Baby Boom – Page 19 – Don't Gel Too Soon

REMEMBERING JFK: 44 YEARS AND 2 DAYS AFTER THE KENNEDY ASSASSINATION**

Thanksgiving Day was the 44th anniversary of the assassination of John Kennedy. I didn’t want that to be my holiday post, though, so I’m writing about it today.** I was a senior in high school when our vice-principal, Mr. Hall, a huge scary guy (and football coach) came onto the intercom and announced, his voice breaking, that President Kennedy had been shot, and had died. I remember standing up and just walking out of my creative writing class. No one stopped me – or any of the rest of us. We wandered the halls in tears, then went home, riding the school bus in tears. I remember the next morning, taking the car out and just driving around — running in to my friend Jack Cronin on his drugstore delivery route – and standing on McClellan Drive in his arms as we both wept. I remember, Jewish girl that I was, going to Mass at St. Elizabeth’s Church that Sunday just to be with the people of his faith. I cried for four days.

Years later, working on the TODAY SHOW 20th Anniversary of the funeral, I remember all of it rushing back as we cut tape and realized as adults what a gift Jacqueline Kennedy had given the nation through the dignity and completeness of the funeral. I know that many younger people find the Kennedys a little bit of a joke, thanks partly to the Simpsons, but it’s not possible to describe the grief and trauma of those days. Or the gratitude we all felt for his presence — and the profound nature of the loss.

As a 13-year-old, I had the great good fortune to attend the Kennedy Inauguration, traveling all night on the train with my mom to sit in the stands near the Treasure Building and watch the parade go by. We stood outside the White House at the end of the parade, in the last of the blizzard, and watched him walk into the White House for the first time as president. I’d seen the culmination of all the volunteer hours my 13-year-old self could eke out to go "down town" and stuff envelopes — to respond to the the call to help change the world.

It seems so pathetic now; the loss not only of JFK but of his brother, so beloved by my husband that he’s never been the same since 1968, the loss of Dr. King and Malcolm X, the trauma of Vietnam and all that followed, later of the shooting of John Lennon, even. It seemed that all we’d dreamed about and hoped for – worked for – was gone. How could we have been so romantic – so sure that we could bring change? Believed it again in 1967 and 68 as we worked and marched against the war, for Eugene McCarthy or Bobby Kennedy, for civil rights and for peace, for better education and environmental policies, for rights for women, gay Americans and so much more. Most of us haven’t stopped but the American media obsession with America’s loss of innocence emerges from the pain of those weeks.

Now, to me, even the idea of innocence seems a bit — well — innocent. In our case, innocence came largely from a combination of lack of experience and of knowledge. We didn’t know that we stood for the take over of Central American countries and the support of Franco and Salazar as well as the Marshall Plan and remarkable courage and commitment of World War II. We were too close to the WWII generation to have the historic separation that’s possible today. So was much of the rest of the world: in Europe, South America, Africa — all over the world — the Kennedys had won hearts and minds. It’s almost impossible to imagine in light of our standing in the world today. And that’s part of the grief too. Even though much of the anger at the US outside Iraq is based on a warped version of political correctness, we know the experience of riding from the glory of having "liberated" Europe through the Marshall Plan and the glory of the Kennedy outreach to the rest of the world. Personally and publicly, John Kennedy validated all that we wanted to see in ourselves – all that we wanted ourselves, and our country, to be. And today, despite all the revelations of the years since, 44 years and two days later, that’s still true.

**IN ORDER TO OBSERVE SHABBAT, THIS POST WAS COMPOSED ON NOVEMBER 22ND AND POSTED AUTOMATICALLY ON SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24TH.

HEY MACY’S – ON THIS THANKSGIVING, THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES

When our kids were little we used to take them, in the freezing Manhattan November, to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. For the twenty years we lived in New York, from Josh in a carrier on Rick’s back, to Josh on his shoulders and Dan in a Snugli, to the two boys worming their way past the grown-ups to stand in the front of the crowd at 75th and Broadway, to the years we went to our friends’ house overlooking Central Park West on Thanksgiving eve and watched them blow up the balloons — all the years of Columbus Avenue cocoa and popcorn, we were there. When they got older, the boys went together without us; the two of them joining the crowds (the TODAY SHOW just told me that this year there are 3.5 million people along the parade route) with the finesse of New York kids. I cherish those memories; I know they liked it but I don’t think as much as I loved watching them respond to the balloons and the music and the colors and the crowds.

If I weren’t in San Francisco without all our albums I’d scan a photo of the kids waving from the top of a newspaper vending machine, or on their dad’s shoulders, or looking up at the balloons with such magical wonder that I can’t describe it. But we’re here and no such photos inhabit my laptop, so I leave it to your imagination.

We left Manhattan for LA in 1992 and I haven’t been to a Thanksgiving parade since. I don’t even recognize all the balloons. Central Park West belongs to other parents and kids now; nobody who’s only seen it on TV can imagine the excitement, the smells, the noise, the freeeeezing cold and thrill of watching their kids wave to Big Bird and Bob IN PERSON!!!! I’ll always have a deep affection for Macy’s and the gift of that annual celebration of family, joy and, yes, thanks. Nobody can give a gift better than the gift of memories and they certainly have done that. Every single year.

BEST FRIENDS FOREVER

There we are** – Jane and me on her porch one summer during college. Friends since Brownies, we’ve always had a warm, respectful and sturdy relationship, interrupted by years at a time but never diminished. Recently she sent photos of a family reunion – her four kids and their spouses and all their kids. And some things she had written. Beautiful things. Especially about her parents. I knew them well; I spent so many Saturday nights at their house, even going to church with them in the morning. They never ate breakfast before Communion but Jane’s mom always insisted that I eat something even though I was going with them After all, I wasn’t taking Communion so why not?.

A "nice Jewish girl" in a milltown suburb (here I"m on the right and Jane on the left, I had no Jewish friends; Jane, Catholic, was my dearest. What might have been a huge cultural gap was just a curiousity; differences in our lives but not in how we felt about one another. We’d always sworn to be at one another’s weddings; I’ll never forget her beautiful one in the cathedral at Notre Dame. Years later, when it was my turn, Jane was living in Dallas and already a mother; she just couldn’t make it.
Then, just days before our wedding, she called. "Do you still have room on that boat of yours?" (We got married on a boat.) "I have to keep our promise- I’m coming!" It was so great and meant so much. Just as she knew it would.
That was 36 years ago; almost twice the age we were when the top photo was taken. But it doesn’t matter. The blessing of shared memories — of remembering each other’s parents and the Girl Scout trip to New York and her first love, who died in Vietnam — and mine, who ran off, perpetually stoned, to Santa Barbara — those memories make her part of so much of who I was and who I’ve become. What a gift to me that the one whose friendship blessed me was so blessed herself – generous and fine — helping me to be what she knew I had to be when I wasn’t sure myself what that was…not at all.

***NOTE: In order to observe the Sabbath, this post was written in late October and set to post on Saturday morning November 17th.

CARE ABOUT 2008? READ THIS BOOK – THE ARGUMENT BY MATT BAI

I have three half-finished posts saved as DRAFT right now but Saturday, all day, I read this book and I want to talk about it. You need to read it too. Matt Bai, the very smart political correspondent for the New York Times Magazine , and author of my favorite piece about the 2004 elections, WHO LOST OHIO? writes about the Progressive wing of the Democratic Party in the period after the 2004 election. He has a great narrative style – it’s like reading a novel. There are real characters, and intrigues and hubris and everything.

I really care what happens to our country and am so often troubled by the way that those with whom I most agree chose to engage the rest of the nation (Yes Mr. Colbert, the nation.) There’s so much at stake. Our choice of things we want to happen — and how we propose and describe them – is critical to whether we earn the right to make them happen. Do we spend too much time thinking about the elections themselves– and not enough about the policies to be implemented if we win? How do we talk to/with our fellow Americans and what do we say? What do we know about what they want – and do we care enough?

Matt has provocatively portrayed a political dialog that’s doesn’t deal with these questions nearly enough — as well as the "adventure story" of how we got here. I’m being vague on purpose — you really need to read this yourself. It’s quick, fun, smart, useful and very important.

ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! HOW WE TRIED TO STOP THE WAR

This morning I attended a briefing by NYT Political Reporter Matt Bai; he was speaking on his new book The Argument: Billionaires, Bloggers, and the Battle to Remake Democratic Politics. It’s a thoughtful, exciting look at American politics – very original. Although if you’ve read his stuff you know that’s no surprise.

I was taking notes, so I headed the page with the date – and was stunned. It was a memorable day, at least for me.

Remember the Vietnam War? Or at least all the stories you’ve been told about it? Today, October 15th, is the 38th anniversary of one of the major demonstrations against that war — after the chaos of 1968 and the election of Richard Nixon: the Vietnam Moratorium.

Described as the largest demonstration in US history, it was quite a day. Astonishingly, Richard Nixon went to the Lincoln Memorial — in secret, in the middle of the night — to talk to the demonstrators camping out on the grounds there. Not astonishingly, hundreds were tear-gassed and rounded up — many on the way to class at George Washington University, and some, like my now-husband, on the way from his office to lunch.

This website from SMU quotes Steven Ambrose:

“Tens of thousands of protesters marched around the White House on October 15th; across the country, in every major city, tens of thousands attended antiwar rallies. It was, by far, the largest antiwar protest in US history. Altogether, millions were involved. There was little or no violence. Most disturbing to Nixon and his supporters, the Moratorium brought out the middle class and
the middle-aged in in very large numbers”.

Yeah the middle class was there – and people even older than I am now. It made a lot of noise and got a remarkable amount of attention. Jerry Rubin and
Abbie Hoffman showed up, on bail from the Chicago Seven trial, and pulled
off wigs to show that their hair had been shorn, like Sampson, by their Chicago jailers.

Of course the war didn’t end. Years later an alleged Soviet spy told an interviewer that the demonstrations had been a dead give-away to the Russians that the US could not sustain the effort. Who knows? It was just one more huge event in many efforts to make the war go away.

I have just read that one of the leaders of SDS and one of my favorite thinkers, Todd Gitlin, in his new book, has urged today’s activists to learn from what went wrong then. They’d better. For all we tried to do, we never got where we wanted to go and we left a legacy of polarization that still provides fodder for opponents in the culture wars. It was a noble effort and probably helped demonstrate anti-war sentiment but now, in these times, we need a new way to do that. It’s intriguing that two highly-regarded thinkers like Bai and Gitlin are both looking at the future of Progressives at the same time — just a year before the next presidential election.

What do you think? What should we have learned from the battles of the 60s — and of the early years of this century? What do we still have left to find out?

Breast Feeding, Facebook and How Could This STILL Be Going On?

My son is 32 years old. The first two weeks of his life he lost a pound and a half. I just didn’t seem to have enough milk and there was no one – no lactation consultant or nurse-practitioner or even another other mom to ask for help. (This was Manhattan in the 70s; there was a lot of anti-natalism and many of my friends literally asked "Do you really want to be pregnant?"&nbsp) When I finally went to to the pediatrician he told me I had to supplement the nursing with formula. It felt like such a humiliating sign of maternal failure before I had even begun. Soon after, the milk ran out altogether.

I wish I could describe the tears, the guilt, the sense that I’d damaged this lovely, lovely child for life. I was, after all, hurting his development and immune system. And bonding. And who knew what else?

So when I read about the breast-feeding explosions on Facebook (and I have a Facebook page and admit I really like it, which makes it worse) or Delta Airlines, all these years later and still happening, I’m doubly sad. These attitudes add to the stress that inhibits milk production and I know how stressful nursing can be, especially in the beginning. I know the devastation when it fails. I know the almost unanimous research about the advantage of breast-feeding these new little people, and I believe the "it takes a village" theory enough to feel that it’s everybody’s responsibility to help kids grow up healthy and secure. That’s why I’m here among the nursing moms my kids’ ages. They’re strong and inspired and right on the money. The capacity to nourish an infant is a privilege and a right. And natural. And in no way anything but lovely. I mourned for so long the loss of it for my own children. I still do.

Magic – Bruce Tells the Truth – Where’s the Rest of It?

Life is complicated. One day things are great; the next day someone you love breaks an ankle and faces weeks on crutches; another battles heartbreak and demons. One day you’re lifted high in celebration; the next, angry and resentful. One day you’re lost in silence – the next you’re listening to Bruce Springsteen warn you to "carry only what you fear" then enchant you with a wistful "Girls in Their Summer Clothes."

I would have bought Magic sooner or later — if it has Bruce’s name on it, it’s on my iPod. But my son’s endorsement sent me straight to Amazon right after its release. When The Seeger Sessions came out I played it for hours – over and over. It just lifted you up out of your chair (or the driver’s seat.) Magic needs more attention; it’s got a lot to say. No courting froggies or underpaid sailors here. What there is instead is a mournful, painful set of stories: political and personal. They describe feelings I’ve struggled to express: anger, disappointment, anxiety over the future.

Not much more to say except that I once saw Springsteen tell Bob Dylan "You were the brother that I never had." He is the diary I never had. In Bruce’s real-life anthems, you can find huge parts of my life. I was a lawyer’s daughter in a steel town. The football heroes and Dairy Queen cowboys of my teen years were the boys of Springsteen’s New Jersey. All so familiar: the longings of Thunder Road, the nostalgia of No Surrender .

Every time I hear the lines "Now I’m ready to grow young again, And hear your sister’s voice calling us home, Across the open yards" I can see it. The yard outside our house, the hill up to the neighbors and their tire swing, dusk in the summer when my sister really did call and we tore down the hill, sweaty, dirty and happy as hell.

I don’t want to feel just as connected to these angry, disappointed words, but I do. It’s not just aging, knowing that childhood summers are long gone. It’s the reality of the times he’s describing – so much the way I’ve experienced them without the capacity to express what I feel. Not the only thing I feel — but as usual he’s speaking for a part of me. This time though, instead of being grateful, I’m just so so sad.

REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST – TOM JONES AND SO MUCH MORE

Not to be too obscure here but think about this: Marcel Proust’s REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST was inspired by the scent of one cookie (a fancy one called a Madeline.) Sense memory is a powerful thing.

I saw Tom Jones 44 years ago, with my high school “film club.” The club was just 6 seniors and our creative writing teacher. Our mill town high school wasn’t a culture haven but this young teacher was. He handwrote Irwin Shaw short stories onto “ditto sheets” because there was no budget for the books, started a literary magazine (I was the editor, naturally) took us to Shakespeare performances and — started the film club. At first we rented films (screened on a projector in his classroom) and then moved on to evening journeys “downtown” to local art houses. We saw LA STRADA and THE SEVENTH SEAL, SUNDAYS AND CYBELE and SHOOT THE PIANO PLAYER — and TOM JONES. The films were so intelligent, so clearly different from the “movies” we saw on our own; the theaters served espresso and everyone was smoking. How sophisticated we felt!

This morning as I watched this nearly half-century old film – still funny and charming even though the playful sexual innuendo recalls a more tender time, that 18-year-old girl I’d been came back – all of her. I didn’t know whether to be sad — miss all that I was then – all that’s changed — lost — or just plain passed – or to be grateful for the remarkable kaleidoscope of experiences that my life has been. From the adventure of a 36 year old marriage to the joy of raising two of the most spectacular young men on the planet to presences at royal weddings and presidential inaugurations, travel all over the world and great music experiences to a gentle childhood with talents acknowledged and appreciated to memorable private moments at weddings, bar mitzvahs, graduations and other celebrations with family and friends, a lot has contributed to the wiser woman I am today. I know there’s no way to live the life I’ve lived – or any other – without losing some of the shiny stuff of youth but even so it’s a shock when awareness of those losses lands on you in the middle of an unambiguously optimistic movie 44 years old.

Here’s what I think: there isn’t a person on the planet (despite Edith Piaf) who has no regrets. Recalling days that seem idyllic is a privilege – many haven’t got many to recall. Sadness about the joys of the past emerges only from an accumulated reservoir of happiness that is a blessing in itself. As Auntie Mame used to say “Life is a banquet, and most poor sons of bitches are starving to death.” My sisters and I swore we would live by that.

I’ve tried – and I’m still trying. That’s why this blog is called Don’t Gel Too Soon. Wherever that 18 year old film fiend has gone, parts of her are still part of me – informing and enlivening the person I’ve become. The real challenge in this portion of my life is to hang onto the enthusiasm and curiosity of those years – never freezing in place. The last line in Tom Jones, one of my favorite anywhere, was written by John Dryden – way before movies or even radio. It still works though, and I offer its wisdom for us all. “Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own; he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.”

A NEW YEAR, A 36th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY, A LOT TO THINK ABOUT

Tonight begins Rosh Hashanah – the New Year celebration that launches the holy season of the Days of Awe that continues until Yom Kippur – the Day of Atonement. It’s also a huge day for me – in more than one way. Rick and I were married 36 years ago today. On a boat on the Monongahela River. We’ve been through a lot – maybe more than most couples – but we’ve hung on and we’re reaping the rewards of a shared history. So to have this remarkable landmark fall on the eve of a holy day of renewal is really something.

This is another anniversary, too. Our third living an observant life. We first came here for Rosh Hashanah services 4 years ago, met our remarkable rabbi and began the journey that has led us to a new, moving, inspiring, frustrating, challenging, occasionally painful, sometimes completely uplifting life. We share new feelings, new friends, new aspirations to goodness and a sense of God, new challenges and inspirations. AND we’re still sharing them with each other. That too is remarkable.

Now as we move toward observance of these days, toward prayers and meals and friends and — especially joyful – a visit from one of our sons and his girl friend, I am both grateful and anxious. We are supposed to think about debts and obligations, sins and redemption. I still carry a painful family resentment – toward someone I love but who has hurt me deeply and , I suspect, believes that I hurt her. I need to deal with this but am still struggling to figure out how. But I know I will – that I must. That’s the other gift of this season – a confrontation with the personal flaws that impede our prayers and our happiness. My dear one, if you read this, know how much I love you and that we will find our way past this – I promise.

To those who have offered us so much guidance and support, with whom we’ve had such fun and such meaningful prayers (and meals – and visits) I wish you the gift of as much goodness as you’ve brought us – an enormous deluge of joy. To our dear rabbi and his family a special thanks for being our gateway to this new life and all that it has meant.

And to Rick, my partner, love and best friend, eternal gratitude to you for your courage and determination, love and generosity, talents and humor and incredible incredible soul. Happy anniversary. Thanks for the memories, the adventures, our amazing children, and this astonishing, still emerging journey. L’shana tova.

Elizabeth Edwards Does Not Deserve This

This is a photo of Elizabeth Edwards (taken by Josh Hallett) talking to Jen Lemen a t BlogHer just over a month ago. It appears here, (aside from my high regard for both women in this photograph) because Jen’s post on that conversation is critical to what follows.

Which is that on August 27th a particularly vitriolic post about Elizabeth Edwards appeared on Silicon Valley Moms. I learned of it thanks to Emily McKhann of the wonderful Cooper and Emily of Been There and The Motherhood.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been this sad or troubled, especially by this community of women I have come to love and treasure. I was around for the days when playgroups of moms wouldn’t let their (my) kids join because they would be coming with a baby sitter, when male colleagues questioned my (necessary) decision to return to work after the birth of my first child and when, as I recalled while at a news conference there yesterday, women journalists like me WERE NOT ALLOWED into events at the National Press Club; we had to sit in the balcony.

It seems to me that this post puts us back up there – separated, this time, not from the men but from one another. I posted a comment at SVM but also share it with you here:

As usual, I’m late to the conversation but I have to tell you I am
shocked and saddened (how’s that for original?) Women have been kept at
one another forever – it’s a way to drain the power of what we become
when we work together. Driven to judge one another in pursuit of
acceptance, we make it far easier to dominate us.
Rebecca, (this is an edited version of what I had originally written –
I’m trying to take my own advice) why judge another parent like that?
Particularly one with EE’s history? If you want to say "I wouldn’t do
that; I’d worry about my kids being too disrupted" or some other
conversation-starter – that would be fine. But the level of vitriol and
cruelty in this post (more powerful probably because your write so
well) sounds more like Ann Coulter than a thoughtful mommy blogger.
I read that now you have changed your mind about portions of this initial
post. That suggests to me that instead of trashing of a critically ill
parent whose kids are getting the experience of a lifetime and more
quality time with their parents than most American moms and dads can
afford to offer theirs, you had saved this post as a "draft" and waited
a couple of hours to be sure of what you wanted to say, you would have been grateful for the chance to rethink before you published.
Did you read Jenn Lemon’s piece http://www.jenlemen.com/blog/?p=214
about her conversation with Ms. Edwards at BlogHer? EVERYONE — did
you? It’s here – and helps to clarify why so many readers felt such
deep pain reading this SVM post. She’s a remarkable woman
dealing with an unimaginable situation with grace and love.
These issues will always provoke strong feelings – the question is not
whether we have a right to those feelings but whether we have a right
to judge so harshly those who might choose lives different from our own.[NOTE: SPELLING CORRECTED 9/17]

OK that’s my speech on the subject. It’s just such a shame – OH – and take a look, if you go to SVM, at Ms. Edwards’ initial response (it’s magnificent)as well as her very classy second one this morning.