My Thoughts on Grief and Loss: 25 Years after My Father's Death

25 years ago today, my father was eating lunch at a busy Downtown Dallas restaurant.  He had finished eating his crawfish étouffée and was in the middle of telling a joke.  Before he could get to the punchline, he slumped over, hit his head on the table next to him, and fell to the floor - his secretary would hurt her wrist trying to break his fall.

It was October 17, 1997.  After almost 20 minutes of nurses performing CPR on him, an ambulance showed up to take him to the hospital.  But it was too late.  My father had died of a massive heart attack.  

He was 54.

It's hard to believe that my father has now been out of my life the same length of time as he was in it.  I find myself in a similar space that I did on the morning I was writing his eulogy at my parents' kitchen counter: I am at a loss for what to say.  For how to acknowledge this day.  For how to own and speak my truth about the many ways his loss changed the trajectory of my life.  Of who I would become.  And how the trauma of that day shaped who I am.

I think the best way I can honor not only his memory, but also where I am 25 years later, is to reflect on what I've learned about grief.  And what I'm still learning about how I want to live my life.

1. Give yourself permission to heal.

People often want to know a time frame for when it won't hurt so much after a sudden loss.  Trust me, I know how indescribable that pain is and how you just want it to go away.  I wish I could say it will only hurt for "x" amount of time.  What I can say with certainty is that it does get better if you to allow yourself the time to heal.  Be kind to yourself in these moments.  There is no guidebook for how to work your way through loss - I mean, there are books upon books about grief (believe me, I got most of them after my dad died).  None of those helped me.  What did help me was just to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Keep showing up each day. Some days even that will be unbearable.  Some days just getting up and getting dressed will be all you can give.  And that's okay.  Don't hide from the grief.  You may want to find ways to escape it, but you can't.  Believe me, I tried. But I think that because I faced it head on, I'm in a better place today.  Little things that helped me through was finding ways to get my mind off of the loss.  That will be unique to whatever you find comfort in.  For me, I continued to teach, I took up painting, and I wrote.  I also found a local grief support group, which reminded me that I was not alone (and I am still dear friends with a couple of those people who are now more like family).  And if you need to move and start over, that's okay, too.  I left to live in the country with my dad's family for 7 years, and it was the best thing I ever did for myself - and in the middle of all that, I went back to school for creative writing.  So much good came from so much loss and grief - we just have to be open to exploring the roads that healing wants to take us on.

 2. Listen to those closest to you.

I can say this with 100% certainty: my friends and my dad's family saved my life.  Literally.  I was so engulfed in my grief that I couldn't see a way out.  Year 2 became 3 and I didn't know if I would ever feel normal again.  One night I was alone in my apartment and was struggling to get through another day.  I called one of my closest friends.  After giving me the space to share my feelings, she told me, "It's time you get on medication.  You take medicine when you're sick, right?  This isn't any different." A light bulb went off.  This was the answer I was looking for.  I thought it was a weakness that somehow I couldn't get through the loss.  But my brain was (and is) just wired differently.  I suffer from anxiety and depression and that combined with a tragic loss was the recipe for disaster.  I think people have a different relationship with mental health now than they did 25 years ago (at least I hope that's the case, because it should be).  I sought out the treatment that was right for me until I was able to get through the hardest parts of the loss, and then, I could see it through un-medicated when the time was right for me. It's not the answer for everyone, but it kept me from self-harm or turning to drugs or alcohol or other ways of escape - and I've seen many fall down that dark path.  I hope you have people in your life who will call it as they see it.  And if you don't, I'm here to tell you, it's okay to seek help so you can learn to live again.  

3. Grief hits at unexpected times.

I've heard people say that they didn't see it coming.  They'll be walking through a grocery store, and all of a sudden in the middle of the pasta aisle, they'll start crying.  They feel ashamed, embarrassed, or at a loss.  This is completely normal.  I've been walking across my college campus where I teach and seen fathers with their daughters on Parents Weekend and had to stop and catch my breath.  Just two years ago, in fact, I had one of the hardest moments I've experienced in quite some time.  I was going in for a follow up mammogram after a suspicious area had been detected (thankfully, it turned out just to be dense tissue).  When the elevator doors opened, I saw a crowd of people surrounding a man on the floor.  They were doing CPR on him, and the defibrillator was giving automated commands.  My own heart started to race like it was trying to beat for him.  I was pulled off to the side of the check-in desk and asked to take a seat.  That seat was in direct line with the dead man's face.  I began to cry.  A woman handed me a Kleenex box and asked me if I was okay.  I said, "That's how my dad died."  She pulled me into another room to wait for my mammogram.  I later called my friend to tell her what I had just seen.  How I had always imagined how people reacted to seeing my own father dead in a public space.  How those nurses in that restaurant also tried to keep him alive by doing compressions on his chest.  And in that moment, my friend told me that now I can see how that moment really looked.  People weren't just crowding around pointing or staring coldly at him.  Some may have been praying.  Some may have been crying.  Some may have simply left the room and recounted the story of what they saw.  But amid the chaos, there was love in there, too.  I went home and thought of that man and his family.  I wondered if he made it out alive.  And if he didn't, I wished him and his family peace before I went to bed.  Because I finally felt a sense of my own peace and had a new narrative to tell myself of what that day in the restaurant looked like for my own father.

Grief happens at unexpected times, and you won't always be prepared for when it does.  And it's okay.  Allow yourself permission to feel those feelings.  Then take breathe, take a walk, call a friend, get some rest.  And give yourself credit for getting through another day.  Tomorrow is a new one, and it won't always be as hard as the one before.

4. Don't get lost in your grief.

The hardest part for me over the years has been to see people who never moved forward with their lives after a tragic loss.  To be clear, that loss will always be a part of you, and I can't say how one should or shouldn't grieve.  But for me, if I were still in the same space in my life that I was 25, 15, or even 10 years ago, it would truly make me have a sense of regret.  I am now only 4 years away from the age my father was when he died, and the best way I can honor him is to live my life the most completely and truthfully and fully as I can.  To live a life he was never able to see through to old age.  Trust me, this is a work in progress.  I know what I need to do, but I have to remind myself almost daily.  For me that's trying not to get stressed over small things.  Not to work myself to death.  Remember to give myself time at the end of the day to notice how the grass feels between my toes, how the dove sounds in the backyard maple tree, how the wind feels on my face as summer turns to fall. 

One of my favorite lessons came when I was moving back to Texas after being with my dad's family for 7 years.  I was behind the wheel of a U-Haul truck, and before I could even get down the road from my rental home, I started to cry.  My cell phone rang, and it was my friend Jake.  I told him I didn't know if I could do this.  I didn't know if I could face what was ahead of me.  He said, "All you have to think about right now is driving forward."  It has become a motto for how I live my life during stressful times that I don't think I can get through.  But the truth is, I have.  And I will continue to do so.

5. Share your story, and allow other survivors to share theirs.

Less than two weeks after my dad died, I was back teaching middle school.  I walked into the school cafeteria during lunch and sat down with my colleagues.  Everyone looked at me and stopped talking.  The rest of the lunch period we all sat in silence.  I felt like a spotlight was on me, and that I was the one who was supposed to know how to give voice to my grief.  Please know, it's okay to talk about grief and to let people share stories about their loved ones.  It's also okay when one of your friends asks how she can help, and because you don't have the words, she'll just sit with you in that moment.  I think people worry that they won't say the right thing or think it will be too painful to bring up the loss.  But honestly, it's already on our minds.  It's not like you'll say, "I'm sorry about your dad," and I will have forgotten that he just died.  Sharing memories, talking about them, trying to give voice to your feelings helps us heal.  It still does.  And I continue to hear how important this is to people who have suffered tragic losses in their lives.  Yes, my grief support friend and I have cried in the middle of a restaurant while trying to eat our pancakes as we shared our pain and how we'd overcome it.  That's okay.  And yes, that same friend sent me flowers for my 50th birthday and I was so overcome with emotion, I cried in the middle of my party.  It reminded me that my dad didn't live to see that day, or my wedding day, or get to meet my husband and his two kids.  And that's okay, too.  Because in the end, all that matters is that you made it.  I made it.  I survived a tragic loss and I'm here writing about it.  

I'm not sure what else I'll do today to honor my father's memory.  Maybe I'll go to the cemetery and stand in that open field and feel the breeze to remind myself I'm still alive.  And maybe that's enough.

The Virtual Rabbit Hole

I recently found myself falling down the social media rabbit hole…again.  It starts simple enough: I’ve been teaching for five hours and get home exhausted, and I’m looking to unwind.  The house is quiet, I’m stuck on the couch with sore legs, and I grab my iPad.  A couple of hours later, I’ve watched countless YouTube videos, scrolled through Facebook, checked and responded to emails from students and colleagues, returned to Facebook to see what I missed…you know the drill.

But one night I stumbled across an article talking about how social media can “kill” creativity.  And in that same week I read that The Roots’ drummer, Questlove, wrote a book about the same topic (Creative Quest), as have countless of other authors (just Google “Can social media kill creativity?”…but if you get trapped and find yourself reading articles about green-haired fish becoming extinct, don’t blame me.)

The effect social media can have on our lives is nothing new.  In fact I teach a composition course addressing the various articles regarding social media's addictive impacts on the brain, as well as the positive and negative outcomes that it can have on our relationships with ourselves and others…but what I had failed to realize was how social media had an impact on my own creative process.

For the past 11 years I’ve been an Instructor in academia, which means I’ve taught, to date, roughly 1,800 students (if I add up the amount I’ve graded, I may cry and retreat to YouTube, so bear with me).  To say I'm busy during a regular semester is an understatement.  But why, then, was I not being more creative over the summer?  Part of it was definitely the need to unwind, yes.  But during that time away I often felt the pressure not just to write, but to write something “of worth.”  These pressures can not only be overwhelming, but they can halt creativity altogether. 

What I was struggling to figure out, however, is how the pressures today were different from when I was in graduate school.  I was naïve back then, yes, and fearless, but I’ve always faced (harsh) criticism with an “I’ll show you” mentality.  But the past few years have been different, and I was looking for an answer.  I never realized that my retreat into social media to fill voids could be one of the causes for my creative decline.

Everyone is different in his/her creative process, but when I started to think about when I’ve been most creative, it’s been in those quiet moments of boredom.  Of silence.  And in those moments I would paint or write or play guitar or draw.  It wouldn’t always be anything extraordinary, but at least I was being creative.  I didn’t think about if someone would “like” my poem or “love” my painting – I did it because it’s a part of who I am.  I need creativity to survive.

What’s the point of all of this?  The point is that I’m here writing again.  That I put down my iPad on the first day of summer break.  And to remind myself that some days I need to step away from the virtual world and enter the creative one.

So if you'll excuse me, it's time to shut down my Mac.  There's a poem I need to write.

A Poem for Marthe

The Sound of Blue
for Marthe Reed

Walking through thunder
under a sky

crying for black to break,
I remember blue -

azure hues you blew
from your cupped palms

across the sea
into coils of white foam

fingers at my feet.
I lean into the sea

listening to waters hemorrhage
hymns of "she is no longer."

It begins to rain.

***

The best way I could think to honor your memory, Marthe, was to write a poem.  I hope that wherever you are, you can see the beauty of blue.  And memories.  And feel the love we are sending you.  I'll miss you, my friend.

What's on My Mind: The Social Media Dilemma

I remember seeing a show many years ago that talked about empathy.  The story went as follows:

Imagine that you are in your car, and someone cuts you off.  You will often react by honking your horn, yelling obscenities, or feeling angry. 

Now imagine that you are walking down the street, and someone cuts you off by bumping into you.  If the other person apologizes, you continue on your way; no harm, no foul.  If not, you may grumble something under your breath, but you are less likely to cause a scene or audibly vocalize your anger.

Why?  When we are in our cars, we feel a sense of protection.  We are yelling at a vehicle, an object.  But when an actual person bumps into us, we are face-to-face with a human being.  We are no longer “protected” by a vehicle, we are forced to look one another in the eye, and, therefore, more likely to be empathetic to the other person's (unintentional) actions. 

I was reminded of this story as I spent another day scrolling through my Facebook page. I began to think that this is what’s happening to us on social media.  We are “protected” in a virtual world.  We aren’t looking people in the face as often when we speak our minds, and, as a result, we seem to be losing our sense of empathy.  

I know that for many this is nothing new; however, I think we are seeing an increase in the lack of empathy that has been taking place.  For example, I stumbled across a political post this morning and clicked on the comment section, only to see comments quickly becoming verbal attacks, the argument nowhere to be found.  Words like, “You are disgusting for thinking this,” “You’re a f*ing idiot,” “Why don't you shut the f* up,” etc.  I wanted to take a break from this, so I went on my neighborhood group page to see what was happening in the neighborhood.  I found myself falling further into the rabbit hole.

I have often wondered when social media turned into what it has now become: both an immense connector and divider at the same time (in the words of Jon Stewart). The trend was moving in this direction before this past year (though many will argue that it has become exacerbated).  Perhaps it’s a by-product of our “tell us what you think” culture.  Perhaps we are becoming more comfortable with using social media as a platform to express how we think or feel.  

Nevertheless, what is unique to social media is how we are communicating our oppositions or disagreements.  In the past we would sit down, face to face with one another, and express how we felt.  Now?  Now we are communicating with a computer screen between us, and like being in the car, there is an inexplicable barrier between “me” and “you” when people don’t see the way the other does.  Or see why the other person does.

The result?  Verbal attacks on one another.  And when these attacks happen to my own friends or are attacks on what I fundamentally believe and hold to be morally and ethically true, I have been hitting three buttons:  Unfriend.  Unfollow.  Delete.  (I do, however, see the inherent danger in doing that as well.) And that has included deleting my own posts -- posts about what I believe in, links with videos supporting those beliefs, articles where I was shaking my head "yes" over and over -- because I didn't want to have to sort and sift through the comments on that particular day.  I had had enough.  

What I can’t delete, unfortunately, and what I can’t ignore is the impact this is having on my understanding of community.  My understanding of empathy.  I've found myself repeating in my head, "I wonder what Dad would think.  I wonder what my grandparents would say."  They've been gone long before social media made its debut.  But the reality is, even if they were alive today, we would be having that conversation in person...over "coffee milk" on the front porch.

While I don’t know what to do about that in a virtual world, I find that I try to leave it as often as I can.  To reach out to people and meet face to face.  To fight for a cause I think is important.  To pick up a poem, a short story, a play and remember the importance in doing so. But at the end of the day, I still find myself going back.  I guess I still long for the sense of connection, the sense of community that I once found there.  Maybe it still is there, and I’m just having a hard time seeing past the cars that continue to cut me off without recognition or acknowledgement of who I am as a human being.

Je T'aime, Lafayette

Last night I found myself up until about 2AM reading news reports and Facebook posts about the shooting in Lafayette, and I have not been able to detach myself from the computer today.  Friends and family have all been accounted for, but making sense of it all is far from over.  And maybe that's what I'm doing...trying to make some sense from this.

Lafayette has always been more "home" to me than where I was born.  My father's family still resides just south of there where I myself own land, and I would spend my summers on the farm with my grandmother until two years ago when she passed away.  When my father died, it was the first place I wanted to be.  Because Acadiana is a place unlike anywhere else.  I am often reminded of this when I've been away for a while and then walk into an establishment...any establishment...grocery, retail, gas station, bank...I'm not just greeted by a "smile," but by genuine people having genuine conversations.  By people who see my maiden name (and know how to spell and pronounce it), ask who my family is, and then proceed to tell me they went to high school, played with, lived down the street from them.

Lafayette is about community.  A group of people who will do anything for each other in times of need.  During Hurricanes Rita and Katrina, I remember report after report on the news of someone taking a pirogue down the bayou, tools from the shed, sweat off their backs to help one another.  After Lily, my family gathered on our property and cleared trees, fallen branches, and then sat on the porch to drink a beer.

What hurt me last night is knowing that in a place of hundreds of thousands of people, at least one of my friends would know one of the victims (and, after this morning, I've come to find out the number is quickly rising).  Because despite its numbers, Lafayette is a strong community.  People know one another.  Celebrate one another.  Support one another.

This "man" came in and devastated a town, a community, and today my heart goes out that community I know and love.  I know that in the next few days you will be searching for answers, saying your prayers, wondering "why" this had to happen and continues to happen...again...and again...and again.  I am searching for those answers myself.

I know that in the next few days, you will come together as you have done time and time again.  In each other's kitchens, under the carport, in the Parc.  For those of us who can't be there, our thoughts are with you.

My heart goes out to you, Acadiana.  Stay strong...as you have done time and time again.

Je T'aime, Lafayette.

Giving New Life to The Exhibit

After eight years, I have finally decided to brush the dust off my dissertation play, The Exhibit.

On my way in and out of rehearsals the past several weeks, I was feeling the excitement once again that I had when I first wrote the play. I walked onto the stage to place the charcoals, buttons, fabric, and I questioned why it had taken me so long to step foot on the stage again. But I know the answer. I have just not allowed myself to speak it in public. And with this second life to my first play, it's time.

Many of you know the story. Many of you will not want to hear it again. Some have their own versions. But this one is mine. And I claim it as my own, in my own words.

It was a rainy Thursday night back in 2007. My friend and I had just finished up dress rehearsals and were standing outside a diner at 10pm. We noticed how hard it was raining. One of those fast, pouring, Louisiana rains. What I didn't know was that my friend Shelley was on a highway with her visiting friend heading back from a day of sightseeing.  What I didn't know is that her car had been hit from behind by an impaired driver going to fast. That the car hit a tree head on. That she died instantly.

The next day I was teaching my final drama class, and I saw our graduate advisor pacing outside my door. I thought little of it. When I finished my class, she took me around the corner and told me to sit down. She told me that Shelley was dead.

The next few hours only contain images. Images of her face. Images of standing in the department office. Images of standing in my own office.

I would later be driven to Shelley's house where her roommates were all gathered from across campus. We sat there in the den. At the kitchen table. Shelley had just made Nanaimo bars. They were still sitting on the table.

I don't know how much time passed, but I found myself at a table with her roommates, her friends. Her family was flying in for graduation in a few short days. Her classes had to be wrapped up. Her clothes had to be packed up. And we had to face the truth.

Soon the department head and assistant head were at the table with us. Who could help...who knew where her papers were kept...who would take over the final days of her classes. And then, the topic switched over to the play.

The play.

My friend and I were supposed to be in a play that night.  We had been rehearsing for about a year. It was one-night only.

When you hear about playwrights who see their plays as something that becomes a part of them, like an only child, or an appendage, or part of the soul, this is what it meant to this playwright. This director. And we loved and respected her for that.

But when asked if I could perform that night, I hesitated. I knew what that would mean to the director. I knew, deep down, that this would hurt her. But I also knew that I was hurt. And I asked if I could perform the next night. I needed another day. I couldn't go on.

That one decision would have major repercussions. The time I needed from the loss of my friend would equate to the loss of several more. It divided the cast in two. I lost my mentor, my friend. People closest to me told me their thoughts and feelings. They told me the other people's responses were selfish. Were irrational. Were to be ignored.

But the damage was done. To me. To them. And it was exacerbated when I decided, a few days later, to go on with a staged reading of my dissertation, The Exhibit.

How could I do that? How could I give a reading of my play when I had not done the other one? Meetings were held with the cast without me. My voice was silenced. My story would not be told. The story about how I wanted to do the play the next night. The story about how I didn't go to the department head to "rat" anybody out. The story about how I went in there to talk to her about Shelley's memorial and she closed the door and asked me what was going on with the cast and if we should have a meeting. And how I said I would love that but didn't want to cause anymore trouble. About how I sat in a friend's apartment and cried because the cast met without telling me. Because they were too upset to look at me. To listen to me. To hear me say I was sorry. I was grieving. But they'd say they were, too.

And I've held onto that story publicly for eight years.  And now it's time to let go.  Why? Because I need to. I need to honor Shelley, the play, the time I spent with those cast members, my director and mentor, all of whom I loved.  And it's time to write drama again. It's time to be on the stage again. Because since that time I have not written a new play. I have not allowed myself to enjoy the stage, a place I know and love.

I can't go back and undo the past. And, first and foremost, I would undo the loss of Shelley.

But the losses that I have experienced have made me who I am.  Cliche?  Perhaps. But it's also true. And the older I get, the more I know this hard truth as well: not everyone will approve of your choices. You lose people you love.  Some will come back into your life. Some you will never see again. And that is life.

But tonight, the show will go on.  The lights will come up. My play will find a new voice, new memories.

And for that, I am thankful.  And so, it begins.

Preservation

Stay connected.  Today

feeding Facebook with news-

worthy tweets and snapped chats

tumbled in an instant…

forty-three minutes of

morning scrolling through words

scanning phrases so I

can move on, move into

the next and the next and

stay connected.  Today

is different because

he told me to “look up”

she told me to forget

my phone, and I’ll see how

one generation is

not at fault.  It’s not a

click away from our down-

fall.  Rock ‘n roll still swings

the pendulum and the

devil – he never came.

Stay with me.  Today I

started thinking about

grandmother’s rocking chair

in the kitchen corner

coffee in my hand, just

to make me feel older

than single digits, and

hums from the wall unit

and gears shifting, never

without white noise, never

without my grandfather’s

garden tomatoes fresh

from the morning darkness.

I was thinking about

my grandmother’s crippled

hands holding the wooden

spoon, spooning cornbread from

mixing bowls and Blackburn’s

syrup in mason jars

sweet as the fig tarts in

the orange Tupperware

there in the middle of

her kitchen table.  We

finish conversation

just after 10pm.

Just after I type this

I’ll update my status

and make sure that I stay

connected.  But I start

thinking about my aunt

before cancer erased

the left half of her side

before I lied down in

the shoulder’s crease when she

said she would miss me and

I cried until…She sat

with me in her kitchen

(bright yellow walls made her

happy) and she taught me

lessons, told me advice,

forgot time was passing

past midnight.  I wanted

to remember it all.

I do remember this:

How I learned the meaning

of being connected –

the slow turn of her wrist

smells of Community

a steady hum through coils

waves of her long, grey hair.

These memories cannot

be deleted or be

updated or exceed

the word limit.  They are

what keep me, what shape me,

what I promised you: I

won’t stop writing.  This is

for the women in life
who always stay with me.  

**************************

OLD COPY

Stay connected.  Today

updating the Facebook feed or

typing Twitter characters until

what is Upworthy

must be shared,

this album must be liked,

accept a Friend Request from, who?

Forty-three minutes of morning

scanning words

glancing phrases

so I can move on

move into

the next and the next and…

Stay connected.  Today

will be different because

he told me to “Look Up”

she told me to forget my phone

and I’ll see how that changes

or rearranges the time.

It’s not a generation at fault.

It’s not a click away from our downfall.

Rock ‘n roll still swings the pendulum

and the devil never came. 

Stay with me.  Today

I started thinking about

my grandmother’s rocking chair

kitchen corner

coffee in my hand

just enough to make me feel

older than single digits

the hum of a wall unit and the gears shifting

never without white noise

never without my grandfather’s tomatoes

fresh from the morning darkness

just beyond the utility door.

I’m feeling more connected.

I started thinking about

my grandmother’s crippled hands around

a wooden spoon spooning cornbread mix

from the mixing bowl painted with green and red

and the Blackburn’s syrup in the honey jar

sweet as fig tarts in the plastic orange Tupperware

in the middle of the kitchen table

in the middle of a conversation.

Just after 10pm.

Just after I type this

I’ll update my statuses and iTunes and apps and

make sure I stay connected. 

But I started thinking about

my aunt before cancer erased

the left half of her body

before I lied down in the crease of her shoulder

and she said she would miss me

and I cried until…

she sat with me at her kitchen bar

(bright yellow walls made her happy)

and she taught me lessons and told me advice and

forgot that time was passing past midnight.

I wanted to remember our time

but all I remember is this:

How I learned to stay connected with

the turn of her wrist

the smell of Community

the hum through the coils

the wave of her long, grey hair.

These memories cannot be deleted or updated or

exceed the word limit. 

These memories are 

what keep me

what shape me

(what I promised you:  I won’t stop writing).

This is for the women in my life who will always

stay with me.

Constructing Memory

Much has been written about how Smart phones, apps, and social media have changed the way that we communicate with one another, and for the past five years, I have been having conversations with Gen Y students in the classroom about these changes.  One of the experiments that we do is a social media blackout where the students are asked to abstain from all social media for five days, and I tell them that I will go along for the ride.  I give them an assignment that already breaks the rules: I ask that they blog about their social media fast.  What continues to be of interest to me is that students rarely realize how much of their day is spent in front of a screen.  They don't realize that they've been passing a friend to a class every day for the past few weeks.  That they really don't like when someone pulls out a Smart phone during lunch and begins to text.  That they've missed the fact that flowers are blooming on campus.  And many of them continue the fast to see what life has to offer away from technology.  One student recently wrote:

These are just some of their observations over the years.

So, yes, there is an addiction, but it is often an unconscious one.  There are debates about what we are "getting" from this new form of communication.  I myself am guilty of these behaviors (as much as I hate to admit it).  What's the first thing I did when I woke up today?  Got coffee?  Ate breakfast?  Pet the cat?  No...I checked Facebook.  For 45 minutes.

We're seeing YouTube videos that tell us to "Look Up..."

...or realistic moments about the day "I Forgot My Phone..."  (posted on my birthday interestingly enough)...

We're even seeing classic poetry being used in Apple commercials (albeit Robin Williams reading of a classic Tennyson work):

And millions of people view these.  And people go to other forms of social media to discuss, like, say he/she will take more time out of his/her day to abstain.  And how long did you last?  A day?  Two?

I'm right there with you.

***

This morning I shot the picture (yes, with my iPad) at the top of this entry.  Why these items?

1. Technology
2. Writing
3. Memory (This card is to celebrate our recent wedding, yes...but the blue Mustang convertible reminded my dad's army buddy and his wife of my dad's car...it looks identical to his actually.  And since dad has long since passed, they wanted to remind me that he would still be there on my wedding day.)

Effects of communication aside, I've been thinking about the relationship between technology/writing/memory.  I'm uncertain where this will take me, but the outcome will be a collaborative creative work.

There's something there that I'm trying to uncover...but I'm not sure what...or why.  When I try to decide how to approach this project, I keep seeing images of my grandmother's kitchen, the rocker in the corner, my father's mustang in the garage, my aunt holding a cup of coffee at the kitchen bar talking to me about life past 2AM...and I wonder...what would be different about those childhood memories, of people who are no longer here, had a Smart phone been next to me?

Making memory tangible...I have to end with Paul Auster:

"The pen will never be able to move fast enough to write down every word discovered in the space of memory.  Some things have been lost forever, other things will perhaps be remembered again, and still other things have been lost and found and lost again."

Well, my cat is pacing at my feet rubbing.  Guess I should go feed her.  Guess it's time to get back to the real world.

On Getting Married at 41

I have something shocking to tell you.  It will go against most of what you have seen on TV.  Read in books.  Watched in films.  Ladies, I am here to tell you...it's okay to get married for the first time...at age 41.

How do I know this?  Well...that 41-year-old, first time bride is none other than myself.  In four days I will be walking down the aisle behind my bridesmaids who are now closing in on their 20-year wedding anniversaries.  My father has long since passed away, and none of my grandparents survived to see this day.  But the day is finally upon me.  And I couldn't be happier.

The best part of waiting to get married is that you have a better sense of who you are...at least that is the case with me. I was recently asked if my future husband completes me.  I said, "No.  He enhances who I have already become."  I don't think that anyone should complete you (sorry, Jerry Maguire).  I think you need to be in space where your life is complete with or without a man.  Now, don't get me wrong.  It took me years to learn this lesson.  I bought into all of the Disney and Hollywood myths (and I'm here to tell you that women still do, which is a big problem...but, hey, they're making millions, so why change now?).

Now I do know couples who are still happily married straight out of college, and I've dated some good men in my life (okay, maybe two or three).   I even came close to being engaged twice.  But I wasn't comfortable in my own skin.  My self-esteem took years to solidify especially when it came to who I dated.  My father was a very dominant man, and our home was the stereotypical 50's household, but there was violent behavior and there was a lesson in female submission that needed to be unlearned.  I'm not proud of some of the decisions I made when it came to men, or some of my behavior, but I didn't know better.  And then I learned better.  And it took years of my time.

But the time was not wasted.  I didn't sit in the corner and cry (okay, sometimes, but my friends eventually pulled me up and took me out for ice cream). I knew that I could not control if or when someone would come into my life.  But what I could control was how I lived it.  So I decided to go to graduate school.  To spend time with my father's family after his death.  Seven years passed in Acadiana, and I wouldn't trade one minute of that experience.  I wrote, I met lifelong friends, I earned my Ph.D., I leaped over barricades to catch Mardi Gras beads...well, that's a story for another post.

And when I graduated I got a job at TCU (where I am still teaching to this day), and I love every minute of my job (well, sometimes when the papers pile above my head, you will hear me grumble from behind them).  It was around that time that I started to have friends buzz in my ear, "Have you tried online dating?  Try online dating!"  Lord.  Really?  That's for desperate people.  What if I end up with some creepy dude in cyberspace who stalks my apartment past midnight?  But after about a year of that buzz, I took the plunge.  And four creepy guys later, I met Kevin...one week before my subscription would expire on eHarmony...on my birthday.

Three years later, two beautiful step-kids, and one amazing man later, here we are...four days before our wedding.

I'm here to tell you that the number of days it takes you to get married is trivial.  Live your life.  Don't waste it wondering why it's not turning out one way or another.  That's not something that you can control.  What you can control is your own happiness.  And if the right person comes along, whatever age that happens at, you will be ready.  And if he doesn't, that's okay, too...despite what your mother says.

So if you see a 41-year-old bride on the road this weekend, her veil blowing in the Texas breeze, don't be afraid.  It's just me.  It's taken me some time, I took the long way around, but I'm finally getting to the chapel.

And it's my turn to say, "I do."

And Then There Was 40

If someone would have told me 10 or 20 years ago that 40 would be on of my best years, I would have laughed...relentlessly.  I mean, isn't there a reason why they sell stuffed vultures and black crepe paper for those middle-aged parties?  Give out diapers and Geritol as party favors?  And, yes, I do see the effects of my years slowly creeping in.  The gray hair is starting to sprout from the top of my head.  My bedtime is now well before midnight (you're talking to the person who used to stay up until 3AM and then sleep until noon).  My knees are starting to click when I go up the stairs.  I do laundry on Friday nights...and enjoy it.

But what people fail to tell you about 40 is that you've come to a point in your life where you have settled more and more into who you are, where you stand, and what you will not stand for.  That's not to say I have it all figured out.  I don't.  And I'm not sure I want to.  My life, for me, should have constant room for growth, development, and pushing myself into new directions. 

And 40 was certainly a year for just that.

This past year I signed up for two photography classes (thanks, Dwight!) and began to explore life beyond the lens.

This year I submitted my play for publication (after seven years of having it sit idly on my computer).  My fingers are crossed that good news will soon come my way.  

This year my boyfriend proposed to me after three years of dating, and yes, this is my first time being married.  I will be the first to admit that I made some poor choices when it came to the guys I dated.  But, the older I got, the more confident I grew.  And with that confidence came an understanding of who I was, what I wanted, and what I would not settle for.  Just when I had reached the point where I had made that discovery, my fiancee entered into it.  The timing was finally right.  And I said yes.

This year we are building a home together, just as we will begin building our lives together...a brick at a time, a step at a time, with a solid foundation to hold us up.

So, yeah, I might be over-the-hill to some...but I'm flying down that hill and looking for the next one to climb.  And I'm the happiest I've been in a long time.

41...I'm ready...let's see what you got.


    

The Professor Wants to Know...

I was playing around on my computer tonight researching female playwrights for my upcoming drama course this fall when I found myself reading through articles about new plays, new terms (such as the "angry young woman" borrowing from John Osbourne's "angry young man" of the late 50s), and new faces.  And, once again, I was reminded that it has been some time since I have sat down and written a full-length play.

Poetry has always been my "go to" place when I write, but lately, writing has taken a backseat to my photography.  To remedy that, I'm starting up a new project this summer with some friends, and I am excited about the possibilities that can arise out of it.

I've always loved working collaboratively with fellow artists, and in fact, tonight I stumbled across an old photograph from grad school:

Every Thursday night there was a reading for graduate students to feature their work, and on this night, a few of us decided to experiment with our reading.  Two of us read poetry, one of us composed music to accompany the words, and the other created a visual image as the reading transpired.

As busy as we all were writing our dissertations, juggling teaching, grading papers, meeting with students, meeting with our committees, we still found time to create.  And I loved every minute of it.  There was no impending pressure to publish, to write, to perform.  We just did.  And it was magical.

Seven years later, I am struggling to find that same balance, and what I thought was an individual issue turns out to be a recurring theme among some of these very people that I once collaborated with.  I'd actually like to explore this further with some of you.

I'm curious...for those of you who have been an adjunct or instructor, do you find yourself more or less prolific since your graduate school days?   Do you think that there is a difference between non-tenured and tenured track in this regard?  Are there gender issues at play, or is it common across the board?  If you are recently graduating, will you move away from academia or seek it out?  Why?

Me: Plain and Simple

My original intention with The 40 Project was to check items off my list on a monthly basis and write about the experience...then the fall semester got underway, and I fell off the blog wagon.  I know speaking to fellow college instructors that this is our constant battle -- how to effectively balance teaching and be active with our own work/research/writing.

We are still looking for answers. 

What I want to focus on today is that I am continuing to go outside of my comfort zone and take part in activities that I've always wanted to do, but for one reason or another, have yet to accomplish.  Yesterday was one of those days.  When a friend of mine put a call out for actors, I jumped at the opportunity to take part in a short film project.  Even though film is one of my major areas of study, I 've never been an actor in a film.  I knew how different the process would be from my time on stage, but I never really thought about everything the process itself entailed.  And I loved it.  I loved the lights' heat on my face, the stills adding up to a final, fluid movement, the close ups.

Ah, the close ups.

There was a noticeable issue there, and it just comes with age.  For some, it's gray hair.  For others, it's complexion.  For me, it's those pockets that have formed under my eyes.  The bags.  The "try this product to reduce swelling, and then when that doesn't work, spend your money on this other product, because we guarantee that this, along with extensive Photoshopping, will get rid of those incessant bags."  I've tried it all.  Every roll-on ball with gels, lotions, and pastes.  Cortisone, Preparation H (yep...you know you've heard that, too), ice packs...need I go on?  (If you've kept up with my Facebook posts or heard me tell this story, you'll even remember the time I went to see a doctor about a sinus infection and he looked at me, pointed to my eyes, and asked, "What's going on there?")  There was finally a make-up artist who came over with concealer and powder and did her best to hide my imperfection.

We'll see how it turns out in the final edit.

On the way home (the entire 45 minutes home), I thought about how women's physical flaws are often pointed out.  It's nothing new, and we've heard it all before.  But I also thought about how I could respond to this.  What is my reaction going to be?

Here's what I decided:

When I teach issues of gender in the classroom, I ask my students, "If we know that the images that we are barraged with on a daily basis are not real, are unattainable, why do we continue to strive for this false ideal?"  Yesterday, the tables were turned, and I was the one in search of an answer.  I realized that the real problem is not that I have bags under my eyes.  The real problem is that we do not see this often enough in our image-driven culture.

While some may choose to see external bags, redness on the cheeks, or un-brushed hair, I choose to celebrate what the external holds.  My face carries a lifetime of experiences, and I've earned every line on my face.  One of things I know for sure, what is truly important, exists beyond the face, and those who hold the most significance in my life, celebrate that fact with me every day. 

Plain and simple.

Artistic Resuscitation

Four score and a couple of blogs ago, I was in a bit of an artistic funk.  Despite a dear friend telling me just to "be creative again," the wall was up and wouldn't budge. 

The longer I'm not creative, the more time I spend away from expressing myself in that way, the more I feel a sense of loss.  Even though I was far from the mood, I forced myself to get back "out there" and do something.  After all, this year is supposed to be the year I reach out of my comfort zone and explore different avenues, possibilities, and opportunities.

Last week, I was talking to some theater students after class, telling them how I missed being on the stage.  They told me to check out the theater department and try to get involved again (simple, and yet, it was something I had shied away from).  Right after class, I decided to go to our theater department's website.  I read through various profiles and chose one professor that I could talk to.  I wasn't entirely sure what the discussion was going to be about.  I mean, I had some general ideas about getting back on stage, maybe seeing my play produced professionally, etc., but the plan was just to move forward...with anything creative.  We did meet for lunch just a few days later, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed for an upcoming production of my work.  But really, it just felt good to "talk theater" again.

Tonight was no different.  I had the privilege of driving a visiting professor to dinner.  His specialization is in both Augusto Boal's Theatre of the Oppressed and in LGBT young adult lit.  The connection makes perfect sense, but it is not one I had previously made.  I have taught Boal to my underclassmen before, and on separate occasions I have taught LGBT drama and film.  What excited me is that there is still room for exploration on the stage that has yet to be discovered.  Why do we have films, TV shows, and plays about the LGBT community but little, if any, that deal directly with, and feature, the youth?  Simply put, it's the controversy that surrounds this subject matter.  It's alive and well.  But the possibilities...the possibilities are, too.

I don't know what will come out of either of these meetings.  What I do know is that the wall is finally beginning to budge.

Roses for Bobby C

I've often told friends of mine that I have a hard time remembering my teachers during my time as an undergraduate student; this is not the case when it comes to graduate school.

I learned today that one of my former professors, Dr. Barbara Cicardo, passed away.

Now, Dr. Cicardo was a pretty amazing woman.  It seemed that she had read just about everything, and her memory was unlike anything I've ever seen.  Unless I've read a book more than once or taught it, I'm lucky if I can detail the plot for you a few months later.  But Dr. Cicardo could remember what she read during elementary school and tell you details as if she had just closed the cover...well into her 70's. 

I took a few classes with Dr. Cicardo to prepare myself for my early American literature comprehensive exam.  One such class was on the American Eve, an interesting study in women's roles in 18th and early 19th century texts.  The class was once a week for three hours.  Filling up a three-hour lecture is no easy task; but if you were Barbara Cicardo, this was done with ease.  Not even laryngitis stopped her.  One night she actually wrote the lecture on the board in between whispers. 

If you needed to stop into her office, her door was always open.  Joke was, you would need to pencil in about an hour of your time.  She wouldn't just want to talk to you about literature.  She'd want to talk to you about life in general.  About her sister.  About her youth.  About her day.

A handful of graduate students affectionately called her Bobby C., but you knew better than to address her as anything other than Dr. Cicardo in class and in the hallways.  She told us that she had earned her title and she was proud of it.

So, Dr. Cicardo, here's to you.  I hope my career in academia lasts the length of yours, and I thank you for the time you dedicated to us over the years.

Youth

 

Age

 

Beauty

 

 

Artistic Insecurity

Tonight I found myself googling:  "artists and insecurity."  Yep.  I'm having one of those days.  And it led me to wonder how people overcome this, because I know I'm not alone.  One blogger posed the question:

"...to what extent [does] insecurity drive creativity, and when [does] insecurity actually undermine creativity"? (Ross).

I know the "when" answer to the latter part of that question...what I am still searching for is a solution to the "how."  (Love the line in The Beatles song "Something" when George sings, "You know I believe in how.")  How it undermines creativity is that it can stop it from happening altogether.  Now...how do you fix that...stop that from taking hold? 

I am surrounded by truly talented and overwhelmingly productive artists, and somewhere in that space, I question my own creative movement(s)...slow...and resting.

So...I welcome your thoughts. 

The 40 Project

 
So...last week in my 30's is fast approaching.  Instead of having a midlife crisis, I decided to embrace this new decade by trying a bit of an ongoing experiment.

Here's my plan:

For every month in my 40th year, I will do something that pushes me out of my comfort zone.  I want this year to be less about buzzards, black streamers, and Geritol and more about living my life to the fullest  (I'm ignoring the fact that AARP sent me a membership form in the mail this week).  I thought it would be fun to document the events before/during/after they occur on my blog, and I invite anyone else to join in no matter what your age. 

Now, my ideas may not seem as crazy as jumping out of an airplane (unless I am attached to someone who has decades of experience and you have given me ample Valium), but the point is to have fun and to be aware of life's possibilities.

So far, I only have a couple months preplanned:

August:  Get a haircut that normally would scare the bejesus out of me.  This one takes me all the way back to junior high when I got the infamous "perm from hell."  If you knew me back then, you know which one I'm talking about....the one that received comments like:  Did you stick your finger in a socket, Is that a wig, etc.  (FYI, I've told more than one person you couldn't pay me a million dollars to return to age 12-13.)  Since then, I tend to stay in my hair comfort zone.  Every time I see something a little edgy that I want to try, I get the guts until I get into the hairdresser's chair.  This time...this time I'm taking the plunge.  (My mother has already informed me she dislikes this idea...I'd say I'm not off to a good start, but this is not an uncommon occurrence.)  Here's the plan...minus the blond color:

September:  Cook something out of a cookbook that requires more than 4-5 ingredients and serve it to willing test subjects.  (Mama's Pizza is just down the street in case of emergency.)

October:  A DIY project...now that I know what DIY means.

More to come...let The 40 Project begin!