"Gay" or Courage, Resilience and Hope

A friend of mine invited me to a luncheon today to support Navos, an organization that supports children and teens with mental illness.  I didn't know much about the organization, but since I have family members with mental illness, I was happy to learn more about it.

One of the speakers was a fifty-one year old man who is a leader in the mental health field.  I crossed his path in the lobby before his speech, not knowing he was going to speak.  We exchanged a few polite words.  "There are a lot of people here," he said.  I smiled and agreed.  I almost said "Isn't that a good thing?"  I am glad I held my tongue.  He was nervous about addressing the crowd, as he later mentioned in his speech.

As this man took the podium, I wondered what he was like in his twenties.  What path did he take to become a leader in his field?  I am reading Amy Poehler's Yes Please, and she talks about her days when she was a struggling comic, barely making ends meet.  Did this man start out of the gate as a promising young man, or did he emerge?  It is easy to see someone so successful in their fifties, and forget that they were once young and regular.

The man got up and said he had two good luck charms: one from his husband and one from his mom.  We learned this man was gay in the first five seconds he was on stage.

He talked about his own struggles with mental health as a teenager.  He struggled with his identity, attempted suicide, dropped out of school and got into a decent amount of trouble.  His mother was a strong advocate for getting him help, and he survived, clearly thrived.

It struck me as ironic that I was thinking this guy was "gay."  The original meaning of gay is lighthearted and carefree, which was quite the opposite of this man's adolescence where he felt depressed, hopeless and different.  I thought it was interesting that the slang term for homosexual covers up the heartbreak and loneliness that many of these kids go through as teens.  I wouldn't want to come up with a more depressing word for homosexuality, but perhaps the word "gay" keeps the emotional journey of these people in the closet.  Not all homosexuals go through periods of depression during their teens, but a disproportional number of gay kids have depression compared to their heterosexual peers.

What struck me as remarkable was his recovery from depression and his ability to become a leader in his field after a difficult time as a teen.  It was inspiring.  It also makes me grateful for gay marriage rights in my state.  While I am happy committed homosexual couples can now be granted the same rights as their hetero friends, I am equally happy for teens who are questioning their orientation.  Perhaps they won't feel as isolated or alone.  Perhaps depression among gay teens will occur at the same rates as the rest of the population.

After this man spoke, there was a short video where the counselors spoke.  One man said he hoped his patients could find courage, resilience and hope.  What a different this made in the life of the first speaker.

Birthday

A year ago, I wrote about how I was dreading turning forty-five.  At the time, I was mostly worried about what I was going to do next after years as a volunteer and stay-at-home mom.  This was about a year after Sheryl Sanberg published Lean In about women going all in with their careers.  Before I had kids, I was leaning in, taking the hard assignments and juicy projects.  After Ada died, I still worked hard.  I was traveling so much that I paid income tax in California for part of the year when my primary residence was in Chicago.   When I was pregnant with Claire Adele, I continued to travel.  I remember being very tired most of the time, changing time zones and having oddly timed flights.  Restaurant food and limited exercise didn't help.  I told one of my directors I was struggling, and she told me to get luggage with wheels.  My old bag was a fold over carry-on, and everyone though a new bag would solve my problems.  I did get a suitcase with wheels.* It was much easier to carry, but I was still exhausted.

As much as I liked the work and the people I worked with, I couldn't risk losing another child.  So I quit.  Fourteen years and two healthy kids later, I was itching to get back into the grown-up world and be productive.  I thought that would be the problem of forty-five.  It wasn't.

It turns out that last year was rougher than I could have imagined, in ways I could not have imagined.  I am happy to put forty-five behind me, put it to bed, and shut the door.  I am looking forward to this new year.  It can't be as bad as the last.

The first few days of forty-six have been fine.  I've started my new project, which is just like going back to work, except I have no boss.  I have dozens of people to talk to and get advice, but I really have to sort all of this out on my own.  I'll just have to finished Lean In to see what Sheryl Sandberg would advise.

* We took the suitcase I bought in 1999 on vacation this year.  The fabric between the zipper and the edge of the suitcase ripped, and Jack sewed it up with neon yellow twine.  The edges of the external pockets are fraying.  The good news is that no one will mistakenly bring this suitcase home from the airport -- it is too ratty.  The suitcase which served me so well will need to be retired soon.

What are my kids reading? Part II

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how when I was a kid there really wasn't much of a "young adult" book market. (See link here.)  There were a few books aimed at teenagers, but pretty much books were divided into kids books and regular books.  I lamented my kids reading so much YA, and wished they read regular books.

Last week, we were in San Francisco for Spring Break.  We rented an apartment on Telegraph Hill.  The neighborhood was lovely, as was the apartment.  Before we left, the Boy said he didn't want to be a tourist or do tourist-y things.  He wanted to hang out in coffee shops and bookstores and read.  Which is fine.  One night after dinner at a Chinese restaurant, we found a bookshop called City Lights Books, one of these old independent bookstores with a well curated collection.   We walked in a wandered around the first floor.  They had a large selection of poetry, architecture books and fiction on the first floor.  They were poking around, and I started to panic.  I thought this place looked cool, and I wanted to check it out.  I feared my kids might look around for three minutes, decide there was nothing interesting there, and want to leave.  I ducked down into the lower level, and read the sign of what was there.  The list had two dozen categories, including economics, history, philosophy, and political science.  I skimmed all of that, and stopped when I saw "Youth."

I hurried back to my kids and said, "There is a young adult section downstairs..."

As soon as those words spilled out of my mouth, I immediately regretted it.

The kids immediately dropped what they were looking and and went downstairs, as if I were admonishing them to another floor.  That was far from my intention.

I should have let them roam around on the main floor, looking at titles they might not otherwise find interesting.  I was ready to kick myself. I should have held that in my back pocket until they were antsy and bored, just the granola bars I kept in my purse when they were younger.  They were saved for an emergency, and I had used them before my kids had even fussed.  This was a rookie mistake, and I am not a rookie.

Claire-Adele was disappointed that they mostly carried series.  She ended up picking a YA book about an Asian American girl and her challenges.  (She reads stories Asian girls the way I read about the Holocaust at her age.  If there is a book on the topic, she reads it.)  The Boy picked up Soccernomics by Simon Kuper.

I could say I was one out of two, but that wouldn't be fair.  Both got a book they wanted to read, and that was the point.

I didn't get a picture of the bookstore, but this is close by.

The Crib

Today I packed up the crib and put it in the back of the RAV.  I am ready to drive to the dump.  This is a drop-side crib, and they have been deemed unsafe.  It is illegal to donate or sell one.  They cannot be posted to Craigslist.  Drop-side cribs must go directly to the dump.

Jack and I bought the crib seventeen years ago this summer.  It had rounded trim headboard with pear wood stain.  It was a light brown, with a slight hint of red.  Picture a darker version of honey.

We put the crib in the apartment on Belden next to our bed.  We set it up a few weeks before Ada's due date, just in case she came early.  We didn't know that she wouldn't come home.

I set up a plush mobile of the solar system on one rail, and a little Tigger animal on the other.  There was a little stuffed cow next to Tigger, and when you pulled its tail, it played music.  My boss at the time gave me her Laura Ashley crib bedding, a gender neutral lavender with a Hey Diddle Diddle theme.  We had a light yellow fleece blanket with a satin trim ready for the baby.

After Ada died, we packed up the crib, and put it in the storage locker in the basement of our apartment building.  Almost a year later, we moved to St. Louis.  The movers came and checked out our stuff.  "Hey," the guy said with a smile.  "I didn't know you had a baby!"

"We don't."

It took him a second to process, and his face dropped.  I imagined him thinking, Why would they have a crib if they don't have a baby...  I could see the wheels turning in his mind as he connected the dots.

The movers at the other end of the move were much more reserved than the ones in Chicago, and surprisingly, they didn't ask about the crib.  They might have figured it was a gift from a friend or passed on from family before the move.  These guys didn't see it sitting in our storage locker.

One year after we moved to St. Louis, Clair Adele was born.  She slept in her sister's crib.  The Boy slept in a crib we borrowed from Jack's boss, and then our family crib became the Boy's after Clair Adele moved to a regular bed.

I kept the crib so long, partially as birth control.  I figured I wouldn't have more kids as long as I had the crib in the basement, and I was right.  I feared as soon as I got rid of the crib, I would get pregnant.  Keeping the crib in the basement has served its purpose in that sense.  While I tell myself I kept the crib as birth control, I know that isn't fully true.  Perhaps I would have passed it on to a friend or relative when the Boy was done with it, but I couldn't give them Ada's crib.  Even thought I thought it was a beautiful crib, I am not sure anyone pregnant woman would want it.  They might think it was jinxed.  I wouldn't really blame them, even though Ada's death had nothing whatsoever to do with the crib.

Even though this crib had many years of happy use, seventeen years is a long time to hold on.  Ada would be driving now, and my forty-sixth birthday is coming up this week.  Time for the crib to go.

Photo and Swimmer

I am starting a new project, and for this I needed a professional headshot.  My dear neighbor is a professional photographer with considerable skill.  He volunteered to take my picture.

And yet.

I look old.  Older than I thought I looked.  In my mind's eye, I look like Demi Moore's cousin from the around time Demi was in St. Elmo's Fire, or right after she got her haircut super short.  I look in the mirror and I don't see the wrinkles, the sagging skin, the chin flab.  The gray hair blends in with the dark brown.

My dear neighborhood friend has taken beautiful pictures of people in their sixties, seventies and eighties, with wrinkles and silver hair, so it can't be his skill that is the problem.  The problem is with my own eyes.  My friend wanted me to look experienced, to show off the gray that I've earned.  He did not want to make me look young -- no vaseline on the lens, no soft focus, no dim lighting to hide what Mother Nature has brought me.  Vanity--I never knew I had it.  In my twenties, I'd happily roll out of bed and run to the gym or coffee shop across the street without make-up and with a band pulling back my hair.  I am still relatively low maintenance when it comes to my looks, so I was shocked to discover how vain I have become.

What has happened to me, other than middle age, that vast time the time between youth and being elderly?  With my looks, I want to resemble someone in their thirties.  For my level of wisdom, I wish I were an older soul, someone who has more experience and insight.  I have a friend in her nineties who learned how to drive before Hitler invaded Poland.  She has lived twice as long as me, so I can't expect to have the depth of her perspective, though I aspire to it.  Is this the trade-off we make as we age: freshness for wisdom?  I should at least pray for wisdom.  Not everyone gets wiser as they age.

I saw a ballet this weekend that reminded me that sometimes older is better.  We were in San Francisco and we saw the SF Ballet perform a new piece called Swimmer by Yuri Possokhov.  The piece was loosely based on the John Cheever story published in The New Yorker in the 1960's.  Vitor Luiz danced the lead.  I have no idea how old he is, but he certainly had gravitas.  A fresher-faced dancer could not have carried that role as well.

Perhaps the same could be said for me and my new project.  My neighbor the photographer knew it before I did.

Alcatraz and Sophie's Choice

We heading out to San Francisco for a few days during Spring Break.  When we got the airplane tickets, we also bought baseball tickets and tickets to the San Francisco Ballet.

The kids want to see Alcatraz, but we didn't buy tickets.  We figured we'd get them while we were there, maybe after we checked the weather forecast and could see which day had the highest chance of sunshine.  (This step is likely unnecessary, as California is suffering from a drought.)

One of Jack's colleagues lived in SF a few years ago, and recommended getting Alcatraz tickets before we go.  Twenty plus years ago when I was in SF, I walked up and bought tickets, with a wide choice of dates and times.  I figured we were going midweek in the middle of spring, and tourism would not be at its peak. This is not July 4th weekend or some other major travel holiday.

I was wrong.  I went online today and all of the tickets for Alcatraz for this week were sold out.  I found open tickets, but not four.  At one point, I found two groups of two tickets at different times.  When I couldn't find four tickets for the same date and time, I thought about splitting the trip.  I could take one kid one day; Jack could take the other at the other time.  By time I figured that out, there were only two tickets left.  My heart sank.

The kids really wanted to see Alcatraz.  I thought it was cool when I saw it 20+ years ago, and if nothing else, the boat ride is nice.  Alcatraz is owned by the National Parks Service, so it is a reasonably educational and historical experience.  Plus, there is an art exhibit by Ai Weiwei, a Chinese artist who believes in human rights, which we would also miss.  (And he uses Lego as one of his mediums!)

I vexed, and left the two tickets in my online shopping cart, and walked the dog.  Should I get the two tickets, and do a Sophie's choice of which child could go?  Should I violate the Alcatraz rules and let my kids go alone, even though kids under 18 need to be accompanied by an adult?  Could Claire Adele pass for 18?  One of my neighbors walking her dog in the park thought that was a possibility.

I went home and told the kids about the tickets.  Both kids wanted to go, and thought we should get the two tickets, and figure it out later.  The Boy said I could go with Claire Adele, and he would go bowling with Jack.

I went online, and thought I'd try one more time to get four tickets together.  I hit the "Continue Shopping" button before I went to the checkout.

Bingo!  Four tickets at the same time on the same day.  Moral of the story:  It pays to keep hitting the refresh button.

Shirts

Last week, I was in Pioneer Square and I visited Drygoods Design.  They had a book about how to make stuff from things found in a thrift shop, and there was a picture of a beautiful quilt made from mens dress shirts.

I could do this, I thought.  This will be good practice for when I finally make that quilt out of Claire Adele's old dresses.  I hopped over to Value Village on Lake City Way and bought the raw materials for a new project.

I was thrilled at the great shirts I found, though I had a few pangs of guilt taking such soft and barely worn shirts and chopping them up for a blanket.  I saw people there shopping for clothes, and felt bad that maybe someone might have worn one of these shirts for job interview, first date, or other life altering event.

When Jack got home from work, he saw the pile and tried a few of them on.  I didn't pick any of them for size -- only color and pattern.  Of the dozen I bought, only one fit.  I realized how specific something like clothes are in terms of style and fit, and I didn't feel so bad.  Most thrift stores in the US rotate their stock every four weeks, so these nice shirts might have been destined to become commercial rags.

More Fabric

My friend Jane is aware of my budding fabric addiction, and she is starting to enable.  She recommended me to two Seattle fabric boutiques, Drygoods Design in Pioneer Square and District Fabric in Fremont.

This week, I had the chance to check out District Fabric.  It is like an art gallery of textiles.

I saw all of these lovely fabrics, and was slightly disheartened.  All of this was great, but what could I make?  There are only some many pillows and blankets one house can hold.  I gave my dad and aunt each a pillow I patched together.  I suppose I could make blankets for everyone I know, but colors, patterns and textures are a matter of taste.  What I find wonderful my mother-in-law might find unpalatable.  

I wandered around the store, liking too many things, but I couldn't think of a project.  Asked the woman who owns the place what people use her fabrics for.

"Clothes and home use.  Costume designers will come here and find things they like."  

She gave me an idea and I am taking a bold new step.  I am going to make a skirt.  Or try.  I bought fabric and a pattern.

Let's see what happens.

Fabric Addict

As you may know, I recently started quilting as a hobby.  I love visiting quilting blogs and hanging out in fabric stores.  (The Cloth Shop on Granville Island in Vancouver, B.C. is terrific.)

This week, I had a meeting down in SODO.  I needed some black thread to finish the binding on the Boy's quilt, so I stopped by Pacific Fabrics Outlet on 4th Ave.  My old volunteer gig brought me to SODO several times a month.  I have driven past this place countless times over the past several years, and I never stopped in.  It turns out it really isn't an outlet anymore -- just a very large store in an old industrial building.

Wow.  It is a good thing I didn't know about this place sooner.

The Boy made a pillowcase for himself out the the large fish patterned fabric above.  We bought the fabric at The Cloth Shop in Vancouver, B.C.  The sharks next to it are kind of cute, too.

If Claire Adele were younger, I'd make her a quilt out of these fabrics or the ones below.

I made the Boy's quilt out of jelly rolls of these fabrics.

My purchase: a rainbow charm pack.