All the feels

I'm supposed to be editing, but it's Sunday evening and I just got home from a really fun wine tasting with my horse buddies, and everyone knows you write drunk and edit sober. I'm not technically drunk, or even buzzing, but I'm using that saying to take a brief break.

This post was supposed to be about my son and his last recital and how it all went down. This was his composition recital. According to him, the concert was for "people who really love him." I wasn't certain what to expect, but I confess I was disappointed when he told me he wouldn't be performing any of the music. 

"The professors don't want us writing music for ourselves," he told me. "Which is weird, since most successful artists are the ones that write their own music."

True. 

Anyway, what we were treated to was a portfolio of what he can do. There were pieces for different instruments, songs for soloists and choirs, scores for film, all culminating in a 20-minute "student project."

All in all, everything was musical and entertaining, and not as weird and atonal and "out there" as I thought it might be. Being his mom, I get all sparkly-eyed when I hear anything he does, so I'm no judge as to whether the music was good, but the audience liked it. 

"It Was Beginning Winter"

And then, he stepped on stage and conducted his student project, and I was sent into a deep, meaningful thought process for days. I'd like to tell you about the music, but honestly, I don't remember the music. I only remember the feelings.

The name of the piece was "It's All Too Much," and it began with a statement that we are overwhelmed with information via the internet and the media, followed by examples proving that statement. The examples built up, from benign information, to the daily bad news we are bombarded with, until the entire orchestra, singers, and even Marcus were screaming at each other about all the horrors in the news, what should be done about them, and an insistence that ignoring a tragedy makes one an emotional Nazi. 

As the screams reached a crescendo, Marcus stormed off the stage, then there was a sudden silence, followed by music and a song/recitation of a web comic called CatFoxWolf on tumblr, titled "Disquiet." (it's in three parts, the Part one beginning here - http://catfoxwolf.tumblr.com/post/56075944959/disquiet-part-i-of-ii-part-ii-is-here-i). Basically, the idea in the comic is that we are an amazing species, built by incredible circumstances, with such a unique and complex range of emotions, it would be insane to think we should confine ourselves to just "happy."

As much as we sometimes fight against some of our more raw, frightening feelings, they are necessary in order to be our full selves. And the last line of the comic, the last line of Marcus' piece, was so Marcus, I wanted to weep:

"Everything's gonna be okay."

I was all set to discuss this generation and the grand possibility that they were embracing their feelings and we would someday see the end of Strength = Not Feeling, Real Men (or Big Girls) Don't Cry, and know that we were moving toward enlightenment. 

Then I saw two things on Facebook, of different weights, but the same feeling. One of my friends posted today was the anniversary of her son's death. Another friend posted that her dog had (much wanted) puppies, and they had all died. I know there is no comparison between a human and a puppy, but the awfulness is still there, that here is New Life, wrapped in Joy and Expectations, and Life is Not. Supposed. To. Do. This. 

And I feel all the bad feelings of grief and anger and poignancy, and I don't want to. I'd rather not be such a normal, unique being and have these emotions. But they make the other feelings, of happiness and sweet joy, so much bigger. 

So this post is a reminder to cherish all the feels, whether you like them or not. Hug your children, too.

Evolution and hope

Marcus' senior vocal jazz recital was on Sunday. I'm just the mom, so I'm not a good judge, but his teacher pronounced it the best recital she has been to this year. Or maybe ever. I don't quite remember, but there were tears in her eyes. There were tears in mine, too.

My tears were for a different reason.

A couple of weeks ago, I watched Casablanca. (This is not unusual, since I like to watch Turner Classic Movies.) One of the songs in the movie got into my head as an earworm. It's called "Shine."

It's an odd little ditty. I didn't know much about the song, except that it's obviously a song for a black man to sing. I mean, I can't imagine Frank Sinatra singing, "Just because my teeth are pearly/ just because my hair is curly."

Imagine my surprise when I heard Marcus singing the song in the recital. But first, he introduced it. Apparently, back at the turn of the 20th century (1880-1920), there was a music genre called "coon songs." They were, as you can imagine, unapologetically racist, and the origins of the derogatory term for black people. A trio of men wrote "That's Why They Call Me Shine" as a commentary on those songs.

I've always figured that my son has been blessed to grow up in an environment where no one seemed to notice or care that he is half black. If he has been called out for his race, I have no idea, although I can't imagine he would have hidden it from me.

All I know is, on Sunday evening, I listened to him sing a song about being christened a normal name, but being called everything from "Sambo" to "Chocolate Drop." According to the song, people call the man Shine because he's fabulous and either they're clueless or jealous.

Let's add this to the mix: he chose to play the guitar for this piece. When my father died, I told my brother he could have everything, but if he or his kids didn't want Dad's guitar, I'd like Marcus to have it. It's a 1932 Gretsch acoustic. Dad obsessed over this guitar, claiming to have stalked the guy until he had enough money and the guy needed cash. As it turns out, a 1932 Gretsch was considered a poor quality guitar at the time and not worth as much as Dad probably paid for it. Oddly, the years have aged the wood and produce a beautiful, mellow sound. So it's not worth as much as a collectible piece as it is for its tone.

When I married Dale, I sent my folks a letter, explaining that I knew how they felt about black people and interracial marriage, and that Dale is a good man whom I love and this was my choice. Their response was disappointing, but what I expected. My father, who was the most vocal racist in our house, told me he never wanted to see me again.

I can't imagine anything my son could ever do to make me not want to see him again. I will always want to see him one more time.

So Sunday night, I watched Marcus play his racist grandfather's guitar and sing a song that pushes back at that racism.



Can you blame me for crying?

A brief pause in the whole book/writing/author thing

Happy 21st birthday, Marcus!

You have been a joy in our lives, and we love you.

And even if you weren't such a joy, we would still love you.

I can't imagine this planet without you on it.

Your sense of humor slays me.




Your talent overwhelms me.

I'm so happy to be your mom.

Have a wonderful day!


* * * * *

Returning to the whole book/writing/author thing, if you haven't picked up your free copy of Snoopy's memoir, run over to Amazon and do it right now. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D0HDYRQ

Are we losing something or gaining something?

So... I've been thinking about something.

A few weeks ago, my friend Tameri had a birthday and I thought it would be fun for Marcus to call and sing "Happy Birthday" to her. Being an agreeable lad and a good singer, he did. I spoke to her about it afterward and she was thrilled.

"Halfway through, I thought, 'I should be recording this'," she said.

At first, I felt bad that she didn't get to record it. I even considered having Marcus call her back to sing it again so she could. He'd have done it - he's game.



And then it dawned on me: all of our moments are recorded now.

In the old days, we just lived. Our lives passed, with Pony League baseball games played and high school graduations enjoyed and then relegated to everyone's memories. Uncle Buster told the same story of how he and his buddies went on a tear in Okinawa, changing the details each time, but no one produced a video showing what really happened.

Now every time a group of people is together, the smart phones come out. Photos are posted to Facebook. Videos are posted everywhere. It's harder to tell those tall tales.

I don't know what to make of this. Perhaps I could decide it's nothing but one new way to have fun. Perhaps I could decide that it's eroding our sense of spontaneity and even our story-telling skills.

What do you think?

Plans change.

Yesterday was hugely busy for me. I began by meeting up with my friends, Sylvia .and Tameri, for a wonderful tour of the Princess Diana Collection on the Queen Mary (in Long Beach), followed by a delicious high tea in The Tea Room. It was fun and light and lovely and especially great that Sylvia and Tameri, who had never met, got along so famously.

You'd love to think that even though your friends come from different periods of your life, they'd all mesh together if you got them in the same room.

After the perfect morning/afternoon, I took a little nap and then joined my friend Robin for the midnight showing of The Hobbit. To be honest, the way the movie has been filmed left my motion-sickness-prone stomach a little queasy, and I found myself thinking that the whole thing could have been sculpted a little finer. But any time spent with Robin is quality time.

As I dropped into bed at four a.m., I thought, I will spend Friday sleeping. Chilling. Recuperating.

Marcus is singing at his paying gig, Holy Trinity Church tonight. The Messiah. It's in San Pedro, which is a goodly forty-five minutes from my house. I had thought about going to hear it, then decided that trying to get to San Pedro on a Friday night might be madness. It  would be okay if I didn't go. Marcus would be okay if I missed it.

And then I woke up to the news in Connecticut. Twenty children dead, shot. Typing those words takes my breath away. Twenty young lives that will never realize their dreams. Twenty families that will never have a Christmas of pure joy again. The gifts that were bought for those kids, the plans for the next two weeks to visit Santa and sing in the church or school program, the future that will never be...

Every year, I put out the pictures of Marcus with Santa. These are two of my favorites.

I like this one because Marcus is only three and is wearing one of those ugly Christmas sweaters that isn't ugly because three-year olds can get away with that kind of fashion.

This one is my absolute favorite because it's an action shot. Marcus, at five, is going over his list with Santa. They are deep in discussion. I love that. You'll notice the very bedraggled Simba, too. He was Marcus' constant companion.

Tonight, I'm going to go see my son and try not to hug him too tightly.

Who knew?

You all know I write a newspaper column, right? Most people consider it an "Erma Bombeck" style of humor essay, which doesn't offend me in the least since I loved Erma and even share a birthday with her. You can read some of my columns here.

I've been writing the column since March 2005, describing the ups, downs and quirkiness of life at the Carline house. It's been an interesting job. Every week I tell some tale about Marcus at school or Dale and I trying to have a conversation, but I rarely get any feedback about my essays. Were they good? Did anybody laugh? Is anybody reading them?

(Tapping microphone) Is this thing on?

Four years later, I've started to get noticed. People I meet around town tell me they read my column every week and enjoy it a lot. It's such a reward to know I'm not writing into a void. Still, I consider my essays to be frivolous little excursions into one family's life. You know, a mom's story about getting her son to do his homework, or a woman's tale of getting her car repaired. Not exactly hard-hitting news.

Then, this weekend, that perception changed. I was at the end of the year banquet for my son's high school soccer game, sitting at a table with two couples I didn't know, chatting about our kids and the latest budget crisis, etc. At the end of the evening, one of the women moved over to the chair next to mine and said, "I want to thank you for all those articles you write. My son is two years behind Marcus, and I feel like you've prepared me for everything he's gone through."

She pointed out an article I had written specifically about the transition from elementary school to junior high. I was a little dismayed by the extremes at the time: we had gone from a very supportive, feel-good elementary education, to an environment that rivaled most universities in the degree of "sink or swim" independence, and lack of involvement from the teachers. When her son went into junior high, she knew how to be pro-active, just from reading my humorous take on Middle School Survival tactics. People do tell me they like my columns because they see themselves in my situations, but who knew my sassy writing would actually help someone?

Her remarks were the high point of my weekend. I've written my column for four years, and will probably continue, as long as I enjoy it and my editors keep me around. I remember, after the first year, thinking I was a pretty good writer now and why wasn't I getting more noticed? Now, I look back and see how much I had to learn and to grow, both in my skills and my reputation. And I feel that I'm truly ready to be a successful author, as well as a "famous-in-my-own-backyard" columnist.

What about you? Did anyone else think they were ready for the next big thing, whether it was a book deal or a work promotion, only to realize there were still some lessons to learn? What did you do to be ready to take that step?