If your hand has ever itched to pull the lever on a slot machine, or the thought of those three beautiful 7's perfectly aligned on the center line (with max credits bet, of course) has ever made your heart beat just a little quicker, then fear not, my friends! Just because you're thousands of miles from either Atlantic City or Las Vegas, doesn't mean you can't find quality gambling establishments nearby, that will certainly be just as eager as the big boys to take your money. (Only, they'll do it without the pretty boardwalk, and no awesome Hoover Dam just a short drive away. And if Jerry Seinfeld, or Celine Dion, or Tom Jones were to ever headline at one of these places, they would no doubt appear on stage not in their traditional performance attire, but in a straightjacket, tied to a chair, with a very large, very imposing, heavily-armed man positioned behind the curtain, stage-left, aiming an Uzi at their head, just in case they realize they made a wrong turn at the Grand Canyon and wound up in the wrong casino. But I digress...and it’s only the first paragraph!)
Gambling is fun for the whole family...
No, wait...that’s not how this was supposed to go.
Let’s try this again.
On my 21st birthday, my parents took me to Atlantic City, where they handed down to me their love, their happiness, and the family tradition of losing your shirt at the craps table.
*Furrows brow.* Wait a minute…that’s still not how this was supposed to go. *Sigh*
~~~Take 3...marker...aaaand...action!~~~
Growing up in New York City, the casinos in Atlantic City, New Jersey, were only about two and a half hours away. (Assuming, of course, you didn’t run into trouble with Jersey drivers, which could lead to anything from a serious case of potty-mouth and/or carpal tunnel in your middle finger, to a road-rage-induced aneurism, in which case, you might be hospitalized, and it would take you more like a week to get there.)
*Grrr…*
Damn it, muse, can’t you let me write something serious for a change?
Last time, and I mean it. (No, really!)
*Deep breath.*
I like to gamble. I like the sounds of the casino. I like the sights in the casino. I like the colored lights, the happy tunes in major keys, and the illusion it all creates that I, little ol’ me, just might walk out of there a whole lot richer than when I walked in.
I’ve been to casinos in Atlantic City, Las Vegas, New Mexico, and have recently added Council Bluffs, Iowa. I’m not what you would call a “high roller.” I’m not even what you would call a “low roller.” I’m what you could call “someone who takes a few dollars out of the ATM, because she wants to get the heck out of her room, off the base, and get a fun change of scenery, preferably in a place where there are free drinks and the potential to fatten her wallet.”
I never take more than a hundred dollars with me. Maybe that sounds like a lot, especially considering I generally lose it all, but I don’t go very often. Just every now and then, when I’m in the mood for the very best thing about a casino: complete anonymity. When you’re gambling, unless you’re surrounded by friends, or happen to bump into someone you know, you could be anyone. You could be a poor student. You could be a rich-whatever. You could be the personal assistant to Harrison Ford. (‘Cuz, let’s face it: if you were Harrison Ford, you would most definitely not be anonymous, and therefore not fit into this paragraph.) Or, you could be the night janitor in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo. The point is, whoever you are outside the casino, whether you’re “Mom,” or “Corporal,” or just, “Hey, you,” in the cigarette-smoke hazey world with the psychedelic carpet and no windows, clocks, or other signs of the outside world, you are whoever you want to be.
I’m not a courageous gambler. I’ve never sat down at a blackjack or poker table and assembled a stack of chips in front of myself. I don’t know the rules of casino card games well enough to not screw things up for the people around me. I don’t want to accidentally hit when I should stay, or whatever it is people mess up in blackjack. I’ve never placed a bet on a craps table, or taken my chances at roulette.
I’m a bit of a loner when it comes to gambling. (Not to mention a bit of a P-word, but you didn’t hear that from me.) I take my money, and I sit myself down in front of the video slots. If you sit there long enough, and are willing to be up and down, and up and down, you actually can come out ahead, even if you’re playing the nickel slots. (Not that it’s likely, mind you, just possible.)
Anyway, all of this was just a funny way (I hope) of setting the stage for what this essay is really about: hitting the jackpot.
In all the times I’ve been to casinos, I’ve only come out ahead two or three times. (And, as I am still working out like crazy and not eating sugar or starch, you can infer that in those two or three times, I did not come out far enough ahead to afford that elusive liposuction...) The most I’ve ever won is about two hundred dollars. Other than that, next time you see Donald Trump, tell him “you’re welcome,” for me, because I probably paid for his silk tie. (Or his shoes...or his kids’ college educations...LOL...no, not that much! I said I don’t gamble that often!)
The vast majority of times I’ve gambled (which, again, just to make sure we’re clear on this point, is not vast at all), I’ve exited the casino with less money than I had when I entered.
It wasn’t until just a few months ago (almost a whopping seven years after my 21st birthday), that I realized I had, in fact, been winning big all along.
Last April, several of my friends and I were stationed at Goodfellow Air Force Base, in San Angelo, Texas, for training. With the exception of a Wal-Mart, some seriously good steakhouses (Texas, remember), and an extremely kick-ass bar, San Angelo boasted few signs of civilization. (Except, that is, for its ideal location: three hours from San Antonio, and five hours from Dallas. Um...yeah, so maybe not so ideal. In all seriousness, though, I had a great time there, but it was much more the people I was with, than where we were, that did it, not to mention a fabulous instructor upon whom I had an enormous crush.)
Anyway, we were always on the lookout for fun things to do on weekends. One of the friends who was stationed with me had recently developed a slight interest (okay, total addiction) to gambling. Not that he was about to risk the deed to his house or anything; he just liked to play the video slots now and then, ever since he won $300 at a casino we stopped at while in transit from our previous base. So, for a few weeks, he’d been bugging a group of us to find a casino somewhere within reasonable driving distance.
After doing some research on the internet, he found one that sounded promising. Next thing I knew, it was 7:00 the following Saturday morning, and five of us were piling into my car, heading out to seek our fortunes at the fabulous, exciting (read: sarcasm) Comanche Red River Casino, in fabulous, exciting...
Devol, Oklahoma. (Read: more sarcasm.)
While it wasn’t exactly Caesar’s, (or the Venetian, or the Bellagio, or any other casino they’d ever make a movie about), it was still a casino, and offered just as big a chance as the famous ones, to either lose your shirt or buy five hundred new ones, spun with threads of pure gold that forty Sri Lankan seamstresses went blind to sew.
The Comanche Red River Casino was literally in the middle of nowhere. We got off the interstate, got onto a smaller highway to the middle of somewhere, onto an even smaller road to the outskirts of Podunk, and finally, onto a dirt path that took us to the casino. (We may have passed a church or two along the way, too, thus proving that Devol, Oklahoma, was, in fact, a legitimate “town.” Any place that has a church, right? Or is that, “strip club?” [Because we passed a few of those, too.] *Contemplates.* Never mind...I think I meant “post office.”)
To make a long story short, none of us drove home in brand new Porsches. No, the ride home was made pretty much the way the ride there was made: in my Saturn, with two people in front, and three squished in the back. And, by "squished," I mean that I, being the smallest of the five, was trapped in the middle of the backseat (of my own car!), between two guys who insisted on sitting with their legs wide open the entire time, while poor little A had all four of her limbs pressed firmly into the rest of her body. It's a good thing I was the only one back there with hips, or we really would have been in trouble! (On the other hand, I must say, the people I was squished between happened to be two very good looking gentlemen, and I'd had some wine with dinner, so, aside from the physical discomfort, it actually worked out quite nicely. I think they would agree, but that's a subject for another post!)
Only one of us came out ahead, and it wasn’t me. My friend, T, won about $80 dollars. The drive home was going to take about three hours, so we decided to stop for dinner before we got on the road. The thing was, the closest place to eat was an hour away, in fabulous, exciting...
Wichita Falls, Texas. (Read: yet more sarcasm.)
Wichita Falls, Texas has exactly three redeeming qualities: a really great used book store, an Olive Garden, and Sheppard Air Force Base. (And, really, that last one isn’t even necessarily a redeeming quality. Depends on what mood I’m in when you ask!) Anyway, you get one guess as to which one we chose for dinner.
Good spirit that he is, T offered to use his winnings to treat everyone to dinner. (A nice idea at the time, but one that he may have wound up regretting when the check came, since there’s no way $80 covered our five entrees, two bottles of wine, and dessert.)
We had a fantastic time at dinner. We’d all been training together for almost two years, and in that time, had become close friends – especially important, since all our “old friends” were back home, thousands of miles away. We’d become the kind of friends you can count on in a crisis. The kind of friends who help without being asked, and are glad to do it.
Spending time together was always fun, but factor in the wine, and you can imagine how much more fun it was. As individuals, we don’t agree on the big three: politics, money, and religion. But, as a group, we agree on what really matters: what it means to be a good person, and what it means to be a friend.
It was during dinner, and during the drive home (squished and uncomfortable though I was), while I was laughing so hard, and having such a good time, that I realized this -– being surrounded by people you love -– is the real jackpot.
Winning at life has nothing to do with winning money. Hitting the jackpot is laughing at the most off-the-wall things, and having the kind of conversations you can only have with people with whom you’ve faced hardship. Being in our particular specialty in the Air Force, I can’t legitimately say we’re brothers-in-arms. We’re about the furthest things you can imagine from combat veterans, but still, dismissing the amount of training we’ve experienced together would belittle the intelligence and dedication it took to get through it all, not to mention how it would neglect the most notable thing: that we all survived it with our sanity intact.
(Well, mostly. Some days, I wonder...)
Anyway, the more I thought about this, the more I came to appreciate how much and how long I’d been winning. I don’t enjoy my job. At all. It’s only saving grace is the people who suffer through it with me. And when I look around my “office,” and I see the faces of people I’ve known for only two years, but feel like I’ve known forever, I know I’m coming out a big winner. Maybe there are no bells and whistles; maybe no flashing lights. But seeing those people, laughing at their jokes, smiling at their happiness, and wallowing right alongside them in their misery, I can almost hear the reels clicking into place, in that magical spot where money pours out of the machine. (At least, it did in the old days. Now, you just get a printed ticket, which, I admit, is much faster and more convenient, but still, there was something promising about carrying around a bucket with eight pounds worth of quarters in it!)
If we consider big winnings not in money, but in love, friends, family, health, and dreams, I’ve been pretty damn lucky. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have incredible people in my life. If you’ve read the post about my parents (“Real-Life Superheroes”), then you know they were just about the most amazing parents a kid could ask for. Transfer the hard work, the decency, the intelligence, the caring, the integrity, and the physical and emotional support to my friends, and you’ll know the kinds of people I’ve been fortunate to have in my life. (Well, maybe not the integrity...who among us hasn’t “accidentally” taken a pad of Post-it-Notes home from the office, or “forgotten” to contribute to the office coffee fund? Or, in my fellow service members’ case, who among us hasn’t had “car trouble” on the way to a “mandatory” formation, or whose “alarm clock didn’t go off because of a blackout” during the middle of the night, before an early shift?)
(...I admit to nothing, by the way...)
But seriously, when it comes to dumb luck in friends and family, I’m about the highest roller there is. No one has ever, ever laughed at me when I told them I wanted to be a writer. No one said it was a pipe dream, or that I would never really do it. No one ever told me I was crazy, or asked how the heck I would pay the bills. In fact, it’s always been the opposite. People ask what I like to write about, or if they can read something sometime. If anyone thought I was nuts for joining the Air Force (and going enlisted, no less!), no one ever said so. I rambled on and on to many friends, for many hours, during the long months when I was deciding whether I would go to grad school or join the military. If any of them ever had any misgivings (and I know they did), once my decision was made—whether or not it was the one they agreed with—not one of them failed to support me.
So many of my close friends went to the kind of schools people “name drop” at parties, or networking events. I have friends who are lawyers, engineers, software designers, financial planners, and military officers. We all look really good on paper. The thing is, none of that really matters. What matters is how they treat people. The energy they radiate to the world. The good things they’ve been given, that they put back out there, in whatever ways they can.
Like I said in a previous post, I’ve had a very easy life. I’ve had no true hardships to speak of. I’m in great health. I have four working limbs, I’m not deaf, and not blind. On the other hand, I’m not good at everything. In fact, I’m not even good at most things, but I am good at the things I love to do (and, really, that’s probably why I’m good at them, because God wants me to do them), and when there was something I wasn’t good at, but still needed to accomplish, well, that’s where all those friends have come in handy. (Special thanks to M, who pulled me up a hill during survival training, and to B, who pulled me into the raft during water survival. Of course, those are two of the more vivid memories I have of a literal “helping hand,” but people who have loaned an ear to listen, or a shoulder to cry on, have made just as lasting an impact.)
I’ve never been let down in a big way. I’ve had some “learning experiences,” and some “opportunities for self-improvement,” but have never faced an insurmountable challenge. In some ways, I long for one, if only to prove to myself than I can do it, that I’m strong enough, and smart enough, and dedicated enough. And then, other times, I sit back and count my blessings that I’ve never been in a situation where I had to prove anything -- to myself, or anyone else.
There isn’t anything I long for that I’m not capable of achieving. Maybe not all on my own, and maybe not overnight, but everything I dream about, everything I imagine happening in my future, I’m perfectly capable of making happen. I have the time. I like to think I have the talent. (The fact that I’m not using it is completely my fault.)
The only thing I have ever desired, have ever worked and worked and worked for, and not achieved, is being thin. Two marathons, a million diets, and a spoonful of ipecac syrup later, I’m exactly the same shape I’ve always been. (And for those of you who might be thinking, “But you look FINE,” well, just pretend you see me the way I see me, and we’ll get along just great.) It is the only dream of mine that I don’t think I can make come true. I’ve tried everything I know, and when I find out something I didn’t know, I try that, too. Fitting into ___ size clothes, or weighing ____ pounds is the only big thing that has eluded me all my life. (And if you’re thinking it’s not a big thing, then you’ve probably never been a teenage girl...or a young woman in college...or a woman who’s too old to feel this way about herself, but still does.)
Some days I ask myself whom I’d be willing to trade. Who would I be willing to say goodbye to, to go into a store and pick a size ___ off the rack, and have it fit me? Who would I be willing to never see again, to have my name magically appear on The New York Times bestseller list next week?
Or, I ask myself what someone would have to give me, in trade for my family, or my friends. A huge yacht? Dream on. All the gold in Fort Knox? Not even close. There’s nothing. There’s nothing I can imagine (and I like to think I have a pretty wild imagination), that I’d accept as a fair exchange for the people in my life. Nothing.
My life isn’t perfect. But it’s not a tragedy, either. It’s not my fantasy world, but it’s a whole lot more than “just okay,” too. Then again, when I think of all I have – in material things and the people in my life, maybe it is my fantasy life. The writing will come. The book signings will come. The fulfillment will come. Everything else is already in place: the talent, the love of the creative process, the friends, the family, the support system. And, in that sense, I’ve been winning big all along.
"I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
"We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over." ~~Samuel Johnson
"Two may talk together under the same roof for many years, yet never really meet; and two others at first speech are old friends." ~~ Mary Catherwood
(And my favorite):
"It's the ones you can call up at 4:00 a.m. that really matter." ~~Marlene Dietrich
Next up: Possibly an essay on why Calvin Klein Escape perfume makes me smile when I think about the future.
December 08, 2006
November 21, 2006
Real-Life Superheroes
Now that I’ve told the world about my Superman obsession, I’d like to talk a little about real-life superheroes...
During the summer before my senior year of college, in a desperate attempt to make enough money to pay for rent and books when the semester started, I worked two jobs. I had a full-time job at an insurance agency, and worked three nights a week at the campus library. I remember being completely drained on the two-job days. I left my apartment at 7:30 in the morning and, except for a quick stop to change clothes and grab something that passed for a dinner I could eat on the bus, I didn’t see it again until 11:30 in the evening. During what little “down-time” I had on those hectic days, I remember daydreaming about what I would do with all the free time I’d have on my next “easy” day. I imagined myself reading stacks of books, experimenting with all kinds of recipes, or, as always, writing the great American novel.
In reality, more often than not, even on the easy days, I was so wiped out from the long hours on the previous day that all the energy I could muster went toward whipping up some kind of instant noodle or rice dish from a box, and eating it right out of the pot in front of the television. I did this for just three months, and the physical and emotional exhaustion sapped me of all desire to accomplish anything, go anywhere, or do anything.
My parents did it for ten years.
It is only recently, as I’ve gotten older, that I’ve been given access to small amounts of the truth about what happened during the ten years in which my parents were the owners and sole employees of an ice cream store in our hometown. And it is only now, that I am armed with what is surely not even close to a full account, that I’ve come to understand the kind of people M & M really are.
It was the mid-1980s. My father was a junior high school teacher in Brooklyn, New York – in heavy traffic, easily an hour-long commute from our house in Staten Island. My mother was a stay-at-home mom. (At least, that’s what she’d be called today. At that time, long before political correctness banished the term from our country’s vocabulary, she would have been called, simply, a housewife.) In the summer months, during the school vacation, my father drove an ice cream truck. (A profession almost as noble as teaching, any kid with fifty cents and good hearing can tell you. Then again, maybe these days, it’s up to a dollar, or even two. I’m not sure…it’s been a long, long time since I heard the bells of a Good Humor truck jingling in the distance and ran out the door to wait for it.)
As I understand it, my father was looking for something more lucrative and more fulfilling to do with his summers than drive an ice cream truck for someone else’s business. He got the idea to start his own business, and the only thing he felt confident in his knowledge about, was ice cream. Against my mother’s loud and insistent opposition, he purchased a location that, with time, a lot of labor, and a lot of money, would become their literal and figurative prison for the next ten years.
I remember watching week after week, month after month, as the site was transformed from an empty, dingy box that looked more like an unfinished basement than an ice cream parlor, into a bright, cheerful place that practically screamed sugar, smiles, and happiness. The concrete floor was covered with white and blue tiles; the walls were painted white, with a border of colorful balloons. They hired several kids from the local high school to work in the store, along with children of friends, and even my sister. (I was a little too young at the time, never mind the fact that I couldn’t see over the counter!)
Unfortunately, the cheerful, inviting atmosphere failed to draw the crowds my father had anticipated. The store wasn’t in the best location. It was a bit out of the way for most people; unless you knew it was there, you never would have noticed it.
It didn’t take long before a big problem surfaced: the bills kept coming; the business, however, did not. This is one area where my full knowledge of the situation is full of holes, but as I understand it, there were a lot of hidden costs associated with starting a business that my parents, being novices, did not foresee. Unable to pay minimum wage salaries anymore, one by one, they had to let all the employees go. From bits and pieces I’ve overheard through the years, things got so bad, that at one point, we were in danger of losing our house.
Thus began a fight any comic book superhero wouldn’t dare go near. A struggle so long, so exhausting, that not Batman, not Spider Man, not even Superman, would have the courage to face. Only two real-life superheroes could walk through this deep, dark tunnel, starting their journey with no end in sight, and come out on their feet. Only my mother and father.
The two of them were the sole employees of the store for the better part of ten years. No weekends off, no holidays except Thanksgiving and Christmas. No sick days, no paid vacations. I guess we should be grateful that the teacher’s union had such a solid health plan, because the business certainly couldn’t provide one. And, even so, both of my parents had health problems they neglected for years, just because they never had time to see a doctor. My mother would wake up early, to make sure me and my sister got off to school all right, and then she would open up the store, where she would work by herself until my father got there, but not without once again battling the traffic back in from Brooklyn. They switched places when my father got there; my father would work there in the evening, and my mother would come home, to face a night of cooking dinner, doing laundry, and helping with homework.
I worked two jobs for only one summer, and I spent a lot of that time planning all the fun things I would do on the weekends, when I didn’t have to spend sixteen hours working and commuting. I can’t imagine what it was like for my parents, to spend ten years waiting for “someday.” That distant, magical someday, when they would have time…time to travel, time to read the hundreds of books that had come out in the past few years that they’d been adding to the reading lists in their heads. Or time to just sit in front of the TV and enjoy a program freely, without thinking about the eight million things they had to take care of before they went to bed. I’m absolutely certain living that way was not how either of my parents imagined their life would be. I still sometimes wonder what their childhood dreams were, and how terribly far away from them they found themselves.
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A few months ago, I completed USAF survival school. After the most difficult part of the training, I rewarded myself with all kinds of junkfood, and endless hours in front of the TV. The toughest part of the training was only two days long. Hell, the entire course lasted only three weeks. For what my mother and father had to endure and survive through for ten years, I’ve decided they can do whatever they want, for as long as they want.
Thanks to the endless, grueling days, during which she put her family before herself, my mother now faces a series of health problems. My sister and I used to criticize her for spending so much time playing computer games, or watching television. But the more I comprehend how hellish it must have been for all those years, the more I realize my mother deserves as much down time as she wants. Lord knows, she’s earned it.
As for my father, on the rare Sundays when my mother would work to give him the day off, he would collapse on the couch and sleep most of the day away. (A habit he still holds dear.) Again, the more I think of how he worked himself almost into dust, the more I believe my dad can take as many naps as he wants. Lord knows, he’s earned them.
The store’s been closed for eleven years now, and my father still likes to take all-day naps. My mother still likes to relax with a cup of coffee and a good TV show. And it’s only taken me eleven years to finally shut up about it. They’ve earned it.
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I have many friends who come from broken homes. Some are well adjusted; some are not. With very few exceptions, all the friends I grew up with lived in homes where their parents were still together. It is so foreign to me now, when I hear so many people I work with talking about their stepmother, stepbrother, half-cousin, or mother’s new husband’s half-sister.
With all the problems my parents faced, and the dire straits they were in, it would have been easy for things to fall apart in their marriage. I can’t say whether they ever came close, but there was never any indication that they were less than in love. I never remember them fighting, though I’m sure they did. With all the stress, the money problems, tensions must’ve run high. But I never remember a raised voice, and certainly not a cross word. Minor disagreements, yes. Backseat driving, yes: on the rare occasions, like Thanksgiving, when the store was closed, and the four of us would get in the car and drive upstate to visit cousins. But all-out insults, accusations, and fights were completely nonexistent. (At least, in my presence.)
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My family was never rich, but my sister and I never wanted for anything. There was always food on the table. There were always gifts at Chanukah. I’ll probably never know how much of that is due to the generosity of my grandparents on both sides. I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how much effort, how much scrimping and saving it took to buy the clarinet I received as an 8th grade graduation present. (But it might make my parents feel better to know they’ve gotten their money’s worth, for sure. After all, I’m playing the same instrument now, fourteen years later, and every time I take it out of its case, I still remember how surprised I was when they gave it to me.)
All I know is, when my sister and I needed something, it was there. Somehow, we never had to go without. Looking back, for a family that was so financially strapped, we had a ridiculous amount of Barbie dolls and accessories. In addition to ice cream, my parents sold candy, magazines, homemade frozen treats, and novelties in the store. How much of their potential profit did I rob them of, every time I took a magazine home with me, because it had the absolute best poster of the New Kids on the Block, and I could not live without it? (We’re talking early 1990s, remember!) How much of their profit did I eat, literally? How much ice cream did I help myself to? How many bags of chips? (It’s too bad they didn’t stop me, really, because now, at the ripe old age of 28, I’m still trying to work all of it off my hips and thighs!)
I wish I would have known. I would have asked for less. I would have been perfectly fine making do with fewer dolls, fewer nights at the movies with my friends. I know I was young, but I was intelligent. I think I would’ve understood the situation, if they had tried to explain it to me. The thing is, they never did.
I’ve never talked to my sister about it, so I don’t know how much of the real situation she was aware of, but I was completely ignorant of what was happening around me. It never occurred to me that my mother didn’t want to work there every day, or that my father didn’t want to be a slave to two jobs. Maybe I was too naïve to see it for myself, but I wish they would have explained. Hindsight being what it is, I am now sure they hid the worst of it from me because they didn’t want to scare me. And maybe they were right. Maybe I had a carefree, happy existence because I had no idea how bad things were outside myself. Then again, maybe that’s exactly why my parents worked so hard in the first place: to give me and my sister that carefree, happy existence that all parents want for their children.
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Sunday nights usually meant Chinese food in our house. I looked forward to it all weekend. I was so proud of myself, because I would sometimes set the table. Looking back, I can’t imagine why I didn’t do it every night. It was five minutes’ worth of my time, and it would have meant one less thing my mother had to do when she got home, already exhausted from spending all day on her feet, only to face the prospect of cooking dinner for four, and preparing school lunches for the next day. Apologies over something that happened so long ago seem pointless now, but if it means anything, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was too young, and too ignorant and naïve, to realize how just a small change in my behavior could have had such a profound effect.
When I’m in the supermarket now, and I see all the “shortcut” foods, designed, I assume, for busy working moms I find it hard to believe that so many women depend on them. We ate our share of TV dinners, but mostly because we liked the taste. I remember very few nights when my mother didn’t cook something “real.” I have very vivid memories of her stirring pots on the stove, or outside on the deck, basting ribs on the barbecue.
Relatively speaking, my parents weren’t around a lot. My sister and I were home alone very often. To date myself again, I guess you could call us “latchkey kids.” And yet, my sister and I turned out fine. We’re both honorable, smart, law-abiding, and hard-working. Unlike so many stories you hear nowadays, we’re not using our childhoods as an excuse to be anything less than decent human beings.
Then again, we really have no excuse. On a day when there was never time – time for my mother to get her hair done, or swim in our pool, or go see the latest movie, there was always time for us. On days when there was no time for my father to buy himself new clothes, or take my mother to dinner, there was always time for us. My sister and I were both very active in extra-curricular activities in school. No matter how busy our parents were, someone was always there for us, cheering from the audience. At band concerts, SING, science fairs, graduations, someone was always there.
Maybe we didn’t take family trips to the Grand Canyon, or even all eat dinner together most nights. Maybe we didn’t see all the sights in New York City or go to Yankees games every summer. I didn’t miss it then, and I don’t, now. I never felt unheard, or unloved. I never felt like I had anything less than a perfect childhood. If my parents are reading this, and I know they are, please read this paragraph again. Did you hear me? I never felt like I had anything less than a perfect childhood.
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I once heard that at the darkest point, when my parents were in danger of losing our house, and the future—if they had the courage to think about it at all—no doubt looked unbearably bleak, my father considered committing suicide. I can only hope that seeing me in my uniform, seeing P in her wedding dress, and seeing his grandchildren in whatever adorable outfit they’ve got on, is enough for him to be certain that the more difficult decision—hanging on, sticking with it—was the right one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s only one thing—one big thing—that I remember my parents not being able to give us. It didn’t affect me, but at the time, it was my sister’s greatest wish. She’d been accepted to Boston University, and it was, to use a phrase any high school senior is familiar with, her “dream school.” She had the grades, she had the credentials, she had the SAT scores. What my parents did not have, however, was the money. In what was probably the biggest disappointment of her life until that time, my sister ended up going to a state university. But, if my parents ever felt any guilt over this, and I’m sure they have, I hope that their son-in-law and two beautiful grandchildren are living proof that, in the end, things happened for a reason, and in fact, probably happened exactly the way they were supposed to. If P had gone to Boston, she never would have met S, and they would not have gotten married, had children, and created another family being run in the shadow of my parents’ own example: hard work, smarts, commitment, sacrifice, and love.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few years ago, my mother and I were riding in the car. Kenny Rogers’ Through the Years came on the radio. My mother told me it was one of her favorites; the song reminded her of all the struggles she and my father had faced, how they got through them, and how they were still together, still intact, on the other side. Oddly enough, the song had always been one of my favorites, too, but my reasons were far less profound. I simply liked the lyrics, and Kenny Rogers has a way of singing that makes it difficult for me to find a song of his that I don’t like. After hearing my mother talk about it, Through the Years is still one of my favorites. Now, though, instead of reveling in the raspy, yet rich, deep voice of one of America’s great country music icons, I cry every time I hear it. I cry because it reminds me of my parents, and how much of themselves they sacrificed for the sake of two little girls whom they never, ever disappointed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On November 21, 1971, in a small ceremony in a rabbi’s office in Brooklyn, M & M spoke the vows they would adhere to for the rest of their lives. The vows to stay together, no matter what.
Happy 35th Anniversary, Mom and Dad.
And, thanks.
During the summer before my senior year of college, in a desperate attempt to make enough money to pay for rent and books when the semester started, I worked two jobs. I had a full-time job at an insurance agency, and worked three nights a week at the campus library. I remember being completely drained on the two-job days. I left my apartment at 7:30 in the morning and, except for a quick stop to change clothes and grab something that passed for a dinner I could eat on the bus, I didn’t see it again until 11:30 in the evening. During what little “down-time” I had on those hectic days, I remember daydreaming about what I would do with all the free time I’d have on my next “easy” day. I imagined myself reading stacks of books, experimenting with all kinds of recipes, or, as always, writing the great American novel.
In reality, more often than not, even on the easy days, I was so wiped out from the long hours on the previous day that all the energy I could muster went toward whipping up some kind of instant noodle or rice dish from a box, and eating it right out of the pot in front of the television. I did this for just three months, and the physical and emotional exhaustion sapped me of all desire to accomplish anything, go anywhere, or do anything.
My parents did it for ten years.
It is only recently, as I’ve gotten older, that I’ve been given access to small amounts of the truth about what happened during the ten years in which my parents were the owners and sole employees of an ice cream store in our hometown. And it is only now, that I am armed with what is surely not even close to a full account, that I’ve come to understand the kind of people M & M really are.
It was the mid-1980s. My father was a junior high school teacher in Brooklyn, New York – in heavy traffic, easily an hour-long commute from our house in Staten Island. My mother was a stay-at-home mom. (At least, that’s what she’d be called today. At that time, long before political correctness banished the term from our country’s vocabulary, she would have been called, simply, a housewife.) In the summer months, during the school vacation, my father drove an ice cream truck. (A profession almost as noble as teaching, any kid with fifty cents and good hearing can tell you. Then again, maybe these days, it’s up to a dollar, or even two. I’m not sure…it’s been a long, long time since I heard the bells of a Good Humor truck jingling in the distance and ran out the door to wait for it.)
As I understand it, my father was looking for something more lucrative and more fulfilling to do with his summers than drive an ice cream truck for someone else’s business. He got the idea to start his own business, and the only thing he felt confident in his knowledge about, was ice cream. Against my mother’s loud and insistent opposition, he purchased a location that, with time, a lot of labor, and a lot of money, would become their literal and figurative prison for the next ten years.
I remember watching week after week, month after month, as the site was transformed from an empty, dingy box that looked more like an unfinished basement than an ice cream parlor, into a bright, cheerful place that practically screamed sugar, smiles, and happiness. The concrete floor was covered with white and blue tiles; the walls were painted white, with a border of colorful balloons. They hired several kids from the local high school to work in the store, along with children of friends, and even my sister. (I was a little too young at the time, never mind the fact that I couldn’t see over the counter!)
Unfortunately, the cheerful, inviting atmosphere failed to draw the crowds my father had anticipated. The store wasn’t in the best location. It was a bit out of the way for most people; unless you knew it was there, you never would have noticed it.
It didn’t take long before a big problem surfaced: the bills kept coming; the business, however, did not. This is one area where my full knowledge of the situation is full of holes, but as I understand it, there were a lot of hidden costs associated with starting a business that my parents, being novices, did not foresee. Unable to pay minimum wage salaries anymore, one by one, they had to let all the employees go. From bits and pieces I’ve overheard through the years, things got so bad, that at one point, we were in danger of losing our house.
Thus began a fight any comic book superhero wouldn’t dare go near. A struggle so long, so exhausting, that not Batman, not Spider Man, not even Superman, would have the courage to face. Only two real-life superheroes could walk through this deep, dark tunnel, starting their journey with no end in sight, and come out on their feet. Only my mother and father.
The two of them were the sole employees of the store for the better part of ten years. No weekends off, no holidays except Thanksgiving and Christmas. No sick days, no paid vacations. I guess we should be grateful that the teacher’s union had such a solid health plan, because the business certainly couldn’t provide one. And, even so, both of my parents had health problems they neglected for years, just because they never had time to see a doctor. My mother would wake up early, to make sure me and my sister got off to school all right, and then she would open up the store, where she would work by herself until my father got there, but not without once again battling the traffic back in from Brooklyn. They switched places when my father got there; my father would work there in the evening, and my mother would come home, to face a night of cooking dinner, doing laundry, and helping with homework.
I worked two jobs for only one summer, and I spent a lot of that time planning all the fun things I would do on the weekends, when I didn’t have to spend sixteen hours working and commuting. I can’t imagine what it was like for my parents, to spend ten years waiting for “someday.” That distant, magical someday, when they would have time…time to travel, time to read the hundreds of books that had come out in the past few years that they’d been adding to the reading lists in their heads. Or time to just sit in front of the TV and enjoy a program freely, without thinking about the eight million things they had to take care of before they went to bed. I’m absolutely certain living that way was not how either of my parents imagined their life would be. I still sometimes wonder what their childhood dreams were, and how terribly far away from them they found themselves.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few months ago, I completed USAF survival school. After the most difficult part of the training, I rewarded myself with all kinds of junkfood, and endless hours in front of the TV. The toughest part of the training was only two days long. Hell, the entire course lasted only three weeks. For what my mother and father had to endure and survive through for ten years, I’ve decided they can do whatever they want, for as long as they want.
Thanks to the endless, grueling days, during which she put her family before herself, my mother now faces a series of health problems. My sister and I used to criticize her for spending so much time playing computer games, or watching television. But the more I comprehend how hellish it must have been for all those years, the more I realize my mother deserves as much down time as she wants. Lord knows, she’s earned it.
As for my father, on the rare Sundays when my mother would work to give him the day off, he would collapse on the couch and sleep most of the day away. (A habit he still holds dear.) Again, the more I think of how he worked himself almost into dust, the more I believe my dad can take as many naps as he wants. Lord knows, he’s earned them.
The store’s been closed for eleven years now, and my father still likes to take all-day naps. My mother still likes to relax with a cup of coffee and a good TV show. And it’s only taken me eleven years to finally shut up about it. They’ve earned it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have many friends who come from broken homes. Some are well adjusted; some are not. With very few exceptions, all the friends I grew up with lived in homes where their parents were still together. It is so foreign to me now, when I hear so many people I work with talking about their stepmother, stepbrother, half-cousin, or mother’s new husband’s half-sister.
With all the problems my parents faced, and the dire straits they were in, it would have been easy for things to fall apart in their marriage. I can’t say whether they ever came close, but there was never any indication that they were less than in love. I never remember them fighting, though I’m sure they did. With all the stress, the money problems, tensions must’ve run high. But I never remember a raised voice, and certainly not a cross word. Minor disagreements, yes. Backseat driving, yes: on the rare occasions, like Thanksgiving, when the store was closed, and the four of us would get in the car and drive upstate to visit cousins. But all-out insults, accusations, and fights were completely nonexistent. (At least, in my presence.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My family was never rich, but my sister and I never wanted for anything. There was always food on the table. There were always gifts at Chanukah. I’ll probably never know how much of that is due to the generosity of my grandparents on both sides. I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how much effort, how much scrimping and saving it took to buy the clarinet I received as an 8th grade graduation present. (But it might make my parents feel better to know they’ve gotten their money’s worth, for sure. After all, I’m playing the same instrument now, fourteen years later, and every time I take it out of its case, I still remember how surprised I was when they gave it to me.)
All I know is, when my sister and I needed something, it was there. Somehow, we never had to go without. Looking back, for a family that was so financially strapped, we had a ridiculous amount of Barbie dolls and accessories. In addition to ice cream, my parents sold candy, magazines, homemade frozen treats, and novelties in the store. How much of their potential profit did I rob them of, every time I took a magazine home with me, because it had the absolute best poster of the New Kids on the Block, and I could not live without it? (We’re talking early 1990s, remember!) How much of their profit did I eat, literally? How much ice cream did I help myself to? How many bags of chips? (It’s too bad they didn’t stop me, really, because now, at the ripe old age of 28, I’m still trying to work all of it off my hips and thighs!)
I wish I would have known. I would have asked for less. I would have been perfectly fine making do with fewer dolls, fewer nights at the movies with my friends. I know I was young, but I was intelligent. I think I would’ve understood the situation, if they had tried to explain it to me. The thing is, they never did.
I’ve never talked to my sister about it, so I don’t know how much of the real situation she was aware of, but I was completely ignorant of what was happening around me. It never occurred to me that my mother didn’t want to work there every day, or that my father didn’t want to be a slave to two jobs. Maybe I was too naïve to see it for myself, but I wish they would have explained. Hindsight being what it is, I am now sure they hid the worst of it from me because they didn’t want to scare me. And maybe they were right. Maybe I had a carefree, happy existence because I had no idea how bad things were outside myself. Then again, maybe that’s exactly why my parents worked so hard in the first place: to give me and my sister that carefree, happy existence that all parents want for their children.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday nights usually meant Chinese food in our house. I looked forward to it all weekend. I was so proud of myself, because I would sometimes set the table. Looking back, I can’t imagine why I didn’t do it every night. It was five minutes’ worth of my time, and it would have meant one less thing my mother had to do when she got home, already exhausted from spending all day on her feet, only to face the prospect of cooking dinner for four, and preparing school lunches for the next day. Apologies over something that happened so long ago seem pointless now, but if it means anything, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was too young, and too ignorant and naïve, to realize how just a small change in my behavior could have had such a profound effect.
When I’m in the supermarket now, and I see all the “shortcut” foods, designed, I assume, for busy working moms I find it hard to believe that so many women depend on them. We ate our share of TV dinners, but mostly because we liked the taste. I remember very few nights when my mother didn’t cook something “real.” I have very vivid memories of her stirring pots on the stove, or outside on the deck, basting ribs on the barbecue.
Relatively speaking, my parents weren’t around a lot. My sister and I were home alone very often. To date myself again, I guess you could call us “latchkey kids.” And yet, my sister and I turned out fine. We’re both honorable, smart, law-abiding, and hard-working. Unlike so many stories you hear nowadays, we’re not using our childhoods as an excuse to be anything less than decent human beings.
Then again, we really have no excuse. On a day when there was never time – time for my mother to get her hair done, or swim in our pool, or go see the latest movie, there was always time for us. On days when there was no time for my father to buy himself new clothes, or take my mother to dinner, there was always time for us. My sister and I were both very active in extra-curricular activities in school. No matter how busy our parents were, someone was always there for us, cheering from the audience. At band concerts, SING, science fairs, graduations, someone was always there.
Maybe we didn’t take family trips to the Grand Canyon, or even all eat dinner together most nights. Maybe we didn’t see all the sights in New York City or go to Yankees games every summer. I didn’t miss it then, and I don’t, now. I never felt unheard, or unloved. I never felt like I had anything less than a perfect childhood. If my parents are reading this, and I know they are, please read this paragraph again. Did you hear me? I never felt like I had anything less than a perfect childhood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I once heard that at the darkest point, when my parents were in danger of losing our house, and the future—if they had the courage to think about it at all—no doubt looked unbearably bleak, my father considered committing suicide. I can only hope that seeing me in my uniform, seeing P in her wedding dress, and seeing his grandchildren in whatever adorable outfit they’ve got on, is enough for him to be certain that the more difficult decision—hanging on, sticking with it—was the right one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s only one thing—one big thing—that I remember my parents not being able to give us. It didn’t affect me, but at the time, it was my sister’s greatest wish. She’d been accepted to Boston University, and it was, to use a phrase any high school senior is familiar with, her “dream school.” She had the grades, she had the credentials, she had the SAT scores. What my parents did not have, however, was the money. In what was probably the biggest disappointment of her life until that time, my sister ended up going to a state university. But, if my parents ever felt any guilt over this, and I’m sure they have, I hope that their son-in-law and two beautiful grandchildren are living proof that, in the end, things happened for a reason, and in fact, probably happened exactly the way they were supposed to. If P had gone to Boston, she never would have met S, and they would not have gotten married, had children, and created another family being run in the shadow of my parents’ own example: hard work, smarts, commitment, sacrifice, and love.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few years ago, my mother and I were riding in the car. Kenny Rogers’ Through the Years came on the radio. My mother told me it was one of her favorites; the song reminded her of all the struggles she and my father had faced, how they got through them, and how they were still together, still intact, on the other side. Oddly enough, the song had always been one of my favorites, too, but my reasons were far less profound. I simply liked the lyrics, and Kenny Rogers has a way of singing that makes it difficult for me to find a song of his that I don’t like. After hearing my mother talk about it, Through the Years is still one of my favorites. Now, though, instead of reveling in the raspy, yet rich, deep voice of one of America’s great country music icons, I cry every time I hear it. I cry because it reminds me of my parents, and how much of themselves they sacrificed for the sake of two little girls whom they never, ever disappointed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On November 21, 1971, in a small ceremony in a rabbi’s office in Brooklyn, M & M spoke the vows they would adhere to for the rest of their lives. The vows to stay together, no matter what.
Happy 35th Anniversary, Mom and Dad.
And, thanks.
November 12, 2006
There's Something About Superman...
I read somewhere that the red and yellow Superman emblem is one of the most internationally recognizable symbols of American pop culture. The “S” insignia Superman wears on his chest, juxtaposed against the bright blue of the rest of his costume, is the nearly universal sign for, dare I say it, truth, justice, and…I hate to say it, but it’s true...the American way.
Superman was created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, two young Jewish men, who decided the world needed a light in the darkness that World War Two had cast upon the world. A light that would never go out. A light that would shine from the deepest pit, through the blackest night. A light that peaceful, freedom-loving people could look to when their very way of life was threatened by the murderous, imperialistic Nazi and fascist regimes in Europe and Asia.
Superman made his debut in 1938. It is now sixty-eight years later, and his fan club has sprouted out of Metropolis, to include the entire world. His popularity has waxed and waned, but his image has never disappeared. Batman and Spiderman have come to the forefront in recent years, and have had new life infused into their stories. Filmmaker Bryan Singer hoped to do this for Superman, with Superman Returns, which was released this summer. The thing is, Superman was never really gone. In the movie, he had been away from Metropolis for five years, but in “real life,” for his fans, he has always, and will always, be around. Real or fictional, I can’t—and wouldn’t want to—imagine a world without him.
Let’s face it: when worn by an actor in prime physical shape, the costume leaves little to the imagination. Superman is, without question, a fine male specimen. The source of the attraction, however, is much deeper than his appearance. What is it about the Man of Steel that so many people all over the world cling to?
I can’t claim to speak for the whole world, but, speaking for myself, the very idea of Superman is as comforting as a rainbow after a violent thunderstorm. He’s a sign that you’re safe; that nothing will hurt you. He’s a reminder that, like Patrick Swayze’s character says in the movie Dirty Dancing, “there are people in the world who are willing to stand up for other people, no matter what it costs them.” Superman will never let you down. He’ll never let you fall. (Or, if you’re Lois Lane, he’ll let you fall, but he’ll always catch you before you hit the ground!)
I’ve always loved Superman. Some of my friends have only recently learned this about me, in the wake of Superman Returns. Seeing it reminded me of just how much I love Superman. (It has also led to many a discussion about the finer points of Batman, the X-Men, the Avengers, and the Fantastic Four, the best result of which was killing time at work.)
My love for Superman has never died, but from time to time, it has fallen off the radar. Now, in the wake of the movie, I am having what my sister would call a “Supermanaissance.” (As in, the Renaissance. Didn’t you know you could just add that ending to any word, and transform it to mean a reawakening? A rekindling of something that hadn’t completely disappeared, but needed to be infused with new life? This comes, of course, from my sister’s recent conversion to a tomato lover. She used to hate fresh tomatoes, and now, she loves them! She coined the word “tomatossance,” and I’ve stolen it to describe the rebirth of my feelings about Superman.)
It is my good fortune (and the toy manufacturers’ and marketing people’s even better fortune) that a host of new Superman-themed merchandise has flooded stores. Now, a whole new generation can celebrate the Caped Wonder by spending mom and dad’s hard-earned money on everything from magnets to action figures, to Superman pajamas, which, as a 28-year-old, I’m not ashamed to admit I own. (The pants came courtesy of my friend, Susie; the T-shirt was all me!)
I haven’t given in completely to the mass marketing, however. I may love the Man of Steel, but I’m still a discerning consumer. I buy things that make me happy when I look at them. The problem is, there are very few Superman-themed items that don’t make me happy when I look at them. Maybe it’s the bright, cheery primary colors; maybe it’s the fact that Superman is so damn handsome, in just about every incarnation there’s been. (At least, during my lifetime. I mean, we’re talking about Christopher Reeve, Dean Cain, Tom Welling, and Brandon Routh. Find me one man among those, who didn’t do justice to that costume!)
Most likely, though, it is that just seeing Superman’s face, or even the famed “S” symbol, that was Kal-El’s family crest back on Krypton, is a reminder of everything Superman means to me. (And, of course, now that, for the first time in my life, I have a steady income, and am no longer spending dear ol’ mom and dad’s money, if I want to treat myself to a few things that will make me smile at the end of the day, I don’t feel guilty for indulging. [Case in point: the welcome mat that sits just outside my door. It has a classic image of Superman on it: serious expression on his face, cape flowing regally behind him, and it says, “All Friends and Heroes Welcome.” A little childish? Maybe. But it makes me smile every time I walk through the door.])
But I digress...
(And, if you read my previous post, about why I haven’t written anything in a while, you’ll recognize that I do this a lot. In fact, I think this is going to be “my thing.” Y’know, like Johnny Carson’s golf swing, or Dennis Miller’s trademark rant ending, “But that’s just me; I could be wrong.” I’ll have a few paragraphs that are only slightly related to the topic at hand, and then I’ll saw those three little words. Hmm…what an interesting challenge for myself, to see if I can include an entertaining, if not intelligent digression in every post. Then again, that’s not a challenge at all. This entire thing, since the mention of the “tomatossance,” has been a digression! Okay, so it won’t be challenging. At least it’ll be fun. It’ll be like a Where’s Waldo, in every post! Where’s the, “But I digress,” hiding this time?)
~~And now, we return to our regularly scheduled essay~~
In my praise of Superman, I don’t mean to disparage or ignore other superheroes. The fact is, Superman is the only one I’ve ever felt strongly about, and he’s the only one I feel qualified to discuss. Based on other movies that have come out in the past few years, I’ve learned that Batman and Spiderman both have interesting origins, and abilities that undeniably put them in the same league as Superman. Other superheroes have neat nicknames, like the Emerald Archer (Green Arrow), and the Scarlet Speedster (the Flash). They all have wonderfully creative alter-egos: Ace test-pilot Hal Jordan became Green Lantern; police scientist Barry Allen became the Flash; gangster Eel O’Brien became Plastic Man. Still, for me, none has ever measured up to Clark Kent, Superman, and the Man of Steel. I’m sure the others have internal qualities that are similar to what I see in Superman, but, for reasons which I’m about to explain, Superman is the only one I’ve ever gravitated toward.
I’ve heard people say Superman is a flawed superhero, because he can never lose.
Some people say the interesting thing about watching superhero movies, or reading the comic books, is seeing how the heroes overcome their weaknesses, and still go on to kick serious adversary butt. I’ve thought about this a lot since Superman Returns came out this summer, and I’ve come to agree. With this mindset, it’s easy to see why some people think Superman is boring. He has no weaknesses. He can never lose. He’s faster and stronger than anything or anyone. He flew around the Earth fast enough to reverse its orbit, for crying out loud. (The original Superman movie, 1978.) He has x-ray vision, cold breath that can freeze anything, and laser beams that shoot out of his eyes! No enemy could possibly stand a chance. Where’s the fun in that?
However, the more you learn about Superman, the more you begin to understand that he does have weaknesses. The catch is, his weaknesses aren’t physical. They’re emotional. Every time he hears a cry for help, or a siren in the distance, he has to fight himself. He has to stifle the part of him that wants to be a normal man. He has to bury his carnal and temporal wishes and force himself to do what’s right.
Superman’s weakness is his morality. It’s his integrity. (That is, if you consider those two things to be weaknesses.) I’ve heard integrity defined in many ways, but my two favorites are: doing what’s right, even when no one’s looking; and, doing what’s right, even when it hurts.
Superman can’t ignore someone in need. It goes against everything he believes in, and everything he stands for. He does what’s right, even when it hurts, and, if you can see even the slightest bit of humanity in Superman, it’s obvious that it does hurt. In the television series, Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, poor Clark Kent had the world convinced he was a complete scatterbrain. Thanks to his super-hearing, he could always hear when he was needed. He was constantly leaving the office in the middle of meetings to go rescue someone, and he walked out on more than one heart-to-heart talk with Lois Lane, claiming he forgot to return a video, or had to pick up his dry cleaning.
Clark Kent, as portrayed by the late (and truly “super”) Christopher Reeve, was a total nerd. He was nervous, fidgety, and a klutz. The revelation of his true identity had so many dangerous possible outcomes that he had to hide his true self from the world. He had to maintain a secret identity that was such a polar opposite of his true self, that no one would ever suspect they were one and the same. No one can claim Superman has it too easy, or that he has no weaknesses. In a world that loves Superman—and, despite what he thinks, embraces him as one of its own—the poor man is completely, tragically, alone. If that’s not painful, I don’t know what is.
In an essay in the June 2006 issue of Wired, Neil Gaiman and Adam Rogers talk about “the internal war between Superman’s moral obligation to do good and his longing to be an average Joe. Other heroes are really only pretending: Peter Parker plays Spider-Man; Bruce Wayne plays Batman. For Superman, it’s mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent that’s the disguise – the thing he aspires to, the thing he can never be. He really is that hero, and he’ll never be one of us.”
Superman’s greatest desire is to fit in. To be accepted. He feels so different, so out of place. He feels he’ll never truly fit in, because he’s not human. What he doesn’t realize is, the thing that he thinks sets him apart is the very thing that makes him most like us: a sense of not belonging. A sense of being trapped on the outside, looking in. And this is why I love him. This is why I sense a kindred spirit in a fictional character. Does that make me pathetic? Maybe. But, more likely, it makes me undeniably human, the same way it does for Superman, himself.
Who hasn’t ever felt that way? Hell, I know people who feel that way all the time. This is why we join internet forums, or support groups, or book clubs. We want to feel like we belong. We flock to like-minded people, because they understand us. They help us feel less alone. They make it safe for us to brave the world. Safe for us to leave the sanctity and comfort of our own, personal fortresses of solitude.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Superman canon, the Fortress of Solitude is Superman’s home. (I’ll spare you the details of how he built it.) It is a crystal ice palace, somewhere in the Arctic, somewhere inaccessible to humans. It’s his escape; his refuge. It’s the only place he can go to truly get away from the pressure of maintaining two separate lives. We all have a Fortress of Solitude, even if it’s not a place you can point to on a map. For some, maybe it is a physical location, like a coffee shop you like to go to with a good book, settle into a comfy chair, and forget about your problems and your shortcomings for an afternoon. Or, maybe it’s an activity, like running. Maybe, when you need an “escape” from everything, you put on your sneakers and hit the pavement. Maybe, for that bit of time, all that exists in the world is you, and the sound of your footfalls, and no one’s there to tell you you’re not good enough, or fast enough. Maybe, if you’re like me, your Fortress is those few minutes you lie in bed, just before you fall asleep. It’s the time of day when you can imagine anything: be anyone, anywhere, doing anything. No matter how crazy they would seem to anyone you described them to, your daydreams and fantasies are your escape from the temporal world, and no one can take them away from you.
I’m slowly learning to open my Fortress a little bit, and let the outside world trickle in. I’m starting to write again, and I’m starting to tell people I’m writing again. This is no easy feat, as my writing has always been an extremely personal endeavor. (So much so, that I hate having people read my works in progress, or see my outlines, because I’m so afraid of being laughed at, or being thought silly—or, worse—untalented.) But, this blog, The Fortress of Solitude, is a step in the right direction. These are still my feelings, and my personal thoughts on whatever I choose to write about, but, the more I let them out, the more I see how closely in tune they are with other people’s feelings.
I had a poetry professor who always said that a good poem takes the very specific, the very personal, and makes it universal. I’m finding out more and more that this is the case with just about all writing. The more specifically you describe something, the more everyone else will see themselves in it.
And now, we get to the heart of matter: how I feel when I think about Superman. The personal, the specific. The things that are so unique to me that, if that professor was right, they will translate flawlessly to you.
When I think about Superman, and all the connotations he brings with him, I feel the same way I do when I think about writing: my heart speeds up, I breathe more deeply. I feel like things are falling into place in the universe.
Superman does the right thing. Every time. He’s fast, he’s strong. He represents that good will win over evil. That no matter how long the fight, no matter how bloody the struggle, Good. Will. Win. Superman won’t sleep until it does.
I’ve read in many places that Superman is a symbol of hope. That the bad guys will be punished, and that peaceful, freedom-loving people can go to sleep feeling safe and secure, because they know Superman is somewhere out there, up there, flying around to make sure things stay that way.
So, tonight, sleep tight. Nothing’s going to hurt you.
Not on his watch.
Next up: An essay on real-life superheroes.
PS: For the full story from Wired, see: http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.06/myth.html. Special thanks to Mark for sending me the link, and for always encouraging my Superman obsession. (And for buying me all four movies on video! And that awesome book! And the notecards! I never forget stuff related to Superman…Too bad everything’s going to DVD now…but it is coming up on the holiday season. Maybe this is one time I can ask dear ol’ Mom and Dad to spend some money on me…I think they’re releasing some kind of collector’s box set this month, LOL!!)
PPS: Love the Man of Steel as much I do? Check out the amazing site I found this week:
http://www.supermanhomepage.com/news.php
*The images here are from The Superman Homepage, and are being used with permission from the site owner.
The Tyranny of the Blank Page
The Tyranny of the Blank Page*
For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. While other kids fantasized about careers of fortune and fame—little boys playing little league, with visions of themselves, years later, knocking the ball out of Yankee Stadium, or little girls playing dress-up, posing for imaginary cameras that were snapping pictures of them to appear on the cover of Glamour or Vogue—my dream was to be an author. Not just any author, but an author who wrote the kind of novels people tell their friends about. The kind of novels that people trapped in jobs they don’t love, look forward to reading on the bus or the subway, on the way home. Or, better yet, look forward to reading as part of an evening ritual through which they reward themselves, for making it through another day: a cup of hot coffee, a comfy chair, and my book. Many, many times, I have taken refuge in relaxing moments with a favorite book, and my dream is to give that gift back to other people.
The other, much more concrete, part of my dream, is having a book signing someday, and have a long line of people waiting to meet me, to tell me how much they enjoy my work, and how much it means to them. (Okay, so, maybe my dream isn’t so far from those childhood visions of fortune and fame…) I would have aspiring young writers approach me, and ask for advice. I would have busy working moms, or doctors, or students, with the most unbelievably hectic schedules, tell me they’ve always wanted to write, but just can’t seem to find the time. They’ll ask me how I managed, and I’ll tell them what I have heard from successful authors: If you want to be a writer, you have to write. It’s that simple, and that irrefutable. As the old saying goes, “Use it or lose it.”
One of my favorite authors, a novelist whose work I so greatly admire, tells aspiring writers, “I’ll believe you’re serious about being a writer when you sit down and write.” A friend of mine once told me Stephen King’s philosophy is the same. Mr. King says you have to write every day, without fail. No matter what. No matter how busy you are, or how angry, or how tired, or how “not in the mood” you are. You. Must. Write.
Maybe you’ll come up with five hundred words of quality, usable material. Or, maybe you’ll end up with five thousand words whose destiny lies in a crumpled heap in the garbage can.
The point, Mr. King emphasizes, is that, good or bad, you’re writing. The writing skill in particular, and the creative process in general, is like a muscle, that must be exercised constantly in order to strengthen and improve it. To neglect those skills is akin to a marathon runner who stops training. In no time at all, his endurance gets shorter, his muscles slowly atrophy, and worst of all, his mindset begins to change. He starts to wonder if he can really finish a marathon. He finds himself questioning the strength of his dedication. He wonders what the heck ever possessed him to even imagine he could run 26.2 miles. So many people are faster than he is, or in better shape, or have trained harder. He knows he has no chance of winning this marathon: he’s slow, he gets shin splints easily, and, the most telling sign of all, he’s not from Kenya. So, instead of sticking with it, stepping up to the starting line, and doing what he can do, he decides to quit. He’s never going to be the best, so why do it at all?
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This, my friends, is what has happened to me, with writing. I want to be a novelist so badly that I even went so far as to major in creative writing in college. (A specialty that, while admirable in an artsy, “human family” kind of way, does not exactly ensure a steady paycheck. It also does not ensure that your parents will not disown you, and disavow themselves of all signs that they ever even knew you. Fortunately, my parents accepted that their daughter’s only goal in life was to write books and, if they had doubts and misgivings, they hid them very well, bless their hearts. And bless their good health, too, because I think finding out your daughter wants to study creative writing at a school that charges over $30,000 a year, and is known the world over not for its humanities programs, but for electrical, computer, and mechanical engineering, is about the most legitimate justification for a stroke I can imagine.)
I want to write. I have the desire. Fortunately, I even have a job that affords me tons of free time to do nothing but sit down and write. So, naturally, the big question now is, WHY HAVEN’T I BEEN WRITING?
The answer is at once very simple, and very complicated: FEAR. I haven’t been writing because I’m scared. I’m just like that marathon runner, who’s not sure he’ll make it to the finish line. I’m letting my fear of failure stop me from ever even getting started. It’s easy to recognize that this is what’s happening inside me. It is a Herculean task, however, to do something about it.
I wonder if people who don’t write have any idea how scary it is to stare at a blank page, or a blank screen, knowing all the while, it’s waiting for you to fill it with something. (I would even go so far as to say it’s “terrifying,” but, as a writer, or at least, an aspiring one, I try to choose my words carefully. Using “terror” in everyday speech robs it of the gravity it deserves – like people who swear all the time – how will you know when they’re really pissed off, if they say the F-word all the time, constantly dropping it into casual speech, as in, “Pass the ****ing salt.” But I digress…)
I chose the title for this essay/blog entry because I think it effectively describes how writers feel when they sit down to start something new. The blank page is a tyrant, staring back at you just as hard as you stare at it. It dares you to show it what you’re made of. Dares you to try to be half as good as all the thousands of writers who’ve gone before you, and to whom, there is no doubt in your mind, you don’t stand the slightest chance of measuring up.
What on earth makes me think I can do it? Who am I, to think that I can describe 1920s Brooklyn better than Betty Smith? (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn; Joy in the Morning.) Or the lives of ordinary women in small towns all across America better than Debbie Macomber? (The Shop on Blossom Street; Thursdays at Eight.) Or how intrigue, espionage, and super-cool military toys play out in international affairs better than Tom Clancy? (The Hunt for Red October; The Cardinal of the Kremlin.) Or how mysticism, mythology, and history shape the lives of Chinese immigrants in the U.S. better than Amy Tan? (The Joy Luck Club; The Kitchen God’s Wife.)
Talk about standing in the shadows of giants...
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I could go on and on listing authors whose work has set the bar so high, that people like me, who are just starting out, wonder why they should even bother. But, the thing is, I can’t not bother. I love to write, and, at the risk of tooting my own horn, I think I’m pretty good at it. In fact, it’s one of the only things I’ve ever given credit to myself for being good at. And it’s what I love to do most in the whole world.
I feel most in tune with the world while I’m writing. My heart beats faster, my senses are more acute, and I feel a sense of peace and contentment that nothing else has ever brought me. Even when I’m ripping my hair out, or pacing the room, because I’m stuck on a particular block of dialogue, I’m still at my happiest, because I’m writing. There is a very short list of things I believe I’m good at. Writing has always been at the top. I’ve come to believe that God gives us all talent. I think He’s made me good at writing, because He wants me to be a writer. (Whereas, for example, he made Mario Lemieux good at hockey, because he wanted him to play hockey.)
This has to be true. It has to be, because nothing has ever made me feel the way I feel when I write. It’s as if everything falls into place, and I’m doing what Fate, or Destiny, or whatever controls the universe, had intended me to be doing from the moment I was born.
I’ve had a very easy life. My family wasn’t wealthy, but I never wanted for anything. Whatever I needed, it somehow came. Most of the time, I wonder what I did to deserve this free pass through life. I’ve never felt worthy of how blessed I am, never felt like I worked hard enough to earn all the good things that surround me. I’ve come to realize that writing is how I earn my keep. It’s how I can put back into the world some of the positive energy that has been bestowed upon me. If something I write someday makes somebody else smile, or nod in recognition, or maybe just makes them forget their problems for a little bit, while they sit and read, I will finally feel myself worthy of sliding through life the way I have been.
I will finally enjoy a vacation, because I will have earned it. I will have worked hard to write something meaningful. It won’t have been physically demanding, but emotionally, it will have drained me. I will finally put forth an effort that is deserving of all the clothing in my closet, and all the books on my shelf, and all the trinkets on tables here and there that were purchased with income from my current job, which does not make me feel worthy, and if anything, makes me feel like I should go return all this junk, until such time as I’ve done enough writing to feel like I’m fulfilling my purpose on this planet.
Someday, when I’m doing what I know I’m meant to do, I will stop telling myself I haven’t earned it. I will savor every bite of a piece of cheesecake. I will go to Spain. I will buy myself an expensive perfume. These are all things I’ve done before, but the difference will be that I’ll finally feel like I earned them. I’ll put my feet up, close my eyes, and revel in the sense of accomplishment.
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I have a ritual when I write: I light a candle, I put on soft classical music, and I get into what can only be described as “the zone.” It’s that otherworldly, non-temporal place, where nothing exists but me and the words and images in my mind. It’s the stage where the show takes place—that beautiful, choreographed ballet that takes ideas and turns them into stories. That takes abstract, amorphous images and transforms them into words, the words into sentences, and the sentences into paragraphs that will go on to fill page after page. It’s the place where the firing of synapses move ideas from my mind to my fingers, from my fingers to the keyboard, and from the keyboard to the page, in a hypnotic dance that, in a perfect world, would be second nature to anyone who thinks he or she has a story to tell.
This is, of course, easier said than done. I created this blog in April 2005. It is now November 2006, and this is the first real post. Since April 2005, I’ve had nothing but gobs and gobs of free time to write. And, I’ve had gobs and gobs of time during which I let the fear take over, and prevent me from getting started. I let that go on long enough that, like the marathon runner, I’ve begun to doubt making it to the finish line.
Marathons, however, are a piece of cake compared to writing. Are they easy? No. But, the strategy is laid out for you. Put one foot in front of the other. Do it long enough, and you’ll eventually cover 26.2 miles. Will it be painless? Of course not. Will it be pretty? Maybe, if you’ve spent your entire life training, and living, eating, and breathing running. Most likely, though, you’ll get there kicking and screaming, maybe even literally crawling over that finish line. But you will get there.
Not so with writing. Yes, you can put one word after another. Do it long enough, and you’ll have a novel-length work of…well, what, exactly? You might have just penned the next winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. You might have written your way to the New York Times bestseller list, or, at the very least, you might have written a book destined for modest success (as evidenced, of course, by its contribution to the daily sales figures of the behemoth book chains). Or, as is the stuff of every author’s worst nightmare, you might have two hundred pages of gobbledygook, whose sole redeeming quality is the indisputable proof it provides of the fact that you are not, in fact, meant to be a writer.
Who were you trying to kid? People like Amy Tan, Tom Clancy, and Debbie Macomber, whom I mentioned before, they are meant to be writers. You cannot possibly tell stories like them. They did it before you, and they did it better.
But, you know what? I’m coming to learn that that’s okay. The reason I can’t tell those stories is that they were their stories. The beautiful thing is, maybe I have stories of my own. Everybody has, since the beginning of time. Even before written language. We’ve all heard about mythologies passed down through oral tradition. Almost every culture, every religion, and every region, has some kind of creation story, and endless treasure troves of other stories to explain what was, at that time, the unexplainable: rainbows, earthquakes, eclipses.
Man has always had the instinct to tell stories. And, for all of us struggling to stay true to our dream of telling new stories, may man always have the desire to listen.
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Next up: Essays on Superman (and why this blog is called “The Fortress of Solitude”); real-life superheroes; and hitting the jackpot.
*The title of this essay is (I hereby admit) a blatant rip-off of The Obsession: Reflections on the Tyranny of Slenderness, by Kim Chernin.
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