"Lovers Rock," 80's House Parties and the Fabric of Youth

 

From the moment I saw Steve McQueen's Small Axe: "Lovers Rock" film I have wanted to write something about it.  Something about how visceral and beautiful it was for me to experience, about how perfectly he encapsulated a time and place in a way that was both unique (and new for me to learn about) and at the same time as familiar to me as Home.  

I have struggled with trying to find the words to explain to anyone who doesn't share my love of that episode the WHY of its potency.  For me (and likely others) it isn't just an innovative movie about one night at a house party in the 80's in West London, or even a more sophisticated glimpse into the social experience of a Caribbean community in London at that time.  It is a movie where the music -lovers rock reggae - is a central character.  The mood throughout is sexy and dangerous and youthful and romantic and intimate.

And this starts to get at why it moved me so dramatically; this was a film that was also about my community, my experience.  It reached right into my heart and soul, my youth, and ignited the teenage me in the 80's who went to house parties in West Racine - house parties often with reggae spun by the legendary DJ Crazy D (Dave), who was also my first boyfriend.

Today marks the 6th Anniversary of Dave's death.  As I have written before,  Dave was my first adolescent love and our relationship was - like Dave - a lot.  He was an extraordinary human and together we learned about love, heartbreak, friendship and pain - lessons that are now woven into the fabric of who I am today.   The house parties he used to DJ in the 80's were filled with teenagers and 20 somethings, skaters and punks and every brand of beautiful misfit from west Racine to the north side all coming together in loud sweaty community.  People would dance and sway, burgeoning DJ's would get behind the tables with Dave to watch him spin, people would hook up, cops would show up - we were young and full of life and felt everything at a level ten volume.  

That is what is exceptional about Steve McQueen's "Lovers Rock" - what brings that film and equally exceptional Dave together in perfect loving harmony for me - it captured that moment, that FEELING, that we thought was only ours - and found a way to replicate it, share it, bring us back to it like we are experiencing it again for the first time.  And man, was it fucking delicious.   

"What happens next constitutes one of the most patient and loving celebrations of music ever captured on film. The DJ stops the music so that the slow-dancing partygoers can sing the entire song a cappella, giving it the sacred quality of a hymn. It is a spontaneous ritual of connection and endurance in a hostile world...In many ways, it was the basis for the entire film. It is about intimacy and desire and asking someone to take off their mask.”

https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/music/story/2021-01-13/small-axe-lovers-rock-silly-games-dennis-bovell-steve-mcqueen

Because I am a Mother to a Son, Boys Will Not "Be Boys" in My House.

Yesterday was awful. Painful.  Today I am furious.

Yesterday I spent the entire day in my office, door closed with a sign that said do not disturb. I watched, with headphones on, the Senate Judiciary Committee confirmation hearing for Judge Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court of the United States. I watched and wept.  For hours.

This historic moment was/is one of shared collective (largely gendered) pain.  The astronomical amount of women I know who are similarly situated is too numerous to imagine. The great number of friends and family members who have their own stories of sexual assault and rape, very few ever reported, are unfathomable. And the many many women I know who were also quietly glued to the testimony, also privately grieving, is so huge and multi-generational this feels like a horrific defining moment.  In our country and culture.

And while I sat there - listening to so many familiar facts about an early-teenage girl drinking (late afternoon) in a house with some boys that resulted in a sexual assault that she didn't tell anyone about for years to come - i not only thought about myself, my female family members and friends but also my son.  Yes, my son.

For as I watched this nightmare unfold and revisited my own youth, my son was at school busy being a second grader.  My happy, loving, kind-hearted, sweet son, who is also a very privileged (currently seven year-old) white boy at a private school. When I dropped him of yesterday morning I watched him on the schoolyard playing with his friends before going inside.  The group of boys were all together, several of them engaging in some physical wrestling competition while the others looked on.  The girls were talking in groups of twos and threes, not so interested in these faux-fighting schoolyard antics.  I thought of who he is now, who he could become, and what he could do.  And what I hope to hell he does not become, or do - as he walks through his life with the comfort and accommodations that his skin and sex and class automatically grant him.  The automatic entry passes that come with patriarchy and white privilege.  

As I sit here today, containing so much anger and rage (along with millions of other women across this country) about what this process has shown us about the U.S. and the status of women and sexual assault survivors and male privilege.  Misogyny.  Entitlement.  And the dismissability and disposability of women.  The only thing I can think of, the one thing I am trying to focus on - meditate on - strategize around - is how I will raise my son.  How I will raise him to be better.

I will now focus even more determinedly on how I can raise a privileged white male human who will work hard to resist the systems, structures, traditions and messaging that culture and society shove at him at every turn.  A culture that benefits from instilling in him the dangerous idea that the world is made for him, that women and girls are objects, reduced and less than, that their bodies exist for his pleasure. For his amusement. For his laughter. (If you watched the courageous and selfless testimony of Dr. Ford, you heard her say that her strongest memory of the assault was something she could not forget - "the laughter, the uproarious laughter between the two [boys], and their having fun at my expense.")

 I have been on the receiving end of exactly such laughter.

I refuse to quietly allow my son to be indoctrinated into a toxic culture of masculinity. One that feeds him a sense of entitlement and impunity for how he treats others (particularly, but not only, women).

I refuse to let him blindly subscribe to false ideas of masculinity and dominance, because it is easy, convenient, spoon fed, and makes his life easier.

I refuse to let him believe that it is acceptable for women to pay the price of his male bonding and acceptance as "one of the guys."

There will be no “boys will be boys” in my house. Not in this mother's house.

Cold Water in Fiji: Life Lessons from a Grandfather

Two weeks ago, I was in Fiji working and about to start the weekend when I received a call from my dad. It was the worst kind of all calls, the ones where you instantly know that things are not okay.  My grandfather had died. 

In that moment, and the many more that followed as I stayed to finish teaching my Gender & the Law course to 45 committed law students from around the South Pacific, I was about as far away from my family and loved ones as possible. Essentially alone but for the company of my extraordinary and joyful seven year old human. 

I painfully deployed my “Life Is Beautiful” parenting strategy, doing my best not to let the grief and loneliness of my loss invade my son’s experience of Fiji. Not letting my sadness corrupt my students’ experience of my class. Working double time to hold off a flood of feelings until I would be back in the U.S. and would have the luxury of space and routine and my Brooklyn home to grieve the loss of one of the most significant people of my childhood, of my life. 

But that first weekend - as I treated us to a weekend in Pacific Harbor as part of our Fiji trip tradition - it was my son who did not allow me to ignore some of the selfless and generous contributions my grandfather made to childhood. From the first moment we arrived at our hotel, and the weather was cool and cloudy (it is, after all, winter in Fiji), my son was begging me to go into the pool with him. I was cold and sad and tired and the weather was not at all inviting, and yet... 

A foundational memory of my grandfather, because it must have been repeated more than a thousand times over the course of my childhood, was begging him to go into the pool with me and my sister. No matter how cold the water or air was, no matter if he just came home from his job at Falk Corp. and was still in a button down shirt, no matter how tired or how much he must have wanted to just relax at the end of a long day, my sister and I were there - waiting, pleading for him to come into the pool with us. 

And he always did.  

We learned to swim in that pool.  Spent summer days and nights in that above-ground pool, made whirlpools by walking in circles, played "little fishy" and did flips and handstands in that pool.  But we almost never, ever would go in alone.  It wasn't enough to be watched from outside the pool - we wanted him IN the pool with us.  (To protect us from Jaws, naturally.)  And he always went.  He always came in the pool, because it made us happy.

So there I was, in Fiji and faced with a small person who wanted nothing more than to spend time in the freezing pool with me. Shivering and smiling and shrieking with happiness. Making memories with me that will hopefully last a lifetime. And that whole weekend my grandfather was there in the dark shadows of my grieving mind, reminding me to suck it up and go in the damn water - to set aside my sadness or chill for the benefit of an oblivious child who simply deserved to be happy and have fun during his summer vacation. So I did. 

I went in the damn water. 

That weekend and the ones that followed, each time my small human asked I went into the water, without complaint, and thought of my grandfather.  I thought of all of the other things he did quietly and simply to make my sister and I happy, no matter the inconvenience, cost or discomfort to himself.  The thousands of times we pretended to be asleep in the back of the stationwagon just to have him carry us into the house in his arms.  The too-numerous-to-count times that he would answer our adolescent calls for help when we would run out of gas after curfew, and he would silently show up with a gas can to rescue us - never telling anyone or even chastising us.  It is only now, that he is gone, that I reflect on these moments and think to myself how extraordinary they were.  How much I have to learn from them.  How much they are a part of the fabric of my childhood experience.  How they are some of the best memories I have as a kid, spending time at my grandparents' in Wisconsin.

It is because of these little gifts that I look at my son just a little differently now.  How I feel and respond when he pleads to be carried, and how I would like to think his own grandfather will respond if he ever calls him to bail him out of a youthful irresponsibility at 1am.  And above all I hope, thanks to the lessons learned in my own childhood, that my son some day looks back on his childhood and is warmed with feelings and flashes of love given, in even the smallest of gestures.  All the times I said yes.  And went in the pool. 

http://www.ritchayfuneralhome.com/sitemaker/sites//memsol.cgi?user_id=2119092

Le tigre ne proclâme pas sa tigritude.

There are those years that you welcome saying goodbye to.  The years that decide to test you, push you, stretch you, force you to change, move, grow, learn and challenge you - whether you are ready or not.  2015 was one of those years.

The whirlwind of the past 12 months is still being sorted through in my mind.  It is a tangled rapidfire mess of "are you fucking kidding me's" and "sure, why not's."  January turned into March turned into June, September into December in the course of about four blinks of my eye. And while my mouth was steadfastly below the waterline this whole year - at least I succeeded in keeping my nose above it.  For the most part.

In our family "we can do hard things," and this year proved it. There is no benefit to recapping the numerous losses and heartbreaks sustained, stressors endured or additional responsibilities undertaken - they just are.  Or were.  That is the beauty of today.  Today marks the end of 2015: the year when everything was a bit harder, darker, heavier.  Tomorrow is 2016.

In 2016 there will be exciting opportunities to apply the lessons of the past, to embrace all the newness and to continue to live with intention knowing how much every decision matters.  

One of my great discoveries of the past couple years was the depth of power that can be summoned, harnessed and wielded quietly.  Like a secret weapon.  Power, strength, fire and yes, even authority, can be embodied and carry enormous influence without having to make a sound.  It is experienced, demonstrated, not shouted. Power like this, that I have found to be one of my greatest assets, doesn't need overt declaration or announcement. It is simply felt -- apparent.  The tiger does not proclaim it's tigritude, it just acts. 

Powerful choices and actions, ones that further that which I value most, are what is on the list for 2016. And my soul sister was pleased to hear that, among other commitments to myself, I also intend 2016 to begin with three magical action words: cleanse, purge, organize.  This will undoubtedly require time for thought and reflection, deciding what is worth holding on to and what it is best to let go. For someone with hoarding tendencies which may extend beyond the inanimate, this will not be easy.  But we can do hard things. 

So good riddance 2015. It's all an upward trajectory from here.  2016 looks so much friendlier and gentle. I'm ready. And while we CAN do hard things, here's to hoping we don't always have to.

  

  

Make These Old Bones Shiver

(1990)

It started about a year and a half ago. First it was the white eyebrow hair, then the sudden appearance of chicken-skin-neck in every photo, and then finally it was the feeling of frailty that accompanied every easily-earned bruise or unpredictable loss of balance.  

This is what aging feels like.  Before even mastering adulthood there was this rapid onslaught of declining everything. For me it began at 41.  

I can let go of the vanity of it, mostly.  There is little time for it these days anyway. I'd already become that person who used the presence of my 4 year-old as a shield from judgments for my general lack of put-togetherness.  (Though challenging are the days when I can't hide behind the stroller, and there is no obvious justification for my frenetic and unpolished veneer).  But there is something about the dramatic realization, the unexpected epiphany brought on by the bathroom mirror, that the body truly is decaying.  Things are failing.   Strength is diminishing.  Healing powers are slowing.  And yes, appearance is altering. 

It is easy, downright tempting, to feel as though all that is magical is slipping away like muscle tone.  Holding on to memory, feeling, perspective, intent becomes key.  I AM magical.  I CAN do things.  I am more than this weak arm. This gray eyebrow.  These are some of the necessary affirmations.  

The tricks of body and mind that come with growing older may be unwelcome here, but they are undeniable.  As people have heard me lament this past year, I am irrepressibly closer to being 50 than I am to 30.  That is quite a thing.  These are the surprises of life that lack originality - the embarrassing realization that the 50-something-year-old-father of the 20-something-year-old-eye-candy sees himself in your league.  And the 20-something also sees you in dad's league.  Only you, in your late-adolescent-brain-stuck-in-a-40-something-year-old-body, didn't realize this monumental shift.  When the fuck did that happen?  

The pacts made in our youth are long gone.  We've all grown up, secretly, quickly, accidentally.  We aren't young, bright, or beginning.  The kid who was cool and interesting and seemed smart as a teenager can now be found less than a mile from where he grew up, collecting disability and living vicariously through one of his several children.  The kid you thought you'd end up with ended up with someone else.  Your prom date is a GRANDPA.  And the kid who taught you lessons of bravery, self-love and suffering didn't make it at all.  He died before he could teach you anything about growing old.  

I am not saying there is no more newness.  I may still climb Kilimanjaro. That marathon I didn't train for in time for my 40th birthday, because it was in conflict with a round of IVF, may in fact become a goal for 50.  New achievements will be had, challenges faced, surprises possible.  I am far from done.  My bones may ache a little (read a lot) more than they did before, my emotions may be intensified, my recovery time lengthened (when did it happen that an hour of dancing = a day of joint pain?) but more newness is ahead.  Every day will still offer up opportunities for a life built by intention, though those opportunities may look different, older, stranger than they used to.

So there it is.  This incongruence of self.  Some days I honestly hope for not much more than to not embarrass myself.  It will take some time to acclimate to this new, older me - years, I suspect.  In the process of recalibrating, there will likely be more growing pains.  Some of them real, some of them imagined.  And every once in awhile, my body and mind will forget its years for a moment and I will be transported back to that girl who danced wildly to this song or that one back in 1990.  When an 18 year old - with only the beginning of prematurely graying hair, a smooth neck and sure-footedness - had just begun to embark on a life that defied local custom and expectation.  Ready, with the unstoppable energy and arrogance of youth to go all in.  I know her.  Balls to the wall.           

    

Explanation to the Future You.

Eiffel Tower

 Much of what makes up our life stories are accumulations of micro decisions and some bigger choices that come together in ways that only retrospect can attempt to make sense of.  But there is something remarkable in trying to shape the narrative consciously, creating opportunities and experiences that build the story - the life - that is intentional.  Intentionally extraordinary. Intentionally balls to the wall.  

I recently (and intentionally) participated in a process that provided the space for contemplating how to invent a future tale of my own design and help with developing the infrastructure for the life that I envision. Creating the scaffolding to bring my daydreams into the real world.  This is what underlies my nearly every decision.  Unapologetically.  

Kyrgyzstan

This focus is amplified as my son gets older and I become keenly aware of the impact and implications each of my decisions can have on him and the stories that will become part of the personal narrative of his childhood.  

  Where to live (Brooklyn).

  What school he will attend (the International School, so he will be in total Spanish immersion).

 What work trips to take him on (summer in Fiji again?).

 How he should be introduced to the concept of death (by gently and safely being part of saying goodbye to our beloved family pet, and having his first lesson on the permanency of death, what grief looks like and what my beliefs are around what happens when something dies).

The list of decisions that will inevitably become part of the landscape of his early experiences is endless.  Consequently, the notion of intentionality has never been more important to me.

   

Croatia

Of course there are innumerable factors to weigh into these micro and more pivotal decisions, including more traditional notions of stability, predictability, family and community.  But the imperfect calculus that I feel compelled to engage in incorporates these and other necessities into the complex cost-benefit analysis, and the one thing that seems to ultimately help with casting the deciding vote is the question:

What will this contribute to your/our life stories? 

Or rather, would this _______ bring something to our lives to make it even more positive, more beautiful, more amazing, more unique and more meaningful?  Will this _____ help further me/you/us on a path to being the people we want to become, living the lives we want to have lived?

   

Fiji

  

The answer, in my mind, should almost always be yes.  

This is an admittedly difficult endeavor, that runs the risk of making every moment heavy with inflated and disproportionate importance.  It can also create opportunities for judgmental reactions, misunderstandings, allegations of selfishness and potential alienation.   

It is rarer than it should be that people live the lives they truly desire.

As I imagine the future version of my son, and the conscious and subconscious narrative of his life that I was a contributor to, this is my explanation to him.  I did it on purpose.  This was all intentional.  For better or worse, these were choices.  Things did not just happen TO us in our lives, but instead decisions were made on how we interacted with that which was within our power to control and that which was out of our control.  Each moment was a choice.  Sometimes more carefully than others.  Sometimes more thoughtfully or well-informed than others.  Sometimes more patiently than others.  Sometimes incorrectly.  But almost always with absolute intention.

Goodbye Kitten 

April 1996 - April 2014

Lest some of you think this is crazy, perhaps aggrandizing, neurotic, or selfish (it may be all those things), it is also part of living a mindful life that is unquestionably balls to the wall.  

Making each moment matter.  

Because it does.  

It really does. 

Sisterhood Dedication

Madison Marathon 2013

I remember so vividly where I was on this date, four years ago - the day I got the news that my best friend's younger sister had died.  It was a tragedy that hit me with unparalleled sadness.

For nearly twenty years my friendship with Alyson existed on a level one may only associate with something like a soul.  And four years ago today her younger sister - whom she was as close to as I was to mine, who was the exact same age as mine, who had just recently gotten married like mine - was suddenly and senselessly taken from her.  There were no words to express what I felt for her and her wondrous family whom I loved so much.  When I reached her in Costa Rica through Skype from my distant room in Kabul, moments after she had heard the news, I asked her what I could do - she immediately answered with one request laced with the kind of profundity that sometimes accompanies moments like this.  She asked me to call my sister and tell her I love her.  So that's exactly what I did, sobbing, imagining her loss and taking great care to appreciate the gift of sisterhood as I told my sister what had happened.

A few months later, when I was pregnant with my son, my sister ran her first half-marathon in honor of the inspiring life of Errin Vuley.  It was something she decided independently to do, to honor the exceptional woman Errin was - her thoughtfulness and commitment not just moving but admirable.  As part of her debut as a runner, she raised over $1000 to donate in Errin's name to an Atlanta-based organization dedicated to girls' empowerment, self-esteem and health.  I could not have been more proud of my own sister that day, in her first of what became a series of incredible personal achievements.  She ran that half marathon for Errin, and then another and another, eventually running the full New York marathon, the Philadelphia marathon and this past Sunday she ran the Madison Marathon.   She once told me that in every long run there is a moment when her mind gravitates toward thoughts of Errin, and it helps propel her forward, keep running.  

Four years ago the world lost an exceptional woman, a sister.  Seven days ago I had the honor of watching my own exceptional sister continue her journey as a marathoner, a journey partly inspired by the late Errin Vuley.  It was as moving and admirable as her first race, watching her challenge herself, show her strength and determination - and reminding me and everyone who knows her just what a strong and amazing woman she is.  So today, on this unthinkable anniversary, I cannot help but be thankful.  Thankful for the opportunity to be able to continue to call my sister every day, watch her achieve new heights, and careful not to take her presence in the world for granted.  

Today, remembering that painful conversation and Alyson's tearful plea to me, I am reminded of the bonds of sisterhood, familial and beyond.  The best way I can honor Alyson's sister is to honor mine.  I love you Sisterina Angela.  Congratulations on the Madison Marathon!  I am so proud of you and so fortunate to have you in my life.