And the Oscar goes to… What’s-Her-Name and What’s-His-Face. Fabulous, fabulous; couldn’t be happier for you, really. But let’s talk about acting for a moment. Actors get jobs and then they act for as long as their union contracts stipulate; so many hours a day for so many months. Then the job ends. They drop the façade, go back to their lives, pop open a Tab and finish their games of Angry Birds or Words with Friends, or texting angry words with friends. But what if the acting gig never ended? What if you found yourself in a situation where you had to act intermittently, but all the time, day or night? You have to be always ready to be “on” and the job will never end? And the acting you have to do is truly important and will affect others’ lives deeply and permanently? Know what I’m getting at? Do you see where this is heading?
No one has worked harder at acting than the divorcing parent with his or her children. There is a no more seminal performance necessary than when Mom goes to the ATM and suddenly discovers that her joint bank account has been cleaned out. What does she do when she gets back to the car with her kids in the backseat? She acts. And when the husband arrives home unexpectedly to find another man’s car in the driveway? And the ensuing argument wakes the sleeping child? You better believe he needs to act. Because when those parents can put a tourniquet—not a Cub-Scout-first-aide-lesson tourniquet, but a stranded-in-the-Alaskan-frontier-without-a-flare-gun tourniquet—on their true emotions and look into their child’s face and say—WITH A SMILE—“Everything’s okay,”—man, oh, man, that’s acting. And to be that convincing takes Herculean Lawrence Olivier ability.
Because every fiber of your being is screaming with desire to tell your precious cherub what a stinker her parent is. Your misery wants company so badly that your body aches to sit your children down and tell them all the nasty little details of who had the nerve to do what to whom. But you don’t. In stead, you act. Because if you’re a good parent—which is code for selfless parent-- you will pretend to your child every time he comes breathlessly in the back door with blithe spirit and flushed cheeks, that the crisis you are in isn’t happening to him. Because, in fact, it isn’t. Your marriage is just that-- yours. So you must act your little heart out when she asks if Daddy can come to her birthday party or Mom can come to his big game. You smile, and you say yes, and then you act for the duration of the meal, chewing the inside of your cheek if you must to remain on task and not let the little barbs lined up in your tear ducts fire from within every time you look at him. You act that you’re happy to be on the same set of bleachers with your disloyal wife in front of your knowing community, because all that acting—in the long run—will bear the fruit of confidence in your child. All your acting will allow your children to grow up and not have to act; so that your sons can be their most relaxed self, and your daughters can feel precious and loved.
Because the whole name of the divorce game is love, and if your kids don’t feel that they have permission to love both their parents equally, they’ll take you down as teenagers and most likely take themselves down as adults. So, you act. You act your heart out. And when your daughter gets dropped off from a vacation with Daddy wearing earrings that his new girlfriend picked out for her, you smile and tell her how great they look. And when your son arrives home telling you how mom’s new husband was really helpful with his science fair project—because he’s sooo smart-- you beam. “What a great guy,” you even say out loud because for you, divorced parent, Oscar season never ends.
So, as impressed as I am with Meryl and Jean Dujardin, I am so very in awe of you. When your children are older and well adjusted; you’ll know when the time is right. When they’ve asked you for the hundredth time or perhaps for the very first time to tell you what happened; then you can be honest. And that will be your acceptance speech. Keep it brief, and list all the reasons you're grateful and thank all the people who helped you through. Until then, though, whatever you do and however you’re feeling-- no matter what-- keep acting.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
If You Want to Sing Out
Seven or eight years ago on Hickory Drive in Maplewood, a man named Ford met a guy named Tim at a big, multi-family bar-b-que. As the general chaos and cacophony of children and dogs swirled around them, they began talking and learned that, lo and behold, they had nothing in common-- except that they both liked to play music. Ford ran home to get his guitar and Tim sidled up to the piano inside and within minutes, the low-grade, disembodied hysteria of the b-b-que ceased. Michael Steiner, the host, remembers, “The kids stopped running and started dancing. And there we were; kids and parents in the same room dancing, playing and singing together. It was amazing.”
That gave Michael the idea of hosting a Hootenanny. So, that May, he invited 100 or so neighbors and friends to his home for a musical party. The caveat was that at least one member from each family had to perform; had to share something. He ended up with 30-40 acts, a huge success, and the party’s been an annual event ever since.
Out of that a second musical event was born—this one for adults. At the first “Jam”, as it was dubbed, “eight folks stayed up until 2am,” Michael said, “everyone singing, harmonizing and playing something. We kept trying to go home and then someone would think of another song. After that I began putting a book of lyrics and chords together for folks to choose from.” That was five years ago. Now the lyrics and chords are projected on the living room wall in Ford’s house. Michael continued, “25 folks cram in—29 of them playing guitar. Everyone is very humble about their abilities, but there’s a lot of terrific talent in the room.”
I asked Michael about the talent and he said it’s everything you can imagine. “Dave is semi-professional, Mark worked in the music business, and Nerissa played classical piano growing up and has since learned uke. Christine had a band in college and Cat just learned the ukulele, too.” “What about you?” I asked. “I had two or three years of sax in middle school.” “That’s it?” “That’s it. I just started teaching myself the guitar in the last nine years. I figured that far stupider people than me have figured this out. How hard can it be?”
The night I was invited to a Jam at Ford’s house, there were fifteen or so folks in attendance; eight of them had walked. We weren’t crammed. Well, maybe a little. There were keyboards and drums set up plus big standing bongos in the corner. People streamed in the door carrying ukuleles, mandolins and banjos as well as guitars and basses. As coats were peeled off and plopped in a pile in the foyer, the energy grew. People were excited to sing and play; they’d booked their sitters and had been looking forward to this for months. There was a generous bar set up in the kitchen and plenty of snacks in the dining room, but this wasn’t about that. This was about playing music. Ford got things going; he was their leader. “You’ve got to have a leader,” Michael said, “or else things just break down. We used to be so bad. Someone would start a song and then not know the words and it would peter out and be so deflating. We’ve learned from that.”
The night I was there, there was a pretty smooth method to the madness, I thought. Someone called out a song, Michael found it in his computer and threw it up on the wall, then Ford counted us off and we flew. Most of the choices tended to be fun harmonizing songs—Beatles, Eagles, CSN, Monkees—and all the choices resonated with the 37-47 year old crowd. Like them or not, there are songs that we can’t help knowing after growing up with Top 40 radio, and we delighted in singing The Carpenters, Fleetwood Mac, Elvis Costello and Earth, Wind and Fire. I was surprised to discover how many verses I knew by heart.
“I don’t know why more people don’t do this,” Michael said, “All you need is one decent musician to lead a song. The lyrics and chords are all online. You print them out or project them on the wall. It doesn’t cost anything. And you get to feel like you’re in a band for a night. Sit next to someone harmonizing and you feel like a million dollars.” Michael was right. It was so easy and so darn much fun; all of us singing our hearts out to melodies which had woven themselves into our DNA when we were young and still growing. I sang harmonies for a while and then spied the tall, lonely bongos in the corner. I hopped over and stood behind them at the start of a Talking Heads tune that begged for percussion. Although I’d never drummed before, the riffs and rhythms came out of me like a nursery rhyme I’d learned as a child. I was having so much fun I felt I could have lifted off the ground and flown. I’m still growing, I thought, and I felt like a million dollars.
That gave Michael the idea of hosting a Hootenanny. So, that May, he invited 100 or so neighbors and friends to his home for a musical party. The caveat was that at least one member from each family had to perform; had to share something. He ended up with 30-40 acts, a huge success, and the party’s been an annual event ever since.
Out of that a second musical event was born—this one for adults. At the first “Jam”, as it was dubbed, “eight folks stayed up until 2am,” Michael said, “everyone singing, harmonizing and playing something. We kept trying to go home and then someone would think of another song. After that I began putting a book of lyrics and chords together for folks to choose from.” That was five years ago. Now the lyrics and chords are projected on the living room wall in Ford’s house. Michael continued, “25 folks cram in—29 of them playing guitar. Everyone is very humble about their abilities, but there’s a lot of terrific talent in the room.”
I asked Michael about the talent and he said it’s everything you can imagine. “Dave is semi-professional, Mark worked in the music business, and Nerissa played classical piano growing up and has since learned uke. Christine had a band in college and Cat just learned the ukulele, too.” “What about you?” I asked. “I had two or three years of sax in middle school.” “That’s it?” “That’s it. I just started teaching myself the guitar in the last nine years. I figured that far stupider people than me have figured this out. How hard can it be?”
The night I was invited to a Jam at Ford’s house, there were fifteen or so folks in attendance; eight of them had walked. We weren’t crammed. Well, maybe a little. There were keyboards and drums set up plus big standing bongos in the corner. People streamed in the door carrying ukuleles, mandolins and banjos as well as guitars and basses. As coats were peeled off and plopped in a pile in the foyer, the energy grew. People were excited to sing and play; they’d booked their sitters and had been looking forward to this for months. There was a generous bar set up in the kitchen and plenty of snacks in the dining room, but this wasn’t about that. This was about playing music. Ford got things going; he was their leader. “You’ve got to have a leader,” Michael said, “or else things just break down. We used to be so bad. Someone would start a song and then not know the words and it would peter out and be so deflating. We’ve learned from that.”
The night I was there, there was a pretty smooth method to the madness, I thought. Someone called out a song, Michael found it in his computer and threw it up on the wall, then Ford counted us off and we flew. Most of the choices tended to be fun harmonizing songs—Beatles, Eagles, CSN, Monkees—and all the choices resonated with the 37-47 year old crowd. Like them or not, there are songs that we can’t help knowing after growing up with Top 40 radio, and we delighted in singing The Carpenters, Fleetwood Mac, Elvis Costello and Earth, Wind and Fire. I was surprised to discover how many verses I knew by heart.
“I don’t know why more people don’t do this,” Michael said, “All you need is one decent musician to lead a song. The lyrics and chords are all online. You print them out or project them on the wall. It doesn’t cost anything. And you get to feel like you’re in a band for a night. Sit next to someone harmonizing and you feel like a million dollars.” Michael was right. It was so easy and so darn much fun; all of us singing our hearts out to melodies which had woven themselves into our DNA when we were young and still growing. I sang harmonies for a while and then spied the tall, lonely bongos in the corner. I hopped over and stood behind them at the start of a Talking Heads tune that begged for percussion. Although I’d never drummed before, the riffs and rhythms came out of me like a nursery rhyme I’d learned as a child. I was having so much fun I felt I could have lifted off the ground and flown. I’m still growing, I thought, and I felt like a million dollars.
Tree Task
A week after Christmas, I finally took down the tree. And the ornaments, decorations and lights. I sighed the sigh of a thousand sighs and wondered, once again, how to bring the joy back to this task. I’m pretty sure I enjoyed putting it all up-- the tree, the lights, the decorations- but it all seems so long ago, December. Christmas is a little like childbirth for me. I forget all about the labor once it’s over and then by the time is comes around again I’m looking forward to it like a blitheful bride. And then, neck deep in the frenzy, I remember.
I wonder if it’s really the task of unhooking and wrapping, folding and storing that tugs at me, or the churning in my head. If it were solely meditative, my head would be empty; free to lovingly tuck in the little ornaments like dolls into their sleeping bags of tissue paper worn soft by years of use; and then into plastic crates; their lids snapped shut with finality. But my head is crowded; each ornament means too much. Some are sweet; like the Japanese paper cranes swiped at the end of a friend’s wedding to a Japanese girl. Her mother had lovingly folded hundreds of paper cranes to give as gifts to departing guests, but they had left them on the tables when they took their purses to go, so I rounded them up and now place them on my tree, red and silver; as symbols of love’s hope and a mother’s graceful diligence. My mother took apart the wooden crib mobile my sisters and I shared as infants and gave each of us an ornament of a little wooden child happily astride a circus animal. I still have the ornaments I made in girl scouts, cookie cut from a mixture of flour and salt, and painted gold; my maiden name on the back. I picked three starfish off the beach one summer years ago and aired them out on the back porch in the sun and rain for a month. They, too, get hung on the tree with a simple wire hook.
But also hanging, gently clanging up against miniature colored light bulbs, are the ornaments from my marriage; the ones he didn’t take; the ones too pretty to toss. Beautiful tertiary-colored Christmas balls on sale from the Moma gift store years ago dangle near the ornaments culled from various vacations; when an ornament and an unusual kitchen utensil were all we’d budget for as souvenirs. I still hang the paper ornaments-- cut out and single hole-punched for hooks-- from clever Christmas card graphics that I hung all around the bottom three feet of the tree when my son and his toddler buddies were prone to grabbing and eating whatever they could reach. Coiling the chili pepper lights reminds me once again of my Dad who’s since died. Growing up, his signature tree move was to put one strand of some non-holiday lights around the lower extremities of our tree. He got a huge kick out of the glowing pink flamingos or red hot chili peppers that alternated as they broke then were happily replaced. They served to remind us not to take ourselves, our tree-- or the holiday, I suppose—too seriously; which worked, because my tree continues his tradition of low grade rococo whimsy to this day.
Those chapters are long since over now but I’m reminded of them every year as I dutifully unwrap the treasures that archive my past. I like having a tree in my house for a few weeks, I really do, and I’m sad to see it go. I love the smell and the twinkling lights; the hugeness of this giant looming thing in my living room; an invited guest, mute and still. I enjoy the tree’s invitation to be creative, daring me to slap a hook on something and hang it up in the name of festive. I like that it shakes things up.
Once our tree is returned to its former self, we thank it for joining us in our home; appreciative for its sacrifice and service; a vertical document of a life lived fully and like it’s annual bearer, still growing. Then we drag it out onto the curb where we lay it to rest and head inside to vacuum; looking forward to the needles we’ll uncover in June, like an off-season beachcomber who doesn’t shake out her shoes too well, on purpose.
I wonder if it’s really the task of unhooking and wrapping, folding and storing that tugs at me, or the churning in my head. If it were solely meditative, my head would be empty; free to lovingly tuck in the little ornaments like dolls into their sleeping bags of tissue paper worn soft by years of use; and then into plastic crates; their lids snapped shut with finality. But my head is crowded; each ornament means too much. Some are sweet; like the Japanese paper cranes swiped at the end of a friend’s wedding to a Japanese girl. Her mother had lovingly folded hundreds of paper cranes to give as gifts to departing guests, but they had left them on the tables when they took their purses to go, so I rounded them up and now place them on my tree, red and silver; as symbols of love’s hope and a mother’s graceful diligence. My mother took apart the wooden crib mobile my sisters and I shared as infants and gave each of us an ornament of a little wooden child happily astride a circus animal. I still have the ornaments I made in girl scouts, cookie cut from a mixture of flour and salt, and painted gold; my maiden name on the back. I picked three starfish off the beach one summer years ago and aired them out on the back porch in the sun and rain for a month. They, too, get hung on the tree with a simple wire hook.
But also hanging, gently clanging up against miniature colored light bulbs, are the ornaments from my marriage; the ones he didn’t take; the ones too pretty to toss. Beautiful tertiary-colored Christmas balls on sale from the Moma gift store years ago dangle near the ornaments culled from various vacations; when an ornament and an unusual kitchen utensil were all we’d budget for as souvenirs. I still hang the paper ornaments-- cut out and single hole-punched for hooks-- from clever Christmas card graphics that I hung all around the bottom three feet of the tree when my son and his toddler buddies were prone to grabbing and eating whatever they could reach. Coiling the chili pepper lights reminds me once again of my Dad who’s since died. Growing up, his signature tree move was to put one strand of some non-holiday lights around the lower extremities of our tree. He got a huge kick out of the glowing pink flamingos or red hot chili peppers that alternated as they broke then were happily replaced. They served to remind us not to take ourselves, our tree-- or the holiday, I suppose—too seriously; which worked, because my tree continues his tradition of low grade rococo whimsy to this day.
Those chapters are long since over now but I’m reminded of them every year as I dutifully unwrap the treasures that archive my past. I like having a tree in my house for a few weeks, I really do, and I’m sad to see it go. I love the smell and the twinkling lights; the hugeness of this giant looming thing in my living room; an invited guest, mute and still. I enjoy the tree’s invitation to be creative, daring me to slap a hook on something and hang it up in the name of festive. I like that it shakes things up.
Once our tree is returned to its former self, we thank it for joining us in our home; appreciative for its sacrifice and service; a vertical document of a life lived fully and like it’s annual bearer, still growing. Then we drag it out onto the curb where we lay it to rest and head inside to vacuum; looking forward to the needles we’ll uncover in June, like an off-season beachcomber who doesn’t shake out her shoes too well, on purpose.
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