On Traveling with a Blunt Object (Thank you.)

Over the weekend at the Mom 2.0 Summit (Thank you for an INCREDIBLE event, Laura Mayes and Carrie Pacini. You are both amazing and heroic), I won an an Iris Award for Best Writing, an award that you nominated me for, an award that I wouldn't have won if it wasn't for all of you. It truly means the world to me and I thank you all from the bottom of my everything. It as an overwhelming feeling to be recognized in such a way for the thing I have done my whole life, especially since I am very much aware that there are voices far stronger than mine in this space, louder, more eloquent, knowledgeable... writers who work just as hard, even harder than I do.

I didn't know what to say when my name was called Saturday night because what is there to say when there is everything to say? 

So I said... something. Tried to make sense of my thoughts. Did not make sense of my thoughts. Stood there like an idiot. Oh, hi. 

***

On the way home, I got stopped in the security line at the airport and was asked to step aside. The TSA agent narrowed his eyes before asking to search my bag.

"Yes. Sure. I figured this would happen. There's a trophy in there. It's kind of pointy."

The agent opened my bag and saw the award.

"Are you a writer?" he asked. 

"I am.”

"Me, too. I just wrote a book, actually, and recently started a blog to get my writing out there. I have so much to say, you know. I just want to be heard. I want people to read my book. That's my dream."

We high-fived and then, he asked if I had any advice.

"Oh, I don't know. Just do it?"

"Like Nike?"

"Like Nike."

And then, all at once, it suddenly occurred to me that I did, in fact, have something to say. I had an opinion. Maybe even some helpful advice. 

I thought about what it feels like to walk into a room when you don’t know anyone. I thought about traffic and how hard (and often) intimidating it is to merge when it isn't your right of way. When you live on a busy street. When every day you have to reverse into oncoming traffic. 

Some of us are better at confrontation than others. Some of us are willing to gun it, honk, cut off other cars in order to move forward.

But in my experience, the only way to guarantee someone will let you in is to roll down the window and ask. 

In short, be kind. Roll down your window. Merge. 

And that's exactly what I told him. 

***

I realized after publishing Friday's post that all these years later, I am still really only ever able to articulate my feelings through notes. That for the past nine years, this site is the note I've felt secure about sliding underneath the door. Even when I fuck up or say the wrong thing or write about something that you ultimately disagree with... THIS world of wires and wifi, screens and spam, TMI and typos is my safe place and there has always been love on the other side. 

Because of you. Because—and this is what I've come to realize over the last twelve years writing daily in this space—there is no such thing as a unique experience. Truth is the universal language. Nobody is ever alone. No wo/man is an island.

***

I always feel very out of place at events of any kind. It's a thing I can't explain besides the fact that as a writer, being alone in my head is really the only thing I have been able to master. And then I kind of had an epiphany about it and realized that feeling out of place is what puts me in my place.

"We must find the thing that makes us feel estranged from our community and live in it in order to find our story," I heard myself tell David. “The things that we believe set us apart from our friends and family, audience, and mates are actually the things that will ultimately bring us together, because, here we are, a billion different variations on the same idea. Snowflakes R Us.”

Differentiation is the only way to stand out in a sea of sameness. I always say that if someone is telling you to do something, you should know not to listen to them. If you want advice, seek the one person in the room who isn't offering it  (which is why you might want to ignore everything I am saying right now).

If someone is telling you to write a certain thing or think a certain way, go somewhere else. Go to where you are not being told who to be and how to create. THAT is your space. THOSE are your people. That's what I tell my kids. That's what I tell myself. That's really my only advice to anyone.

Do not look for the story that sells or follow the lead of another writer or teacher or parent... Do what's in you. Listen to yourself. 

A true leader does not ask to be followed. There is a fine line between ambition and desperation. In order to be read you must write. In order to be heard you must speak. In order to be one in the traffic jam of voices and cars and stories, you must first roll down the window, make eye contact, show that you aren't just a driver behind a wheel or a "brand" to be "followed," you're a human being. (And for what it's worth, brands want to work with human beings not "other brands.") 

David from TSA and I talked for fifteen minutes. At one point, one of the other agents came over to ask D a question, saw how passionate he was telling his story, and joined us as well. And soon, everyone was listening to the story of the TSA agent who was also a writer, who had a recording deal once that fell through but never stopped rhyming and slamming and scribbling. He was vulnerable and flawed. He spoke of mistakes and missed opportunities as the assembly line of bags marched on between us... beep... beep... beep. 

We all have a story.  

And to those of you who have sought advice from me over the years (of which I have likely said nothing helpful at all because I never know quite how to give advice on anything/we're all unique in our strengths/I don't think listening to me is going to get you anywhere but I KNOW that listening to yourself ALWAYS will. That said...) here's what I've got:

The only way to attract an audience is to take the stage and start singing. Trying to pull people in from the streets is a waste of time. Let them come. And if they don't come, sing louder. Sing a different song. Find a different stage. Wear a different costume. Sing upside down. Tap the tree that hasn't been tapped. That's the syrup folks are gonna wanna slather on their waffles. Or not. But at least it's yours. At least you're the one on the stage singing.

***

On the airplane I watched the Diana Vreeland documentary and took ten million trillion pages of notes. (It took me the entire flight to watch the whole thing because I kept pausing it to write something down because there was SO MUCH TO WRITE DOWN.)

Anyway, adding to the previous points, Vreeland believed that what made a woman beautiful and interesting were her flaws. If you have a long nose, hold it up and make it a trademark. If you're "too" tall, be taller.

For me, it is vulnerability that attracts me most to a man, a woman, a child, stranger, friend, image, article... , and the older I get, the easier it has become for me to celebrate what I used to think made me unattractive... strange... less than. 

If you build it and it's imperfect and real and honest, they will come.

And, sure, if it's immaculate and flawlessly put together, they will also come.

But chances are, they won't stay. 

Because flaws are more fun. And perfection is boring. And unsurprising. And a myth. 

Because levity is essential and trust is everything and vulnerability is the only thing that separates humans from spambots.

It's kind of like a stage dive and how it felt to trust all of those strangers' hands. And sure, there was always that one guy who thought it was okay to feel you up or that girl who stole your watch as you were being passed around the audience, and, yeah okay, so occasionally you do get dropped on your face. 

AND YET. 

All those hands! 

So many hands!

(Thank you, hands!)

Anyway. Before this post goes COMPLETELY off the rails—apologies if it already has—I wanted to express my gratitude to all of you for being vulnerable human beings and for allowing me to embrace that part of myself, as well. Thank you for indulging me these words and every other word I've published in this space since the beginning. Thank you for opening my notes and for sharing yours with me throughout the years. Thank you for your hands.

Bec

202/100

Hi. I have so much to say about so many things and I am going to get to them, eventually. (Lots of craziness up in this piece. Just got back into town/we're leaving in a little over a week to attend my brother's wedding in Vermont/have done zero prep/need to buy many things/a million things going on always/slow down, life.)

In the meantime, here are three incredible songs from one incredible band. Enjoy:

There's always love when you think there's none to give...

***

202. Statue of a Man, Backwards Fireworks + C.L. Rosarian by: Mutual Benefit

GGC

The Turn Around

I remember the feeling well, the embarrassment and annoyance, the pull away from her when she hugged me, kissed me, tried to hold my hand. I was older than Archer. Twelve, maybe. Eleven. I woke up one day and saw my mother for who she truly was: the worst.

That didn't change the fact that I knew, deep down, that I'd be lost without her. Even when I slammed the door in her face and called her names. Even when I threatened to run away and find new parents who let me watch R rated movies, stay out past midnight, hang out behind 7-11 after school...  Every morning, the mere sight of my mother would make me feel limited. Like I had a barrier I had no choice but to scale in order to get to the clearing. My mother stood in the way of every happiness I could possibly conceive and for many years, those feelings did not change.

***

I knew it was coming. I knew that one day my son, and then daughters, would wake up and roll their eyes at the mere sight of me, too. I knew that one day I would also be the worst. I just didn't know how soon, how sudden, and how completely off guard it would take me.

I woke up one day and my mother was intolerable.

My son woke up one day and his was, too.

***

"I love you," I say as he climbs out of the car, backpack in hands.

He shakes his head, turns around and walks off toward the school entrance.

"Have a great day," I say to his back. "HAVE A GREAT DAY I LOVE YOU! SEE YOU AFTER SCHOOL!" even though he's already disappeared through the double doors in the same building I used to hold his hand, walk him to class, kiss his cheeks goodbye.

"Have a great day!" Fable says to me, hugging me around the neck.

She waves twice as hard, walking backwards toward the gate blowing kisses.

"HAVE A GREAT DAY I LOVE YOU! SEE YOU AFTER SCHOOL!" I say.

"YOU TOO, MAMA! HAVE THE BEST DAY EVER! I LOVE YOU!"

She compensates for her brother's lack of affection by hugging and loving and drawing pictures of everyone in the family holding hands. But all I can think is that someday this will be her, too. That one day she, too, will leave the car in silence with eyes rolled back in her head.

I don't want to think about it but I do. Of all my siblings, I was the most attached to my mother as a child. And of all my siblings I was the one who became the most insufferable. 

***

At first I think his sudden change is just a fluke -- a bad day, a tough week, an off month...

Before long I realize that this is just the way it's going to be right now.

I tell him I love him and he says nothing.

I ask him a question and he doesn't acknowledge me.

"Archer? Are you listening? Hello?"

"Uh, Mom. Just because I don't turn around doesn't mean I can't hear you."

"But..."

Silence.

***

We traced it back to the play. Or maybe it was just a coincidence that the week he became someone else, he became someone else. Something about exploring a new skin, perhaps. 

In order to compensate for the blanket he had to hold, sing and dance with during play practice, he had to distance himself from all other attachments. Almost as if playing the part of someone attached to something juvenile, had motivated him to grow up overnight...

***

Two weeks into rehearsals, he loses his script. He checks his entire backpack and it's nowhere to be found.

"Are you sure it's not in your bedroom? Your backpack? Can I at least, check?"

"I already did. It's not there."

I promise him I will search the house and deliver it to him at school when I find it. We are in a rush to get out the door and I don't want us to be late. Again.

But when I come home to search the house, I find nothing. I am sure he has it with him. I am 99.78798 sure it's there, in one of the pockets of his backpack.

So. I write him a note saying so and drive it to school.

"Archer,"  it says. "Please check your backpack again. All pockets? It's not in your room and I looked everywhere..."

He is standing in line with his class, in the school hallway, when I arrive.

"What are you doing here?" he asks me.

I hand him the note.

"I couldn't find your script. I brought this for you so you could double check and -- "

He grabs the note from my hand and hurries after his friends toward class.

"You're welcome?"

"Thanks, Mom," he mumbles under his breath, clearly mortified that I am here, in the hallway, acknowledging him.

Why do I even bother, I text Hal from my parked car. I spent my whole morning looking for the stupid script and he doesn't even care. 

"Yes, he does."

"He does not."

"He does."

***

"He needs to turn around," the director tells me when I ask how play rehearsals are going.

"He's not facing the audience for the first part of the song."

"I know the feeling," I mumble.

In the car on the way home from rehearsal, I talk to him. I explain to him in way I hope won't be too annoying that he needs to work on turning around.

"If you don't face the audience, we won't be able to hear you. We won't be able to see your face."

He hears me even though he pretends not to listen. I am used to this now so I don't repeat myself.

Just because he doesn't turn around doesn't mean he can't hear me. 

I have begun to familiarize myself with knowing when to say what and respond where, when to hug him and when to lay off, ask questions, let him come to me... 

My own mother reminds me that sometimes it was easier for me to talk to her with my back turned or a door between, in a letter. (We wrote each other letters my entire adolescence. Sometimes it was the only way we were able to communicate without completely losing our minds.)

Letter from my mom circa '96. I had just turned 15. 

"I'll work on it," he says and backs away down the hall.

"Cool," I say. "Thanks."

***

Everyone is here for Opening Night of his big performance. Archer is Linus, one of the leads in his very first play. We realize now that he got the part because of his voice. My parents and my grandparents are here and my friends. We take up an entire row, we are so proud. 

One of my greatest fears is singing in public so I am in awe of him. I have always been in awe of him. Before he sang. Spoke. Spit up all over my shoulder. 

Nothing he can do can turn me away. I'm stuck like glue. My guy, my guy, my guy. 

We're already crying and the show hasn't even started. His name in the program is enough. We squeeze hands and Fable sits up in my lap with big eyes and we are the biggest assholes in the audience, beaming and crying and passing the kleenex and shhhhh, shhhhh... the show's about to start. It's starting. 

He faces the audience. And then... his voice.

His voice. 

He sings beautifully. With poise and confidence and a sort of honesty that is overwhelming and completely spectacular. He is grown and he is small and he is huge and he is tiny all at once. He is Linus. He is Archer. He is ours. And himself. And ours.

And himself.

***

The play is over now. No more rehearsals. No more performances. I remove his script from his backpack. It's faded and worn and taped in two places and I flip through the highlighted pages, the songs we have listened to on repeat since January, all of which I now know by heart.

You're a good man, Charlie Broooooowwwwn! 

It's my blankie and Meeeee... 

Happpppppiness is...   

"I'm sad it's over," I tell him.

"Yeah. I kind of am, too."

"I'm going to miss all of these songs in my ears, you know?"

Silence.

"I'm going to miss hearing you sing."

Silence.

"We all love hearing you sing."

Silence.

"We're big fans, you know."

I continue to thumb through the script. I hum along to the songs and then...in the back, behind the very last page, a piece of a paper. Archer's name is on it and it's in my handwriting, and, wait, is that... did he... he kept it? 

And suddenly, just like I did for almost all of the notes my mom wrote to me over the years, the notes I saved in folders and journals, in manilla envelopes, email inboxes, tucked away in drawers I, to this day, still revisit, I remember that feeling well, too.

The feeling of knowing that no matter what I did or said or how hard I turned my back to my mom who was the worst, she still loved me. She always would. Even when I said I didn't care. Told her to go away. Refused to acknowledge her in the halls.

I tuck the note back into the pocket of Archer's script and go into the living room where my tinyhuge son sits cross-legged on the floor doing his homework.

"I love you and you don't need to say it back or turn around because I love you and I know you can hear me right now and I love you."

Silence.

And then, I pick up the phone and call my mother.

"I love you, too." I say.

GGC