Free to be me

I got a couple dents in my fender

Got a couple rips in my jeans

Try to fit the pieces together

But perfection is my enemy

And on my own I'm so clumsy

Francesca Battistelli's "Free to be me"

From the Desk of Daniel Varsky

"There are moments when a kind of clarity comes over you, and suddenly you can see through walls to another dimension that you’d forgotten or chosen to ignore in order to continue living with the various illusions that make life, particularly life with other people, possible.” --Nicole Krauss' "From the Desk of Daniel Varsky"

I wonder why she never opened the locked drawer. Carefully. I would be too curious to find out what was contained in it. A secret--ripped first drafts, photographs with creases, scribbled love letters. And when I open it, I would not find the things I'd liked to find. When I open it, there would be my favorite pen I had lost, or just heaps of candy wrappers. Or perhaps, there would not be anything but blank space, neither Daniel Varsky's nor mine--but dust, maybe.

Guyland

"Privilege is invisible to those who have it." --Dr. Michael Kimmel during his speech on gender and gender inequality

Lift

This tug-of-war often obscures what’s also happening between us. I am your mother, the first mile of your road. Me and all my obvious and hidden limitations. That means that in addition to possibly wrecking you, I have the chance to give to you what was given to me: a decent childhood, more good memories than bad, some values, a sense of a tribe, a run at happiness. You can’t imagine how seriously I take that—even as I fail you. Mothering you is the first thing of consequence that I have ever done. --Kelly Corrigan's Lift


There is only one letter I remember getting from my mom. I found it much later, about five years after the written date. It was addressed to my elementary school. Perhaps my old, bald, frightening first grade teacher slipped it to me, somehow, I don't remember. What I remember from her letter is that it was quite short, and she told me she'd make spaghetti for me when I get back. In my childhood haste of growing up between two countries, I had thought spaghetti as very American, and I loved it. She knew this and I understood. I believe she never broke her promise. I remember eating her spaghetti, those long, yellow noodles wrapped in tomato sauce. I don't think she liked it much, so she just sat there, watching me eat. She asked me if it tasted good. Of course, I told her. I don't think I wrote back to her thank you. 

Buying Lenin

     "I wish you had died!" I shouted. "I wish you had died right there in your sleep."
     "Sinko," he said.
     "Don't call me sinko!" I shouted. "Your son is dead. They are both dead because of you."
     On the following day Grandpa left the city. ... I never heard him call me sinko again. 


     "Dear Grandson," it said. ...
     "Grandson, we've had a hard life, you and I. We grew old, not with years, but with deaths. You are now one death older. ... Be thankful for what you have. For what you've seen and for what you've been spared from seeing. ...
     "My dear one, forgive me."
     And at the end Grandpa had written just four words.
     "Sinko, I love you."

                   --Miroslav Penkov's "Buying Lenin"

     I like stories about grandpas. Maybe because my own grandpas didn't tell me stories. But that doesn't mean I don't have stories to tell about grandpa, what lovely things he quietly did for me. 

    He walked fast, and I had to trot along to keep up with his pace. He did not talk. But I remember holding his hand. Firm, like an adult's, but without that affection or protection for a child. It was an objective hand. I looked down as I wondered where we were going. I did not think he was a stranger. And of course it was much later when something finally hit me that he was my kidnapper. I don't know how far we walked when I heard grandpa shout my name. So loud, again. And again. I turned around, and I don't remember much from there. Except that that was the first time I saw grandpa run, except that his wrinkled hand held mine. Except that grandpa saved me, and I never told him thank you or I love you. 

An expression

An expression I still remember. My seventh grade teacher was a new one. Taught Korean. My classmates disliked her. But I liked her expression. It wasn't exactly hers, for it belonged to another student. "I hated my brother so much I wanted to push him off a cliff." Struck me. I wished it were my own. Just like the nameless narrator in Old School. 

Convergences

"An old man loses half his weight, as if by stealth" --Donald Hall's "Convergences"


My favorite line in this poem. Kept me reading until the end, the only reason that made me want to understand, to read again. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=238396