Summer #13: Prognostication

Summer #13: “What are birds' wings made of?” That's my sister's youngest son, Willie. He's always asked the most amusing questions. At least that's what Jennifer tells us. He doesn't talk to any of the rest of us adults. Last year, on the way to our wedding, he lost his favorite quarter, so Ann and I sent him a new Canadian quarter. He wrote us the first thank you note we've ever received from any of our nieces and nephews: “Thank you for giving me what I really wanted.” When he was younger, he was a clothes hound: he'd wail if he couldn't find his favorite red tee shirt. Once, Jack was wearing a red shirt just like the one Willie was wearing. Willie howled. It took his mother to console him, convincing Willie that he was already wearing his red shirt. Seeing wasn't believing, but what Mama said was. On the drive from New York to the North Carolina beach this year, Willie said he didn't like carrots, and Jennifer, bored with the drive, told him she had been putting carrots in his cereal for years. When he doubted her, she said that she had been bleaching them and cutting them into cereal shapes. He was flummoxed. “That seems weird, but I know my mom wouldn't lie to me.” Such trust, even after the tooth fairy betrayal. That boy loves his mama. My prediction for this creative thinker: playwright.

My godson Sammy, Jennifer's penultimate child, is Jenn's family's athlete. When he was born, he looked much like Jabba the Hut, and had so many chins he lifted his head late. He soon slimmed down on his diet of (only) chocolate milk. This fall, he was the “dirtiest” point guard in the New York state basketball tournament. He's quite the tennis player and remarkably personable. As a three-year old, he came to the dining room, sat on a chair by me and asked, “How are you, Auntie Mary?” We had a philosophical discussion about the state of the universe, and then he heard a noise from the basement, lifted his head, and said, “Excuse me. I have to go play now.” When his younger brother Willie was an infant, Sam would call timeout from “playing rough” with his older brother Jack. Sam would go to Willie, pat him on the head like Willie was a puppy, and coo, “So cute. So cute.” Sam's a natural now with his younger cousins, Lucie and Gretchen. He has always loved children and adored the men in his life: his dad the Wall Street whatever-he-is and his Grandpa the pediatrician. My prediction: Pediatrician.

My nephew Jack was born an engineer. He's twelve now, and he's an athlete, too. When he was much younger, dad asked him what his favorite sport was. He had many to choose from: he played basketball, ice hockey, tennis, and others. His favorite sport? “Chess.” I asked him yesterday what he thinks he might be. I guess he's been thinking about surgery because he said, “I wouldn't want to be a surgeon because it would be too hard when someone died.” I didn't point out to him that brain surgeons saved his mom's life and my life. My prediction: engineer.

My niece Isabella is the oldest grandchild and is so good at everything (school, sports, beauty, kindness) that a person might be bitter, but she's so kind that you can't help but love her. She does have an edge, though. Years ago, maybe when she was nine years old, she and I went for a walk down the beach, looking for sand dollars. Isabella stepped into a sand trap, and spun in a panic to get our of it. I stood frozen, aghast. When she got out of it, she looked up at me and said, “A lot of help you are.” This summer, my youngest nieces Lucie and Gretchen sat by the door awaiting their fairy princess Isabella. They, like the rest of us, love her. Today, I asked her what she thought she might be when she grows up. She's only going into ninth grade, and she sarcasttically responded, “An astronaut” as Ann said, “A firefighter.” They mocked me. My prediction: an astronaut (don't tread on me.)

Hayden is my brother's oldest. He is blond, blue-eyed and beautiful. He is a big fan. Even though all of his cousins love the Red Sox, Hayden wore his NY Yankees hat the whole time he was at the beach with all of us in North Carolina. For the World Cup, he bravely cheered on the Netherlands while the rest of us cheered for Spain. That takes spunk. When he and his younger sister Lucie were looking at old pictures, they saw one of the two of them together when they were younger. Hayden said to Lucie, “See, Lucie. I used to like you.” He's always got his nose in a book, a characteristic of his mother and his aunts, but not his father. My prediction: professor.

Lucie is my brother's middle child. When she was three years old, she alternated girl days and boy days. On girl days, her name was Lucie, and she wore dresses. On boy days, her name was Thomas, and she wore blue jeans and red Keds. She tells me she's an excellent athlete, especially good at hockey, though I think she says “athalete.” The month before she was going to be a flower girl in our wedding last summer, she and a friend were riding in the car with her mom. She said to her friend, “Guess what. I'm going to be in my Aunt Mary and my Aunt Ann's wedding. And guess what. They're both girls.” Her friend, astonished, responded, “They're going to have a lot of babies.” At our rehearsal dinner, Lucie said to me several times, “Auntie Mary, who are all these people?” I finally gave her the right answer: “They're our friends.” She seemed dismayed, “You mean they're all here for you?” I want her and all my nieces and nephews to see that gay couples, too, can have a community of support. At the home where I grew up, she saw a family picture from when I was eighteen years old. “Auntie Mary,” she said, “look at you then and look at you now. Wow.” And then, graciously, “You still have the same smile and the same eyes,” (gracious since now I mostly smile with one half of my mouth and my eyes are crossed), “But,” she continued, “look at all that hair!” It was the eighties. My prediction: athalete.

Gretchen, my brother's youngest, is the family performer. She's hilarious. Her hair is white blond and her eyes a limpid (a vocabulary word for the week) blue. Like Isabella, she's quite the sweet thing, but she's no push-over. In Raleigh, she got ready to play pool, and when Dad came in the room, she said, “You can be on my team, Grandpa.” When Dad responded, “Okay, but I'm not very good,” she said, “Okay, you can be on the other team.” She does an impressive hip hop to the theme from Scooby-Doo. Brother Matt and his wife Kristin call this, The Gretchen Show. My prediction: performer.

One of the hardest aspects of my brain tumors has been missing three years of the miracle of these nieces and nephews growing up. Throughout the experience, I have not feared death—only the loss of my sense of self—but I have been sad at the thought of my death and of the things I would miss, the miracles of all these nieces and nephews growing into people I cannot predict.

Love, Auntie Mary

Summer #12: Vacation

Summer #12: I'm going to take a couple of weeks off to spend some time with my family, collecting ideas for the blog and giving you a chance to catch up on reading and comments, as you wish. See you at the end of July! Mary

Summer #10: No Matter What

Summer #10: After fifteen years of hiding the truth of her sexual orientation from her family, my friend Kari came out to her family last week. One night she dreamed that she was in bed with lots of IVs in her, and then the IVs started sucking the blood from her. She awoke and thought, "Something is sucking the life out of me." The next morning she called her family.

All of us in the gay community know how hard it is to come out and how hard it is not to come out. We know people who have been disowned by families and friends, dismissed from jobs, harassed by church members, bosses, and neighbors. Coming out is scary, but this is a happy story. Kari's mom said just the right thing: "We love you. We will always love you. You will always be our child. No matter what."

My mom said just the same thing. When I called my college friend Sara (who's also a lesbian, so I'm not sure why I was so afraid), I told her I had to tell her something, and I wasn't sure she'd want to be my friend anymore. Then I sobbed so hard I couldn't get a word out. On the other end of the line, a patient Sara said, "Did you kill someone? Because if you killed someone, I still love you. I will always love you. No matter what."

This is a good speech to memorize, just in case. Because, believe me, you never know. Mary

Summer #9: 'Tis a gift to br simple.

Summer #9: My godson Sam, Ann, my sister-in-law Kristin and my nephew Hayden all have birthdays in the next couple of weeks. They will be a combined 128 years old. Fortunately, we have a family tradition of giving gifts only evey other Christmas, so we'll celebrate with cake and Pin the Tale on the Donkey but don't have to wrap.

I guess the main idea of celebrating birthdays is celebrating the gift of life. That, of course, is the best gift, but the second best gift I think I ever received was a silk white rose on a plastic stem. My African-American student Rosa brought it to me a few years after I'd had her in class. "This reminded me of you," she said. "It's white and symbolizes peace and harmony and all that stuff you believe in." I keep it in a vase at school under a quotation from the Buddha that was a gift from another student: "If we could oly see the miracle of a single flower blooming, our whole lives would change." As my students would say in their most appreciative whispers, "That's deep."

My best gifts through the years have been my students, and sometimes they hav brought me symbolic gifts that mean so much to me. My student Tressa once gave me a paper mache yellow and blue sun. I hang it in my office wherever I go. It was several years before I realized the sun's face is Tressa's face. For that, I like it all the more.

Last week I received a birth notice from my previous student Molly: a beautiful little girl. When I last saw Molly, she was a high school freshman. Since then she's graduated from college, taught English at two high schools, gotten married and is now having a child. A couple of weeks ago, my previous student Chancy visited. Chancy, like Molly, is teaching English and is an amazing spirit. It's such a gift to me that they and others keep in touch--a signal that jsut as so many of them stay in my heart for years after they've left my classroom, perhaps I stay in their hearts, too. In the wake of this tumor and my inability to teach in the classroom anymore, this gift feels all the more poignant.

Even though I think the expression, "It's better to give than to receive" is trite, it's also true. One of the best gifts I ever gave was a tub of Vaseline to my brother in acknowledgement that he has reached the age of colonoscopies. Anoher exceptional gift was the gift of college scholarships to four Somalie graduates of the high school where I last taught. I wish I could give such fine gifts all the time, but genuis strikes only so often. I hope Ann likes her birthday present.

Summer #8: I heart grits.

Summer #8: Finally, the month of Junuary here in Seattle has passed, so maybe we can get on to our beautiful Northwest summer. Though Seattle feels like home to me, I have not yet adjusted to cold and cloudy April-May-June weather. As a Southerner, I know that June should be in the 90s, both in terms of temperature and humidity.

Growing up in the South, from time to time someone would say to me, "You don't seem like a Southerner." Maybe that was code for, "You seem like a lesbian," but I never seemed like a Southerner to myself either. In my advancing age, though, I recognize my Southernness. I heart grits. I love a good story and know that hyperbole, more than precision, reveals a narative's truth. My favorite places are the white sandy beaches and blue-green waters of the North Carolina coast. I have a healthy respect for lightening and do not shower or talk on the phone during a thunderstorm, like some fools here in the Northwest do. I love the banjo in bluegrass music and feel at home in a church. Steel magnolias, strong Southern women, are my role models. In the Southern woods, I am aware of the dangers of tics and copperheads.

Like many of my immigrant students, I have two homes. I am a Southerner, but I am a Northwesterner, too. Years ago, at an education conference, a Boston speaker stopped to comment on my fleece and Birkenstocks: "You're dressed like a stereotype, aren't you?" this bow-tied, round-eyed glasses Yankee said to me. I laughed at the irony of it. I suspect he interpreted my laughter as an acknowledgement of how clever and observant he was. I dress like a Northwesterner. I eat my tofu and organic Spinach. I march for immigrant rights, Martin Luther King and gay pride. I protest war. I remain seated in my two-inch high chair at outdoor concerts, even in the rain. I love folk music. I wear gortex and sensible shoes. My favorite places are the blooming hillsides reaching towards snow-capped Mount Rainier. In the Northwestern woods, I watch for bears.

Not only am I bicultural, but I'm bilingual, too. I know that in the South "ya'll" is always plural and in the Northwest, "liberal" has a positive connotation. Imagine that. Mary

Summer #7: Calendar Conundrum

Summer #7: Last week I called the hair salon three times in five minutes to make an appointment to get my hairs cut. The first time, I made an appointment for Friday at 11 a.m. Then I realized I had a massage then. I called right back and changed the appointment to Saturday at 11 a.m. Then I realized I'm having brunch with my friend Ms. Marion then. I called right back and moved the appointment to Saturday at 2 p.m. When I gave the receptionist my name for the third time, she laughed. If I have plans with you Saturday at 2 p.m. could you let me know and could we reschedule? I siimply cannot call that woman back again.

I don't think I'm experiencing any serious cognitive effects from the surgery and radiation, but maybe this calendar thing is a sign to me. A few weeks ago, I did the exact same thing in scheduling a massage. The receptionist there just laughed, too. I feel grateful for the sense of humor.

Maybe it's just that I'm trying to keep too many dates in my mind because Ann, in cleaning up, recycled the calendar. (I don't really know that. I just like to hear her say, "I did not.") I am, however, holding a lot of dates in my mind. For our family trip to the beach, for example, here are the dates in my mind:
thursday night: mary and ann arrive at rdu
friday: kristin, hayden, lucie and gretchen arrive in raleigh
friday night: brother matt arrives at rdu
saturday: brother matt's family, mary and ann, and mom and dad drive to the beach and jennifer, isabella, jack and willie drive to the beach from ny
sunday night: birthday bash for ann, kristin and hayden
monday afternoon: matt, kristin, hayden, lucie and gretchen go to figure 8
wed: todd and sam arrive at the beach
saturday: todd, jack and willie return to ny; jennifer and isabella go to florida; mary, ann, dad and sam go to winston salem; mom goes home
tuesday: mary and ann fly out of rdu; we don't care what the rest of you do after that.

Maybe it's a calendar conundrum, or maybe my family is just too complicated. Or maybe Ann shouldn't recycle the calendar until the year is out. Just maybe. Mary

Summer #6: None of us has died.

Summer #6: Our nonegenarian neighbor Annabella called last night and asked something she had asked before. When I answered, she said, "I had not forgotten, but it got forgotten." Usually passive voice makes me cringe, but her awareness made me laugh.

My least favorite uses of passive voice are, "You will be missed," and "You are loved." It's like the speaker does not want to take responsiblility for missing or for loving me. At first I thought this use of the passive voice was a way to avoid an insult: "I won't miss you, but someone else probably will." Now I think this is just how some people talk, but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe no one misses me or loves me, but each person just assumes someone else does. This thought leaves me feeling suddenly insecure.

Insecurity is not a good trait for teachers of teenagers. At the beginning of my final year of teaching, when my freshmen were being somewhat rude one day, one student asked me if I ever cried in front of my students. I know that sometimes more insecure teachers cry out of frustration, and I knew she was asking if I cried out of frustration, but I thought about it. "Yes," I said, "I always cry when a student dies." This student, surprised by my response, asked, "Have you ever had a student die?" And I responsed, "Oh yes. Most years, someone dies." This is hard, but it's true. At the end of first semester, when we were brainstorming all we had to celebrate, students listed progress like, "We are better writers" and "We are like brothers and sisters for each other," and one student added, somewhat hesitantly, "None of us has died." They all nodded solemnly.