. You can't handle the weather, which I hear they also have in other places, sometimes accompanied by things like hurricanes, nor'easters, and earthquakes. We'll be sorry to see you go, as long as you're leaving for personal reasons, and not because you feel the need to blame someone.
Chicago's a great place. There's really no reason to leave. But if you do, check in on Facebook every now and then. If we're not busy at the beach, or the ballpark, or a downtown festival, or a museum, or having a great time with our friends, we'll be sure to say hi, and see how you're doing.
I came to Chicago nearly 40 years ago for a man. In the intervening years, I lost the man, but added a couple of great native Chicago offspring, who came to the same conclusion that I did: you don't have to leave Chicago, because everything you need is here.
We have bars, music, theater, art, from the scruffy neighborhood to the world class variety. We have a popcorn-worthy political sideshow, and some of the nation's most inspiring public figures like Barack Obama and Jesse Jackson Sr. (We also do corruption the best.) Our architecture is unparalleled anywhere in the world. Great housing stock and actual zoning laws, because of that whole thing where the city burned down that time, and instead of just giving in to the moneyed interests, we actually did something about the danger.
We have a forever open and free lakefront, with the greatest stretch of free public beach in the world.
It's not all sunshine and lollipops, of course. Although I've spent my whole time in Chicago in the last truly diverse neighborhood of Rogers Park, we have some of the worst segregation in the country, as well as pockets of bad violence (though not the citywide apocalypse that the national media would have you believe), a dysfunctional school system (again, not the sewer that is widely reported), and racist police system (this one is worse than reported.) It would be really nice if people on the west side could get somewhere other than the Loop with public trans other than nausea-inducing buses (circle line anyone?). But our neighborhood system means that we actually know our neighbors, and have honest-to-god local shops, and even, still, some light (and even heavy) manufacturing.
We have jobs, and summer youth programs; the museums are free to residents in February, and the beaches are free always, to anyone. We're midwesterners, too, so we're super friendly, and have a Goldilocks attitude toward pace--not too slow, not too fast; we're just right. Our downtown sidewalks are crowded but not packed, and there's always room for a picnic or a pick up game in one of our beautiful parks. We'll start a conversation, even with a stranger, with a little bit of hobnobbing, and then get down to business before you get uncomfortable, or bored. And we're pretty good at business, too.
This is not to say we're pushovers. Never ever ever tell a Chicagoan that the Pacific Northwest, or Texas, or New York does X better, or does it in a certain way (which we also do exactly the same way here, so that's always a little puzzling), at least not if you ever want one of us to feed you ever again. Don't disrespect our pizza, our hotdogs, our ice cream, our beer, or our sports teams, all of which are the best (science fact). Don't like them? Don't consume them. And remember we're laid back midwesterners, so we'll be cool with that!
There's lots of reasons to leave Chicago. It's not "home." You want to be close to farflung family. You can't handle the weather, which I hear they also have in other places, sometimes accompanied by things like hurricanes, nor'easters, and earthquakes. We'll be sorry to see you go, as long as you're leaving for personal reasons, and not because you feel the need to blame someone.
Chicago's a great place. There's really no reason to leave. But if you do, check in on Facebook every now and then. If we're not busy at the beach, or the ballpark, or a downtown festival, or a museum, or having a great time with our friends, we'll be sure to say hi, and see how you're doing.
Monday, November 14, 2016
This is my America.
This is my America.
Because until the Civil Rights Act, for the vast bulk of our history, racial animus, racism, has been the entrenched social and legal norm.
I was born before Loving, before the Civil Rights Act, before Engel. I was made to stand outside my 2nd grade classroom during the Pledge of Allegiance because my parents didn’t worship God the right way.
But the beauty of 20th century America is that the people in it decided to look at the Constitution and instead of using it as a bludgeon of oppression, to see it as a way to create a new human being. An inclusive, better human being. 20th Century Americans decided to expand the tribe in a way that’s never been attempted in all our 60,000 years of organized human endeavor—a tribe that includes everyone.
They took the flawed document, and noted that while it was full of subtle and not so subtle cues to suppress our brown and black brothers and sisters, because they could only be cues, because for the most part it couldn’t come right out and say “oppress this group because of their ancestry” we could also decide that this is not what it meant at all.
And we did.
Incredibly, against the heavy weight of human history, experience, and psyche, 20th Century Americans said ENOUGH.
And even though the “originalists” wanted that other, less noble interpretation, even with 60,000 years of civilization screaming “tribe”, we did it. We listened, at last, to the better angels of our nature and called all people family. All men brothers. All women sisters. All children ours.
It’s only been 50 years. I don't know about you, but I like those odds.
Sunday, October 9, 2016
The Pope John Fish Memorial Rose
I got the call at about 8:30 on a September evening.
“Can you call Dana? She’s really upset. The power went out. The dog is going to defrost.”
I’m known for my big backyard, but less known for the fact that it’s actually a graveyard. Several rabbits, four fish, and two cats have ended their journeys there, fertilizing the roses. We named one after a fish. A rose that is. When Pope John Fish died, he (she?) went under there, joining the cats, for whom it never occurred to us to name a plant, for some reason.
Katiedog was a sweet, ancient, and in fact apparently immortal dachshund who lived well past her use-by date, and was beloved by all. She started life with Grandmother, and moved in with Moira when Grandmother couldn’t take care of her anymore. When Moira lived near us, I often met her and Katie for walks. Later, my daughter moved in with them. So Katie was sort of my stepdog.
When Moira got married, her wife adopted the dog wholeheartedly. (Everyone adopted this dog. This was the world’s sweetest dog.) And when the dog finally died at the age of, I don’t know, 30? she was old, Dana couldn’t bear the idea of taking her to the vet in a box for cremation.
So they wrapped her up and put her in the freezer until they could find a solution.
Eventually, Moira got the bright idea to call me. I researched it. It’s actually illegal to bury pets in the backyard, but the internet helpfully explains that if you bury a small animal like a cat or a weinerdog at least 3 feet down no one will ever know. (Full disclosure and responsible caveat: you are supposed to call “Julie” anytime you dig more than about a foot down, to make sure you’re not hitting any gas lines.) However, as I knew I would be moving in autumn, I suggested we wait and bury her at the new place, where they could come and visit.
And then the power went out.
So one warm early fall day Dana brought Katie over just as the sun was going down and a light rain started to fall. I removed the rose entirely, and we dug down in the dark, thigh deep (no cat bones!) laying Katiedog to rest. We said a little prayer and replanted above her. Moira came by and we sat on my porch and lifted a beer to her sweet life.
The Pope John Fish Memorial Rose now lives beneath my new kitchen window, a transplanted memorial to the lives of several sweet companions.
“Can you call Dana? She’s really upset. The power went out. The dog is going to defrost.”
I’m known for my big backyard, but less known for the fact that it’s actually a graveyard. Several rabbits, four fish, and two cats have ended their journeys there, fertilizing the roses. We named one after a fish. A rose that is. When Pope John Fish died, he (she?) went under there, joining the cats, for whom it never occurred to us to name a plant, for some reason.
Katiedog was a sweet, ancient, and in fact apparently immortal dachshund who lived well past her use-by date, and was beloved by all. She started life with Grandmother, and moved in with Moira when Grandmother couldn’t take care of her anymore. When Moira lived near us, I often met her and Katie for walks. Later, my daughter moved in with them. So Katie was sort of my stepdog.
When Moira got married, her wife adopted the dog wholeheartedly. (Everyone adopted this dog. This was the world’s sweetest dog.) And when the dog finally died at the age of, I don’t know, 30? she was old, Dana couldn’t bear the idea of taking her to the vet in a box for cremation.
So they wrapped her up and put her in the freezer until they could find a solution.
Eventually, Moira got the bright idea to call me. I researched it. It’s actually illegal to bury pets in the backyard, but the internet helpfully explains that if you bury a small animal like a cat or a weinerdog at least 3 feet down no one will ever know. (Full disclosure and responsible caveat: you are supposed to call “Julie” anytime you dig more than about a foot down, to make sure you’re not hitting any gas lines.) However, as I knew I would be moving in autumn, I suggested we wait and bury her at the new place, where they could come and visit.
And then the power went out.
So one warm early fall day Dana brought Katie over just as the sun was going down and a light rain started to fall. I removed the rose entirely, and we dug down in the dark, thigh deep (no cat bones!) laying Katiedog to rest. We said a little prayer and replanted above her. Moira came by and we sat on my porch and lifted a beer to her sweet life.
The Pope John Fish Memorial Rose now lives beneath my new kitchen window, a transplanted memorial to the lives of several sweet companions.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
On 30
Today my son is 30.
At 30, there is no hiding from the idea that you're an adult, that the torch has been passed. It's the last "interior" milestone. Subsequent age milestones are exterior, relative-- a co-worker who doesn't have personal recollection of a significant historical marker outside of history books, a president your age, a president younger than you.
Your oldest child turning 30.
It's not a Chinese milestone. The Chinese acknowledge just three birthdays: 1, 10, and 60. The ones in between are just time you spend figuring it all out.
Seng started trying to figure it out before he was even born, dipping a toe in and pulling it back. After four false labor starts, the goddess took things into her own hands and broke my water. It still took him almost a day to get going.
Once here, he still wasn't convinced it was a good idea. He cried for 5 months. And then that was it. He pretty much had it figured out by the time he was 10. You never met a sweeter toddler. He's spent the subsequent years as a cautious and sweet-hearted child, youth, and man.
At 30 you are who you are. I wish I had realized this when I was 30. Of course, when I was 30, I became a mother, which throws everything you knew about yourself into chaos.
What is Seng like, or more to the point, what does he think he is like? A little cautious, with an unconventional view of ambition that means he wants to do what he wants to do. This might make him famous, or rich, but if it doesn't that's okay. He's loyal and loving, but now finds himself navigating this idea that love and loyalty might not work the way he thought they worked.
I don't mean to be sad on his birthday. All my children's milestones make me sad these days. It's hard to know if that's because it's so bittersweet for your children to grow up, or because he'll be reaching new milestones with a family he's trying to figure out all over again.
At 30, there is no hiding from the idea that you're an adult, that the torch has been passed. It's the last "interior" milestone. Subsequent age milestones are exterior, relative-- a co-worker who doesn't have personal recollection of a significant historical marker outside of history books, a president your age, a president younger than you.
Your oldest child turning 30.
It's not a Chinese milestone. The Chinese acknowledge just three birthdays: 1, 10, and 60. The ones in between are just time you spend figuring it all out.
Seng started trying to figure it out before he was even born, dipping a toe in and pulling it back. After four false labor starts, the goddess took things into her own hands and broke my water. It still took him almost a day to get going.
Once here, he still wasn't convinced it was a good idea. He cried for 5 months. And then that was it. He pretty much had it figured out by the time he was 10. You never met a sweeter toddler. He's spent the subsequent years as a cautious and sweet-hearted child, youth, and man.
At 30 you are who you are. I wish I had realized this when I was 30. Of course, when I was 30, I became a mother, which throws everything you knew about yourself into chaos.
What is Seng like, or more to the point, what does he think he is like? A little cautious, with an unconventional view of ambition that means he wants to do what he wants to do. This might make him famous, or rich, but if it doesn't that's okay. He's loyal and loving, but now finds himself navigating this idea that love and loyalty might not work the way he thought they worked.
I don't mean to be sad on his birthday. All my children's milestones make me sad these days. It's hard to know if that's because it's so bittersweet for your children to grow up, or because he'll be reaching new milestones with a family he's trying to figure out all over again.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
On grieving
Grief is a selfish emotion.
My grief for Jack Kearney is so interwoven with my grief for my marriage, for my mother.
It's tinged with guilt because I was not able to be there for Jack, due largely to the nature of illness, but also to the paralysis that serious illness imparts on the well. It's tinged with guilt because of my envy for his family, whom I also love. It's tinged with guilt because some of that love is pride.
Grief brings out your flaws.
The Kearneys treat me as much like family as one can do for someone who is not the family. But here I'm the outsider, the uncomfortable one whom they want to accommodate, except in this most family of times, I don't belong.
Grief should be shared.
The fact that I can't share it makes it feel false and self-indulgent. It adds a tinge of anger, not the typical anger at the loved one for dying, but at my loved one who isn't here to make my grief a public thing.
My grief for Jack Kearney is so interwoven with my grief for my marriage, for my mother.
It's tinged with guilt because I was not able to be there for Jack, due largely to the nature of illness, but also to the paralysis that serious illness imparts on the well. It's tinged with guilt because of my envy for his family, whom I also love. It's tinged with guilt because some of that love is pride.
Grief brings out your flaws.
The Kearneys treat me as much like family as one can do for someone who is not the family. But here I'm the outsider, the uncomfortable one whom they want to accommodate, except in this most family of times, I don't belong.
Grief should be shared.
The fact that I can't share it makes it feel false and self-indulgent. It adds a tinge of anger, not the typical anger at the loved one for dying, but at my loved one who isn't here to make my grief a public thing.
Who am I
I have four names.
Sandy. Xan. Alex. Alexandra.
I can tell how people know me by what they call me.
Sandy is the child. I was not supposed to have a nickname. The story is when my mother saw me, she said that I was so small it seemed awful to hang such a long and grand name on me. My grandmother was horrified. "Why would you name a child after a dog!?" (Sandy is the name of Little Orphan Annie's dog). I was Sandy from birth until I was 17. I really think having this name warped me, because I was never much of a Sandy. Sandy is fun and cute and compliant. Sandy's pretty mainstream. She dreams about her wedding and gets a degree in English.
Xan, ironically, is the name my mother always called me. I look at it now and I don't recognize myself in it, even though it's the name I used the longest. I tried to change from Sandy when we moved to Illinois when I was 14, but my brother sabotaged the effort by telling everyone I was lying; my name was Sandy. Meantime, he changed his use-name from Andrew to Drew. When I got to college, without him, I left Sandy behind. There are still people I'm fairly close to who never knew she existed. Xan fits me well- hard to pronounce, absolutely unique, short and difficult. But Xan is part of Bill, which makes it tough.
Alex came about when I tried to have an art career. Sick of explaining "Xan" and unable to get a hearing as Alexandra, I masculinized it. Presto- art career. That's another whole blog, right there. Only one person still calls me Alex. Alex did not make much of an impact on the world.
Alexandra is what my father always called me. It's interesting that they gave me this nickname, Sandy, which never really suited me, but then didn't use it themselves except in public. I brought it back because Xan felt like "Bill and Xan"-- in a way she doesn't exist without him. So I killed her. I chose the name I was born with, who I was never allowed by the world to be.
I wonder who she is?
Sandy. Xan. Alex. Alexandra.
I can tell how people know me by what they call me.
Sandy is the child. I was not supposed to have a nickname. The story is when my mother saw me, she said that I was so small it seemed awful to hang such a long and grand name on me. My grandmother was horrified. "Why would you name a child after a dog!?" (Sandy is the name of Little Orphan Annie's dog). I was Sandy from birth until I was 17. I really think having this name warped me, because I was never much of a Sandy. Sandy is fun and cute and compliant. Sandy's pretty mainstream. She dreams about her wedding and gets a degree in English.
Xan, ironically, is the name my mother always called me. I look at it now and I don't recognize myself in it, even though it's the name I used the longest. I tried to change from Sandy when we moved to Illinois when I was 14, but my brother sabotaged the effort by telling everyone I was lying; my name was Sandy. Meantime, he changed his use-name from Andrew to Drew. When I got to college, without him, I left Sandy behind. There are still people I'm fairly close to who never knew she existed. Xan fits me well- hard to pronounce, absolutely unique, short and difficult. But Xan is part of Bill, which makes it tough.
Alex came about when I tried to have an art career. Sick of explaining "Xan" and unable to get a hearing as Alexandra, I masculinized it. Presto- art career. That's another whole blog, right there. Only one person still calls me Alex. Alex did not make much of an impact on the world.
Alexandra is what my father always called me. It's interesting that they gave me this nickname, Sandy, which never really suited me, but then didn't use it themselves except in public. I brought it back because Xan felt like "Bill and Xan"-- in a way she doesn't exist without him. So I killed her. I chose the name I was born with, who I was never allowed by the world to be.
I wonder who she is?
Friday, February 12, 2016
Raggedy Ann
The last time I was single, I was 19 years old.
I look at that number and can't make it real. I don't know how to wrap my head around the different person I was. At 19 I lived in 4 rooms and slept on a mattress on the floor. Everything I owned was a hand-me-down. The only things that I own now that I also owned then are Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy.
When a marriage lasts as long as mine did–and I'm going to count the 9 years we were together before we got married–one really does cleave unto the other. You become one flesh, from sheer attrition. A long marriage is a unit, Plato's half-spirits joined.
It isn't that from the start. At the start it's just an experiment: sex and a fight over whether it matters that you never screw the toothpaste cap back on, or make the bed. At ten years it's a really long date. At 20 it's comfort. At 40 years you don't exist without the other. I don't mean that in a bad way, or that one personality is subsumed into the other. It's that the shared experience is of such long duration that it becomes a single memory. It's marital Alzheimers-- half my memory is gone.
Raggedy Ann has been sitting on my shelf for almost 60 years, but Raggedy Andy had gone missing. While I was spring cleaning the house this year I found him. They sit on my shelf, together again like they were when I was 19.
I look at that number and can't make it real. I don't know how to wrap my head around the different person I was. At 19 I lived in 4 rooms and slept on a mattress on the floor. Everything I owned was a hand-me-down. The only things that I own now that I also owned then are Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy.
When a marriage lasts as long as mine did–and I'm going to count the 9 years we were together before we got married–one really does cleave unto the other. You become one flesh, from sheer attrition. A long marriage is a unit, Plato's half-spirits joined.
It isn't that from the start. At the start it's just an experiment: sex and a fight over whether it matters that you never screw the toothpaste cap back on, or make the bed. At ten years it's a really long date. At 20 it's comfort. At 40 years you don't exist without the other. I don't mean that in a bad way, or that one personality is subsumed into the other. It's that the shared experience is of such long duration that it becomes a single memory. It's marital Alzheimers-- half my memory is gone.
Raggedy Ann has been sitting on my shelf for almost 60 years, but Raggedy Andy had gone missing. While I was spring cleaning the house this year I found him. They sit on my shelf, together again like they were when I was 19.
Sunday, November 29, 2015
The Thanksgiving Post
This year, the kids did Thanksgiving.
My guess is that it will be one of those markers for them-- the year they did a grown-up thing, making Thanksgiving dinner for the family. For me, that was making a dentist appointment without prompting. Which is pretty funny, since I was dumped head first into "grown up" at 22 when my mother died. Somehow getting an apartment, cooking Thanksgiving, moving to the big city, didn't register as grown up. But making a dentist appointment was a grown-up thing to do.
The kids potlucked it, like normal people. My sister-in-law, many years ago and against SOP, decreed that the host family had to cook the whole meal. This was not something we had ever done, but suddenly it was the correct "etiquette". She does this sometimes-- decides we're the royal family and have to follow entirely invented rules of proper behavior.
But the kids broke past this, because they don't have the equipment or cooking skill to make an entire meal; in fact, when they expressed amazement at the amount of work it was just to make a turkey, stuffing, and potatoes, I pointed out that I used to make the entire meal by myself. They were suitably contrite.
They did a great job--turkey was moist and delicious, side dishes were appropriate and traditional (brought by me), dessert was amazing (brought by SIL). Nga's new boyfriend fit in nicely. Seng's girlfriend was at her parents, but there were hints of them hosting next year.
Wei did not come. He wanted to bring Sparky. Kids said no, so he took his ball and went home.
Which is what it felt like. Selfish, narcissistic, dense.
Here's what I thought at the time: Sparky was about to be alone on Thanksgiving for the first time, and he didn't feel right about having dinner with the family that won't accept her. The problem is we are really nice people; we might have relented if we'd known the story. I wonder what the pressure on me would have been, if he'd just told them, or me, this-- she's going to be alone, please don't make me choose.
Here's what I think now, after a long conversation with him the day before the divorce decree went through: he thinks it's unfair that he has to always be "tripping over his ex" (direct quote) at family events. He thinks I'm not a family member anymore.
It wasn't about him choosing at all. It was about me just getting out of his way. It was about the family letting him have his way.
Based on our history, I'm afraid that in the end, he will.
My guess is that it will be one of those markers for them-- the year they did a grown-up thing, making Thanksgiving dinner for the family. For me, that was making a dentist appointment without prompting. Which is pretty funny, since I was dumped head first into "grown up" at 22 when my mother died. Somehow getting an apartment, cooking Thanksgiving, moving to the big city, didn't register as grown up. But making a dentist appointment was a grown-up thing to do.
The kids potlucked it, like normal people. My sister-in-law, many years ago and against SOP, decreed that the host family had to cook the whole meal. This was not something we had ever done, but suddenly it was the correct "etiquette". She does this sometimes-- decides we're the royal family and have to follow entirely invented rules of proper behavior.
But the kids broke past this, because they don't have the equipment or cooking skill to make an entire meal; in fact, when they expressed amazement at the amount of work it was just to make a turkey, stuffing, and potatoes, I pointed out that I used to make the entire meal by myself. They were suitably contrite.
They did a great job--turkey was moist and delicious, side dishes were appropriate and traditional (brought by me), dessert was amazing (brought by SIL). Nga's new boyfriend fit in nicely. Seng's girlfriend was at her parents, but there were hints of them hosting next year.
Wei did not come. He wanted to bring Sparky. Kids said no, so he took his ball and went home.
Which is what it felt like. Selfish, narcissistic, dense.
Here's what I thought at the time: Sparky was about to be alone on Thanksgiving for the first time, and he didn't feel right about having dinner with the family that won't accept her. The problem is we are really nice people; we might have relented if we'd known the story. I wonder what the pressure on me would have been, if he'd just told them, or me, this-- she's going to be alone, please don't make me choose.
Here's what I think now, after a long conversation with him the day before the divorce decree went through: he thinks it's unfair that he has to always be "tripping over his ex" (direct quote) at family events. He thinks I'm not a family member anymore.
It wasn't about him choosing at all. It was about me just getting out of his way. It was about the family letting him have his way.
Based on our history, I'm afraid that in the end, he will.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Things I learned from Jack
How to walk on stilts (well, to be honest, he tried to get me on the stilts, but I never got up the courage)
If you want it, build it. (Code? What code?)
Being an artist is not about how many museums you are in, or how fashionable you are, or what the reviews say. Being an artist is about getting up every day and making art.
Workshop food won't kill you.
Never throw anything away. (That one might have come from Lynn)
Jill went to Harvard.
Where to send my kids to grade school.
War stories.
Some people are just born with a beautiful soul.
To do with your life what you want to do.
To pass the gift along.
If you want it, build it. (Code? What code?)
Being an artist is not about how many museums you are in, or how fashionable you are, or what the reviews say. Being an artist is about getting up every day and making art.
Workshop food won't kill you.
Never throw anything away. (That one might have come from Lynn)
Jill went to Harvard.
Where to send my kids to grade school.
War stories.
Some people are just born with a beautiful soul.
To do with your life what you want to do.
To pass the gift along.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
The neat nest
I'm neat.
As in, I put things away.
It wasn't always so. In grade school they used to call me Templeton, after the pack rat in Charlotte's Web. My mother was the inventor of the rule "there must be a clear path to the door in case of fire" which I passed on to my children. When I would drop stuff willy-nilly wherever I happened to be standing, I'd tell her I was leaving little reminders of myself. To which she replied, "you're just afraid we'll forget you if you don't leave your crap all over."
Ah, the wisdom of mothers.
Mom was not too far off-- now that I have no one I need to remind of my existence I find things go where they belong as soon as I'm done with them. It's effortless, really. Cleaning becomes actually cleaning, not just putting stuff away.
As in, I put things away.
It wasn't always so. In grade school they used to call me Templeton, after the pack rat in Charlotte's Web. My mother was the inventor of the rule "there must be a clear path to the door in case of fire" which I passed on to my children. When I would drop stuff willy-nilly wherever I happened to be standing, I'd tell her I was leaving little reminders of myself. To which she replied, "you're just afraid we'll forget you if you don't leave your crap all over."
Ah, the wisdom of mothers.
Mom was not too far off-- now that I have no one I need to remind of my existence I find things go where they belong as soon as I'm done with them. It's effortless, really. Cleaning becomes actually cleaning, not just putting stuff away.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
17 + 40
I remember high school in two groups-- the wild ones and the responsible ones. Freaks and jocks.
There isn't much wildness left after 40 years, but there is satisfaction and wisdom and a kind of underlying joy at lives, if not absent disappointment or brimming with success, at least appreciated and understood. Which I suppose is what we mean by "wisdom."
I suspect that some of the wilder ones just don't do things like high school reunions, but they're missing something precious. They are missing learning, finally, that the things that bind us are more important than the things that separate us. They don't get to see, in stutters spaced 5 years apart, the girl shining out through the woman, or the gentleness in the boy's eyes that you mistook for indifference or weakness, before you learned to be wise.
There isn't much wildness left after 40 years, but there is satisfaction and wisdom and a kind of underlying joy at lives, if not absent disappointment or brimming with success, at least appreciated and understood. Which I suppose is what we mean by "wisdom."
I suspect that some of the wilder ones just don't do things like high school reunions, but they're missing something precious. They are missing learning, finally, that the things that bind us are more important than the things that separate us. They don't get to see, in stutters spaced 5 years apart, the girl shining out through the woman, or the gentleness in the boy's eyes that you mistook for indifference or weakness, before you learned to be wise.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Someone else's war
The war against Iraq was launched on the eve of my son Seng Lim's 17th birthday.
He has grown to manhood while men his age trained and fought and died for an evil and illegal policy whose aim was the personal enrichment of a politically connected elite.
He never had to think about it.
Seng graduated high school, and went to college. He actually went overseas for six months.
On a cruise ship, playing piano for British vacationers while his compatriots, all men born within 5 years of him, sweltered and died in the desert heat.
I don't blame him, and I'm speechlessly thankful that I never had to worry about him dying, or losing a limb, or his intellect, or his mind. But it isn't right.
Just like in "my" war, Viet Nam, the children of the elite (that's me, and probably you as well), did not have to worry about dying overseas. And more than my war, where there at least was the fiction of the draft, he and his peers did not even have to think about it. There was literally no chance that any of them would ever pick up a gun, much less a uniform except by personal choice. As far as I know, none of them did.
I believe that this has broken our society. Young men and women should be asked, in fact should be compelled, to serve their country in uniform-- as teachers, in community service, and yes, in military service. I'm willing to bet that, like Viet Nam, if more of the college girls and boys had had to serve, fewer of all of the ones who went-- the ones without the choices or the cultural excuse to stay home-- would have died.
He has grown to manhood while men his age trained and fought and died for an evil and illegal policy whose aim was the personal enrichment of a politically connected elite.
He never had to think about it.
Seng graduated high school, and went to college. He actually went overseas for six months.
On a cruise ship, playing piano for British vacationers while his compatriots, all men born within 5 years of him, sweltered and died in the desert heat.
I don't blame him, and I'm speechlessly thankful that I never had to worry about him dying, or losing a limb, or his intellect, or his mind. But it isn't right.
Just like in "my" war, Viet Nam, the children of the elite (that's me, and probably you as well), did not have to worry about dying overseas. And more than my war, where there at least was the fiction of the draft, he and his peers did not even have to think about it. There was literally no chance that any of them would ever pick up a gun, much less a uniform except by personal choice. As far as I know, none of them did.
I believe that this has broken our society. Young men and women should be asked, in fact should be compelled, to serve their country in uniform-- as teachers, in community service, and yes, in military service. I'm willing to bet that, like Viet Nam, if more of the college girls and boys had had to serve, fewer of all of the ones who went-- the ones without the choices or the cultural excuse to stay home-- would have died.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
Do not pass Go
I met Wei in college.
We actually got together in 1976 when we had just turned 20, but he pursued me for a couple of years before that, and I have a flashbulb memory of him from 1973, when we had Theater 101 together.
This was freshman year, and I was supposed to be a Theater Tech major, but the idiot registrar had assumed that costume design would be in the art department, and had put me down as a painting major. I was taking every theater class that allowed non majors so I could switch, including this survey course of famous plays.
I ended up not switching because I discovered that I really hated theater people. (Isn retrospect I realize what I hated were freshman actors. I remember them as an amorphous mass each attempting to outdo his neighbor in ironic quirkiness.)
Except I remember Wei.
I did not meet him then. I met him sophomore year, after I'd put theater behind me. He walked into Chorus and I thought oh crap the theater people are following me.
And they were, at least that one was. And he kept following me. For almost 38 years.
Until 6 weeks ago.
Two days before Valentine's Day Wei told me was leaving. No discussion, no excuses, no passing Go and collecting $200. We had not been fighting, or sharing unhappiness. He was Just. Done.
Yesterday he moved out.
And that is that. Thirty-eight years gone in six weeks. It's like having your skin peeled off layer by layer, slowly. I don't know if Wei is feeling this as well, because he won't talk to me. A very wise friend has interpreted this as a kind of emotional intelligence-- easier just to cut it off sometimes, to leave the game.
I think it could have been saved. But two people make a marriage. When one of them stops following the other, the game is over.
We actually got together in 1976 when we had just turned 20, but he pursued me for a couple of years before that, and I have a flashbulb memory of him from 1973, when we had Theater 101 together.
This was freshman year, and I was supposed to be a Theater Tech major, but the idiot registrar had assumed that costume design would be in the art department, and had put me down as a painting major. I was taking every theater class that allowed non majors so I could switch, including this survey course of famous plays.
I ended up not switching because I discovered that I really hated theater people. (Isn retrospect I realize what I hated were freshman actors. I remember them as an amorphous mass each attempting to outdo his neighbor in ironic quirkiness.)
Except I remember Wei.
I did not meet him then. I met him sophomore year, after I'd put theater behind me. He walked into Chorus and I thought oh crap the theater people are following me.
And they were, at least that one was. And he kept following me. For almost 38 years.
Until 6 weeks ago.
Two days before Valentine's Day Wei told me was leaving. No discussion, no excuses, no passing Go and collecting $200. We had not been fighting, or sharing unhappiness. He was Just. Done.
Yesterday he moved out.
And that is that. Thirty-eight years gone in six weeks. It's like having your skin peeled off layer by layer, slowly. I don't know if Wei is feeling this as well, because he won't talk to me. A very wise friend has interpreted this as a kind of emotional intelligence-- easier just to cut it off sometimes, to leave the game.
I think it could have been saved. But two people make a marriage. When one of them stops following the other, the game is over.
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