Talkin' 'Bout My Girl

 With a hug and a "my girl," Michelle Obama managed, in one moment, to sum up all that is good about people in general, and my gender in particular. Oddly, with the most ordinary gesture, she transformed Hillary into a thing of beauty, elevated her out of the muck where the best she could be, for some, was a lukewarm alternative to a very nasty man. To put it mildly.

Facebook is filled with images of just that kind of solidarity, the uniquely female energy that helps us to transcend our shortcomings. We somehow look more beautiful when we come together, boosting each other into a whole that is infinitely greater than the sum of its parts. Not that the parts are anything to sneeze at. Look at any picture of a group of women of any age; it glows. 

Nothing against men; there are some I truly adore. Who else but a woman, though, could pull off what Michelle Obama has? No matter what ulterior motives she might have -- and let's face it, we all have them -- she has done, for Hillary, what my friends have done for me so many times. What I hope I can and will do for them in return. When the going gets so tough we think we can't go on, sisterhood pushes us forward. Gets us through the roadblocks at home and at work, the impossible juggling of motherhood and career, the self-doubt that plagues us no matter what we do. Most of us will never crash through the ultimate glass ceiling, but we endure our share of bruising obstacles. And, more often than not, it is the women -- "our girls" -- who get us through. 

History will be made this November, when we elect our first woman President. This is something for all of us to celebrate, women and men and everyone in between. The misogyny and sexual assault that have become central issues in this surreal campaign are not just women's issues, no matter how the media and political strategists try to frame them. And Hillary's shattering of that final sheet of glass -- well, it's about fucking time. Though our founding fathers might not have imagined this day would come, it is the logical result of what they created. We were an experiment in equality and endless possibility, and we have discovered, along the way, just how infinite those possibilities are. 

He's come awfully close, this nasty man, to undoing everything we stand for. But there is no mistaking his insincerity; he can (and will) talk until his orange face turns blue, but he is neither interested nor capable of lifting anyone up but himself. Again, this is not a gender issue, and most men I know are as offended by his words and deeds as I am. 

In the end, though, it takes a woman. A strong, bright, beautiful woman, kind of like the women I call my friends. "My girls," always ready with hugs -- and a bottle of wine and some chocolate -- to lift me up over the hurdles and nurse my wounds if I get cut by the glass. Kudos to Michelle, and, in all fairness, a shout out to the not too shabby guy who stands behind her. 

Land of My (Surp)rising Son

Seen one shrine, seen 'em all. Not really, except maybe to my untrained eye.

On this, my fourth trip to Japan, I travelled within a much smaller radius than I had in the past. And, for the first time, I felt at home in this faraway place, a place my son calls home, at least for now.

For the first time, I did not make it to Tokyo, though everyone has told me I must see the fish market. I did not make it to Kyoto, though I have been known to tout it as a fascinating and picturesque juxtaposition of ancient and modern Japanese culture. No Hiroshima, which has taken my breath away several times, and no Nagasaki -- still to be checked off on my bucket list.

For the first time, I visited Japan in the fall, not during one of my son's summer vacations. The oppressive heat of August was gone, as was the awkwardness of descending upon my grown son while he juggled the temporary disappearance of his normal schedule and the temporary intrusion of a jet-lagged mother trying to make the most of every moment on her journey halfway around the world.

Left to my own devices for a couple of days, I wandered the streets of Kobe alone, learning about the city in the way our kids first figure out the layout of their neighborhood when they get their drivers' licenses. I walked when I could, took taxis or trains when I had to, becoming increasingly familiar with the ever changing neighborhoods. I took wrong turns, and experimented with paths not yet taken. I overcame my abject fear of gesticulating wildly in an attempt to communicate with people who have no reason to speak English.

And when I spent time with my son, it reminded me of what it used to be like, when we would share mundane moments together, doing ordinary things. We played tennis in the rain. We compared notes on how startling it was to be caught in an earthquake, each of us in different locations somewhere not too far (in the grand scheme of things) from the epicenter. We ate greasy hamburgers outside a non-descript shack in a Kobe suburb, and enjoyed countless delicious and inexpensive meals in crowded, seemingly nameless joints in the heart of the city. I met his friends, watched his band play. I did not set foot in a shrine or a temple, did not purchase any souvenirs.

On my last day, I visited the school where my son works. I met the young children who adore him, the coworkers who respect him for his competency and have no idea he once tried to boil an unopened Pepsi can while he was supposed to be watching his younger sister. I relished being Matt's "mommy," wanted to explain to the children who, at first, eyed me with suspicion, that he is my baby, my little boy. That I used to drop him off and pick him up at school, that I am as thrilled each time I  catch sight of him now, when he is 26 years old, as I was when he was their age. I wanted to tell them that he wasn't always so tall and lean.

I leave with light luggage after a shopping free week, counterbalanced by a heavy heart. I hate that I won't see him again for months, and that we will both slip comfortably into our own lives, where my daytime is his nighttime, and where it just isn't easy to share a mundane thought or an ordinary, inconsequential laugh. But, having seen him as he lives and works over there, I can't help but feel proud, and even a little happy that he is in a place so magical, doing such good things.

A Fish out of Water

Only for my son would I stand at a tiny wooden table, much of it protruding onto a busy sidewalk, popping fleshy little slices of mystery fish into my mouth. No thick pillow of rice to mute the taste, no neat seaweed packaging to disguise the shimmer of a life lived all too recently. Well, I'd do it for my daughters, too, but that kind of dare would be utterly inconsistent with their vegetarian palates.

It's my fourth visit to Japan in so many years. I have been here for a little more than 12 hours, and though my body craves dinner, I have only just eaten breakfast. My son is not with me now; with nothing to prove, I happily passed on the offerings of raw fish and stewed fish and fried fish and things that just looked fishy at the buffet and zeroed in on more familiar fare -- eggs, bread, bacon, fruit, and coffee. Note to self: skip the bacon next time. Maybe I've just been spoiled by the maple glazed slabs I had in St. Louis a few weeks ago.

It should come as a surprise to nobody who knows me even a little that my first official post from Japan is all about the food. It's always about the food, even when it's not. After sheepishly returning three times to the buffet to double and triple down on the croissants and onion loaves -- everything here, not only the shoes, is doll-sized -- a sign next to a tiny toaster caught my eye. Himeji almond toast. A specialty from the little town of Himeji, a town that never seems to make the cut on western maps.

Oddly, I had just been thinking about Himeji (bet that's something most of you have never said). Yes, I had just been thinking about Himeji as I read the newspaper and watched one kimono clad large Japanese man after the other emerge from the hotel elevator, feet swollen around flip flops and hair pulled up into a tight bun. What a difference a day makes. On my last visit to my suburban Starbucks, I had stared at amazement at an impressive albeit run of the mill boob job. Note to self: you ain't seen nothin'.  Yawn.

Anyway, Himeji. Himeji is noteworthy for an ancient castle that somehow survived devastating air raids in June and July of 1945, just before the atomic bombs were dropped nearby on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. It is noteworthy for a modest memorial to the victims of those World War II air raids and a museum documenting the carnage of war in the area during the 1940`s. And it is noteworthy, to me, because my son lived and worked there during his first year in Japan, and it is the first place I visited here. In the three years since, he has lived in Kobe, a city a bit closer to Chicago geographically as well as culturally, though still worlds away on both counts.

For four years, though, my son has held out on me. He never told me about Himeji almond toast. I agonized for a moment, feeling conspicuous in my Caucasian skin and after downing enough miniature croissants to feed a Japanese family for a week, but finally decided I had to give it a try. I followed the instructions next to the tiny toaster carefully: select a slice of bread, cover with almond butter in the dish below (I read that as slather), toast until slightly brown on top, and enjoy. I have always had a soft spot for Himeji, but I suddenly have a yen (ha) to go back.

But, alas, there is much to see and do right here in Kobe. As luck would have it, I realized when I arrived I had screwed up my hotel reservation -- right chain, wrong city -- but I managed to cancel it for a small fee and book myself into a surprisingly nice place in a section of Kobe I have never fully explored. As I strolled through the area last night with my son, he warned me there was not much to do. He said this as we passed a gleaming Gucci store on our left, Chanel and Hermes just across the street. As Donald's third ex-wife says (and forgive me if I paraphrase), boys will be boys. So silly.

The day is my own today, to get some work done and maybe do some exploring in the awful area surrounding my hotel. My son is worried I'll be bored. Only for him would I make such sacrifices -- standing around popping chunks of fish flesh and popping in and out of designer boutiques. A mother's love runs deep.

A Flight of Fancy

Thirteen years ago yesterday, my son became a bar mitzvah. He was in the midst of a growth spurt, and the sleeves of the tuxedo jacket he had been fitted for only a month earlier did not quite cover his forearm.

Today, armed with instructions to obtain his measurements for a tuxedo for his sister’s wedding, I am off to Japan to visit that same son. He is years past his last physical growth spurt, but still, I wonder if I will hesitate when I first see him. It has been ten months since we have been together, and so much has changed, for both of us. Small changes, for the most part, but the kinds of changes that can reveal themselves in our faces, if we pay attention.  In Japan, though, it will be easy for us both to pick each other out of a crowd. A tall young white man with unruly hair and green eyes, and a short middle aged woman without any pretense of cool stoicism and with feet far too large to squeeze into locally made shoes.

This is my fourth trip to Japan. I am flying solo, without either of my daughters to tote me around as if I were an unruly toddler with an uncanny instinct to slow things down and walk the wrong way. I feel a tad self-satisfied, knowing I will manage, on my own, to navigate the somewhat familiar but increasingly mystifying world in which my son lives. I aim low; mostly, my goal is to get where I need to be without offending anybody or losing my internet connection.

I cannot help but wonder whether by sheer virtue of my Americanism I will be viewed with suspicion when I land on the other side of the world. In a society where a distinct ethnicity creates at least an appearance of an absence of the sort of diversity that inspires prejudice,’will the pervasive crassness of our political season, the loud voices of a vocal minority (I hope) of people who hate or mistrust anybody who is not like them, make me unwelcome? Does my son ever feel ostracized or misjudged by association? Will every polite bow be counterbalanced by a raised eyebrow? I cannot help but wonder.

As I often do when I am in Japan, I will feel as awkward as, say, a thirteen year old boy in an ill-fitting tuxedo. Or, frankly, a 26 year old young man being fitted for a tuxedo for his sister’s wedding. Our reunion will, at first, be just as awkward. But, though the place itself will always remain unfamiliar and a bit intimidating, it should not take long for us — my son and me — to reacquaint. No matter what he wears, no matter what he says, and no matter how comfortably at home he seems in such a faraway place, he is still the boy who grew before my very eyes, who could be unrecognizable from one moment to the next but, underneath it all, the same.

He lives a world away but always in my heart, a virtual hug away. My arms are as long as they need to be.

Reaching Across the Aisle

I was raised to be a die hard Mets fan. 

The baseball itself was secondary. I loved our family outings to Shea Stadium -- the old guys with the orange mittens to wipe off our pale yellow seats, the regulars a few rows in front of us who showed up at every game, armed with signs, the hot dogs and pizza that dulled my disinterest in the game.  On school nights, I would disappear into my room to do "homework" with one eye on the little Sony television my dad had gotten through some bank promotion. No hot dogs, but still, the Mets were my team. 

The loyalty barriers in New York are a not as sharply defined as geographical divide between Cubs and Sox fans, but I don't recall knowing any Yankees fans. For years I thought there were only two kinds of beer -- Reingold at Shea ("my beer, the dry beer"), and my father's green bottles of Heineken at home. And my brother was the coolest big brother ever, with his weathered mitt at the ready and his laser focus on entering every stat in the free program. More hot dogs for me. 

My thinking on a lot of things has changed over the years, but despite having lived most of my adult life in Chicago, and even acknowledging a split in my loyalties, I still refer to myself as a Mets fan. Nostalgia is a powerful thing. The sparkling Citifield may have good eats, but it doesn't hold a candle to the old, gritty Shea. I can still remember the '69 roster, but probably couldn't name a 2016 Met without phoning a friend. I can still taste the hot dogs, still hear my mother warning me I was going to get sick. 

This year, though, I am feeling the pull of my post-childhood nostalgia, stoked, to be sure, by the Mets' untimely elimination. I can still hear the not too distant roar from Wrigley Field outside my apartment on Chicago's north side. I remember the excitement of attending the first night game. As always, the baseball itself was secondary. It was more about the hot dogs, and even more about the news I had received that day, that I was pregnant with my first child. A child who, coincidentally, has always had Cubbie blood running through her veins. A child who is flying in this Sunday to attend a post season game, with me. 

Sure, I am excited about the game, and the prospect of the Cubs finally winning the World Series, and even the hot dogs. I can and will embrace the Cubs without ambivalence. But forgive me if it's not really about the baseball, and mostly about spending this day with the young lady who, 28 years ago, as a small cluster of cells filled with endless possiblity, attended the first night game with me, her dad, and her uncle, the die hard Mets fan who has always found a place in his heart for his nieces' and nephew's beloved team.  

Endless possibility. That little cluster of cells has exceeded my wildest dreams. Maybe this year, Cubs fans, my adopted team will do the same. 

Don't Look Down

Gaze is up. I heard my yoga instructor's gentle reminder each time I lowered and lifted myself through chaturanga, the breath driven transition between upside down and right side up. Still, my head hung like a bowling ball, my gaze fixed somewhere between my naval and my toes.

Transitions are never easy. The Jewish High Holidays are here, again, falling  -- by design -- during that odd period of seasonal equinox. Those neither here nor there days, when light equals dark, when the waning sunshine outside beckons for last hurrahs and the un-airconditioned cool inside beckons for an early jump on hunkering down. My closet feels the tug-of-war between summer and winter as I place sandals and tank tops tantalizingly out of reach and bring boots and sweaters to the forefront. My outerwear, my inner thoughts, it seems, all coexist in an awkward alliance to carry me through from Point A to Point B.

Gaze is up. I was still contemplating my naval, no matter how many times she said it. Though it did not feel quite right, it felt safe. I could tell she was singling me out when she said it,  but I ignored her, content to look down until I was ready not to. Yoga is about looking inward, not gazing up, dammit.

Yoga is also about letting all your thoughts go, which is something I have been unable to master in the almost twelve years since I embraced the practice. A reluctant convert, I became addicted to the idea of a mind/body connection, but have always struggled with the concept of leaving my stresses outside the door with my shoes. At least, while I am on the mat in the yoga studio, there is no CNN.

The quiet and contented camaraderie among yogis is a welcome diversion for me, particularly these days. And particularly on this day, Yom Kippur, when I cannot help but think back to, well, everything -- the good, the bad, and the ugly. And I cannot help but think ahead, hoping for a lot less of the bad and the ugly in the coming year, which doesn't seem too much to ask after a year in which the bar has been set pretty low for many of us. It's not that I don't recognize or appreciate the extent of my good fortune; I'm just a bit selfish.

Nice Lisa!!! Halfway through the class, I decided it was time to lift my gaze, and it was duly noted. I smiled at my yoga instructor, who encourages but never chastises, and I somehow drew my thoughts away from my naval. Fasting is not in my repertoire, but penitence is; I will give up non-stop election coverage for a day. And I will contemplate how we all got from there to here, and will think about how best to get from here to there, as we all coexist in a fragile and awkward alliance through breathtaking transitions. 

When the Circus Comes to Town (Hall)

They say bad things come in threes. 

Last night, while many Americans watched what was billed as a town hall debate between two human beings seeking the presidency, I screwed up and watched a circus. A three ring circus. A very bad three ring circus. 

There were lots of elephants in the room -- with no offense intended to elephants. Most horrifying was the untamed elephant in chief, empowered by the freedom of having nothing to lose, running amok and spewing venom and stalking his enemy like a rabid tiger. I searched for the remote, wondering where the debate was. 

Threes. Three women who had long ago very publicly accused the elephant's opponent's husband of sexual advances, and who have long hated his wife for not reacting well to their plight. Never mind her plight, or the fact that that particular circus rolled out of town a long time ago. Never mind that displaying these women like, well, circus animals, is abusive in its own right. Maybe this wasn't a circus. Maybe this was a National Geographic special, a virtual safari with the animals coming right up to the window, pressing their noses into my living room, wondering why we were all staring at them. 

Threes. The holy trinity of role models -- Hassan Rouhani, Bashar al-Assad, Vlad. The ones we can count on to obliterate ISIS. Huh? Threes. The elephant's heroes. I have great respect for women. Nobody has more respect for women than I do. I have tremendous respect for women. If you repeat it three times, it must be true. She'll be in jail. He only said it once, but that was enough. When I was flipping channels, had I missed our descent into third world authoritarianism? 

Three zillion. The number of times he used the word disaster, which is one of his three favorite words. The others are "bigly" and "massively." Compelling. 

When the circus ended -- I never found the town hall debate -- three CNN commentators told me, in rapid succession, that Trump did well. I was watching something else, so I'll just have to take their word for it. 

Poll Dancing

Someone told me there's a new poll out there: can a woman be funny and beautiful?

First of all, Duh! Hellooooo! 

I haven't bothered to check on the results -- what little faith I have in polls was pretty much obliterated when I found out Mike Pence "won" the vice presidential debate -- but it occurred to me that many folks would say no. That funny and beautiful do not go together, that they cannot coexist on the same double helix.

Worse still -- as if ignorance isn't scary enough -- if the nays have it, reputable news anchors would suggest it is so, that beauty and humor are mutually exclusive, and that only beasts can make you laugh. Scary indeed, and so not funny.

We live in a world where a pig (no offense intended to pigs) is within a snout's length of the White House, and where a smarmy politician who advocates discrimination in the name of religious freedom can lie and deflect on a national stage without spewing green vomit, without leaving a single strand of hair out of place, and be deemed a winner. Where a guy who claims he is a Christian, a conservative, and a Republican, in that order, seems unable to channel anything other than political ambition.  Well, except when it comes to real issues, the things that threaten our very way of life, like gay marriage. And stem cell research.

I only have a handful of true friends, but I've met lots of women over the years -- lots of beautiful women who have made me laugh. Laugh not in the way that, say, some grown men might laugh in a locker room (which is a euphemism for anywhere), but in that full-throated way that makes me put life in perspective and gets me through hot flashes and reminds me not to sweat the small stuff. Like back fat, and wrinkles, and gravity. The women in my life are all beautiful -- sometimes in that traditional, photogenic way, but always, I think, because they make me laugh, and think. And because they enrich my world, even if only for a moment.

Can a woman be funny and not beautiful? I think not. No margin of error.

Made in America

My daughter felt compelled to tell me, yesterday, that because she had failed to "mind the gap" between the train and the platform, she made quite an entrance onto the Metro. Mon Dieu! An American in Paris.

As soon as I realized she had actually made it on to the train -- albeit gracelessly -- and not slipped through the gap, I chuckled. That's my girl. Why not be the person people notice when you walk into a room, even if you have to do a face plant to get everyone's attention.

There's a new Parisian in America. In suburban Midwestern America. She has swept into our little town, ever mindful of the gap between her and the rest of us, the ones who are far more likely to attract attention for face plants than grace. Bonjour, bonjour. I marvel at her entrance at our Starbucks each morning. Without spilling a drop of the foamy brew in the mug she has brought from home, she bends to dispense continental double kisses to the regulars. She is reed thin and tall, taller still in her three inch wedges. She is stylish no matter what she wears; her outfits are calculated, whether built around sweats or a leather jacket.

The men are smitten, and I am fascinated. Okay, maybe a little bit smitten. With her arrival I have become a tad more invisible, which is a good thing, I think, as I gaze down at my early morning get-up and vaguely recall the tired look on the face that gazed back at me from my bathroom mirror. Mon Dieu, indeed. As overwhelmed as I am with "chic envy," I want her to stay. Her je ne sais quoi is infectious, somehow. I find myself retrieving what little high school French I have managed to retain, and I pinch my cheeks to give my decidedly "un-chic" Brooklynese a French flare. I hold my chin up a little higher. I imagine that the distinctly American sludge in my disposable cup is a lukewarm cafe au lait. I cannot help but wonder whether our new neighbor's je ne sais quoi fades into something more predictable and mundane when she is back in Paris, on her own turf.

My daughter can pass for French on the outside, at least before she speaks. Boarding the Metro, she could easily blend. But Parisians can wear high heels and balance uncovered mugs of steaming cafe while they bend to dispense kisses. My daughter, like me, can be wearing gym shoes and carrying nothing and still walk into walls and stumble over our own feet. Which may not be all that impressive here in suburban Chicago, but can sure make us stand out in Paris.

By the time I visit my daughter in Paris next month, she will no doubt have assimilated a bit more. She might sound French, and she might even know how to walk gracefully onto a train, feet first. She remains, however, vigorously defensive of her American-ness, no small feat at a time when a strange man with cotton candy hair has fueled a widespread misconception that we are, all of us, irrevocably crass. Our stumbles and pratfalls notwithstanding, I like to think we are not all that bad.

She will learn to mind -- or not to mind -- the gap. But there ain't nothing better than good old-fashioned American je ne sais quoi.