The Big Easy Going

A handful of us had found shelter under a long wooden overhang that allowed for precious few dry spots between the drips. A man walked by, enjoying a brief respite from the downpour. "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes," he reassured us. We waited ten. The rain came down even harder, though that hadn't really seemed possible.

There are lots of things to love about New Orleans. Passersby always say hello, and astonishingly well-behaved dogs walk by without even bothering to sneak a sniff. One gentleman under the overhang offered to share his umbrella. Another offered to buy me a coffee. I was content to wait it out, enjoy Mother Nature's show for a while. Anyway, in New Orleans, you're never too far from a warm and cozy place to take a load off. In this case, in fact, only about six inches.

Another love-worthy thing about New Orleans -- the mouth-watering Wifi passwords. Croissant. Strawberry. They even tell you what it is immediately, no need to beg. A virtual warm welcome, topping off the sweet aromas that manage to sustain my feelings of hunger no matter how many meals I eat here. The rain stopped long before I finished my snack; I was dry and sated, just in time for lunch with my daughter.

Though my wanderings through New Orleans have taken me past a fair mix of mansions and shanties, I know there are broken down sections that somehow escape the eye of an average, self-indulgent tourist like me. Still, there is an aura here, a content-to-be-alive kind of aura, where endless hours of porch sitting on a brutally hot day seem downright productive and fulfilling. Even the alligators in the bayou appeared to have a keen appreciation for just being, gliding peacefully through the muck as we humans winced at the stinging rain drops and the roar of our airboat's motor.

This morning, before I head back north to a reality of harsh self-judgment and unrealistic goal-setting and days of pointless referenda on the inadequacy of my existence, my daughter and I will tour an old cemetery and cap it off with some beignets. A mix of inspiring epitaphs of lives well lived and a delectable reminder of how to do just that.

Rollin' Down the River

It's like selling an ice cube to an Inuit, I think, taking money from hapless Northerners for a "swamp tour" somewhere near New Orleans in late June. But suckers are born every minute, and my visits to NOLA are winding down as my youngest child approaches her final year in college. Somehow a boat ride through mosquito and alligator infested sludge made it to her bucket list.

As if reptilian predators flashing toothy grins as they zealously guard their turf is something unusual these days. Yawn. At least these alligators are just doing what nature intended them to do. I yearn for the days when the bucket list was filled with more wondrous things, like restaurants and art galleries, when I could simply enjoy the cuisine rather than "be" it. 

Assuming I survive (more on that, hopefully, in a later post), I will miss my visits to New Orleans. A place where, if I close my eyes, I could swear Matthew McConnaughy is the guy chatting only inches away from me on the sidewalk. A place where gaudy strands of beads adorn fences and trees, and where there always seems to be a parade, even when you are not at risk of being hit by, say, a large cabbage being flung by a drunken reveler on a float. A place where I always get some sort of life lesson from my taxi drivers, and sometimes even emerge with a receipt and a doggy bag filled with homemade Cajun treats. A place where "Taco Tuesday" is a  thing -- a serious thing. 

Mostly, I realize, it's not about missing New Orleans, though it is certainly one of the more exotic destinations in the continental U.S. This is my last year of college visits, those happy jaunts that began, for me, ten years ago. D.C. and N.Y.C. offer their own special charms and perils, just as NOLA does, but each college visit conjures up sweet memories of visits long ago. I am reminded, always, of that four years in each of my children's lives that seems to pass in a blink. My mixed feelings of pride and relief and loss and a healthy dose of abject fear triggered by their imminent official launch from the nest. Their independence and competence is nothing new by this point. It's just, suddenly, very real. 

As we cruise through the swamp this afternoon, I will be on high alert, as I have been for so many years, confident that I can keep my daughter safe, even overpower an alligator if I have to. I will swat away mosquitoes and stare down toothy reptiles, and I will start to wonder who will protect her when we are no longer drifting alongside each other, in the same boat. 

Suddenly, Missing Seymour

When the time came to order a stone for my father's grave, my mother, brother, and I struggled to come up with a word to engrave into the top. Everything he meant to each of us, boiled down to a single word. It was a daunting task.

My father, Seymour, had lots of nicknames: Sim, Sy, or, as I liked to think of it, Sigh. But the cemetery -- where my poor selfless father had recently embarked on an eternity in the company of my mother's relatives -- seemed to demand something more formal, more dignified than a nickname. FATHER. MOTHER. SISTER. BROTHER. HUSBAND. On rows of tombstones, so impersonal and so limiting, futile attempts at capturing the essence of a person.

We settled on DADDY. He was a devoted husband, a devoted uncle and cousin, a devoted friend. When he died at the age of 78, he had been a father for only half of his life. But "daddy" was who he was meant to be -- our provider, our caretaker, our protector. When I was little, I feared losing him more than I feared losing anyone. Years later, when he got sick and I had three children of my own whom I loved more than life itself, I couldn't imagine a world without him. When he died, I felt as if I had been cut off at the knees. 

My mother, the widow, had her brand of grief, and she was the one whose daily life would change dramatically. My brother and I grieved for her as much as we grieved for ourselves, and we, at least, took comfort in each other, the two children, similarly situated, similarly stricken. 

It's been nineteen years, and I am long past the days when I would burst into tears, as my ex-husband put it, every time I caught sight of an older Jewish man. I don't even consciously think of him most of the time, but somehow he remains with me, on ordinary days, and especially on days when I need a boost. I can still hear his strong, soothing voice. Whenever I pass the corner of 49th and 2nd in Manhattan, I can still remember the relief I always felt when I spotted his car, during that rough spot when I was in my early twenties and he would endure more rush hour traffic than he should have after a long day just to pick me up after work. I can still remember how everything always seemed a bit more right when he was there. 

Nineteen years, and it occurred to me today that my brother and I each have our own bank of "daddy" memories, some shared, but many not. This morning, my brother shared a favorite story in honor or Father's Day -- something about a seat from the old Yankee stadium and a few cartons of cigarettes and a special journey for a father and a son. I know the stadium relic well, but I never knew the details of how it ended up in my brother's bedroom. My father, my most adored "daddy," had somehow managed to be as unique a figure in somebody else's life as he had always been in my own. 

I am not a good sharer, and I am a little competitive. I console myself with the hope that my brother knows as little of my car rides home from work with our father as I know of their Yankee Stadium seat adventure. He can cherish his own memories, just as I cherish mine, vague snippets that have embedded themselves in my psyche, my heart, my soul. 

At the beginning, I used to dread what I called "Fatherless Day." Today, I celebrate Daddy, who has never left me. Or any of us who loved him. 

We've Come a Long Way, Baby. Sorta.

We are well into the twenty-first century, and misogyny is alive and well in the Capitol. My teenaged self would never have thunk it.

Walking along Avenue J in Brooklyn last week, I half expected to see the bus driver with the tight red curls coming up behind me to make the turn onto Bedford Avenue. Every day, for three years, it was his blue city bus that picked us up on a busy street corner a few blocks from my house to transport us to high school.The blue had seemed shiny and new, back then, compared to the old green ones. The driver seemed so young and kind, back then, though he never smiled — never even seemed to recognize us. It struck me that was his way of being invisible. I wasn't sure of too many things, back then, but I was pretty sure I didn't want to drive a bus when I grew up.

Those were the early days of Title IX. By the time I got to high school, I had just as much right to participate in a varsity sport as my brother did. Elite private universities, which had long felt compelled to admit women, still often relegated them to distinct women's colleges that did not even bear the hallowed name. Together but separate, equal but only to a point. I refused to attend any such school, on principle. My mother always worked (in addition to having her hair and nails done and having doors opened for her by my father and having dinner ready for all of us at six), so I came upon my "one from column A/one from column B" version of feminism honestly. It never occurred to me that there was something I could not do -- or at least attempt to do. I also knew, deep down, it wasn't a bad thing to be treated like a queen.

When I return to Brooklyn, I marvel at how little has changed, at least on the surface. The old ladies sitting outside brick apartment buildings on folding chairs on their concrete beach. Housewives wheeling metal grocery carts down rutted sidewalks. The mixed aromas of ethnic foods. Horns blaring, double parked cars holding their ground. On a Friday, as it was this time, Orthodox Jews scurrying about, the storm before the calm of Shabbat.

It remains a land of mom and pop stores with dusty wooden floors and narrow aisles and shelves packed with apartment-sized miniature versions of things. Not a Starbucks or a Crate and Barrel or a gourmet grocery chain in sight. Window displays are functional, not pretty. Still, if you’ve ever tasted a kugel, the haphazard rows of bulky trays makes you salivate. The city buses are still cumbersome and noisy, and still blue.

I walk by my old high school, a venerable place, across the street from Brooklyn College, another venerable place (although I would never have actually enrolled there; that was beneath those of us with grander dreams). The college campus captivates me now. It is green, it is open, it is pretty, just like any campus. A moving mosaic of ethnicity criss-crosses the paths cutting through the manicured lawn. It strikes me as a haven of opportunity. Why had I never noticed that before? Maybe the bus driver with the red curly hair would have given anything to go there. I see young women and young men, all convinced they are destined for greatness. Indeed, some are.

So many years later, we take all our equality and, more importantly, our dignity for granted. Yet, so many years later, if you are a woman in the Senate and you challenge one of the old white guys, you are reprimanded. You are reminded that you are primarily there to be seen but not heard. With so much left to fight for, we appear to be backsliding. So many years later, a bumpy ride on the big blue bus.

Excess Baggage

I'm glad United Airlines has been working hard to rectify its image issues. I can once again approach my gate confident I won't be forcibly dragged out of my seat -- not only because of the bad optics but because nobody of any consequence would be willing to sit in the middle seat in Row 26.

It's the latest idea in airport indignity -- if you search on line for the cheapest ticket, you had better read the fine print. The print is so fine, in fact, that United takes it upon itself to cover its aft section and send you several emails after your purchase is completed, "reminding" you, in case you missed it, that you must pretty much board without carrying anything more than a change of underwear and a lipstick.

I fear we are only a year or two away from seats on the wing unless you pay a surcharge. I decided this made no sense (what does, these days?) and I also decided that a purse and a tiny bag that, together, would fit under the seat in front of me, would be acceptable, since I wouldn't presumably complying with the spirit of the new rule, not taking up valuable overhead bin space. I'm a short Jewish woman; diminished leg room is a small price to pay.

Apparently, though, this has nothing to do with spirit; it's about zero tolerance (and, I suspect, a bit of humiliation for the basic economy folks now relegated to the airborne equivalent of steerage, forced to sport a scarlet "Group 5." The moment I clicked on the "no bags to check" option on my laptop, I got the message in red (albeit tiny) print. I  would have to actually interact with a United ticket agent if I thought I was going to sneak through with some extra stuff. Seriously. The self service ticket dispensing machine at the airport was equally vigilant. I, along with several fellow passengers, awaited assistance from the one agent unlucky enough to be spending the day responding to bright yellow alerts on the self service screens.

Damn it. He was well trained. He knew immediately the pale green straps from my backpack were not decorative edging on my white sleeveless blouse. You'll have to check one of those bags, he told me, unable to deny that the two of them would easily fit under the seat in front of me, with extra room for a small child. He reminded me of the seventeen post -purchase emails I received informing me of the new indignity I mean rule. Shame, shame.

I assured him I could combine them -- knowing full well I couldn't -- but he let it slide. He warned me about how serious they would be about all this at the gate. I took my chances. The guy at the gate barely glanced at my ticket, much less my bizarre attempt to fit a large square purse in a small round tote.

Crazy world.

Pittsburgh? Paris? Please!!

  

Back when I was trusting and naive....

Well, back when I was even more trusting and naive, I fell for the old "jostle and lift" routine on a crowded subway more than I care to admit. Polite and woefully not suspicious, I would apologize profusely for being bumped while the bumper's pal stole my wallet.

It hasn't happened in quite a while --not because I've gotten any wiser, but because I spend a lot less time on subways and, anyway, I usually just leave my purse somewhere safe, like in plain view on the front seat of my car.

If America circa 2017 is any indication, I'm not the only one who falls for the jostle and lift on a regular basis. Every day we get jostled; every day we remain polite; every day our most prized possessions are lifted. While we sleepily follow the rules, a motley team of shameless con artists has taken a sledgehammer to all that we hold dear. All that we have, for so long, taken for granted, like the stuff in my wallets. With much higher stakes.

Jared. A pampered and entitled rich boy, crooked by birth and by marriage. Michael Flynn. A has- been military guy who somehow went awry. 45. Our narcissistic ego-maniacal greedy and moronic president. The perfect foils for the forces of true evil, the ones who really want to throw us into chaos. Hey look over there. We look over there, while the sleeping giant is being slain.

Every day, we watch the previous day's news pale in comparison to the latest ridiculousness, while we hope to elect somebody new in four years -- FOUR YEARS. While we seriously debate whether our president can invoke executive privilege for criminal conversations he has freely discussed. While we feel embarrassed by our President's behavior toward our allies, while our allies band together so they can avoid falling prey, the way we did. While we wonder who the heck would fall for the Paris versus Pittsburgh bullshit, or the indignant screaming about wasting our tax dollars while we pay for his wife to stay in her gilded Manhattan penthouse.

I'm all for playing by the rules, if I only understood what they are.

Touching the Sun

It was better than coffee, that infusion of vitamin D I got this morning when I turned on the news and saw the story about NASA's plans to visit the sun. A cool story, particularly welcome in the midst of the steady onslaught of "breaking news" of new revelations about our apprentice-president, tidbits that shock for a nano-second before we shake our heads and file them away with so much other crap we can barely remember.

Touching the sun, in a contraption that could fly me from here to Tokyo in a minute -- an appealing side note to a mom who would certainly relish the opportunity to deliver a quick hug to a son who lives far away. Still cool, though, even if I never get to hitch a ride.

The other day, I watched a show celebrating what would have been President Kennedy's 100th birthday. I was mesmerized -- by photographs that evoked such youthful optimism, the speeches that inspired, the grandness of purpose. The fairytale of Camelot, overblown but not altogether ridiculous. I watched the posthumous fulfillment of his dream, a man -- an American man -- walking on the moon. America first, in a good way. Winning, in a good way.

I had just turned four when Kennedy was killed, and to this day I'm not sure whether I remember watching the funeral or whether the indelible images of his children, so close in age to me, have tricked me over the years into retrieving a memory that could not possibly belong to me. Either way, I often wonder how different history might look had he been allowed to finish out his term, blunders and all.

He was a product of his time, I suppose, just as 45 is a product of ours. Telegenic, charismatic, articulate, Kennedy took full advantage of the magic of television. No doubt, in the 21st century, he would have availed himself of the tweet.

Ask not what your country can do for you....  

If we cannot end now our differences, at least we can help make the world safe for diversity. 

Let us not seek the Republican answer or the Democratic answer, but the right answer. Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past. Let us accept our own responsibility for the future.

Lock her up.

Fake news.

Covfefe. 

There's always a learning curve with a new job, but seriously? We can land a man on the moon, get to Tokyo in a minute, touch the sun, but we can't recruit somebody with a bit of dignity, grace, and experience to take the reins of the free world?

Camelot may have been an illusion, and this may be a nightmare, but hope springs eternal.