Friendships

When I was a Girl Scout we sang the following song:

              Make new friends

              But keep the old,

             One is silver and the other is gold.

The message is key for young girls who must learn the importance of female relationships.

And if you are lucky, as the years pass and you become an adult, a rare few of the golden friendships reach an even higher status—a level  even more precious than gold.

Some friends become platinum.

And I am blessed to have a few of these.

Having Superpowers

I took a survey recently that was designed to predict which superpower would best fit with your personality. I thought it might be flying—since that is my favorite dream.

I attempted to IM my daughter at work the other day. And upon doing so a message came up that said You are invisible right now. And I got a little bit excited. So I looked at my arms and legs. But they were still in view. And then I ran to look in the mirror. But I still had a reflection.

I wasn’t invisible after all.

I did not have that superpower. The instant messenger lied.

And the conclusion of the survey I took was that the superpower that most aligned with my personality was “creator.” Based on a series of multiple choice questions I would like to build and move things at will. It predicted that I likely was an architect or a writer who dreamed of a magic wand.

And I suppose “creator” truly is the ultimate superpower. It would enable me to craft all the other superpowers at whim. It’s like wishing for more wishes when you have only been granted one.

I suppose it’s why it’s so great to be God.  

The Debates

When I was a little girl I listened to passionate political discussions between family members. One of the most memorable debates was at my Aunt’s house when my cousin returned home from his first semester in college. My cousin expressed views that were common to young people at the time---disillusionment with the war in Vietnam and a vision of racial equality.

The most disappointing outcome of the first presidential debate was the lack of debate. There was no interaction between Obama and Romney. No shared fire. No polite antagonism. Social issues like abortion were never mentioned. Both candidates spoke as if in isolation.

And no matter which side of the political fence you reside, I suspect we all can agree that the vice presidential debate was very different from the presidential debate of the week prior. The moderator provoked more opposing thoughts. There was more verbal exchange. It allowed the vice-presidential candidates’ true colors to reveal themselves.

So what I want to see from Obama and Romney tonight is this: mannered finger pointing and clever retort. I want passion. I want clearly stated plans and a fact-based contrast between two opposing points of view.

I want the presidential debates to look and sound like the post dinner political discussions I grew up with: content laced with zeal. I want the candidates to look each other in the eye and say with authority That’s not true.

Maybe they need a cup of espresso with a splash of anisette first to inspire them--- the Italian version of Four Loco. Both candidates would then be simultaneously energized and uninhibited—like my uncles and cousins were. Because I could stand an elevated high-performance exchange between the two candidates—our collective national heart rate needs the work out.

Shrouds have No Pockets

My mother is of an age where from time to time she will point at something in her apartment and say What are you going to do with this when I die? And because I am honest I say I will probably throw it out. And she typically does not just get angry—she feels hurt. My mother feels so emotionally attached to the “thing” she has pointed to that I assume she is of the belief that if I throw the thing away, it is akin to throwing my memories of her away.

She fears being forgotten.

When I was in Atlanta this last trip my husband and I visited Jimmy Carter’s Presidential Library and Museum. The edifice houses all things Jimmy Carter—everything from his report cards as a little boy to his Nobel Peace prize. There are letters of correspondence as well as the gifts he accumulated from all over the world. It is a monument to his good works and his dedication to human rights.

And that is when I had my moment of clarity.

Instead of upsetting my mother with the prospect that my brother and I will not keep every single item  in her apartment including the beanie baby collection and the Lladro Christmas bells, we will create a Library and Museum dedicated to her memory—just like Jimmy Carter.  We can display all the greeting cards she has ever saved as well as  her overfilled social calendar of bridge games, trips and dinners. And the ugly figurine from Portugal that refuses to break no matter how many times it is knocked over will find a permanent home where all of mankind may now try and figure out why she thinks that chachka is so beautiful.

Because recently I have been telling my mother that all the things she points to will be placed in her coffin—so she can take her things with her--like King Tut. But that is not a very practical idea. The coffin might not close—there are too many items. The pall bearers will have to sit on top to clamp it shut.

But the whole topic is silly anyway. The underlying issue—remembrance—is moot. My mother can never be forgotten—my blog posts have animated her in cyberspace for eternity. She already is immortal.

And things are just things—shrouds have no pockets. The only vestiges of worth are measured in the love you shared. As long as you have been loved, you will not be forgotten. And my mother has been loved—so she has nothing to worry about.

Keeping a Code

I attended Yonkers Public schools until the fourth grade. And during my time there I knew a boy with very many vowels in his first and last name. The boy would often tell his classmates how his father, and his father’s business associates, carried guns. Yet, their profession was not in law enforcement.

And had my parents not moved to Dobbs Ferry and had I remained in public schools I would have attended Gorton High school, where my father would have been my principal.

And so, the boy with very many vowels in his name, who was my former classmate, came to be an enrolled student in Gorton High school. But the boy was not academically inclined and so when it came time for graduation he did not meet the requirements. This did not please the father who carried guns and so he conferenced with my father to see if his son’s record might be reevaluated such that his son might receive a diploma.

My father did not believe that such a revaluation was possible. My father was a man of integrity and believed in rules.

Soon after this meeting some Board of Education members phoned my father to urge the reevaluation requested by the father who carried guns.

But my father stood his ground.

It was like the Cuban missile crisis.

And the father who carried guns made a second appointment to see my father. And my father, understanding the business that the man was in, also understood how to appeal and appease him. And so he told the father that as a school principal he had a code. And that code was something he was obligated to live by. And so as not to bring dishonor to any of the parties involved, my father suggested that the boy with many vowels in his first and last name be allowed to process for the graduation ceremony. Upon arrival at the podium, the boy would receive an empty diploma case. And no one would be any the wiser—especially the boy’s mother and family members.

And the father who carried guns, agreed to my father’s offer. It was an offer he could not refuse. Codes and honor was something the father who carried guns understood. 

And the boy still had the option of attending summer school to meet the requirements if he so chose. But as the boy intended to follow his father into the family business, the profession required no diploma.

And after the crisis was resolved I asked my father if he had been frightened. I asked him if it wouldn’t have been easier just to have caved in to the Board of Education members’ and father who carried guns’ request. And he told me that doing the right thing isn’t always the easy thing. The trick is to find a solution that will allow you to look at yourself in the mirror.

And sometimes I deliberate over words that invite blisters.  And so I must remind myself that  while it would be easier to say nothing, that may not make it the right thing to do.  And at the end of the day, what matters most is to look at yourself in the eye-- and be comfortable with the reflection.

Celebrating Columbus Day?

My friend Tito posted an interesting historical blurb regarding Columbus Day on Facebook the other day.

And it got me thinking about something I never really thought about before—why and when did we start celebrating the holiday? Because as a New Yorker and a person of Italian descent I always just thought Columbus Day was created to compete with Saint Patrick’s Day and to give kids another day off from school in the month of October.

And so I decided to do some light research. As it turns out Columbus Day has been celebrated for centuries throughout Europe. It only became a federal holiday here in 1934.

Who knew?

But it also turns out that Columbus—for lack of a better word---was not all that altruistic. He kind of was a word that rhymes with the word “stick”. And the slavery and genocide of the indigenous people—particularly in Central and South America---which was the direct result of exploration---maybe isn’t all that laudable. Furthermore the fact that the Catholic Church indirectly had a hand in all of this has made me wonder why I ever chose to go down this road of inquiry at all.

I was a lot happier relating Columbus Day to annual winter coat and boot sales at the department stores.

  

And while they say the truth can set you free---sometimes, not so much. I am not sure that if the Knights of Columbus really understood the truth about their role model they would be all that okay with it.

Because Christopher Columbus ain’t  no Saint Patrick. And Leif Ericson discovered the Americas. So maybe the better day for little kids to be off from school in the month of October is Halloween.

Jesus and Baseball

At the last supper Jesus turns to Peter and says (to paraphrase) I know that you think that you won’t, but before the sun rises, you won’t just deny knowing me once, but you are going to deny knowing me three times.

Peter disagrees.

For many many years my husband had a share in season tickets at Shea Stadium. We were Met fans. And for as many years, we hated the Atlanta Braves. They were our nemesis. And more specifically, we hated Chipper Jones because he had made racist comments about New Yorkers when he was a young player. So, when we had the opportunity several weeks ago to see Chipper Jones play his last game in Turner field against the Mets, I was prepared to boo when the crowd cheered.

But Turner field, the Braves fans, and our stellar seats were electrifying. And while intellectually I understood that the tomahawk chop was politically incorrect. I did not just embrace it, I embraced it enthusiastically. So when the fans cheered, I did as well. And when Chipper came to the plate, I wished for a hit. I forgot who I was supposed to be rooting for.

I abandoned my team well before the sun went down.

And just as Jesus predicted, before morning, Peter abandoned Jesus three times. It made Peter feel pretty badly about himself.

And while I should feel ashamed about my switch of allegiance, I do not. The entire Turner field adventure was among the most fun things I have ever done. It was more enjoyable than any Mets game I have ever been to—including the World Series and playoff games.

And while Peter’s lesson was one of repentance, mine was of forgiveness. People make mistakes—even young baseball players--it’s why absolution was invented. Which is the angle I will use when I tell my nephew Andrew—a diehard Mets fan—why I have a light up tomahawk in my arsenal of sports memorabilia: Rooting for the home team is the Christian thing to do.