Something happened last week. I can’t talk about the specifics and I’m not sure I would even if I could. My thirteen-year-old saw something, he said something, and he saved someone. He responded exactly as we all hope our children will and I’m utterly amazed at his courage, his kindness, his maturity.
My boy did the right thing, perturbed that it might violate a trust, that it would be embarrassing, that it might alienate him from his friend-group, that he might not be believed (he had receipts just in case), that it would require action in a bystander world. He doesn’t want praise or attention; in fact, he told me that he’d like to pretend it never happened. I have to agree. What I really want is for my already traumatized child not to be more traumatized. If I could erase last week, I’d have to think deeply to find reasons not to do exactly that.
I’m so angry and sad about the whole big mess. Absolutely everyone we needed was there. Everyone responded wonderfully. Everyone helped us. So, as my daughter would say, “What’s the T?”
What IS the T? If you’ve ever read a management book (god help you), you know that some people seem to thrive on chaos. I always hope I’m not one of those people but it seems like I live in the midst of it. A good amount of my adulthood has been teetering on the brink of catastrophe. Why should my kids’ lives be any different? We are the ball in the pinball machine, pinging from obstacle to obstacle, lights flashing, bells ringing, until we’re hit by a paddle and thrown back into the chaos.
I wonder, sometimes, if trauma begets trauma, if some individuals — unknowingly, certainly unwillingly — are drawn, like magnets, to new and different tragedies … on repeat. If you believe in a god, you’ve undoubtedly heard that old saw: God only gives you the burdens you are strong enough to carry. Boom. Not strong enough? No worries; prayer is the answer. You can just ask god to carry those burdens for you. Boom (again). For those of us who are less confident in the weight-bearing power of prayer, the solution is far murkier. And for both groups, the outcome is the same (with apologies to all of you who believe in the power of prayer).
My mom was a terrible Catholic (according to her) but she believed very, very strongly in the Blessed Mother. I saw a sign over the weekend that condemned “Mary worshippers” to Hell (the sign listed everyone who is condemned — it was a long sign and the sign-bearer was, of course, the only one not on the list). The Mary-worshipper label was a solid fit for Mom. Her favorite prayer was the Memorare. She used to talk to me about the meaning, about it being a sort of chastisement. It’s my humble and untested opinion that Mom was expressing what many women continue to express today — that longing for a voice — and that brings me to this past weekend.
I have absolutely no interest in football, though I did stand on the field during pre-game warm-ups once. That was an experience for sure but it hasn’t made me a fan. I can’t abide the lack of representation in leadership positions. Why are there so few owners or head coaches of color? I might not have known it was Super Bowl weekend, but as a Pittsburgher, I absolutely know who Coach Tomlin is. But if you cite him as your example, I’m just going to come back at you with the total number of coaches of color — single digits, folks. Single digits! You can’t explain that without using racist tropes because there is no explanation that doesn’t include racism. Period.
Anyway, my nephew teasingly called me un-American this weekend when he had to remind me that it was Super Bowl Sunday. I didn’t watch. I didn’t even know which teams were playing and I only know who won because of that tweet (don’t pretend you don’t know what tweet I mean). If you try to tell me it didn’t happen, I’m going to throw a certain George Orwell quote at you.
After I saw that there was a controversy brewing over the half-time show, I watched it on youtube. What I saw was two powerful women performing on national television, using their voices (yes, I chose that word deliberately) to highlight issues important to them. Okay … never mind. Nothing says manufactured outrage over “sexualized” dancing and “televised porn” like being publicly called out for ignorance and racism and basic inhumanity.
My favorite our-educational-system-has-failed-us moment is when people began speculating that JLo was wearing the Texas flag. I LOVE teachers but I am appalled by our national lack of critical thinking skills and, frankly, by our ignorant, foolish, entitled Secretary of Education. Even with a research device in each of our hands, we eagerly retweet, post, share, and like garbage because it makes us feel (better, teary, powerful, righteous, smart — you choose). No, JLo (you know, from the Bronx?) is not strutting that national Venus-shaped stage in a Texas flag. This isn’t Texas shade, BTW, which you will also understand if you are using your critical thinking skills.
Well, clearly, I’m still angry about the trauma my boy endured. I can hear it in the words I’m typing. The problem is, of course, that I can’t unleash my mom-rage on … anyone. I want to use my not-inconsiderable verbal skills to destroy the responsible party in defense of my baby but that won’t happen. There is no person responsible for this week’s near catastrophe.
Researchers say that we look for someone to blame because placing blame provides “resolution” and “closure.” It’s tempting to look for somewhere to place blame and I’ve veered onto that dangerous road a couple times throughout this experience. It’s wrong, though, and I’m going to fight my baser self. As with Ken’s death, there’s no closure. It was unfair and it shouldn’t have happened. Period.
On a good note: I’m working on another book. That’s two underway in addition to the one I just finished (in case you are counting). Neil Gaiman recommends juggling about 5 projects at a time and since I’d like to be as successful as Neil Gaiman (cough), I’m modeling my writing behaviors after him (cough, cough). It’s a teen/adult book which is a nice contrast to the middle grade stories I’ve been focused on. I’m not going to talk about the plot but I will say that it’s … weird. Honestly, there’s nothing more satisfying than giving my severe weirdness an outlet.
Next up … a short story about Pennsylvania’s favorite Phil.
Much love.
