Mortar Boards and Floppy Hats, and No White Flags

I'm going to tell you a story. 

Her soft voice blanketed the stadium, soothing as warm honey. It occurred to me that it was sort of odd, a writer delivering a speech. Or, as she promised, telling a story. Prose is prose, but when a writer -- this writer, at least -- tells a story out loud, it's as if she's singing a lullaby, just for you. For you, and all the others in the crowd. One person's story, true and without inflection, grounded in fact but open to anybody's takeaway.

She is an Associate Professor at Tulane, at most fifteen years older that the average graduate, and she is a rising star, a two-time National Book Award winner. She writes about growing up poor and black in Mississippi; her story is about choices -- not one seismic decision to pack up and get out -- but a lifetime of choices that have led her down a sometimes rocky path from, well, one bayou to another. Via Stanford and Michigan. She has done well, particularly if we measure doing well in academic terms. Her story -- as extraordinary as her accomplishments seem -- is riveting in its ordinariness.

Rumors flew, before the graduation ceremony, that this writer -- Jesmyn Ward is her name -- was chosen to deliver the keynote speech by default. It was the same day as the royal wedding, and all the great orators of the world were off to London, where another young American woman of color was writing a new chapter in a very different kind of fairy tale. Different beginnings, different choices, different paths, two good stories being played out before wildly different crowds wearing all sorts of wild headgear. Whether the choice of speaker for my daughter's graduation was by default or by design, it was fortuitous. As was the crowning, on the same day, of a new and distinctly American princess across the pond.

There is nothing like the spectacle of a royal wedding, especially when it mixes stiff upper lips with fire and brimstone sermons and the sounds of a gospel choir belting out "Stand by Me." My daughter's graduation came close, though, with the lyrical, soft-spoken words of a rags to riches story teller washing over our generally more privileged but similarly situated children -- at a crossroads, facing a lifetime of small choices and rocky paths. Just like the rest of us, come to think of it. Jeweled crowns and coveted book awards are hard to come by, but success comes in many sizes and many colors. With small choices, and persistence, as our eloquent speaker reminded us.

Also, at the graduation, an honorary degree was bestowed upon Steve Gleason, the New Orleans Saints hero who lives, now, with ALS. He is wheelchair bound and can no longer speak, but, with the help of technology, his words washed over us, a reminder that even when choices are taken away, we have choices. No white flags is his mantra. It seemed to be the theme of the day, on both sides of the pond.

A Big Green Wave

We sat by the edge of the pool, my daughters and I, our feet dangling into the water. I had an overwhelming urge to jump in, the three of us together, holding hands. My older daughter, the rational one, refused. My younger daughter was willing, but only if the three of us went together. I cajoled, I begged, wished I could threaten some consequence -- a grounding, perhaps? -- but that ship has sailed. I resorted to petulance. I'm going in myself, I told them. They reminded me I was wearing white shorts and a light colored tee shirt.

So we sat by the edge of the pool, my daughters and I, three grown ups -- well, two grown ups and me -- our feet dangling into the water. We watched a group of children play. We guessed they were cousins, given the age range. They waged fake wars with foam noodles, played basketball into a floating hoop, splashed us they climbed out of the pool and leapt back in, over and over.

There is something about water. As I watched the cousins play, I wondered what it was, that magic that beckons us when we are very young, telling us to just play. Like babies in a  bathtub, these children squealed with what could only be described as pure joy. Adolescents had lost their inhibitions, and the younger ones had achieved equal footing. Whatever the pecking order might have been when they were dry, eating breakfast, the lines were blurred in the water. A hotel pool -- a great equalizer, a giant cocoon, a gently undulating reminder to all of us that we need to just lighten up.

Two nights earlier, we attended the long planned graduation dinner, a chance for eight families to gather together and celebrate our daughters, eight young women who seem to have formed a bond with each other that will last a lifetime. I have known some of them since the day I first moved Nicki into her dorm room, before she had any idea how much these four years would shape her, become a part of her. Before she believed she would like it here, even a little. They are barely recognizable, even though they sort of look the same, these young women who used to be girls. They are, at once, articulate and incoherent, sophisticated and goofy, independent and hanging on to each other for dear life. Graduation. Commencement. Endings and beginnings. They are, at once, excited and scared to death.

When the time came to get ready for the meticulously planned dinner, the skies opened up and buckets of water rained down on New Orleans. Nothing like Katrina, to be sure, but it was relentless. The deluge caught the city by surprise, turning the streets into rising rivers, wiping out the annual outdoor party on campus, making a lot of us wonder why we had just spent money at blow dry bars. We got soaked just climbing into an Uber. I watched out my window, getting a little nervous as we sat, stuck in traffic, the waters seeming perilously close to the bottom edge of the car door.

The city had become a giant swimming pool, and there was nothing left to do but dive in. We were a little damp, a bit less well-coiffed than we had intended, but the torrent swept us up in its odd embrace and reminded us all that, sometimes, we need to just lighten up.

They do it up right in New Orleans, graduation, or commencement, or whatever you want to call it. Everything is set to music. It's serious, this launching of young men and women, but we are reminded not to take ourselves too seriously. Old and young, and everything in between, we all dove in together this weekend, and we played.

Let Them Eat Maqluba

They have more in common then fuzzy hair, Marie and DJT.

I was horrified, yesterday, when I saw the split screen image of two surreal spectacles, just miles apart -- the carnage in Gaza, and opening day ceremonies at Mar-a-lago Mideast. There's never an excuse for brutality or ignorance or arrogance -- much less a repulsive combination of all three -- but at least Marie lived at a time when the whole concept of enlightenment was still relatively new.

There is, quite frankly, no excuse for a person (and I use the term loosely) like DJT (I still find it difficult to speak his name). There is no excuse for the likes of Ivanka and Jared -- other than bad genes. Yet here we are, almost a year and a half into the unforeseen disaster that we should have foreseen had the rest of us not had our heads buried up our behinds, and there is no end in sight. There is still a possibility, indeed a probability, DJ will survive to run again in 2020. And don't get me started on the unctuous Mike Pence. That man just needs to get laid (though someone would need to get paid royally to make it happen).

For the most part, we seem to have learned nothing from history, even though I always thought the whole point of history is to teach us lessons. Ask any college history major; the point is certainly not to find gainful employment. Hate and "us and them-ism" and needless provocation never end well, or, if they do, a lot of blood is shed in the process. Nobody really wins except the folks we hire to drive the bus. It all kind of reminds me of divorce. The lawyers tend to do pretty well, but for everyone else, the damage is profound.

I may not be all that complicated -- certainly not anywhere near as complicated as geo-political relations -- but I am certainly as multi-dimensional as the next gal, and can see more than one point of view. Except when it comes to DJT and his minions, which would include many prominent Republicans who seem to have lost their way. At the beginning, I was chastised, occasionally, for seeming so appalled by the 2016 election outcome. I was chastised for my gloom and doom attitude, and I was chastised for being unable to accept that there is, out there, another point of view.

Some of my favorite people, over the years, have voted for Republicans. I even married one of them, and our divorce had nothing to do with that, or even the fact that he is Catholic and I am a Jew. Somebody seemed horrified, the other day, when I admitted I can no longer enjoy the music of a talented artist who supports our current president (no, not Kanye), much less have a close friendship with somebody who does. It has nothing to do with my political views or elite liberalism. It has to do with my zero tolerance for hate, and "us and them-ism" and needless provocation (the blip of my divorce proceedings notwithstanding). It has to do with my yearning for dignity and decency, and my hope that those qualities will one day return to Washington.

Maybe the end of this nightmare will come when there is nobody left to provoke. I learned the refrain early, back in Sunday School in the sixties. Am Yisrael Chai. The people of Israel live! Who are the people of Israel, and at what price? L'Shana Haba'ah B'Yerushalayim. Next year in Jerusalem! Again, at what price. Does anybody out there have a plan, much less an end game?

Let them eat cake, let them eat maqluba. The parallels are astounding, and the irony is anything but funny.

The Morning After on Bourbon Street

It's barely recognizable at sunrise.

The stone sidewalks have already been hosed down, leaving only a sporadic whiff of what was a pretty strong and enduring stench of vomit the night before. Occasionally, a diehard reveler strolls by, in a feathered and sequined headpiece, perhaps, or maybe shorts that ride up a bit too high (for my northern sensibilities, at any rate). A drunk stumbles along the periphery of nearby Jackson Square, ranting about the chaos of the Trump administration. Sobering.

I wandered into a clothing store yesterday, on the more tame end of town, already pessimistic about finding anything to wear to Jazz Fest, something light and cool but sufficiently modest for me to keep my butt cheeks to myself. The ladies at the counter were relaxed and friendly, welcoming without being overbearing. It was a good sign; I hadn't had much luck allowing college students to dress me.

Yes I walked out with a couple of cute items, but that's not the point. These women understood me, knew what I would like and why, and, more importantly, what I shouldn't like and why not. "Take that off. It's not you at all." They were right, having known me for all of seven minutes. Far better than the amber haired willowy beauty from the day before, looking nauseatingly gorgeous in her combat boots and clingy long skirt and torn tee shirt barely covering what looked to be another torn tee shirt and a half of a bra. "That doesn't look so bad," she assured me. In other words, aim low.

Bless her heart. That's another thing I learned from my new friends in the other store, women in the early stages of middle age but women who have already embraced the harsh reality that the trappings of youth don't last forever. When kind southern ladies say "bless her heart," they mean it in the most condescending way. As in poor thing. Don't hate them because they're not beautiful or bright. They can't help it. The truth about southern hospitality and its hidden charms.

Bless their hearts, my new friends in the store. And I mean that in the nicest way. We talked about life, our children, how wise we are (bless our hearts) even though our children don't really think so. We hugged, and I promised to come by again in a few weeks, when I'm down in NOLA for my daughter's graduation.

Bourbon Street will be barely recognizable to me this evening. The joggers will be gone. The stench will be stronger. The bizarre parade of revelers will have returned. The drunk might still be stumbling and ranting, but he will be drowned out by the music and all the other stumblers and ranters. Bless all their hearts.

Leaving the Big Easy

The college visits are winding down.

Officially, I'm down in New Orleans for Jazz Fest. Why else would I be here only two weeks before graduation weekend. It's not that I'm not looking forward to a humid graduation ceremony with thousands of strangers at the Superdome -- I am, I really am -- but this is my last chance to visit my daughter, here, where she seems so at home and I still can't help but think she only just arrived a minute ago.

Nostalgia can really mess with your head, so much so I was even sad when I Venmo'd her landlord the final rent payment this morning. I took little comfort in the imminent windfall of June 1st, when I will not only not have to pay her rent but will (hopefully) get the security deposit back. Found riches. At what cost though.

She has enjoyed her time here, at school in New Orleans. As she should. She senses that reality might not be quite as much fun. As she should. Though I am sure she will enjoy it more than she thinks she will. The hardest part for me, I remember, was those first early winter days, when I would come out of a large office building at five o'clock to find that I had completely missed daylight. There were other hard parts, but somehow that was the most jarring.

My other children have found their way past that initial shock that comes with the reality of non-academic life. They still navigate, as we all do, but they've become accustomed to the drudgery of adult life, to days when the sun just doesn't wait for you to be done. They have discovered, along the way, as I hope their sister will, that the drudgery isn't as bad as it's cracked up to be. It's not college, but who, really, could survive a lifetime of that? Well, maybe we all could.

I am sitting in a very new bar in my very new hotel, waiting for my daughter to join me so we can figure out where to eat dinner. There is never anything that resembles drudgery in New Orleans when you are figuring out where to eat dinner. So many choices, so little time. She feels rushed now, determined to squeeze in all the local sites and sounds and smells and flavors that she has taken for granted. She had no idea that four years could pass in a minute. I didn't have the heart to tell her.

We will go to Jazz Fest, because we never have. It will become just another thread in my nostalgic blanket, along with all the food and the parades and the people and the indefinable quirkiness that is New Orleans. Along with all my other college visits, so long ago (ten minutes, I think), all the milestones and all the setbacks in the journeys of three children, finding their way.

Dancing on a Cloud

We hadn't exactly planned on the rain. Or the wedding dress emergencies. Or the absentee grandmas.

A few days before the wedding, my daughter seemed startled -- and a little bit annoyed -- that I was ignoring some of the logistics and insisting everything would work out. Maybe it's because I was curled up under my covers in a quasi-fetal position. I get why she might have found that annoying -- and not terribly reassuring -- but it should not have been all that surprising. She's known me all her life.

I barely remember the logistics -- again, not surprising, since I was pretty much ignoring them when the nightmare was in progress. Somehow, the wedding day arrived and almost everybody showed up, which, when you think about it, is the most important part. Frankly, I barely remember the wedding. I heard the desserts were amazing. And the band. I vaguely remember having to clamp the bottom of my dress with a ponytail holder so I wouldn't trip on it. I remember the confetti floating down onto the dance floor. In the pictures, my daughter and her new husband seem to be dancing on a cloud.

We couldn't do anything about the rain. As my father used to remind me, all you can do is let it rain. The photographer and the hairdresser tussled over the pros and cons of a quick picture of the bride on the balcony. An umbrella saved  everything -- for the moment and for posterity.

We couldn't do anything about the absentee grandmas, though I admit my efforts were slightly more herculean on that score than they were for the ordinary logistical nightmares that drove me under the covers. As for the wedding dress emergencies, with a few extra trips to New York and a little blind faith, I knew everything would work out, despite the horrified look on my daughter's face.

What I do remember, vividly, is watching my daughter as she approached where her father and I waited to catch her, halfway down the aisle. My daughter who hates to be the center of attention, my daughter who is bright and independent and far too modern to be the shimmering princess walking slowly toward me. I wanted to inch toward her a little, so she wouldn't have to walk too far alone. I tried not to seem too overprotective when I grabbed her arm.

A year ago, I handed my daughter over to her husband, with not an ounce of doubt. I can see it in his eyes -- not just that day but whenever I see them together --  how much he loves her, how well he will take care of her. There will be plenty of logistical nightmares, and, odds are, it will rain. Together, they will just have to let it rain. And keep dancing on a cloud.

Hot Lips is Coming Home

I'm so confused.

As it turns out, Dr. Huxtable, the benevolent obstetrician, was spending plenty of time checking out cervixes, but he definitely wasn't birthing babies. Kind of a busman's holiday, I suppose, except he wasn't raiding the pharmacy for epidurals. I ache for his victims, and I ache for all of us, the loyal viewers who truly believed he was a good doctor and an even better dad. How could we have been so duped.

Meanwhile, back on the Korean peninsula, war is over. Just like that. A handshake, a little tap dance across a line in some sand (or concrete), a quick flourish of two pens. Hot Lips and Hawk-eye packed up their MASH tents long ago, but at least the brave healers who fearlessly practiced their craft while grenades exploded around them can finally take comfort in knowing their efforts were not in vain. Big Sigh. Job well done, Radar, but you already know that, don't you?

Television doctors do health care commercials, because we trust their expertise. We care about what Kanye West and his wife Kim K. think about Trump and politics and anything of any import, as if either one of them is qualified to speak about or for anybody but themselves.

Like lots of people, I have fallen for fictional characters, assuming that's just who the actors are. That's what good writing and good acting does. I've never been a fan of reality shows, though, and I've never had much interest in any of the stars, mostly because I've always wondered how something can be deemed "real" when it's so contrived. If a camera were following me around all day inside my house, I'm guessing there wouldn't be dirty coffee mugs in the sink or stacks of unopened mail on my desk or piles of clean but rejected clothes on the floor of my closet. I'd close the door when I pee.

But the latest reality show, the one being played out in the Oval Office and by Tweet and on 24 hour cable news shows, has caught my attention (to put it mildly). Though we have certainly had our share of goofballs in office over the years -- if politics makes strange bedfellows, it's no surprise that it attracts a good number of folks who are already strange, before they ever get into bed -- no casting director worth her salt would ever have cast 45 as president. Or the various and sundry inept cabinet members as cabinet members. Well, unless it was supposed to be a farce.

Countless heads have rolled in the last 15 months, some deservedly so, some not. But where the stakes are highest, Teflon survives, with barely a scratch. Every day, or at least every few days, we think we've seen it all, and we think, finally, the camel's back is broken. Dr. Huxtable has been exposed and might be carted off to prison. The M.A.S.H. units on the Korean peninsula can officially be packed up. We will finally put this president of ours where he belongs -- either in a padded cell or a concrete one with metal bars -- before he seals our fate as the world's laughing stock, or worse, gets us all killed.

It's difficult, though, when so many of us have trouble separating fiction from truth. When we cannot imagine that television doctors are rapists, or that they would not be capable of tending to mortal wounds to the tune of exploding grenades. When quality "fiction" is floated, we get taken in, and the lines become blurred. Unfortunately, it seems, the same goes for bold faced lies. And as long as we have a president who keeps floating utter bullshit, there will be folks who fall for it. And there will be folks, like me, who become so confused they find it hard to believe anything.