brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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Lucas (not his real name) and I met at a coffee shop in Indian Village halfway between his home and mine. His head was buried in his AP Calculus book, so I assumed he was there to study. It was a few moments before he looked up and inquired if I was there for an alumni interview for Princeton University.
While later he revealed math was his favorite subject, AP IB Calculus BC was only one among many advanced courses in his schedule. Lucas shrugged off the rigor of his classes. “I enjoy it,” he said, adding, “My parents have gone through too much for me not to try my best.” His parents are immigrants from Mexico. As the oldest child in his family, Lucas will be the first to attend college, paving the way for his four sisters while navigating the process without the parental support many peers take for granted. Lucas was soft-spoken and gentle in demeanor. He professed to being shy, yet described experiences taking him outside his comfort zone. Growing up in a mainly Latin neighborhood in Detroit, he opted to attend a predominantly African-American high school, becoming a minority at school for the first time in his life. It was eye-opening, he said, forcing him to confront his own perceptions and ingrained biases. He started a Latin youth council in southwest Detroit, focusing on civic engagement, college readiness and mental health. As an officer for the National Honor Society, he pursued community service opportunities. And to pursue his passion for social justice, he participated in the Youth Dialogs on Race and Ethnicity at the University of Michigan, an intensive residential program in which students from around metro Detroit traverse differences in race, ethnicity and socioeconomic status to address issues of social identity, racism and segregation. I’ve met a number of deserving candidates over my years of conducting alumni interviews. In fact, every earnest young overachiever demonstrated in multiple ways they were up to embracing the challenges a university like Princeton has to offer. Lucas was no exception. Yet it’s a numbers game. Luck and happenstance play as large a role as GPAs and test scores. No doubt this is what led to the recent college scandal exposing parents who exploited their wealth to illegally gain admission for their children to elite colleges. But the problem extends beyond a few morally corrupt parents to the many ways the system is structured to benefit those best positioned to play the odds — white, affluent students with college-educated parents. White people often assume when a non-white person is admitted, presumably usurping a spot from some more deserving white candidate, it’s because their race gave them a competitive edge. This attitude led to the banning of affirmative action at public universities in eight states, including Michigan, yet compare this “edge” to the accumulated advantages of generational wealth — ACT and SAT prep classes, tutors to ensure top grades and admittance to honors classes, consultants to help with applications and essays, elite travel sports, private music lessons, summer enrichment camps, mission trips overseas — the list goes on. No parent should have to apologize for giving their child these opportunities. I ask only they acknowledge them as advantages applicants with fewer resources may lack, prompting admissions offices to seek other ways to open doors for deserving candidates. My niece, who attended an elite independent school in Greenwich, Conn., told me once there were college consultants in her town who, for some astronomical fee, guaranteed near perfect SAT scores. I wondered at the time how one could promise such a thing without cheating or, at the very least, bending a few rules. Her parents couldn’t afford such high-priced consultants — nor did they need to enlist their help; my niece earned admission to selective universities, including her ultimate choice of the University of Michigan, through academic merit and hard work. But when I saw one of the accused college scammers was from Greenwich, I wasn’t surprised. He’s even quoted in a taped phone conversation saying, “Keep in mind I’m a lawyer. So I’m sort of rules oriented.” At what point did he lose sight of his own ethics and decide everyone was doing it so why shouldn’t he? One could point to legal ways of “gaming” the system, such as wealthy alumni gaining favor for their children through generous donations or admissions officers shaving off a few academic requirements for a recruited athlete. At least in these cases, all the students at the university benefit — from a shiny new building or academic space to institutional pride gained from thriving athletic programs. As for athletes, most earned their way through years of hard work and commitment to their sports, competing in a highly competitive recruitment pool for a handful of spots. No one handed them anything. It’s the job of admissions officers to sift through a staggering number of applications to fill not just sports teams, but choirs, stages, art studios, orchestras, clubs and academic departments of all kinds and sizes. In doing so, they may bypass qualified legacies, full-pay students and a pipeline of applicants from east coast boarding schools in search of a shining star like Lucas. Lucas received his acceptance letter at the end of March. Did he get in because he’s a first-generation American citizen, the son of Mexican immigrants and the first college-bound member of his family? Or was he accepted in spite of the obstacles these factors posed? Either way, he’s an admissions officer’s dream, checking the all-important boxes of academic rigor, passion for learning, strong work ethic, integrity, humility, kindness and commitment to helping others. Assuming Lucas accepts its offer, Princeton will be lucky to welcome him to campus next fall. This appeared in the April 18, 2019 edition of the Grosse Pointe News.
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My father’s birthday is this week. If he were alive today, he would be turning 104. As much as we miss him — he was 95 when he died — there’s some comfort in knowing he couldn’t have lived forever. Among the many gifts he and my mother gave me as a child — a safe and loving home, opportunities to travel and experience other cultures, strong connections with our extended family, a love of literature — music was a daily presence. Tucked in the back of our house along one wall in my father’s small, cluttered, book-lined study was a mahogany Steinway & Sons upright piano. It was as old as he was, a gift for his mother the year he was born. He played regularly, usually Chopin, and it was, in fact, a Chopin waltz that inspired me to learn. My interest began as a means to gain my father’s attention. If I sat at the piano bench, I could lure him from the pile of papers to be corrected on his desk to sit next to me, teaching me the two-note song he wrote for my oldest sister, “Fife and Drum,” and later his more sophisticated two-handed composition, “Robin in the Grass,” a family classic. (Ask each of his 13 grandchildren, most of whom know the words — “Nose against the glass / See robin in the grass / Now he’s in the tree / Robin wait for me” — and many of whom can play it.) Formal lessons began when I was 8 and my father was my first teacher. Held Sundays after church, each lesson lasted an hour and included music theory, which I tended to tune out. How much or how often I practiced was up to me. In fact, my father discouraged my mother from reminding me. Music, in his view, was an escape, not a chore. By the time I was in ninth grade — and had mastered that Chopin waltz — my father decided he had taught me what he could and I began to study with Aron Pressman, a retired professor who came to the United States with the Russian Grand Opera in 1921 and founded Russian departments at two major universities. Mr. Pressman was a little intimidating at first, with his strong Russian accent and exacting sense of rhythm, but we developed a mutual fondness that transcended any illusion I possessed talent beyond the ability to perform a difficult Brahms piece competently at my high school music recital. He also established a rapport with my father, who drove me to my lesson each week, opting to doze on the sofa in the Pressmans’ sunny living room rather than drive the 10 minutes home and back again. He claimed it was his favorite hour of the week. I think I knew, even as a child, seated side by side at the piano bench with my father’s hands, as familiar as my own, next to mine on the keys, or when I was older in the car on the way to and from my lessons, those moments with my father were a gift. While I viewed this as his gift to me — as lasting a refrain in my life as the Chopin pieces I still play today — now I understand, as an adult and parent who cherishes the time I spend with my own children, the shared interest and time together also were my gift to him. This appeared in the March 28, 2019 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. Our intention in posting a "Black Lives Matter" sign in front of our house wasn't to offend anyone. In fact, it was precisely due to fear of negative reactions we hesitated to do it. Posting the sign doesn’t mean we don’t believe all lives matter or we don’t value the lives of police officers. If there were room on the sign, it would say: “All lives won’t truly matter until black lives matter too.” Or simply: “Black lives matter too.” If Trayvon Martin — whose murder sparked the movement — had been a white 17-year-old returning to his father’s house in a gated community in Florida, where he was a guest, he would be alive today. It wouldn’t have mattered he was wearing a hoodie or had Skittles in his pocket or traces of THC, indicating possible marijuana use, in his bloodstream. George Zimmerman wouldn’t have called 911 and he wouldn’t have said during a recorded conversation, “These (expletive) they always get away.” Like so many teenagers, Trayvon Martin was talking on his cell phone with a friend. It was dark and rainy and a stranger — a large, burly man — was pursuing him for no apparent reason. Trayvon told his friend what was happening. He started to run. Zimmerman had a gun; Trayvon didn’t. Did they wrestle for the gun? Who most feared for their life in this situation, the unarmed teenager chatting on the phone or the armed vigilante? There was little physical evidence at the crime scene and only one surviving witness to help determine what happened. Defense attorneys argued Zimmerman shot Martin in self defense. Protected by Florida’s “Stand Your Ground” law, he was acquitted. Zimmerman claimed he was acting on behalf of the Neighborhood Watch program, yet the rules of the program were clear: no guns. When he called 911, the dispatcher asked him if he was following Martin. When Zimmerman, according to the transcript, said, “Yeah,” the dispatcher replied, “OK, we don’t need you to do that.” If the alleged trespasser posed a danger, the police were on their way. Zimmerman ignored the 911 dispatcher and pursued Martin on his own, afraid he would somehow elude the police and get away with … what? He wasn’t doing anything illegal. There was no imminent threat to anyone and if Zimmerman put himself in danger — Trayvon, confronted by a stranger and in fear for his life, fought with his attacker for possession of the gun — this was due to his own careless actions. Yet the jury bought the self-defense argument. “You know, if I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon,” President Barack Obama said in response to this tragedy. Critics eviscerated him for this statement, when all he was trying to do was show empathy to parents who lost a child. We all should see Trayvon Martin as our son, our grandson, our brother, our nephew, our cousin. He was killed for no reason other than the sight of a young man with black skin arouses more fear and suspicion than the sight of a young man with white skin. And to kill that young man because of that fear is, in many states, justifiable under the law. This is why black lives don’t matter under the current justice system in equal measure to white lives. It’s why athletes like Colin Kaepernick and Megan Rapinoe have chosen to use their platform to call attention to this inequity. And while I resisted putting up the BLM sign because I feared we were communicating a different message than what we intended — perhaps even alienating those who misunderstood that intent — a simple statement by my husband changed my mind. If one black person walks by our house and sees the sign and it makes a difference, it’s worth it. It could be our letter carrier or UPS driver. It could be a neighbor. It could be a child walking to school. Whoever it is, we want them to know in our home, their life matters. This year my family is breaking from tradition and spending Christmas away from home. My mother-in-law is celebrating her well-deserved retirement by taking the extended family to Patagonia over the holidays. As far as gifts are concerned, it’s impractical to lug extra baggage while touring another continent, so my immediate family is planning an early celebration. Maybe for the first time, my husband’s cautionary words, “Kids, it’s going to be a modest Christmas this year; I mean it” — to which the kids smile indulgently — will hold true. In all actuality, the health and happiness of each family member is top on our wish list and the ritual of gift giving is mainly for the joy of watching the people we love most open each carefully chosen item Christmas morning. We still will pick out and decorate a tree, but we won’t wait for the kids to arrive home from their respective college and graduate school pursuits. For most of our 20 years since we moved to Michigan, this has been a family pilgrimage. Our first year, we abandoned the romantic notion of chopping down our own tree and were prepared to settle for a Frasier Fir at Home Depot. Along the way we stumbled on a parking lot tree farm on Gratiot beneath the twinkling lights of the Hooters sign. Each year we’ve returned, Nino, the gentleman who runs the seasonal enterprise, recognizes us. He stopped giving the kids candy canes years ago, but he still hugs my husband for his generous tip and once invited him into the trailer for a nip of a little something to brace him for the cold. My husband politely declined. With such limited time to enjoy a tree before we depart on our trip, it makes sense to decorate early so the kids will return to a festive house. Still, it’ll be a lonely proposition with just the two of us present for the untangling of last year’s lights accompanied by my husband’s usual swearing, generally ending with a string of defective lights in a clump in the trash. I’ll arrange the ornaments myself without the kids there to select just the right station for Christmas music, make hot chocolate, or be the first to break a delicate bulb. One tradition that will remain intact — which my son claims is his favorite — is our annual family shopping expedition at Partridge Creek. There we break into smaller units to combine forces in our treasure hunt, spin off on solo missions or, after convening for a top secret meeting, set off on a quest for that elusive gift for the man who claims he wants for nothing. One year I was secretly amused to help one daughter select a Fit Bit for her dad while he was making the exact same choice for her. It was our Gift of the Magi moment — minus the hardship or sacrifice. Some traditions carry over from our own childhoods. In lieu of a plate of cookies by the hearth for Santa, my husband will fry up a burger, claiming, as did his father, Jolly St. Nick needed something a little heartier than sugary treats for his long journey. This theory is proven correct year after year when, come Christmas morning, only an empty, grease-stained plate remains. My father’s favorite part of Christmas was the stockings. I channel his love for small treasures as I wrap each gift individually before hanging the stockings by the chimney with care. The next morning, all preparations complete, I’ll sit by the lights of the tree listening for the stirring of the kids upstairs as they awake and make their way downstairs to a transformed living room. This is the moment that feels the same year after year, whether the kids are small and awake by dawn, sleeping in as teenagers, or young adults home only for the holidays. For the next few hours we will close out the rest of the world, the news, outside pressures and everything but the pleasure of each other’s company. Will any of us care it isn’t actually Christmas? This appeared in the Dec. 13 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. One of my favorite New Yorker cartoons depicts a man sitting on a couch while a young child enters the living room brandishing a trophy larger than he is. “We lost!” reads the caption. It’s sure to draw a laugh because we all recognize the times we live in. Children nowadays, we’re told, expect a trophy just for showing up. But is that actually true? I can only vouch for my own experiences with three children competing in multiple sports over the years, from recreational league to college. Maybe at age 4 or 5, they received participation trophies, but all they cared about then were the snacks anyway. Once kids enter the realm of competitive sports, reality hits. Children as young as 8 try out for travel soccer teams. Not everyone makes the ‘A’ team and some are cut even from ‘C’ teams. In Little League baseball, only a select few are chosen for the All-Star game or tournament team. I remember hearing a story about tryouts for travel hockey. These boys were maybe 9. The coach read aloud the names of players to go into the locker room and players to remain on the ice. One group made the team; the other boys were told to go home. No participation trophies, to my knowledge, were handed out. Some kids mature faster than others and peak early, only to have their peers catch up or even surpass them. Others fall short of expectations or potential for a host of reasons. Moving on to high school, the talent pool often exceeds the number of spots. There are cuts in many sports even at the freshman level. Some kids make the team and sit on the bench, destined to be a sub rather than a starter. Many show up for practice every day, work hard, do everything the coach asks and still see little playing time. Athletics teach a lot of things — discipline, perseverance, dedication, teamwork, time management. These are great reasons to encourage your child to play sports. But if your goal is to build their self-esteem, you might want to pursue other avenues. Playing on an athletic team, in particular at the high school level, is as likely to humble your child as boost their confidence. What I learned as the parent of student-athletes is this: It’s not the wins and achievements that build character and resilience; it’s the tough moments. Getting cut from a team, sitting on the bench, losing a starting spot, getting yelled at by a coach, showing up for practice day after day even if you’re injured — these all take personal grit and fortitude. Your child may learn as much about leadership from cheering teammates on from the bench as they do from assuming the role as captain — and they certainly gain more lessons in sportsmanship from accepting a loss with grace than reveling in a victory. It’s not easy as a parent to stand on the sidelines and watch while your child faces disappointment or manages the intense pressures of competition. But in the long run, it’s worth it. Your kids’ memories of participating on a team — the pasta parties, spirit days, friendly rivalries and rituals passed down from team to team — will be part of the fabric of the ups and downs of their high school experiences and far exceed any number of trophies on their shelves. This appeared in the Aug. 30 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. When I was growing up, our next-door neighbor's dogs spent most of their day in a pen on the side of their house. And they barked. Nonstop. Two things my father did daily were work in his study and nap. Both his study and bedroom were on the side of the house closest to the barking dogs.
My father never complained to our neighbors. Not once. He took a long view of the situation: One day the dogs would die and in the meantime his friendship with the neighbors would remain untarnished. He was right. The friendship between our two families outlasted the dogs and continues to this day. In fact, our neighbors' son spoke at my father's memorial service and the wife, a registered nurse, was one of the reasons we felt comfortable with our mother remaining in the house after his death. She kept an eye on my mother and popped in regularly. A resident on my block — let's call him Stephen — could learn a few lessons from my father's example. Stephen recently initiated a kerfuffle over trash left in front of a house several days before pickup. The inhabitant of that house — let’s call her Susie — had moved out over the weekend, as was obvious from the SOLD sign in front of the house. We live directly next door and thought nothing of it. Even the city makes concessions for move-out situations, we discovered later. But apparently Stephen, who lives on the opposite side of the street many doors down, found the refuse objectionable enough to make a fuss on Facebook, publicly embarrassing not only Susie, who had rented the house, but the owners, longtime neighbors and good friends — let’s call them Mark and Alice — who had moved out of state a few years prior. Steven went so far as to compare the scene to a “Detroit-style eviction,” raising hackles with his coded language. I understand the importance of following rules for the benefit of the neighborhood as a whole and perhaps even reporting repeated violations. But I also believe in extending empathy and compassion when circumstances warrant it. This is where Stephen and I part ways. How do I know he didn’t care about Susie’s particular situation? Because he said so. When Alice told him, on Facebook, how hard Susie had worked to move out by the agreed-upon date, he replied, “I don’t care how hard she worked.” Eventually Susie called the city for a special trash removal, to the tune of $100. She offered, via Facebook, to cancel the pickup and donate the money instead to a charity of Stephen’s choosing in his name. He didn’t respond. The trash is long gone from the block, but what remains is the stench of mean spiritedness generated by the attitude and actions of one person. I suspect in time he'll capitalize in full on his shortsighted investment in ill will. In the meantime, I'll take the long view and give him what my father would have called a mental demerit. When I was a child, one of my favorite books was called “Fortunately.” It relayed the up-and-down journey of a little boy in a series of harrowing adventures. (Spoiler alert: it has a happy ending.) Midway in the tale, the little boy finds himself high in the sky in a single-engine plane. And then this happens. Unfortunately, the engine stopped working. Fortunately, there was a parachute in the plane. Unfortunately, the parachute didn’t open. Fortunately, there was a haystack below. Unfortunately, there was a pitchfork in the haystack. Fortunately, the boy missed the pitchfork. Unfortunately, he missed the haystack. I used to tell my children this story — until one day we lived our own “fortunately, unfortunately” adventure on a family vacation on Nantucket in Massachusetts. We had booked a ferry to the island. Unfortunately, we didn’t pay the extra fee to transport our car. Fortunately, we were told cars were discouraged on the island. Unfortunately, the house we rented was four miles from the ferry dock. Fortunately, there was a bus. Unfortunately, we didn’t think of buying groceries before we boarded the bus. Fortunately, we had bikes. Unfortunately, we had bikes only for the kids. Fortunately, there were two adult bikes in the house. Unfortunately, the tires were flat. Fortunately, there was a bike pump. You can imagine how our adventures unfolded our first morning after we woke to an empty refrigerator — and more importantly for the adults, no coffee — and tried to make the most of this challenging situation with three children under 10. On the fortunate side, we were a short hike to the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. On the less fortunate side, we needed to feed our children. Once my husband filled the tires on the spare bikes we pedaled our way to town — our 4-year-old son leading the way with his chubby little legs — and enjoyed a well-deserved breakfast. Later that day, after stocking the refrigerator and spending an afternoon on the beach, we headed back to town on our bikes again — this time for ice cream. Because what’s a summer vacation on the beach without a trip to an ice cream parlor? I was reminded of this family adventure as I prepared for this summer's sojourn to the Upper Peninsula — this time with adult children. Unfortunately, our trip was delayed for a day due to a stroke of bad luck. Fortunately, we overcame this obstacle and made the journey — our first that far in northern Michigan. Unfortunately, it's only for a week and then our kids set off for separate destinations. Fortunately, we will make the most of the time we have. This appeared in the July 5 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. If you haven’t heard about children being “ripped” from their parents while attempting to cross the border into the United States, you've been living under a rock. I’ve been fairly inundated on the topic, having read many articles and layers of arguments on social media.
Mainly what I've seen is outrage about a practice viewed as cruel and immoral. Whatever the circumstances, the children are innocent bystanders, not pawns to be used to stop immigrants and refugees from entering the U.S., legally or otherwise. Many of these families are fleeing unspeakable circumstances in their own countries and seeking a better life. Our country was founded by people who did this very thing. After all, the Statue of Liberty, according to the Emma Lazarus poem inscribed at her base, is the “Mother of Exiles.” “From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome…." Many assert it’s the law and it happened under the Obama administration. Neither is true. The law has to do with illegal entry, a misdemeanor, and illegal reentry, a felony. Nowhere does any law dictate children must be separated from their parents, a practice enacted within the past two months to deter people fleeing atrocities in their own countries from attempting to cross into the U.S. It’s punitive and presumes guilt before these immigrants have been properly vetted. Taking children from their parents without a clear reunification plan is cruel and unusual punishment. It violates human decency and everything our country represents. Moreover, this policy wasn't in place under Obama’s administration. What happened in 2014 was a sudden influx of unaccompanied minors coming into the U.S. who were temporarily housed in border patrol lock-ups until they could be properly cared for by the Department of Health and Human Services. In 80 percent of the cases, this meant releasing them to their parents, who were already in the country. The difference during the Obama administration was families who arrived together were kept together in detention centers until their cases were reviewed and it was determined they had a valid reason to come here or they acted illegally and were subject to deportation. But this practice is a far cry from terrorizing small children who have arrived in a foreign land, only to be stripped from the one known and familiar thing in their world — their mother or father. Finally, two wrongs don’t make a right. If this in fact did happen under Obama’s administration and the public is only finding out about it now, we should still stop it, not use previous wrongdoings to justify an abhorrent policy that will cause irreparable damage to vulnerable children. As a mother, images of crying children haunt me. I believe any parent, separated for even one terrifying instant from a child, can relate. The most sensationalized reports are a father separated from his family at the border who hung himself in lock-up and a breastfeeding infant taken from its mother. I can’t stop thinking about that mother who can no longer feed or care for her baby. Only women who have breastfed their children will understand the physical pain this separation inflicted on her, but I hope we all can empathize with the emotional anguish she — and all parents separated from their children, no matter their age — endured. Religious leaders have condemned these actions. The United Nations human rights office has called for the United States to immediately halt this practice. Medical groups and associations have denounced it. Private citizens have rallied together and protested. It’s time for the government to listen and stop this inhumane policy. We may no longer be a country promising to help “the homeless, the tempest-tost” or those “yearning to breathe free,” but whatever means we choose to limit access through that “golden door,” let’s at least keep the lamp of liberty lit. This Mother’s Day, for the first time in nearly a decade, I’ll spend the day with all three of my children. That hasn’t happened since my oldest daughter left for college in 2009. We’ll be in my hometown of Amherst, Mass., for the graduation of two of my nephews from the University of Massachusetts. I’d be happy to spend any day with my children and husband; Mother’s Day is just a bonus. But it’s not my favorite holiday. Don’t get me wrong — I love being a mother. There’s literally nothing I love more. But I don’t need a day set aside to feel appreciated. That’s what birthdays are for. And besides, children appreciate their mothers 24/7, 365 days a year, don’t they? The best Mother’s Days were when the kids were small and brought home handmade cards and art projects from school. I loved the spindly plants and wobbly ceramic bowls and crafts made from milk cartons or Popsicle sticks or cardboard paper towel rolls. I treasured the hand-written, painstaking messages on those cards with the creative spelling and backwards letters. “My mom dose lots of landry,” my son wrote one year. (I was touched he noticed.) But these days, Mother’s Day makes me feel a bit nostalgic. While I’ll always be a mother to my children, even when they’re leading fully independent lives and raising their own families, I view most of my mothering days now through the rearview mirror. Stretched out for miles are those family dinners, Sunday breakfasts, bedtime stories, school projects, sleepovers, play dates, birthday parties, sporting events, road trips, picnics at the park, summer weeks on Cape Cod and visits with friends and relatives, all fading from view on the road behind me. Even farther from view are my days as a child growing up under the loving gaze of my own mother, gone nearly three years now. In my mind she’s not the 90-year-old she was at her death, but a woman of some indeterminate age — likely somewhere around my own — correcting English papers at her rolltop desk in the living room, listening to “All Things Considered” on NPR while cooking dinner or sitting on the back terrace, legs crossed, reading the New York Times. She believed breakfast was the most important meal of the day and there was nothing a good night’s sleep or fresh air and sunshine couldn’t fix. Each morning she woke us with a chipper “Rise and shine!” and snap of the window shades in our bedrooms, followed by a balanced breakfast around the kitchen table. Sleeping in or skipping breakfast was not an option. Her motto for a life devoid of regret was, “When in doubt, do.” She was proud of her Scotch-Irish heritage, her upbringing as the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, her years teaching English to middle school students — an age she felt children still could be molded — and, perhaps most of all, her ease in raising the five of us, whether she was shepherding us into a pew at church — usually late — or herding us around Europe during one of our father’s quixotic quests. She was the practical foil to his romanticism in an enduring partnership that kept us grounded while not tethering our poet father’s dreams. My mother’s unflagging optimism may have masked some darker moments, especially after the death of her husband of nearly 60 years, but it served her well through her final moments on earth. Family friends who visited her before she died claim she replied, when they asked on their way out if she wanted the TV on to keep her company, “No, I think I’ll just lie here with my eyes closed and think about what a wonderful life I've had.” I hope to pay tribute to that life this Mother’s Day when I visit my parents’ grave sites along the grassy knoll in the wooded cemetery near my childhood home. My siblings and their spouses and children will be there with me, along with my own husband and children. It’ll be too late for a card or flowers or even a phone call to tell them how much we loved them. But it won’t matter. We’ll do what we always do when we get together. Tell stories. Laugh. Recite one of my father’s poems. Sing a song. Laugh some more. And they'll know.
Years ago my husband and I took our kids to see the animated Pixar movie, “The Incredibles.” Mr. and Mrs. Incredible and their three children, Violet, Dash and Jack-Jack, were an awful lot like our own little family of five, living their quiet suburban life. Only there was one essential difference: each member of the Incredibles family had a different superpower. Our 7-year-old son loved Frozone, whose superpower was to form and control ice. But his favorite character was Dash, not just because of his supersonic speed, but because he was the character he could most identify with. Flash forward to 2018 and our son is now a 21-year-old film major in college. He’s still a fan of superhero movies, though — in particular Marvel Comics live-action films. While he may have gone to see Marvel’s most recent release, “Black Panther,” to admire its cinematic artistry, narrative arc and mythological tropes, the societal significance of this epic film was not lost on him. As rapper Big Sean said on FOX 2 Detroit when he surprised kids at a “Black Panther” screening at Royal Oak Emagine Theater in late February, “It’s important for kids, especially Detroit Public School kids, to see black superheroes because that’s what they are. And that’s something that we rarely get to see.” We all need to see heroes who look like us, opening our eyes to our own possibilities. If you watched “The Post,” you saw that moment Washington Post owner Kay Graham, played by Meryl Streep, walked down the steps of the Supreme Court after the landmark decision supporting a free press over government redeemed her choice to risk her family’s business for the greater good. Graham, unlike her male counterparts from the New York Times, chose not to make a statement under the public limelight, but as she walked down those sunlit steps through the crowd, the gaze of admiring young women along the way served as its own spotlight. Such moments of bravery and redemption may be fodder for Hollywood, but in reality they’re rare. More often, it’s ordinary people waging small, daily battles. A mother fighting for access to a least-restrictive classroom environment for her child with special needs. Recovering alcoholics starting a support group to help others overcome their addiction. Parents reeling from the loss of a child dedicating their lives to suicide awareness and prevention. A suburban mom who turned a passion for helping others into a bridge across divided cities. These are all true stories of courage among real heroes in my own community. Recently at an event celebrating short fiction, I was given a coffee mug with the inscription: “I write. What’s your superpower?” It made me think about how we all can use our gifts for some bigger purpose. Some do so with superhuman gifts on an international stage, like Olympic figure skater Adam Rippon and freestyle skier Gus Kenworthy, the first openly gay American athletes in the winter events. They entertain with their prowess on the ice and ski hill, respectively, but their true superpower lies in their willingness to risk public disdain and vile attacks on social media to serve as the role models they themselves lacked. They make being true to yourself appear as fluid and effortless as a triple axel on the ice or an aerial maneuver on the slopes. It isn’t. Nor, like those athletic feats, did it come without hard work, pain, fear of failure and moments of despair. Rippon and Kenworthy may dream of a day when all athletes, gay or straight, are known only as athletes. Similarly, my mother-in-law, the first female tenured full professor in the Engineering School at Johns Hopkins University and the only woman to win the Mathias Medal for her work on the Chesapeake Bay, told me recently she wants to be known for her science, not for being a woman in science. Her superpower is her ability to look into a microscope and record an entire history of ecological change. Yet journalists profiling her work seek to tell the personal side of her journey as a wife and mother fighting for recognition in a male-dominated world while juggling childcare and domestic duties. My mother-in-law may chafe at this, but, as she looks toward her future as a professor emeritus at age 87, part of her legacy will be as a role model and superhero to other women — including her two granddaughters — whether she likes it or not. This appeared in the March 7, 2018 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. |
Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |